Collage Spring 2025

Credits Cover Design Isabella Blohm

Cover Photo Jimmy Orsund

Author Rights Copyrights revert back to the original author six months after publication. The opinions expressed by the contributors to the magazine are not necessarily those of Collage.

Copyright 2024, Collage.

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Letter From The Editor The Collage: Literary & Fine Arts Magazine has been publishing with teams of Millikin students for decades. Often, Collage is free of theme, and this issue is no different. This 2024-2025 issue of Collage has no theme, but that does not mean it is any less prestigious or respected. In fact, this issue will be one of the first published since it had taken a hiatus due in part to the COVID-19 Pandemic, and dwindling staff numbers. Our last published issue was in 2023.

Collage, as it is student-run, affords opportunities to earn hands-on experience with running a yearly literary journal, and gives its writers, artists, and photographers a taste of the publishing industry before their livelihoods depend on their work. In this year’s issue, we have encapsulating photography, breathtaking and thought-provoking artwork, poems and short stories ranging from personal experience and political cries to fantastical and fictional, as well as poems

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that have starred on-stage with the Greek band, StarWound. Collage publishes any work that is polished, creative, and has something to say, no matter how chestclenching or menial; no matter written by an incoming freshman or a graduating senior.

If you have something to say in a creative way, whether that be in photographical, artistic, short story, poetic, or dramatic form, be on the lookout for Collage submission calls starting every spring semester and closing every fall semester.

Our editors are hard at work to make sure your work sees the spotlight. All you have to do is submit.

- Editor-In-Chief, Isabella Blohm

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Table of Contents Conant Awards Literary Creation Conant Award for “Grandpa’s Cows” by Grace Talbert . . . . . .p.10

Conant Awards Literature Conant Award for “The Tip of The Iceberg: Hemingway’s Nuanced Portrayal of Gender and Sexuality” by Olivia Swords . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.34

Art Julie McCauley’s “The Faded Whispers of Fort Wilderness” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.57-8

Art Julie McCauley’s “The Impending Fall”.p.59-60

Art Ronnie Coble’s “Advocate” . . . . . . . . . . p.62-3

Art Ronnie Coble’s “All eyes on me”. . . . . . p.64-5

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Table of Contents Art Ronnie Coble’s “King Card” . . . . . . . . . p.66-7

Photgraphy Julie McCauley’s “The Mirror’s Secret”.p.70-1

Photography Audrey Soetermans’ “Untitled”. . . . . . . p.73-4

Poems “I am (not” by Karley Blau . . . . . . . . . . . . p.77

Poems “Make Me a Magpie” by Karley Blau . . . . . p.78

Poems “A Third Worse Thing” by Karley Blau . . p.79

Poems “ thought that hurt had left me (after “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden)” by Maya Norwood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.83 5

Table of Contents Poems “El museo de mármol” by Oscar Almonte . . p.85

Poems “A dejar huella” by Grace Talbert . . . . . . p.88

Poems “The People I Love” by Eden Niebrugge . . p.90

Poems “I’m just a girl” by Ellie Fitzpatrick . . p.92

Short Stories “Undergound, I will Be Found” by Isabella Blohm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.96

Short Stories “No Stars in Decatur” by Grace Talbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.103

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Table of Contents Short Stories “Star Theory” by Karley Blau . . . . . . . . p.113

StarWound Performance Poems “Cost of Comfort” by Grace Talbert . . . . p.148

StarWound Performance Poems “My World, In Ink” by Isabella Blohm . . p.151

StarWound Performance Poems

“burnout” by Isabella Blohm . . . . . . . . . p.153

StarWound Performance Poems

“Born In The USA” by Isabella Blohm . . . p.156

StarWound Performance Poems

“Numb” by Karley Blau . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.160

StarWound Performance Poems

“Sternum” by Karley Blau . . . . . . . . . . . p.161

StarWound Performance Poems

“So What If I Die?” by Karley Blau . . . . . p.166

Meet The Editors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p.169 7

Conant Awards

Grace Talbert Literary Creation Conant Award This author’s biography can be found on page 87.

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Grandpa’s Cows

The way Grandpa called the cows was always a little strange. It wasn’t some set word, more of just a really loud sound. Me and the cousins would try to imitate; I would shout “She-e-e-er,” but I’m pretty sure Addie always did something like “Mu-u-u-ur.”

Whatever it was Grandpa shouted, it worked pretty well. I think it was just supposed to sound a bit like how cows actually moo. Grandpa could project it really well, enough the cows on the other side of the pasture would hoof it to the pond where he usually fed them.

My memories of feeding Grandpa’s cows aren’t specific. They all kinda blend and meld together; I can’t quite remember which cousins were around or how old I was. But the general feeding of the cows went something like this.

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When I picture myself at Grandpa’s, it’s still Grandma and Grandpa’s (pronounced more Gramma ‘n Grampa’s). Grandma hasn’t died of leukemia yet — she isn’t even visibly sick. She cooks the bacon and the pre-made biscuits we eat for breakfast before going out, and then she’s just generally around the house.

I’ve cut my hair short for the first time, and it’s starting to form stringy curls that haven’t been around since I was maybe two and still blonde. I’m pretty excited about having curly hair; I always liked when Mom would do it in curls for picture day, and they would hold for four whole days.

The youngest cousin, Ava, is either a baby, or she isn’t born yet. There’s no hints of Aunt Audrey leaving my Uncle Andrew, and AJ still feels a bit like the new cousin since he’s probably four or five, and I remember when he was born.

Addie, the oldest cousin, and Rose, my little sister, are still young enough and inclined to follow my lead. We always spend the first night together running and jumping onto the ‘bouncy bed’ — a blow-up mattress because there aren’t enough actual beds for everyone, so we get to sleep side by side. The following days, I’ll be the one to 11

propose playing Minecraft, or hiking the creek, or pulling up Nintendoland to beat them mercilessly at Mario Chase.

When I picture myself at Grandma and Grandpa’s, I’m young, I don’t see any family drama, and I don’t know what it is to lose any family members beyond a few great grandparents. Rose-tinted glasses make me picture simple happiness on the farm.

The thing about waking up on a farm is how quiet it is. There’s no cars driving by early in the morning, there’s no parents clattering around to go to work or send you to school. I was usually the first one up and off the bouncy bed, padding silently up those green basement stairs and slipping quietly through the door into the hallway.

Sometimes other people would be awake — maybe my mom reading on the couch in the sunroom or Grandma starting the bacon in the kitchen — but sometimes it would be just me. I’d curl up in the big red chair of the sunroom and look out the window to watch the sun rise over the pasture and through the trees. I’d watch the birds start hopping 12

around the porch rail where Grandpa would put out sunflower seeds, or I’d see the cats prowling around.

Then everyone else would slowly filter in too. Depending on how many cousins woke up or how cold it was, we’d take the truck or four wheeler out to feed the cows for the morning.

In some of my oldest memories, though, it’s just me. I follow Grandpa outside to the three wheeler he hasn’t yet replaced, and I climb up behind him, still small enough I fit between the bars of the rack rather than having to sit uncomfortably on top of them, already too tall to sit in front of him and easily watch where we were going.

I look off to the sides, trying to spot turkey feathers or animal bones or deer or, once, a long black snake. I press my cheek to Grandpa’s back, watch the foliage whip by, and hold on around his middle as the wind catches my hair on the way to the barn.

Grandpa didn’t have much give to him.

When I think of him, he is thick and solid.

Thick arms and thick legs and wide chest and stomach. There wasn’t much softness to him in a hug, but he still hugged back hard when we hugged goodbye. When I grew up, he wasn’t much taller than me — Dad and Uncle Andrew 13

got all their height from Grandma (six foot with scoliosis).

No, Grandpa wasn’t tall, but he took up space. He had light blue eyes and bushy brows, mouth hidden under a wiry grey mustache, face and arms heavily tanned and spotted by years and years of working in the sun. His palms were caked in old callouses, and while he didn’t tend to yell at people, he could project his voice across the pasture to call the cows in to eat.

When I think of Grandpa, he is a rock: strong and old, a bit weathered but steady.

Determined and forceful when called for, but mostly quiet and resting otherwise.

To feed the cows, we’d go first to the barn.

Secretly, he never bothered locking it, just put the lock through the hatch so from a distance it looked like too much hassle to break into. He’d pull the lock out, then start shoving the barn doors open. It’d always make a deep screeching sound, the metal sliding along struts to open.

When I remember, I am tiny. I want to try and open the doors myself, barely able to push them two inches, and Grandpa just walks them all the way if he wanted. The same goes for getting the corn in buckets — it’s some sort of small silo inside the barn, or a drum, 14

or whatever you want to call it. Grandpa pulls back the metal sheet at the bottom that holds it closed to let cornmeal fall in the bucket, but my little hands never have enough force to make that sheet budge an inch.

What I really remember about Grandpa being strong is how easily he picks up those buckets full of corn. I try so hard, leaning back and holding on for dear life with both hands to shuffle just one bucket back to the three wheeler or four wheeler. Grandpa lifts one in each hand without breaking a sweat, slots them into place hanging from the handlebars, and then we drive off again to give cornmeal to the cows.

He was strong, and he was steady. And though I couldn’t have been much help at that age, he still found little things I could do.

I got to jump off the three wheeler and open the gate, and I got to pour out corn once it was low enough I could lift the bucket, and then I got to take the buckets back into the barn when it was all done. I got to help Grandpa feed the cows.

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It’s one of those melded memories where I remember petting the cows. I can’t quite remember how old I am, or how old the cousins are. If Grandma is still alive, or if she’s passed away, or if we’re at that brief stage where they thought the cancer was gone and I saw her hair grey for the first time where she’d always dyed it orange before.

I do remember it was Ava that really wanted to pet the cows. And I think I remember her in a magenta winter coat, arms sticking out the way little kids do, held up by the puffy fabric. So it was probably a little after we lost Grandma, so young Ava probably wouldn’t remember her outside of pictures.

There’s a strategy for petting the cows.

They interact with humans and all, but they’re wary. Grandpa raised beef cows — Anguses — so they aren’t the dairy cows that people touch all the time. They keep their distance, and they back away if the four wheeler gets too close.

So the strategy is to pile into the bed of the blue pick-up truck. We go to the barn, pick up buckets of corn. Ava probably tries to walk one to the truck, but she’s small as I once was, and she’s not getting much further than I once did. AJ probably picks one of the 16

buckets up, and I leave him to it: the protective plastic bits on a lot of them are gone, and the wire handle digs into my hand.

In the melded memory I’ve got, I think it’s just me, AJ, and Ava. Rose, Addie, and AJ all tend to sleep in, while Ava and I are usually the cousins up and about. I can’t remember why AJ would have been awake for this venture. Maybe he isn’t, and it’s Addie instead.

We all sit in the bed of the truck, me on top of the wheel well so I can sit high enough to look around, Ava forced to sit fully down so she can’t fall out, AJ probably crouched or with his legs sprawled out. I’m the one that slides down the side of the truck to open the gate, and then I climb back in, back to my perch.

We go up and around the pond, Grandpa’s voice booming out, the rest of us shouting measly imitations of “She-e-er” or “Moo-oo-o” or AJ’s entertained, “Cows!” Grandpa parks the truck up by the barn used for the really young calves in winter. Illinois is a pretty flat place, but this is a little hill with enough view to see the cows come tromping over the rise from the back of the pasture, through the creek, and then up around the top of the pond.

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Most of the cows are black. There’s usually one cow, the ‘red cow’ that’s really just an orange-brown, that someone tries to be the first to spot. There are also some cows with white markings on them — white faces, or a little white splotch in the middle of a forehead.

But there are some specific cows that are a gift.

The Belted Galloways. Grandpa raised them specifically because Grandma liked them. She’d call them ‘Oreo Cows’ because of the thick stripe of white around their middles.

At this point in the melded memory, I know the vague backstory of Grandpa making sure they always have some ‘Oreo Cows’ for Grandma. So I make a point of spotting every cow I can with a white stripe around its middle. It’s a little I-Spy with symbols of love.

Once the cows are tromping up and around to the pond, that’s when Grandpa gets out of the cab of the truck. The bed pops open, the corn bucket is shoved over, Ava says “Wait!” and then puts a tiny handprint in the middle of the cornmeal about to be poured out. Then comes the cow-petting strategy.

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Usually, Grandpa just pours out little piles of cornmeal around the area, all flattened out and grassless from cows walking on it every day. This time, he closes the tailgate, and pours a strip of cornmeal right along the back of the truck. There are other piles scattered around after that, but the important one is that strip.

The tailgate is lowered again, Grandpa gets out of the way of the cows, and then they lumber in for breakfast. Three or four of them stick their heads under the open tailgate, and we let them settle in for a moment.

Ava is probably the first to go for it.

She’s at that sorta fearless age, and her parents are also much more prone to spoiling than mine, much worse at saying no or telling her to worry about consequences. She shuffles forwards onto the open tailgate in the polka-dot rain boots from Wal-mart we use to go creeking, and she reaches out with wide eyes and a growing smile to pet the cow in front of her.

Cow fur isn’t soft. It’s coarse, and a little mangy, and kinda wiry too. But Ava’s enchanted by petting the cows. She giggles, and she keeps touching her cow, and AJ and I try it too. One of the cows startles — I can’t 19

remember whose anymore — and it knocks up into the tailgate enough to lift it an inch when the cow pulls abruptly away. But other than that one, the cows don’t much care. It’s just another breakfast.

We do it a few other times. Just because we can, because someone wants to. Because Grandpa’s indulgent, and his indulgence a sign of love.

I don’t think I ever got to pet a Belted Galloway. I kinda regret that now.

I had a friend, recently, that learned I have a younger sister. I can’t remember quite what she said anymore, but it was something along the lines of, “Was your dad disappointed? That he didn’t get any sons?”

It never even crossed my mind that my family might be disappointed to have me or Rose. Mom’s side is matriarchal — Grandma V outlived my maternal grandpa, whom I never met, and my mom is definitely in charge of the goings-on in and around our household.

From Dad’s side, my paternal grandma was assertive; she was the principal, and I think a superintendent later. They put her name 20

under the screen out front of the high school as a dedication a few years after she passed: she must have made a lasting impression.

As a little girl, I never doubted that I could do anything or be anything. My parents didn’t stop me from liking things meant for ‘boys,’ — Dad introduced me to Pokemon and Zelda, Mom had me and my sister in T-ball. I never felt like I couldn’t belong at the self-imposed ‘boys table’ at daycare: it was just a table, and who was gonna stop me? Mom and Dad were probably a little lax in teaching us manners or respect or social cues, so we certainly weren’t deferential little girls.

The closest I got to feeling a major gendered divide in my early childhood was when youth group would ask for only boys to carry stuff, or when I’d have to look in the boys section of Target to find any Pokemon T-shirts. But I never felt that requirement to ‘be a gender’ with my family. I never felt like a disappointment for not being a boy.

Honestly, I’m pretty sure Grandma was stoked I was a girl. She’d had two sons, and then her first grandchild was a girl she could give dresses and clip-on earrings to.

For the first six years of my life, I never

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wanted for princess dresses. And I don’t think being a girl ever stopped Grandpa from finding ways to have fun.

Not being a boy never stopped Grandpa from taking me out on the three wheeler to feed the cows, or letting me try to open the barn doors, or trying to lift the bucketful of corn half my size and probably twice my weight.

Not being a boy didn’t stop Grandpa from teaching me, as the eldest, how to drive the old four wheeler when we cousins were too big to all fit on one. My sister would sit behind me and hold on the way I once held on to him, though she’d be able to wrap arms the whole way around me the way I never really could around Grandpa.

After I learned to drive the four wheeler, I’d go careening through the pasture with my little sister, tailing Grandpa to feed the cows or sometimes just driving around for fun, looking for deer or snakes or that one time I saw a skunk. When the cousins were old enough to drive too, sometimes we’d all go out, following each other around with little 22

objectives, like going to the cow-bone yard or picking daffodils along the road.

Driving added a new level of freedom, of involvement, beyond just walking in the creek behind the house.

I remember once, all of us pile into a golf cart that was only around for a visit or two.

Both the four wheelers are already out in the pasture because Grandpa and Dad’s cousin Billy are dealing with a cow in labor that’s struggling to give birth. They have to call the vet and everything.

We cousins want to be in the loop, but also don’t want to be in the way, so we go out into the pasture in the only vehicle left to us: that golf cart not at all built for offroading. We ride around the pond, out to the back field area cows rarely bothered with.

We skip rocks or just throw chunks of yellowed dirt into the water. I think I tell stories about school, or stories from camp.

We go back in when things are over. The cow had struggled because it was twins.

Neither of the calves made it, but the cow survives. The bodies are down in the ditch where they’d tied the cow to try and help her.

I don’t want to see, but Rose and AJ do. I think they get out to look, and I drive Ava back to the house. I can’t remember where Addie was.

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Grandma and Grandpa’s is where I learned to drive in Mario Kart the Christmas I was seven and cried because I was bad at it.

Grandma and Grandpa’s is where I learned to drive the four wheeler and rub calluses into my thumb because the throttle was on the handlebar. Grandpa’s is where I learned to drive the truck, my first time driving a real vehicle made for road travel.

Dad drove the truck to the back pasture, and he talked me through putting my foot on the pedals, driving in a straight line following the grass I’d flattened before. We just did a long oval: up and down the hill, left turns at both ends, easing over all the bumps from dirt and grass shaped by years and years of cow hooves.

I was nervous, and I was giddy, and I was wary of this new stage to growing up.

Dad was definitely nervous too. He’s an anxious person.

Dad only took me driving one other time, around a baseball field, I think. After that it was Mom who taught me, who talked me through interstate travel and stop signs and everything else.

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But I’ll never forget it was Grandpa’s truck and the pasture where I first sat behind a wheel. It was Grandpa who walked me through maneuvering the four wheeler. It was Grandma and Grandpa who gave me access to the first lesson at all, because Mario Kart definitely made me more aware of what it means to drive.

Some families have specific rituals for saying goodbye. Ours was pretty basic, I think. Everybody’s walked to the door, and then you give a really warm, firm hug goodbye. Grandpa always smelled a bit like sweat — he worked on a farm, it was to be expected. I don’t remember if Grandma had a specific smell, but it was probably a variation of older-woman perfume.

I’d get a firm hug from both of them, and then I’d go through that garage door that always had the exact same way of creaking through the years. I’d climb up in the minivan, buckle-up, and look out the window to wave. Grandma and Grandpa would stand just outside their garage door to watch us down the driveway, waving goodbye the whole way.

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That was how we used to say goodbye.

I didn’t want to see my grandparents at their respective funerals. I didn’t have to at Grandma’s, and I don’t regret that decision. Dad said it was fine if I just remembered her by the picture they put up: her smiling, hair artificially curled and artificially red, nothing like I’d seen that final visit to the hospital and that final time I was a little scared to hug her goodbye.

I didn’t know it would be the last I saw her, and I’m glad I got over the fear and hugged her anyway.

I didn’t want to see Grandpa either. There had been warning for Grandma — she’d been sick, she’d fallen asleep and they didn’t think she would wake up, we knew it was coming. She did wake up for a little bit there, at the end, and she passed while Dad was out of the room to grab his brother.

Grandpa had been there, though.

And I don’t think Grandpa ever came close to getting over it. When I think of Grandpa from when I was little, from when it was ‘Gramma ‘n Grampas,’ I think of him like a 26

rock: old but steady, forever. But I think Grandma’s death was a crack down the middle.

There hadn’t been warning for Grandpa, not a sleep to point to or steadily declining health. He just…lived alone on a farm. For five years, though in the last year he gave the house to Uncle Andrew for his family and second wife, and then Grandpa lived in a trailer closer to the barn for farm machinery and corn to feed the cows.

August of 2019, Rose and I got called down to the office. Maybe it was hindsight or maybe it was a premonition, or maybe I’m just a pessimist, but I think I knew what it was for. Mom came in to talk to us, seeing as Dad had to head down and deal with everything.

Grandpa was gone. No particular warning, no lead-up, no mental preparation beyond knowing it was something that would happen someday.

It was within a week of the five year anniversary from Grandma’s death. I don’t think I ever learned exactly what it was that got him. I don’t really want to ask, because the dates line up too close for comfort.

I’d always thought my grandparents would live to at least their eighties — I literally met all but one of my great grandparents, 27

why shouldn’t any kids of mine get that chance?

Instead, I attended Grandpa’s funeral. And I couldn’t avoid seeing him the way I had Grandma. I was practically an adult, and close family, and we sat in the front row.

There was make-up on his face to make him look the right color, and it was strange he didn’t have his glasses, or that his eyes were closed but he didn’t have that awful snore.

And he just…should have been alive.

Neither of my dad’s parents saw me graduate high school.

The flowers for Grandma’s funeral had been roses — I can’t remember if there was anything significant about those. The flowers for Grandpa’s were daffodils, because nothing else would ever make sense.

You’d think, being from an older generation, Grandpa would have been stereotypical in rejecting seemingly feminine ideals. But he’d loved flowers. He’d loved walking through gardens. He’d loved planting daffodils especially. It helped that the cows didn’t eat them.

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I remember tromping around the yard in the spring, Grandpa teaching me how to pick the flowers near the base so the stems were long enough to hold together. We make bouquets of daffodils (though sometimes I insist on putting a few weed-flowers in too) and then I present the bouquet to Grandma.

She cuts the stems, puts them in a vase, and plucks them down in the center of the sunroom table, bright yellow.

Later, I remember Grandpa taking us out in the pasture to help him split up the bulbs and keep replanting along the fence. He explains how the replant takes a few years to flower, how this is how daffodils, or at least these ones, spread and reproduce instead of through seeds.

Mostly there are yellow daffodils, but he has a few varieties. There are fully white ones, and white ones with yellow trumpets.

The favorite amongst the cousins are these smaller white ones with short yellow trumpets and a ring of hot pink right at the end.

There are so many daffodils everywhere Grandpa thinks to plant them. We can pick a new bouquet everyday for a week and there would still be more.

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Even now, every spring around Easter time, Dad makes a point of visiting the house to see all the flowers, especially the ones on the hill. Grandpa wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he planted three crosses on that hill facing the road into town, and they’re well established now to be really visible. People would comment on them or pull over to take a picture now and again… the few people that were probably lost if they were headed to the town of 200 instead of staying on the highway.

Of course it was daffodils for Grandpa’s funeral. It couldn’t have been anything else.

But when I see daffodils now, I think more about picking those flowers with his instruction and giving them to Grandma than the fabric flowers they put on his casket.

I can’t remember any more whether I’m driving or holding on, or if it’s on a four wheeler or in the truck, but I remember seeing a newborn calf. I think the closest I’ve come before is the issue with the twins, and I hadn’t wanted to see anything dead that could have been alive under better 30

circumstances.

But this newborn is fine, small like a mid-sized dog because cows are born halfway to big already. It’s sitting up next to its mother, still looking damp. There’s watery blood and afterbirth around it, so new to the world we might have caught it at around an hour old.

And it’s a Belted Galloway. An ‘Oreo Cow’ for Grandma, who’s gone by then.

I think its mother is a Belted Galloway too, the two of them a matched set, a pair of oreos.

I think it’s that calf I saw newborn and its mother on the back of Grandma and Grandpa’s grave. The picture was taken a while later, the calf old enough to be halfway to its mother’s height. They’re both looking at the camera, regal and sturdy, black save for those striking white stripes around the center.

Whenever we go to visit the house now, we make a point of driving down the road to the cemetery before we leave. If it’s spring, we’ll go pick daffodils to leave in the vase on Grandpa’s side of the headstone.

The visit always ends with us walking around the back to look at that picture, taking in the Belted Galloways Grandpa 31

cared for because Grandma loved them. Dad will usually make a comment of some sort related to the story, and I’ll usually have silent tears down my cheeks while I try to control my breathing.

And then we’ll climb in the car to go home.

No goodbye hug, no waving from the garage.

Just a quiet farm and an empty house left behind.

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Olivia Swords Literature Conant Award This author did not submit a biography for this award.

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The Tip of The Iceberg: Hemingway’s Nuanced Portrayal of Gender and Sexuality Much of Ernest Hemingway’s life and literary endeavors are, on the surface, informed by a deep sense of hypermasculinity and traditionality with regards to sexuality and gender roles. A deeper analysis, however, reveals an antithetical conclusion. Hemingway’s stories often express a surprisingly nuanced portrait of gender and sexual dynamics, as reflected in conjunction with the ever-present conflict between traditionalism and modernity throughout the permeation of his ethos into his fiction. Much of his gender-centric work also merges with taboo subject matter such as abortion, homosexuality, bisexuality, and extramarital affairs, among many others. As evidenced by these thematic messages inherent within much of his work, Hemingway presents an array of unique perspectives and literary approaches to address complex dynamics and situations relative to gender, masculinity, and sexuality, revealing 34

more than what meets the eye in the critical reception of his seemingly machismo personal and professional identity.

In order to evaluate Hemingway’s treatment of gender and sexuality, one must first consider his upbringing and personal background. Raised in a household populated with atypical gender roles and dynamics amidst Victorian-era cultural inclinations, much of his fascination with and discussion of themes such as androgyny, masculinity, femininity, and variant sexualities can be attributed to his childhood. According to literary scholar J. Gerald Kennedy, Hemingway’s mother, Grace, dressed a young Ernest in feminine clothing and attempted to portray him as the female twin of his sister Marcelline. In Kennedy’s analysis, he notes Kenneth Lynn’s claim in his revisionary biography of Hemingway that, “to compensate for early insecurity about his gendered role, Hemingway affected an exaggerated bravado and pursued activities which would exhibit male

1 Kennedy, “Hemingway’s Gender Trouble,” 1991, 191-192.

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prowess,” but privately took an interest in the themes of androgyny and genderbending.1 Many critics of a gender and sexuality-based analysis of 1 Kennedy, “Hemingway’s Gender Trouble,” 1991, 191-192.

2 Hemingway’s work reflect an attachment to his masculine, male-centric, wartime fiction. According to American literature and queer theory expert Valerie Rohy, Hemingway’s “macho reputation seems to license today’s critics to devalue his femininity, as if demonstrating their loyalty to that other Hemingway.”2 She further suggests that the recent shift in analyses of Hemingway has “revealed unimagined complexities in the gendered life of the iconically masculine author.”3

2 Rohy, Valerie. “Hemingway, Literalism, and Transgender Reading,” 2011, 152.

3 Rohy, “Hemingway, Literalism, and Transgender Reading,” 148.

4 Rohy, 154.

5 Dömötör, Teodóra. “Anxious Masculinity and Silencing in Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Mr. and Mrs. Elliot,’” 2013, 126.

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As evidenced by this reveal, a deeper study of the implications of several of his stories, however, demonstrates what Rohy describes as a departure from such insular and superficial personifications of Hemingway. 4 This departure, as evidenced by the lack of gender normativity within Hemingway’s fiction, has paved the way for a more nuanced examination of the dynamics of his work.

Such contrast in interpretations of Hemingway’s utilization of the themes of gender and sexuality can be attributed to the mere nature of his writing. The iceberg theory, a term coined to characterize the vague and often ambiguous nature of his writing, leaves much to the reader’s interpretation. This theory “refers to hard facts staying on the surface, or above water, in the same way as an iceberg. The supporting language, structure, and metaphors, however, operate in an invisible manner.”5 With sparse descriptors, understated conflict, and abrupt dialogue, much of the surrounding context is informed by the personal experience and analysis of the reader. Even with such minimal evidence surrounding the central conflict of each story, however, Hemingway says much with 37

little, creating a nuanced portrait of highly complex dynamics within the relationships he describes.

Hemingway’s story “Hills Like White Elephants” serves as a primary example of his ability to utilize the iceberg method of storytelling to present a stark portrayal of tension, frustration, and romantic disillusionment. This story is centered around an intimate conflict between a heterosexual couple, wherein the man repeatedly pressures his girlfriend, Jig, to undergo an unnamed medical procedure. Jig does not echo the same desire and instead makes seemingly unrelated comments about the distant hills, stating that “They look like white elephants.”6 The man, failing to see the nuances of her comment, which he perceives to be inane and irrelevant, says, “I’ve never seen one,” to which she retorts, “No, you wouldn’t have.”7 Shortly later, the man tells Jig that “‘It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,’ the man said. ‘It’s not really an operation at all.’”8 In reality, however, the unmentioned operation the man continually downplays is implied to be an abortion, and the woman’s comments draw an astute parallel between the unwanted pregnancy and a white elephant.

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Figuratively, white elephants are often representative of something unwanted or undesirable, as is her pregnancy. Moreover, his utilization of the iceberg theory in this story does not detract but rather adds to the development of the central conflict.

With minimal verbage, writer J. Donald Adams lauds Hemingway’s achievement to successfully encapsulate “in the space of nine pages a moment of crisis in two lives,” which “has been set forth and brought sharply to its conclusion.”9 This depiction provides yet another example of Hemingway’s nuanced portrayal of gender conflict between a couple, interestingly portraying the man as the ostensible villain rather than the inverse as seen in several of his other stories.

6 Hemingway, Ernest. “Hills Like White Elephants,” 1998, 168.

7 Hemingway, “Hills Like White Elephants,” 168.

8 Hemingway, “Hills Like White Elephants,” 169.

9 Adams, J. Gerald “Ernest Hemingway,” 1939, 93.

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Painting a contrast to Hemingway’s malefemale relationship-centric work, “A Simple Enquiry,” published in 1927, tells the maledominated story of an army official who summons a young orderly, Pinin, to his room.

“You have ever been in love?” the general asks.10 He continues to question the young man, prodding him about his personal and romantic life. He asks, “‘And you are quite sure that you love a girl?... That you are not corrupt?’”11 In this particular story, the dialogue between the official and the soldier, the context of their conversation, and Hemingway’s description of their interaction are each, in accordance with the iceberg theory, relatively sparse and dry in regards to description. It is evident, however, that the titular “simple enquiry” foreshadows the official’s attempt to gain insight into the young man’s sexuality, seemingly in hopes of propositioning a homosexual encounter. The general reassures Pinin, telling him, “I won’t touch you,” but after the orderly leaves, he remains fixated on whether or not Pinin was truthful.12 Not only does this thematically relate to Hemingway’s recurring focus on taboo subjects, but it also highlights a unique look into Hemingway’s departure from 40

his traditional expressions of masculinity, particularly given this story’s militaristic setting. At the time this story was published in the late 1920s, such an encounter would have created an enormous risk for both the general and the young soldier, highlighting the willingness of the general to take the risk of rejecting traditionality and propositioning the young man for a homosexual relationship.

Unlike “A Simple Enquiry,” “The Sea Change,” published a few years later in 1931, presents a departure from Hemingway’s malecentric fiction and is instead centered around a conflict between a man and a woman.

The woman is described androgynously, wearing “a tweed suit,” and “her blonde hair was cut short and grew beautifully away from her forehead.”13 The story slowly exposes

10 Hemingway, Ernest. “A Simple Enquiry,” 1998, 201.

11 Hemingway, “A Simple Enquiry,” 202.

12 Hemingway, “A Simple Enquiry,” 202.

13 Hemingway, Ernest. “The Sea Change,” 1998, 242.

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the nature of an ongoing fight between she and her boyfriend Phil, wherein it is ultimately revealed that the conflict is regarding an implied liaison the woman engaged in with another woman.

Representing yet another intersection in Hemingway’s work between gender and taboo themes, the bisexual nature of the woman’s character seems to emasculate Phil, more so than had she cheated with another man. He first characterizes her sexuality as a “vice,” to which the woman replies, “‘Let’s not say vice… That’s not very polite.’”14 Then, he describes it as a “perversion,” causing her to suggest that “‘You don’t have to put any name to it.’”15 Babbett Rubóczki notes the significance of the woman’s refusal to accept Phil’s derogatory comments. She asserts that the “nonheteronormative sexuality of Phil’s girlfriend positions her at the margin of language. She resists being inscribed in the clearly stigmatizing and pathological male discourse that Phil uses by labeling her sexual deviancy.”16 Conversely, however, the woman views her affair in a contrasting light, suggesting that she would never engage in an affair with another man as she believes doing so would present a greater assault on their relationship.

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Despite his initial resistance and anger, however, Phil catches sight of his reflection in a window, which almost immediately resolves his inner conflict, shifting him into a new role and a new personal conception of masculinity. He is described as believing himself to appear as “really quite a different-looking man,” with a “very strange” voice that he no longer recognized.17 In response, the bartender tells him, “‘You look very well, sir… You must have had a very good summer.’”18 The dynamics and implicit social statements highlight a unique representation of the division between traditional gender roles as well as a critique of the concept of masculinity. Once the man finds acceptance

14 Hemingway, “The Sea Change,” 243.

15 Hemingway, “The Sea Change,” 243.

16 Rubóczki, Babbet. “Queering Persepctives of the Uncanny in Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Mr. and Mrs. Elliot’ and ‘The Sea Change,” 2016, 394.

17 Hemingway, “The Sea Change,” 243.

18 Hemingway, “The Sea Change,” 243.

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of the woman’s sexuality, his entire selfconception is altered, seemingly for the better.

Hemingway’s story “A Cat in the Rain,” published in 1925, presents a unique snapshot into the gender dynamics of a couple amidst the rise of modernity throughout the 1920s. While many women during this time period were embracing more masculine and androgynous personal and social roles and self-presentations, this particular story presents a shifting conflict between a culture of modernity and a counterculture of traditionalism. Swept into the trends of the culture, the woman seemingly adheres to the trends of 1920s androgyny but begins to question her willingness to embrace modernity wholeheartedly. She asks her husband, “‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?’” to which he absentmindedly replies, “‘I like the way it is.’”19 In response, the woman reveals her authentic feelings: “‘I get so tired of it,’ she said. ‘I get so tired of looking like a boy.’”20 The woman in the story expresses clear contempt for the inescapable cultural surge of modernized gender roles and dynamics. Furthermore, David Lodge, in a 44

closely-read analysis of the story, points to Carlos Baker’s characterization of “A Cat in the Rain” as highlighting “a corner of the female world in which the male is only tangentially involved.’”21 While the male exists in this story, he bears no impact on the central plot, as he is completely disengaged from any discourse with his wife.

Additionally, Hemingway utilizes symbolism in the woman’s encounter with a cat, which she realizes she desperately wants in the face of unfulfillment within her marriage and lifestyle. In a lengthy monologue, she explains, “‘I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel,” and desires “a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want

19 Hemingway, Ernest. “A Cat in the Rain,” 1998, 110.

20 Hemingway, “A Cat in the Rain,” 110.

21 Lodge, David. “Analysis and Interpretation of the Realist Text: A Pluralistic Approach to Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Cat in the Rain,’” 1980, 10.

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to bush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes.’”22 She yearns for traditional material items, a traditional image, and conveys a desire to settle down rather than continue their travels. Hemingway employs repetition in the conclusion of her rant, as she says, “‘Anyway, I want a cat,’ she said. ‘I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat.’”23 The cat appears to represent the woman’s mental construction of traditional domesticity, serving as an illustration and key component of the life she so deeply craves.

This paints a unique representation of a woman who feels excluded from the culture of femininity surrounding her, believes that true liberation is not achieved through modernity, and finds comfort and consolation within her traditional gender role.

“Mr. and Mrs. Elliot,” also published in 1925 in the In Our Time collection, presents another intersection of flipped gender dynamics in conjunction with taboo subject matter. The story depicts the experience of a couple, Hubert and Cornelia, who are unable to conceive. It is implied throughout the story that their relationship is informed by 46

an underlying current of sexual incompatibility, as evidenced by their inability to consummate their marriage. As a result, Cornelia is revealed as having begun a homosexual relationship with a female friend, whose arrival immediately lightens Cornelia’s mood. “Mrs. Elliot,” Hemingway describes, “became much brighter after her girl friend came and they had many good cries together. The girl friend was several years older than Cornelia and called her Honey.”24 Throughout the story, Hemingway alludes to Cornalia’s assumption of a maternal relationship with Hubert. She is older than he and speaks to him as a mother would a child, and seemingly creating a parallel between their relationship and her relationship with the other woman. This woman appears to fulfill the role that

22 Hemingway, “A Cat in the Rain,” 110.

23 Hemingway, “A Cat in the Rain,” 110.

24 Hemingway, Ernest. “Mr. and Mrs. Elliot,” 1998, 106.

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Cornelia adopts for Hubert, finally providing her with the emotional and sexual satisfaction and gratification she so desires. Meanwhile, Hubert suffers from the burden of masculinity, or a lack thereof, and feels responsible and emasculated, turning to alcoholism as an escape. By the end of the story, Hubert, Cornelia, and her partner are described as having reached a state of mutual coexistence, though any semblance of a heterosexual relationship between Cornelia and Hubert is gone. Without the burden of Huburt, “Mrs. Elliot and the girl friend now slept together in the big mediæval bed. They had many a good cry together…They all sat at dinner together in the garden…Elliot drank white wine and Mrs. Elliot and the girl friend made conversation and they were all quite happy.”25 In Teodóra Dömötör’s analysis of this element of the story, the irony rests in the notion that “they are quite happy— separately. It suggests that Mr. Elliot is content with his life as it is which includes his realization and acceptance of Mrs. Elliot’s lesbianism.”26 This acceptance, despite its underlying notions of indignation and dysfunction, reveals a conclusion characterized by relative peace 48

and fulfillment within sexual acceptance, even if socially atypical or nonheteronormative.

Through the variant analyses of these particular Hemingway stories, the reader is able to self-contextualize the depth of the gender- and sexually-centric themes in accordance with their own perspectives.

While the analysis of Hemingway as an innovative thinker and writer in the discourse surrounding sexuality, notably within his particular time period, appears to be the most meritorious, literary professor Debra Moddelmog cautions against a baseline interpretation of Hemingway as a taboo revolutionary. Rather, she critiques the emphasis many critics and proponents place upon the concept of androgyny, suggesting that “androgyny might seem the ideal way to conceptualize the self and the romantic union of a man and woman in Hemingway’s life and work,” but that

25 Hemingway, “Mr. and Mrs. Elliot,” 106.

26 Dömötör, 125.

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“‘androgyny’ is a problematic word, especially when those who use it fail to challenge sexist and heterosexist definitions of masculinity and femininity.”27 Such an argument reverts to the notion expressed by Rubóczki regarding the refusal of the woman in “The Sea Change” to accept derogatory and stigmatizing labels placed upon her sexuality by a man within a culture informed by heterosexuality. Resultantly, she instead advocates for an even further reconstruction of Hemingway’s identity, absent of not only the traditional machismo stereotype but also the potentially politically insensitive emphasis on androgyny as defined exclusively by a historically majority heterosexual culture.

When again considering these analyses in conjunction with Hemingway himself, according to Teodóra Dömötör, the semantic differences in terminology play a significant role. Specifically, many of the terms utilized in Hemingway discourse lack widely accepted definitions, but are rather more representative of a spectrum of generally agreed-upon consensuses. For example, she notes that “the fluidity of masculinity’s definition has caused a 50

serious problem for many men, especially at the turn of the nineteenth to the twentieth century,” and that manhood and femininity could each be characterized by any number of traits, such as “the desire to conquer” for the former and “nurturing, staying at home, and enjoying leisure” for the latter. 28 Amidst the cultural transitions inherent with the shift into the twentieth century, however, the societal perceptions of perceived masculinity and femininity posed a stark contrast to the past, resultantly informing Hemingway’s unique and culturally cutting-edge approach to complex themes of gender, sexuality, and taboo subject matter. Each of the aforementioned Hemingway stories depicts the unique variations in the portraits of his fascination with gender dynamics and sexual conflict, as well as his resultant

27 Moddelmog, Debra A. “Reconstructing Hemingway’s Identity: Sexual Politics, the Author, and the Multicultural Classroom,” 1993, 190.

28 Dömötör, 122.

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sociocultural statements regarding taboo subject matter. In credit to his critics, however, the vagueness of his iceberg-style work leaves much to interpretation. While the analysis suggesting a contrary view of Hemingway as progressive in regards to gender and sexuality seems to be the most compelling in comparison to a more critical interpretation, other analyses carry similar merit depending upon the way in which the reader chooses to contextualize his succinct stories. Perhaps Hemingway himself can best be characterized as akin to his writing style: on the surface, ambiguous, shallow, and toxically masculine, but upon deeper consideration, his depictions regarding gender and sexuality reveal a portrait of complexity, nuance, and a rarely seen exploration of taboo themes through his inventive literary techniques.

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Bibliography Adams, J. Donald. “Ernest Hemingway.” The English Journal 28, no. 2, 1939, 87–94. doi.org/10.2307/805314.

Dömötör, Teodóra. “Anxious Masculinity and Silencing in Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Mr. and Mrs. Elliot.’” Journal of English and American Studies (JEAS) 19, no. 1, 2013, 12133. www.jstor.org/stable/43487853.

Hemingway, Ernest. “A Cat in the Rain.” The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1998, 110.

Hemingway, Ernest. “A Simple Enquiry.” The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1998, 201-202.

Hemingway, Ernest. “Hills Like White Elephants.” The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1998, 168-169.

Hemingway, Ernest. “Mr. and Mrs. Elliot.” The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1998, 106.

Hemingway, Ernest. “The Sea Change.” The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1998, 242-243.

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Kennedy, J. Gerald. “Hemingway’s Gender Trouble.” American Literature 63, no. 2, 1991, 187–207. doi.org/10.2307/2927161.

Lodge, David. “Analysis and Interpretation of the Realist Text: A Pluralistic Approach to Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Cat in the Rain.’”

Poetics Today 1, no. 4, 1980, 5–22. doi.org/10.2307/1771885.

Moddelmog, Debra A. “Reconstructing Hemingway’s Identity: Sexual Politics, the Author, and the Multicultural Classroom.”

Narrative 1, no. 3 (1993): 187–206. www.jstor.org/stable/20107011.

Rohy, Valerie. “Hemingway, Literalism, and Transgender Reading.” Twentieth Century Literature 57, no. 2 (2011): 148–79. www.jstor.org/stable/41698740.

Rubóczki, Babett. “Queering Perspectives of the Uncanny in Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Mr. and Mrs. Elliot’ and ‘The Sea Change.’”

Hungarian Journal of English and American Studies (HJEAS) 22, no. 2 (2016): 387–402. www.jstor.org/stable/26894830.

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Art

Julie McCauley Artist Biography Julie McCauley is an Honors student at Millikin University and is an emerging artist with a passion for history and storytelling. She believes that art serves as a bridge to the unseen worlds, often exploring the idea that time is a human construct. Her work invites viewers to reflect on the deeper stories within everyday objects and moments.

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The Faded Whispers of Fort Wilderness transforms a lifelong collection of memories from Disney’s Fort Wilderness Campground into a tender meditation on nostalgia, time, and the bittersweet beauty of the past. Inspired by reminiscing on many treasured moments spent in this magical setting, the drawing captures the dreamlike haze of recollection. Combining delicate linework and soft tones, this drawing is a tribute to the whimsical instances of life and the enduring echoes of those experiences

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The Impending Fall traces the journey from life to death through a series of symbolic elements. On the right, vibrant fruit represents the energy and promise of youth and how it is full of potential yet fleeting in its vitality. Moving to ever so slightly to the left, two ceramic pots symbolize the grounded stability of middle age, where time begins to weigh with responsibility. The soft folds of the fabric throughout the drawing suggest the passage into old age.

Finally, the skull - acting as the anchor of the composition - serves as a reminder of mortality and the inevitable end of all things. Together, these elements reflect the unbroken cycle of existence through illustrating how life inevitably gives way to aging and death.

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Ronnie Coble Artist Biography I'm Ronnie, an Art Education major in my second semester of college. Most of these artworks I did in high school but they have intense meaning behind them. Some are about my struggles with ADHD and depression, others are just for fun.

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Advocate This is to bring light into the advocation of suicide rates in the LGBT+ community. The ceramic shows strength, with the gentleness of the face a bit of sorrow. The colour represents the intensity of the situation and how it affects others.

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All eyes on me Representation of anxiety. I wanted to show how my anxiety looks and how it affects me and my daily life. The eyes are fictional and in my head. The string is to represent my discomfort and ADHD. The colours were to represent my colourful personality despite my struggle with anxiety and ADHD.

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King Card This one was an artist trading card made to trade. However, this one is a self portrait with me being the king of the diamonds.

There’s no deeper meaning other than I like to think of myself as a king and treat myself like royalty.

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Photography

Julie McCauley Artist Biography This photographer’s biography can be found on page 56.

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The Mirror’s Secret transforms a simple arrangement of mirrors reflecting against one another into a poetic meditation on the layers of perception, memory, and the haunting beauty of the past.

Inspired by childhood wonderings about the hidden realms within everyday objects, this photograph combines a sense of mystery with an old-fashioned aesthetic, thus acting as a tribute to days long gone.

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Audrey Soetermans Artist Biography Audrey Soetermans is a Sophomore Commercial Music major at from Rockford, Illinois. She is in the Honors Program, is the Millitrax Studio Secretary, and is the treasurer of the Millikin Music Business Club. She also had an internship working as an album reviewer for the Los Angeles based entertainment company Mxdwn. She is also in Sigma Alpha Iota, Alpha Chi Omega, and Alpha Lambda Delta. After graduating with a B.M. from Millikin, she hopes to attend graduate school and receive a degree in film composition or English literature. In her free time, she enjoys composing, songwriting, practicing multiple instruments, drawing, photography, gaming, reading, and writing.

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Untitled Photographer did not submit a description before deadline.

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Poems

Karley Blau Author Biography I'm a sophomore Creative Writing and Music major. I'm 19 and from Sauk Prairie, Wisconsin. I've been writing for as long as I can remember, and it's been my escape since. I recently have gotten into poetry and sort of found a voice in it.

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I am (not)

I am not what I would like to be.

I’m unsure I have the capacityTo be warm and comforting as a blanket I try, but I can’t quite fake it.

Nor can I shape myself into a rose Delicate like finely crafted prose.

I can’t trim off the sharp points, Am unwilling to break my joints To fit the image of something so plain, I’d like myself to remain.

Instead, I am a yellowed bit of paper.

Scribbles coating the surface Seeming slightly insane Unless you can read the writing.

I’m bentA little torn, And maybe completely out of use.

But those who take the time to search, Can find, In the upper right corner, A blank space With more to give.

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Make me a Magpie It’s not that you need To show me I’m beautiful.

I know I have pretty features.

I know I am a healthy weight.

And I know that my eyes are expressive.

I know that I can be beautiful.

You don’t need to make me believe it.

I do.

Logic dictates that I can’t not be At least a little beautiful.

I need to learn That mirrors and minds Manipulate and meld that image Into a macabre ghoul.

Make me a magpie, With twisting and mindless words, Falling from my cracked and dry lips.

Distort my eyes to pits of malice.

In the mirror I never know what’s real.

Is my waist thin enough?

Do those lines of cellulite Take me from a ten to a two?

Was I ever even close to a ten, Or was I always grasping, Clawing Upwards towards an unachievable goal?

Maybe I might Shatter that mirror, Just by gazing into it.

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A Third Worse Thing

I am not my mother, Though we’re entwined in our trauma, Our femininity and our strength.

Our faces are cut from the same cloth, Or rather mine is carved In reflection of her, But we are cracked puzzle pieces That barely fit together anymoreWe’re part of a larger work That is our family tree, Perched on the same branch But I think my fruit dangles On a different level from hers.

I am not my mother Even if we share some of the same memories, My mind only stretches back 19 years, Hers extends back near 40We overlap, though through different views, But it’s not completely.

My eyes, Throughout much of our collective, Were glazed with more honey than She was able to hold.

Her walls were built of iron, Meant to withstand the battering ram Of a narcissist armed with masculinity.

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I am not my mother, I saw the iron walls rust and crumble for the outside, Was swept away by the floods When that dam finally broke.

Got carried away By rushing salt water Until I dug my heels into the silt river bed, Became my own anchor Against the tidal wave Of her sorrows and burdens.

I grit my teeth, Bore the storm that came Even after the threat receded.

She became it.

I am not my father, A bomb contained in glass From a long line of men Overflowing with the wine of pride, Disrupted by my existence.

A man who longed To throw pigskin back and forth, But forced to hear me singSomething that pierced his eardrums While my voice was still light, Not hoarse and tired from overuse.

I am not my father, Who spent so long staring in the mirror, Who hated the reflection so much That he shattered the glass with his fists, Not giving a care when blood Pooled in the sink and dripped down the drain.

A man that swallowed pills That promised to fill him So that he could become lessWhich would make him worth more.

Gulping them down by the fistful, Smart enough to know That such promises could only be empty, Sad enough that logic couldn’t pierce through The idealistic image Of what could be.

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I’m not my father, All my issues fall on my own shoulders, Like Atlas bare the weight of the world, Only I chose it.

Because I saw him turn it all outward, Raze the world around him To ash Because his pain was too much for him to bare alone, Too much to not see others Going through something similar.

I saw his battering ram Beat against the walls Of those he was meant to guard and defendProtect.

When he broke through, He took And took, But was never quite satisfied, Even when the barrage ceased And he withdrew.

I don’t raid castles, I build my own walls higher, Set my shoulders with more resolve, Take the weight onto myself To prevent suffering Around me.

Suffering in silence Is better than exploding Into a spectacle, Spewing lava out of my mouth That drips down the hills To villages ‘neath.

I am not my fatherI am not my motherI am neither.

I am a third option A third and worse option: Their daughter

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Maya Norwood Author Biography This author did not submit a biography.

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I thought that hurt had left me (after “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden) Do not move, hush the noise Allow not a smile for one to enjoy Pause all laughter and strangle cheer As though it were cotton in our ears.

Disrupt the day with loud reminders That life has never been less kinder.

Let the train bestow a cry Say he’s alive like you can’t lie He was my pace, my voice, my form and breadth, My symphony and Song of Death, My sun, my time, my walk, my dance; I thought that Hurt had left me: He still found a chance.

The music is not wanted now; unsing every song, Unstring every string and right every wrong Unconduct the orchestra and lower all their stands I thought that Hurt had left me: He still found a chance.

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Oscar Almonte Author Biography This author did not submit a biography.

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El museo de mármol Solía pulir las paredes frías del interior Cada columna, cada rincón Las dejaba lisas, limpias de cualquier “imperfección” Cuando se agrietaban y se quebraban Bajo el peso de todos los recuerdos, todos los sentimientos Me arrodillaba, rellenaba, y tallaba Hasta restaurar la “perfección” Pero sólo se puede pulir y esculpir hasta cierto punto Antes de que los huecos se muestren irreparables Después de haber convertido en arena tanto a la fundación como a uno mismo Al intentar borrar el pasado, al desampararse para tratar de olvidar ¿Pero qué debí de hacer?

Cuando al deslizar mi dedo sobre las ásperas rajaduras Sólo te recordaba a ti Quien selló su memoria en mármol con su tempestuoso arrebato

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Lo cambiaste, me cambiaste Tanto, todo cambió Que remontar a lo que era sería tallar en vano Mientras mis ampollas suplicaban “ya basta” de dolor Entonces paré De rodillas, ahora de pie El viento sopló Y la ráfaga con ella a la arena se llevó Fortalecido, ahora reflexiono Al ver lo que ahora son callos Desde mi remanso floreado y empedrado Cuyos arroyos fluyen sobre arena blanca A veces todavía añoran con el viento los sauces llorones Pero la fronda que se mece atenúa la nostalgia De las losas caídas florecen orquídeas Y amapolas de campo de tus grietas ahora brotan

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Grace Talbert Author Biography I'm 21, studying Digital Media Marketing and Spanish. I run track and cross country at Millikin, and I serve as the Vice President of Finance and Housing for Pi Beta Phi. I grew up in a small town in Central Illinois and never lived anywhere else until foreign exchange. I started writing at six years old when the stories kept me up at night. I never stopped, though there have been lulls. If I write memoir, it is often bittersweet and nostalgic. Happy endings are for fiction.

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A dejar huella A dejar huella A dejar eco What remains después de pisar, de agarrar The outline of what once was The finger print Las huellas en lodo, en nieve Las huellas en la pantalla, en el pulido Las huellas en donde estaba aullo Hollow, hueco Empty, vacio This is what remains A dejar huella A dejar huella es dejar recuerdo A piece of memory Pista de uno mismo Las yemas de mis dedos, they have changed Las huellas que dejé, they don’t match Pero hay similitudes Between the sound and it’s echo Entre bootprint y boot Son del reves Inverted What remains is not what was Es huella vacia Echo in the snow Recuerdo de bota Smear on a phone screen Un pedazo de memoria A dejar huella

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Eden Niebrugge Author Biography Eden Niebrugge is a senior English writing major with a concentration in professional writing, publishing, and rhetoric. She is the editor-in-chief and writer of multiple articles for Millikin’s social justice magazine, BURST Magazine. She served as the VP DEI for Alpha Chi Omega and the editorial intern for the Decatur Magazine. Currently, she tutors in the Writing Center. After graduating a year early, Eden will pursue a career in book editing and publishing in hopes to empower underrepresented voices and stories. Outside of coursework, I write poems for my poetry book about teenage anger and assist in my sorority's efforts to aid local domestic violence shelters. Despite my interest in many writing genres, books have always been a steady component in my life and thus will remain a part of my future.

After graduating a year early, I plan to pursue a career in book editing and publishing in hopes to empower underrepresented stories and authors.

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The People I Love encouragement: walnut sweater against a white collar tucked into burnt orange corduroy complimenting her hair. a stable pillar in my life, one i spill secrets to and receive advice from. i unravel the world with her, seeking out a playful comfort in the midst of daily horrors.

admiration: hair changing with the seasons from blue to brown to maroon in thrifted suit jackets and dresses. i am safe in my skin around her, as she laughs and offers composure inspiring me to be the best i can be. with one confident phrase, she makes me believe all my worries are just a breeze.

no one in particular: embroidered stars on dark jeans a trail leading down to platform shoes, towering above me like the moon. womanhood sits in her hair, a claw clip keeping her collected and feminism twinkles at her ears, star studs outshining the sky. i feel safe at her side, this girl with confidence and pride.

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Ellie Fitzpatrick Author Biography This author did not submit a biography.

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I’m just a girl

I’m just a girl I’ll kill hours perusing the tightly packed shelves of trinkets at the store Shiny, pretty, colorful trinkets I’ll think about all the ways I could arrange them on my shelves Next to, on top of, behind, under I’ll continuously change my mind and decide that I really don’t like it there after all It just doesn’t quite look right I’m just a girl I’ll be the first one in line at the coffee shop when pumpkin spice is back for the season One small hot pumpkin spice chai latte please I’ll be lugging out the nine tubs of Christmas decorations on November 1st Alexa, play Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” I’ll want to have a picnic under the stars as soon as the nights are warm enough Toasted sandwiches with just the right amount of crunch

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I’m just a girl I’ll listen to the same song over and over again just to hear the bridge Cue “That’s So True” by Gracie Abrams I’ll keep talking even though your giving me that look Eyes glazing over and defeat soaking in I’ll give you my opinion on anything and everything whether you asked for it or not Hot coffee is always better than iced coffee no matter the time of year I’m just a girl I’ll always compliment that one girl’s outfit when it looks like she’s having a tough time That skirt looks amazing with your top I’ll tell her she’s pretty just to watch her smile and brighten up her day Pink-tinged cheeks with a little more pep in her step I’ll feel thankful when some girl does the same for me Memorize the exact words so I can recall them later But what can I say?

I’m just a girl And I wouldn’t have it any other way

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Short Stories

Isabella Blohm Author Biography Isabella Blohm is a sophomore English: Creative Writing major and Publishing & Editing minor, who hails from the great Northern port-city of Superior, Wisconsin.

She has been writing since elementary school, and hopes to become a successful published author. Much of her free time consists of reading, writing, and planning a business that would help struggling youth create skills and relationships to take with them into their adult lives and careers.

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Undergound, I will Be Found Blooming behind his eyes is static. Cold shocks through his bones, and as he rises, slipping over his hands as they grip into piercing rocks, a quiet thrum rolls through him. Stabbing. His side, pumping a rhythmic ache in time with his heart, is tender against his fingertips. A hiss whistles out from behind his teeth, and he does not dare touch the wound again. He shifts a leg under his weight, presses into his knee, and wobbles onto his feet. He falls to the side and ends up gripping an icy tile to his right, slipping further along it by either the sweat of his palms or some unknown grime. He does not take the chance to wipe his palms against his pants; he must figure out where he is, how he got here, how long he’d been unconscious, what happened.

Sweat dribbles into his eyes, blown wide in the dark, twitching at every fuzzy pixel that dances out of sight. Slowly, ever so slowly, he regains his balance. First he removes his left hand, stretched in front of his chest to even reach the tile, to bring it to his side. He is not sure whether the slick he feels through his shirt is sweat, grime, or blood, but figures it wouldn’t hurt to apply pressure all the same. As he removes 96

his hand, presses into his side, he does not stumble, but does lose track of the pixels in his vision when they’re whited out by a spell that makes his head float. He doesn’t know how long it takes him to come back to himself, just that his heart beats a drumline against his head.

When his vision returns to the pitch that surrounds him, he takes a step forward. He does it again, testing his hold against the gravel beneath him. When those steps are steady, he takes them faster, still held by the tiled wall in this stretched-long hall.

His breaths come shorter the further he goes.

In, out, in-out. A fire burns through him and he slips his hand from the wall. He quickens his steps, one, two, one, two. One in front of the other, so fast he’s sprinting. The wind wizzes by him, side gushing and now he knows it’s blood, but his lungs are squeezing and maybe he’s getting close, maybe he’s almost to an exit, so he yells out.

“Hello!”

And all that replies is his own voice, an echo.

And in the face of that reply, the walls wobble, closer and closer to him the longer the walls whisper back. A pit opens in his stomach, eating itself through him in 97

grumbles that twist his insides. His throatfeels dry just as a sound, not his own voice, cacophonies around the walls; a haunting, drawn-out note that forces him back into moving. He thinks, more than anything, about his family. He hopes they are safe in their home, sleeping soundly in their beds, unworried about him. He hopes when they wake up, he will have found his way back to them. But he knows they aren’t there. Knows there is no family waiting for him. Knows, as the memories flash before him now, that there will be no one to find him here.

A gust blows through his frame that makes him wobble in its force, so strong against him it’s as though he were a flimsy paper skittering along in the air. He takes a breath, knows he must make it out alive.

Knows he must continue on. So he does. He keeps limping along, slowly regaining strength, slowly feeling his steps become lighter, easier to take. He shuffles through the gravel, hand just hovering near the tile wall now, almost ready to walk without watching his feet. So of course, just as he is about to look up from his head-down position, he spots a glint to his left. Metal.

Dragging down along both sides of this hall.

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That haunting note draws out against the walls once more. Louder, closer.

Then a light breaks through the black. He realizes, then, that he’s in a train tunnel.

That he’s standing on the tracks. That a train is coming, and he’s in the way. He lets go of the wall, consequences be damned, and starts a limping jog, pushing himself faster.

Harder. He remembers. Knows that there must be worker divots somewhere in the walls.

Knows he has to make it to one. Knows he won’t. His breaths come faster. Thinner. But he keeps moving. Keeps shuffling against the gravel, flinging it into his boots and shins and against the walls. He lets go of his side.

Swings his arms through the air in an attempt to build up speed. Blood gushes against the lack of pressure. The gravel starts bouncing against itself, ground shaking. The light is closing in on him, train too close to hit the brakes. A horn, a divot just up ahead. The light right on top of him.

And then, he’s floating.

At least now he’ll get to see his wife. His child.

They’ll find him here, just as he will now find them.

Of course, he’ll be underground.

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Hopefully, soon they will be, too. ↭ “Well, nothing much left to ship back to his relatives, that’s for sure.”

The forensic photographer snaps another photo, flash bouncing back into the eyes of anyone around or behind him. It captures a set of teeth lodged in the grime-slick tile above them. There are dozens of other photographs just like it: capturing brain matter splattered against gravel, pieces of skull lodged under metal tracks, blood smattered across the train’s front and in the divots of the tunnel walls.

“That’s if he had any relatives for us to ship him to.”

“I s’pose you’re right about that.

‘Pparently are a part of that Serial case we just got in. Horrific scene, really. Wife was battered in the head so many times she ain’t got a face to identify her with anymore.

Child suffocated under the mother’s body.

And the husband goes missing the same night we get a call about the screams from the neighbor.” The detective shakes his head.

“Horrid stuff, these days.”

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“Thought it was the husband did you?”

“It’s routine to suspect the spouse.

Y’should know that by now.”

“Well, can’t be him now.”

“Good. I can’t stand it when we have to put a woman’s spouse behind bars.”

“That says a lot more about you than you think it does.”

The detective just laughs, full-bodied, and ringing around the tunnel walls. “I’m sure it does.”

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Grace Talbert Author Biography This author’s biography can be found on page 87.

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No Stars in Decatur For the most part, I like living in Decatur. Well, maybe not Decatur, but on campus. I like the space in the Pi Phi house, being able to walk across the hall and spend time with sorority siblings or disappear downstairs into the quiet garden room. I like that I can walk across the street at all hours of the night to study in the ground floor of Scovil. I like that I can cross the street and end up somewhere at all, cuz at home that wasn’t quite the case.

At home, I didn’t live in the country, by any stretch of the word, unless you’re coming from a city center. But I did come from a neighborhood ten minutes from the center of a small town. I grew up biking and scootering and rollerblading around the cul-de-sac and knocking on doors asking if the couple of kids my age were around to play. But I wasn’t in a place to go into town and do things or really go anywhere until I was in college. Crossing the street meant going to someone’s house, or it meant going to the forest preserve park, Lodge — probably named after somebody the same way the county is named after a Piatt I never bothered to learn about).

I didn’t grow up in the country, but I 103

didn’t grow up in town. So I like living on campus. I think I would have gotten incredibly lonely, if I’d chosen to commute.

I hate the drive, at least when I’m the one behind the wheel. Hate having to watch the road move at seventy-miles-per-hour and yet still go next to nowhere. I’d much rather be in the back seat, playing Pokemon or Minecraft or reading. But that’s growing up, I guess. Getting a car yet dodging every need to drive that I can.

I live on campus, and for the most part, I like it. But there is one thing I miss, that I remember I miss every time I’m leaving my not-country home. Because, usually, when I’m leaving home, it’s night. I’ll walk out the back door onto the wooden porch that needs replacing, door creaking in that specific home-sound, lock clicking behind me, breathing in the scent of warm plants or crisp autumn or that cold winter burn (depends on the season, after all). I’ll breathe in, step carefully down wooden steps, and I’ll glance up.

It’s the stars.

Even with the yellow light over the kitchen table spilling out behind me, the streetlights up the main strip of the neighborhood, car headlights speeding by on 104

that road separating us from Lodge, and it’s not enough light pollution to smother out the stars. And it’s not just the really bright ones — the ones that are actually Mars or Venus or Neptune — but some of the more faint ones.

I can point out constellations. Nothing complicated, but we had a book once, when I was little. One with a clear oval on the front you could move according to the season to better figure out what constellations would be around. I can point out the W that’s Cassiopia sitting on a throne, or Orion’s belt and bow. The Big Dipper, obviously, though rarely the Little. Cygnus, every now and again. I don’t know what happened to the constellation book, but I remember being little and moving that clear oval around and around and reading out the tiny names of tiny stars.

I remember back then, when midnight was unattainable for New Years and the sun still out for summer bedtime, because usually, sleep was of the utmost importance. But in August, there would be maybe one, two nights, where Mom would wake me and my little sister up around that impossible, full-dark, midnight hour. We’d grab quilts and quillows and tie blankets, pile in the back 105

of the car. Mom would drive us out into the country, down the road ten, twenty minutes, to the side of somebody’s soybean field.

Gravel would crunch under tires when we pulled off to the side, and the night insects would chirr as we pulled out the blankets, spread one out on stiff grass and laid down to watch the sky. Sleepiness would be at the back of my head (I could always wake up easy and stay awake easy, when I wanted) but I’d watch the stars, and we’d wait.

I think it was the Perseids we watched.

Me, Mom, and Rose, laid down side by side in our blankets, pointing when a meteor would streak by. Just a quick white streak, but sometimes they’d be so bright, and they’d leave an after image, like a white scratch between all the stars.

There would be maybe ten minutes, lots of meteors streaking by too fast to bother pointing out, and then it would let up. We’d fold up the blankets, Mom would drive us home, and it was back to sleep ‘till morning and school.

But there were so, so many stars. Even without the meteor shower, it was still a beautiful sky. I know some people don’t like seeing the stars. It makes them feel small, unimportant in a universe so vast. It breaks 106

their self image of significance in the grand scheme of things.

For me, I think it’s a little like how I used to think about sirens. I told Mom once that I liked hearing ambulance sirens, and she said most people were scared of them. But I rationalized, the sound of the ambulance means help is on the way. Some people look up at a sky full of stars, and they feel hopeless and tiny, just a speck of nothing. But I think that means there’s so much out there. And if I’m small, just a speck, that means I could be held.

Being one in such a vast infinity means there must be more, that true solitude is impossible, so long as there are stars. And so long as there’s that infinity, then the mistakes, embarrassment, failures, none of that really matters. Maybe that means the successes don’t matter either, or maybe it means they can be witnessed all the more.

There’s nothing wrong with being small; we make our own significance.

But there aren’t stars in Decatur.

Last night, I walked out my backdoor, yellow light from the kitchen blocked by my dad at the table, putting his phone away for the night. I locked the door behind me, clomped down the wooden stairs that need 107

replacing, crunched through the rock-andtile path to the car, and I looked up, and there they were, consistent as ever. And I remembered how there aren’t stars to see in Decatur.

I tried to watch a meteor shower, just last year. I ask if any of my Pi Phi siblings wanted to come with — we’d drive out a ways into the country, hopefully far enough that the light pollution would let up and we could spot some shooting stars. Erin agreed, so I grabbed one of the quilts Mom made and the tie blanket I did, and we drove fifteen minutes out, laid the quilt on the stiff grass next to a field of corn, listened to the chirr of crickets or grasshoppers, the rustling of crops in a soft March wind. But even fifteen from campus and the light was too strong, the stars few enough to count on my fingers. We saw maybe one meteor, and even then I can’t be sure. But we chatted, mostly about a 90s anime we’d both seen, about my mom making quilts, a little about my childhood memories of watching meteors.

Then we went back to campus. Where there were no stars at all. And Erin said it was fun. I had fun too. But it was just…no stars.

It reminded me of earlier that same school year, before Pi Phi. I don’t remember the date 108

anymore, but it was cold. November, maybe. I set my watch alarm for 1:40 in the morning, and I got up quietly so as not to wake the roommate I never quite became friends with.

I put my socks and shoes on, my jacket, took my phone and my wallet with my student ID in it.

I went out the side door of Weck, let it click shut behind me as I looked around the starless night sky for the only celestial body that can be seen through the nightlight pollution. It’s dark out the side of Weck, but still not dark enough to overpower the traffic lights just down the street, all the Woods lights across the way, street lights and store fronts and a haze suffocating out the stars. So I looked at the moon, and watched a lunar eclipse for the first time. It turned rust red at a steady pace, the Earth’s shadow swallowing it till it looked like a drop of old blood in the middle of an empty sky.

I’m pretty sure I thought of those meteor showers I used to watch with my mom and my sister. Of being curled up together against the cold, enjoying the look of a vast universe and watching this miracle of meteors too weak to penetrate the atmosphere and do us any damage, but strong enough to 109

put on a show. Of feeling warm, looking up at a sky full of stars, feeling small but held, cushioned.

I don’t get that here in Decatur. I didn’t get that, standing alone in the Weck parking lot, a bit cold and entirely alone, watching a celestial event for the first time and sharing the wonder with no one. I took pictures, but that’s no way to share the sky.

And then I went back to bed, and didn’t wake ‘till morning and school again.

I get why people don’t like hearing sirens now. Because I don’t as easily think, oh, someone’s getting saved, someone’s getting help. I think, someone’s in trouble, someone’s getting hurt, there’s danger to worry about.

It’s Decatur.

And I get why people feel small when they look up at the sky. Not because of all the hundreds of thousands of stars blinking back at them, reminding them just how small we are in a universe where blazing balls of plasma can be so far away as to look like pin-pricks. No, I feel it more because I look up and I feel small, and I feel alone. Nothing up there but an indifferent moon and hazy red-orange light pollution. No witnesses, no care, no cushion.

For the most part, I like living on 110

campus. I like being so close to my friends, the simplicity of crossing the street for class. I think it would drive me crazy, commuting everyday. I already feel it, every time I leave my home.

I drive west, head for I-72 to the sound of 94.5 for pop or 92.5 for dad rock, trying to overpower the monotonous sound of seventy mile-per-hour wheels on a road. And I lose those friendly, twinkling pin-pricks soon as I’m away from Lodge, park trees folding back to reveal nothing but fields and interstate. There will be a couple spots of light in the sky out the side windows, through the back if I throw a look over my shoulder to merge into a lane. But nothing out front windshield. Nothing at all, once I reach campus, save the yellow moon.

Because there are no stars in Decatur.

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Karley Blau Author Biography This author’s biography can be found on page 76.

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Star Theory Birds chirped, floating overhead in the gales of summer wind. All the trees were filled with vibrant green leaves, and butterflies danced between wildflowers and the blooms of the Apothecary’s garden. I sat on a stump that had been turned into a seat, taking it all in.

The sun hit Cierra’s hair in a way that made it positively golden, and I couldn’t help but smile. Everything about her was warm and inviting. She strolled leisurely through the rows of herbs that made up the backyard of her shop, brushing her fingers against each as she said its name. Her light pink dress flowed around her ankles as the breeze tussled the fabric.

“This one is Giant Hogweed,” She told me, pointing out a particularly tall plant with small white flowers. It kind of looked like Queen Anne’s lace, only that specific flower didn’t grow so high.

“That doesn’t seem like the kindest name,” I said with a smirk.

She flashed her teeth in a smile. “I didn’t name it.”

I glanced over the garden, looked at the flowers, most purple or red, and took in a deep breath through my nose. Bumble bees 113

bounced lazily from bloom to bloom. The summer air was serene.

“Do you know all of these plants?”

Cierra nodded. “I mean, it’s my job to know.”

I laughed. “Don’t want to add the wrong poison.”

Her light hearted smile fell almost imperceptibly. “Well, no, I suppose not.”

Squatting down near a shrub with bright pink blooms, she added, “Though, mostly I just find them beautiful.”

“What’s that one?”

“Oleander.” She picked a flower and twirled it between her fingertips. “Just one leaf is enough to kill a full grown adult, but I have yet to see a more vibrant shade of pink.”

“Could you teach me?”

An excited glint sparked in her jade eyes as her gaze snapped to mine. “You want to learn?”

“It seems fun.”

“Then, yes. I’ll teach you.”

She really did have such a lovely smile.

“I don’t like that place,” Mother murmured as we walked past the crumbling building on the edge of Water Street. She wouldn’t ever 114

walk on the same side of the road as it, so I gazed at the black brick from afar. The sunlight shone off a cracked window in a way that hurt my eyes.

It was in a tattered state, the sign hanging down from a broken hinge, but I thought the antique-ness of it wasn’t awful.

“Why?” I asked, looking back at her.

Mother’s hair had gotten more gray in the past year; it used to be black as midnight, but I guess stress got to it. I would never tell her that of course, just try and take some of it off of her shoulders where I could.

She pursed her lips. “A witch lives there.

I heard about it from Tricia- her daughter went inside once.” An eerie feeling settled on my shoulders as she continued, “You know how I feel about witches.”

“How can you be sure that her daughter is telling the truth?”

Her eyes were cold, still watching the apothecary. “Look at the building- it definitely makes me convinced enough. The witch must live there.”

Drumming my fingers against my thigh, I hummed in thought. “Doesn’t mean the place is-” Mother cut me off with a stern glare. “I’ve told you- bad luck oozes off them. Seeps into wherever they go.”

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I didn’t mind doing chores; my sister hated them, so I had tended to pick up the slack when we were young. I found it relaxing. I put on some music and all that mattered was what was right in front of me.

Working with my hands made sense to meit felt right. I think in another life, I went into the trades: the tool and die business, or maybe something electrical.

I came into the Apothecary an hour earlier than I said I would to surprise her with a clean shop. If I could take that stress off of her without adding any to my own plate, why wouldn’t I? The bell rang gently as she came in, her favorite pink dress brushing gently against the freshly dirt-free floor.

Her eyes went wide as she smiled. “You did this?”

The warm delight that radiated off of her expression made getting up early worth it.

And when she spun around the room looking at the dusted counters and tidied pots of plants, I thought her smile might have been brighter than the stars.

Cierra hummed as she stirred the small pot, a thick scent of herbs wafting into the 116

air. I think she might have been able to identify each of them by their smell alone, but I was helpless in comparison. A faint glow emanated from the embers underneath.

“What are you making?” I asked softly, leaning against the short side of the counter.

With a thread of joy in her voice, she answered, “Mr. Plumette came in yesterdayhe wants something that will get rid of his rats.”

“Hey,” I said, lips twisting into a smile, “That’s not a lethal one then.” I paused.

“Well, maybe for the rats, but no people will get sick.”

“No- I love these kinds of orders.” Then she frowned. “But I forgot the belladonnacould you grab it for me? It’s just on the desk past that door.”

She pointed the way and I was happy to indulge her.

Cierra had been teaching me the names of her herbs, so I didn’t take too long to find the one she wanted. I was getting better- not perfect yet.

When I came back, a man was tapping on the counter angrily, speaking in a low tone with harsh consonants.

“This bastard took everything from me, 117

and I wanted him gone. I specifically requested it to be excruciating, but what you gave me made him die in his sleep. Tell me how that’s painful.” He sounded more like a snarling dog than a man.

“Did you give it to him in a cold drink?”

Her face was tinged with pink, frustration clearly boiling under the surface.

“No, he wanted tea.”

“That’s why you didn’t get what you wanted,” She said bluntly with an edge of anger, “If you don’t follow my instructions, then you don’t-” “The temperature of the drink shouldn’t matter!” Enraged, he hit the counter.

At this point, I thought I should step in, but quickly, I knew I wouldn’t have to.

Her eyes began to glow, brighter than the embers under her cauldron. “You’d be wise not to threaten me in my own shop.” Her voice was colder than ice. “It won’t end well for you.” The air crackled with electricity.

The man stumbled towards the door. “Crazy bitch!” Like a scared mouse, he raced out of the shop.

Setting the belladonna on the counter, I murmured, “You and I both know that the temperature of the drink won’t change the effects that dramatically.” From behind her, I rested my chin on her shoulder. “You made 118

it painless?”

Her voice was soft when she answered. “I may help killers, but I don’t have to be cruel.”

Between the fireflies dancing through the tall grass and the stars above our heads, I could hardly call the night dark. Something in me had always feared the inky black of the sky after the sunset, but I wasn’t this time.

Cierra walked in front of me, her flowy dress swaying with the breeze. She hadn’t spoken since we left the main road. The silence felt natural though, filled with the crunch of gravel under our feet and the chirping of crickets.

It didn’t take long before we came to a small clearing under a weeping willow. A blanket had been laid on the ground, and her sunhat sat atop it. On the dirt beside both of those, was a jar of her preserved strawberries.

“Did you plan all this?” I asked with a smile.

“I thought you would like it.”

The cool night air kissed my skin as I sat on the red blanket. It was soft… and I heard crickets swell in their nightly chorus. “I love it.”

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With a wide grin, she gracefully swept to the ground next to me. As she sat, a firefly landed in her hair, glowing. She carefully coaxed it onto her pointer finger and held it between us.

“They like you.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

Cierra nodded. “Bugs can sense the magic.”

My heart paused for a second, and I sat upright. “So you are a witch.”

Her demeanor changed as her eyes flicked up to meet mine. “Is… that a problem? I didn’t think you’d care.”

I hesitated, and I knew she noticed because her expression became pained- a little angry. Her nose scrunched and her lips twisted down into a frown.

“I know the stories they tell, but they’re not true…”

Swallowing back residual fear from the stories I’ve heard my whole life, I reached out and put my hand over hers- she was warm.

With caution, I ran my thumb gently across her skin, the connection making my face flush.

“No- it’s not a problem.”

“That’s foxglove,” I chirped, watching Cierra snip a bloom and place it in her basket.

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Then I saw a bee had landed on her shoulder, and I quickly said, “Stay still.”

She froze, but looked at the insect, then laughed. “Oh it’s just a bumblebee- you scared me!”

“If you stand still, then it won’t hurt you.”

Sighing, she said, “I’ll be fine- bees never want to sting. They only hurt people when they’re scared.” With a gentle hand, she shooed the insect away. “And I think they’re cute.”

It felt like a bad movie when the man came in that day- one of those old noirs where they had funny accents, and you can tell who the villain was because he had a specific mustache. He wore a trench coat and everything- I mean, he screamed suspicious; it had to be on purpose. It was even raining, and he had to shake the water off his umbrella before closing it.

Cierra and I were leaning on the counter: me over a book and her stirring a purple poison. The whole shop smelled like belladonna.

He coughed, a deep wheeze. “Is this where the witch Cierra works?”

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She smirked, “Delphinium, actually- but they look very similar, so I can’t fault you.”

Standing, she added, “I think you’re getting better.”

I got off the stump that had become my favorite seat in the garden. I’d sit and talk to her as she collected everything she’d need for the day. “I’ve got a good teacher.”

The twittering of birds filled the air as I walked towards her. In the light blue sundress, Cierra looked like a movie. I put my hands on her hips and pulled her close to me. “Though I think she may have a bit of a conflict of interest,” I cooed in her ear mischievously.

She threw her head back and laughed, playfully slapping my shoulder. “Oh- don’t make it weird!”

“Weird?” I pretended to gasp offendedly, “How dare you ma’am? I would never.”

Rolling her eyes with a sarcastic smirk, she said, “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

“If you insist.”

Where our lips met, I felt warmth blossom and bloom into my chest, and it made my mind all fuzzy. I tugged her closer to me, just wanting to feel her. She felt so familiar, like we were meant to embrace like this.

When we finally broke apart, we both were grinning like fools.

Her whole body tensed as she stood straight 121

up. “That entirely depends on who’s asking the question.”

Smirking, he responded, “If you have to say that, then you’ve already answered.”

Cierra’s lips pinched into a tight frown.

“Where did you learn that name- I don’t give it out.”

“Relax-” The man raised his hands in a mocking surrender as he approached the counter. “I’m here as a customer.” The man’s beady eyes roamed around the shop. “As an ambassador of sorts to a larger customer, should this trial run go well.”

“I won’t be bought out.” Her stony tone left no room for argument.

He tapped the wooden countertop with his pointer finger. “Not the goal.”

A heavy pause filled the air as the two sized each other up like I wasn’t even there.

I saw Cierra’s breaths pick up- nervous energy. She drummed her fingers against the cauldron filled with poison. The man, though, seemed unaffected, and he just watched her with mild amusement.

“What do you want?” She asked, breaking their stalemate.

“For now,” He smiled, a greasy thing, “Just a poison.”

Cierra snorted, putting her hand on her hip. “If you know my name, you know that’s my 123

name, you know that’s what I do.” She waved her hand to gesture to the current brew. “But there are many kinds- you’ll have to be more specific. What do you want it to do?”

This made the man think. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and swiped through some texts before answering. “Something subtle- and I’ll need a decent amount.”

Cierra hesitantly asked. “For how many?”

“Twelve.”

Her face paled. “My god… that’s a lot.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Is that an issue?”

She swallowed, eyes darting between the poison and this man. “Not at all.”

“Good. I want it by Wednesday.” He said, immediately spinning on his heel to walk away. His trench coat swished dramatically behind him.

The door’s tingling bell sounded sharp against the somber air of the rainy day, but him leaving brightened my mood a hint, despite the cloudy weather. That small boost faded when I saw Cierra’s grim expression.

“Did you know him?”

“No, but I think I know who he works for.”

She bit her lip- a nervous tick. “I don’t want to get involved with them… but, I guess business is business.” She looked around the shop, gaze lingering on a broken window 124

pane. “Beggars can’t really be choosers.”

I nodded slowly. “But, at the same time, if it makes you scared-” “I’m not scared.” Her tone was firm.

Grabbing her hand, I tried to smile reassuringly. “Let’s just get through the week then?”

She sighed like my touch was all the comfort she needed. “Let’s.”

It took me three weeks of helping Cierra in the Apothecary to notice that she had taped tiny crochet stars to her cracked and shattered windows. Every few days, there would be a new one.

They were tiny things, their yellows and sparkling whites were dazzling in the sun.

It gave the shop a bit of life and whimsy.

Later that day, I found one tucked between the pages of my book with a slip of paper torn from a random notebook. A small heart was penciled on.

A few minutes after the daily newspaper hit the door, I left the shop to grab it. It was ten minutes later than usual, but I knew that the mailman had just been put on this route a week ago.

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I went to flip through, but the front page caught my eye.

‘Mass Poisoning Deaths at Local Restaurant: Suspected Ties to Crime Family’.

A cold feeling seeped into my chest as I scanned the article. Fifteen dead and three in the hospital. That was a lot more than the twelve the man had talked about. I quickly threw the paper into the garbage.

Upon reentering the shop, I heard Cierra’s voice. “Anything interesting in the paper?”

“Someone must’ve stolen it.”

She didn’t need to know.

She pointed toward the sky, tracing imaginary lines. “That’s Capricorn.”

Cierra’s voice came out in a half-laugh.

“Above is Aquila and above that is Lyrawhich is my favorite.”

No matter how long I searched, I couldn’t find the shapes she saw.

“Not a constellation person?” She asked as she turned to her side to look at me.

“I can’t say I ever got into it, no. I was more of a reader- historical fiction and philosophy.” Did that make me sound like a jerk? God, I probably sounded so pretentious.

Her lips twisted upward into a smirk.

“One of those ‘academics’, huh?”

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I snorted. “Not quite.”

“I like philosophy too.” Cierra turned back towards the sky.

“Yeah?”

“I like my own ideas though.”

I sat up a bit, interested. “Okay, now you have to tell me.”

“It’s the reason that I like the stars so much. They’re made of the same atoms as you and me- everything was all together at the big bang.”

“Well… more or less, I guess? It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Just let me finish.” She cast me a half hearted stern glare, and I raised my hands in a surrender before she continued.

“Everything was all in one place.” She paused. “Do you ever meet someone and they just already feel familiar? Like being around them is easy, and it feels like you’ve always known them.”

I smiled, remembering how fast the two of us had gotten along. “Yes.” “I think that our atoms were near each other when the big bang happened. Like, maybe the reason that the person you’re thinking of feels so familiar is because our atoms knew each other already, before we were ever born.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “How does this tie into the stars?”

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“I’ve always loved them- and they’re not that different from us. We’re made of the same stuff.” She grinned widely. “That makes us star dust.”

Breathing in the chilled night air, I grabbed Cierra’s hand. “I think I like your star theory.”

The man came back three days after the deaths at the restaurant, a wide and slimy grin on his face. He wore the exact same trench coat.

This time, Cierra was in the back picking sprigs of belladonna. I didn’t care as much as her about being friendly. My hackles were instantly raised as I watched him approach the counter with a swaggering gait.

“Where’s our witch friend?” He asked.

“If you know her name, then use it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Hostile, aren’t we?

Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“No, and I think it’s better that I don’t.”

His smirk got wider. “There’s a brain in there after all. So, why don’t you go fetch Cierra so she and I can do business?” The question was more of an order.

Cierra didn’t deserve to have to deal with this.

At my hesitation, his grin dropped and I 128

saw darkness in the man’s eyes. In a slow motion, he pulled a gun out from a hidden holster at his hip. He set the weapon on the counter with a thud.

“I suggest that you get better at listening.”

My heart beat loudly in my ears, but I didn’t move. I didn’t have to.

Cierra’s voice came from behind me.

“What’s going on out here?”

The man snipped, “You need to train your dog better- he doesn’t listen to commands.”

I clenched my hands into fists, ready to swing, but Cierra’s hand on my arm made me stop.

There’s no need for any of that,” She said coldly. “Why are you here?”

His charismatic smile returned at the continuation of talking business. “Your poison was quite effective- I’m sure you saw in the papers.”

With suspicious eyes, Cierra glanced at me. “I haven’t.”

The man tsked. “Can’t even fetch papers properly.”

“Point being? Do you want more?” Her grip on my arm tightened a bit, clearly holding herself back from snapping at this man. I wished I could kick him out of the shop entirely.

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“Something better- I’m here to offer you a job.”

Cierra froze completely, a scared look entering her eyes.

Knowing her past, I snarled, “She’s not interested.”

“Quiet,” The man bared his teeth, “This conversation doesn’t involve you.”

“I won’t,” She whispered, the way she held my arm had become more akin to the way a sailor grabbed their tether line- like it was all that was keeping her from being thrown overboard into the waves.

“Think about it.” He tucked the gun back into its holster, “Or else we’re going to have to be more persuasive.”

As he pushed open the door to leave, I said, “Don’t bother coming back.

“Careful,” He met my eyes and I saw malice, “Bad dogs get put down.”

When I was dusting her bookshelf that sat against the back wall, I couldn’t help but look over the titles. Obviously, most of them were on her plants and herbs, but one stood out to me- black and covered in silver shimmers: The Story in the Sky. It was a book of every constellation and every myth.

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“You’ve never told me where you come from,” I pointed out, twirling a strand of her hair between my fingers as we lay on the blanket under twinkling stars. It felt forbidden to touch her, even like this, but my heart was beating so loudly that it drowned out my common sense.

Her expression sombered. “It’s not exactly a pleasant story.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” I spoke carefully, “I don’t just care about you for the good stuff, I’m here for all of it.”

A flurry of emotions raced across her face, but it settled on a sad sort of resolve.

“If you want to know, then I’ll tell you.”

“I do.”

“When you’re a witch- you kind of know from a young age. Well, I guess, I should say that your parents figure it out. Most of us end up in orphanages… nobody really wants us around.” She looks over at me with a sarcastic smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”

“One or two,” I admitted.

Cierra turned her head back towards the sky. “I wish that’s what had happened to me.”

A cold breeze hit my skin, sending a chill up my spine.

“When they realized what I could do, they started using my magic to get the things they 131

wanted. It started small, but then eventually, the things they would ask just got to be too much for me to do. It would’ve taken a coven.” Her gaze hardened. “And when I couldn’t do what they wanted, they’d lock me away in my room- scream insults about how I must not truly love them.”

It felt like my heart stopped beating in my chest. “But they were your parents…”

“I wasn’t their child.” She sighed. “I was a tool. And when I didn’t work the way they wanted- that was their solution. And with holding food. And keeping me isolated. And just… I became a meal ticket.”

“How did you get out?” My voice was soft as I asked.

“Ran away,” She said bluntly. “But I made sure that I would never be trapped again.”

The stars seemed to burn a little brighter as she continued, “And I’ll never feel like a prisoner again.”

I brought my guitar into the shop on a random Monday, hoping to show her something I’d spent all last night learning: her favorite song. It was a folksy thing, not what I usually played, but I thought it would make her happy. However, she made me just as pleased when she started singing harmonies.

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I hadn’t known that she possessed such a lovely voice. I sang along with her, but didn’t really pay attention to myself.

The shop seemed a bit brighter until the music stopped.

With a curse, Cierra dropped the plant she had been prepping and threw her head into her arm, leaning on the counter.

I rushed over, hands fluttering around frantically searching for the issue. “What’s the matter? Did you cut yourself? How can I help?”

Her body shook in a sob. “No, I didn’t.”

“What’s wrong?” My heartbeats felt like a void in my chest through my worry.

“What’s the point of all this?” She gestured around wildly, ending by grabbing the plant she’d been cutting and tossing it in the garbage with a frustrated huff. Her eyes started to glow with magic before tears overtook them, and she slumped to the ground, leaning against the counter.

I took a step back before kneeling down next to her. “Woah, what’s causing all this?”

“I’m a witch- I have magic. Why am I making poisons? I could be helping people with these plants. Many of them have medicinal properties, you know?” Her voice 133

was soft now.

Sitting down beside her and wrapping my arm around her, I pulled her tight, wishing I had an answer that I could give her. But, the truth was that even if she made medicine, not a soul in this town would take it so long as they knew she was a witch.

I sat behind her, brushing her hair with her light pink brush. The two of us had just gotten out of the shower, and she wore her coral pajamas. It was one of my favorite colors when she was wearing it. We looked picturesque in the mirror- me behind her in my hoodie, like we were in an old romance movie. The thought made me smile.

“What’s got you so happy?” She asked, teasing.

I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Can’t I just enjoy the moment?”

“Humor me,” She brought her hand up behind her to pat my arm. “I like hearing your thoughts.”

“I think about many things,” I halflaughed, returning to brushing her hair.

She drummed her fingers against my skin, dragging them downwards until her hand was on mine. “Let me in?”

“If you could get away from here- money not an issue- where would you go?”

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A spark lit in her eyes, and she answered immediately. “Paris: the city of lights.”

I hummed. “That’s high on my list too, but why?”

“I would love to walk the streets at night and feel the air and the emotions of all the people.” She smiled shyly, “But mostly… doesn’t that description sound lovely? The city of lights; that has to look like a million stars.”

The blade under my throat made my heart pound so hard I thought that might kill me before the metal ever could. Rough hands held my arms to my sides, nails digging in tight enough that they probably drew blood.

Cierra stood in front of the counter with her head held high, despite the gun to her temple.

“So what you’re going to do,” The man said mockingly, “-is come with us, and then your little boyfriend gets to keep breathing. You make poisons for us and are given a place to live that’s much nicer than this dump. I’m sure they’ll even give you an allowance.

Everyone walks away happy.”

A remnant of her fiery magic sparked in her emerald eyes. “No.” The man’s lips twisted into a sneer as he 135

cocked the gun. “Don’t be unreasonable now.

I’m making a very generous offer.”

“This is my place. I won’t be owned by you.”

The air started to charge with magic, but it was quickly stifled as the person gripping me pushed the knife harder against my skin. I couldn’t help but whimper as I felt a drop of blood roll down my neck.

For the first time since we met, Cierra looked afraid.

“Don’t,” She whispered.

“There’s a very easy way to prevent this.”

Her eyes darted between me and the man in front of her. “I don’t want to do the sort of things you would… I don’t want to kill.”

“You’ve been killing, the difference is that now you’re going to be doing it for us.”

Cierra’s bottom lip quivered. “I won’t.”

There was no hesitation when the knife was ripped across my throat. Before this, I don’t think I ever processed that the blood inside us ran warm. It was sticky when my hand darted to the wound.

I heard Cierra scream, and felt warm magic shoot through the room. The bodies of the men dropped, but I started to feel too cold to truly notice.

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She held her hand out to me with mischief in her emerald eyes. “Do you dance?”

“I never have before,” I ran a hand through my hair, “But for you, I’m willing to try.”

Music filled the shop, floating through the air and making even the plants seem more vibrant, but we only had eyes for each other.

She taught me slowly and patiently. We twirled around for hours until laughter overpowered the song.

Cierra sat with her back to me, and I felt her trust- that she’d let me sit behind her, touch her soft golden hair. I twisted it into a braid, then passed her the hand-held mirror. The smile that parted her lips was stunning.

“I love it.” She spun to face me, and our eyes locked. “Thank you.”

Darkness played at the edges of my vision like curtains opening and closing, but Cierra’s face would come into focus against the backdrop of her crumbling apothecary. I didn’t used to think the building was this beautiful.

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Glaze got on her lips as she bit into her half of the warm cinnamon roll she bought us. I reached out to brush it off, but she flushed and pulled away, sheepishly smiling. With a laugh, I chased after her and pressed my lips to hers. She was sweeter than the maple glaze.

Warm, soft hands press against my cheeks.

I hear her voice, but the words are muffled and fading. She digs her nails into my skin as I hear, faintly, “Stay.”

She always wore her flowy pink dress when she was happy. When I asked, she said it was because she liked the way it flowed around her like magic when she danced.

I held out my hand, a light feeling rising my chest. “May I?”

A drop of water hits my cold skin and runs down the contours of my face to the edge of my mouth. Salty. Was she crying?

Smiling broadly, I held the deep purple flowers out to her.

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“Belladonna,” I said without hesitation.

“Bad luck follows those women like the plague,” Mother looked up from her crossword, mouth tight in disapproval that I would even ask. “They’re a poison, and it’ll kill people who dare to get close.”

“How do you know?” I asked softly.

She sighed. “I just do, honey. I used to know one.”

That caught my attention, and I set down the rubix cube I’d been fiddling with. “You never told me that.”

“It’s not a happy tale.”

Leaning forward, I beseeched, “Tell me.”

Her expression grew pained. “We went to school together, but bad things would happen in every room she was in. Power outages, things falling, dead mice… nobody wanted to be near her when it all happened.

But one person got close.” She swallowed. “It got them killed.” Mother looked at me seriously. “I don’t want you to get mixed up with witches. It’s only going to hurt you.”

I didn’t think she was telling me the whole story, but all I felt was a sadness in my chest. “They must be awfully lonely.”

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“No, no, no,” Cierra’s voice is breathy as she presses her forehead to mine, her hands shaking against my cheeks. My face is wet from her tears; they’re cold… I’m so cold.

Shock is running through my whole body and making me shake, but it makes me numb too. I– I can’t feel my wound… can’t feel myself dying.

The blackness at the edges of my vision draws back, letting me have this moment. The last moment.

“Hey…” It takes more effort than ever to raise my hand to the back of her head, softly brushing over her hair. “Don’t cry.”

A choked sob rips out of her throat, sounding painful.

She shakes her head desperately. “I should have just said yes.”

“I understand why…” I can’t really hear my own voice; her’s is clearer. “You don’t have to be bound to anyone again.”

“You can’t go-” Her voice cracks through her tears. “You’re the only one that’s ever stayed- please-” I hate hearing the way her voice breaks, something crushes my heart hearing her so sad. “Please stay.”

A fearful and half hearted laugh gets caught in my throat. “Love, I don’t think I get to choose.”

Cierra’s breath hitches. “I wish I could save you- I should… I should know how.”

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Shushing her, and bringing my palm to her cheek, I say, “It’ll be okay… you’re going to be okay.”

“But you’re not!” Her cries turned to a desperate scream.

“Cierra…”

“Oh please, please!” Her whole body shook.

I felt a tear of my own roll down my cheek.

“Cierra… Please just hold me? I’m cold.”

She pulls me tightly to her, nails digging into my skin, like she can’t bring me close enough.

“The stars…” It’s getting harder and harder to speak, my tongue feeling heavy and sluggish… I can’t feel my lips at all. “The stars, remember? Our atoms know each other…

That doesn’t go away so easily.”

“But you’re dying!” She yells into my chest, but her voice sounds further away than it did before.

I can barely keep my eyes open, and my hand falls from her face onto my chest.

“Death can’t erase something like that, right? The stars, Cierra.” I blink one more time before I can’t lift my eyelids open anymore. “You told me about the stars…?”

Familiar blackness overtakes me, and I feel my chest stop moving.

The last thing I hear is a scream that could shatter the heavens.

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The Apothecary had long been overrun by ivy and other climbing vines, despite it still running. I think the owners liked the look of it. However, the shattered windows and creaky wooden door are things I thought would have been replaced. The walls were all black brick, and a black and purple sign hung over the entrance. Its logo was a sprig of belladonna.

Suffice to say, not many people went into the point that I had no idea how the business stayed afloat. Their most common visitors were teens that had to be dared into stepping past the dirty welcome mat. Though, my mother told me that the darker underbelly of our city would slink in at night, hoping to procure various untraceable poisons, and the woman that manned the shop would always deliver.

The owners never came in, just took a cut of the profits- never reinvesting into cleaning up the place. Only the woman seemed to work there, though I’d never personally seen her. I had been too old to get a dare and too afraid to step in on my own.

Mother called her a witch- had to be if she could make poisons that stumped even the castle’s best healers- a dark witch that 142

dealt with death. Someone I should avoid.

Mother always warned me away from witches.

But I found myself curious.

I sat on the bench across the street, eating a bagel with a book in my other hand.

Every page or so, my eyes would flicker upwards toward the door. The sign would sway in the occasional breeze, but there was no indicator that the shop was even open.

With a sigh, I returned to my historical fiction, which was actually getting quite good. The detective had finally found a clue.

My focus was stolen when I heard a soft bell from across the road.

Her blonde hair flowed down her back like a river, and her dress was a soft pink. She smiled at the pigeons that were pecking at dirt in the gutter and tossed them some seeds from her pocket, her sun hat dipping down with a flop over her eyes, which… I thought might have been green?

Was this the witch?

I felt the moment she noticed me, gaze snapping to mine. There was a sparkle when she smiled at me. My lungs felt lighter then, like some darkness had been alleviated.

“Well, hey stranger.” Her voice was gentle and kind. “I’m Cierra.” Her eyes sparked with humor. “You’ve been sitting out here a long 143

time. How about you come in and look around?”

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StarWound Performance Poems

About StarWound

StarWound is a band from Greece that, their United States Interiors tour, asked college students and professors to submit poems that fit their “Interiors” theme: meant to express thoughts and feelings from the COVID-19 Pandemic. Millikin was one of the schools StarWound reached out to, where three students submitted poems and were able to perform with them in Kaueper Hall. Use the link on this page, or go to @collagepublications on Instagram to see the performances of all the Millikin StarWound poems on our Instagram page! The following poems are those the students submitted; the ones with stars next to them were the poems that were performed.

Instagram: @collagepublications Link: https://www.instagram.com/collagepubli cations? utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet &igsh=ZDNlZDc0MzIxNw==

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Grace Talbert Author Biography This author’s biography can be found on page 87.

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Cost of Comfort

Have you ever been buried alive?

I think most people know the feeling Coated in expectation and stereotype and tradition The edges of self defined by dirt and detritus It’s heavy weight: warm and close And it’d be comforting except you go to take a breath and realize you’re suffocating Feet held down Arms pinned to your side Even digging yourself out isn’t enough Because you stand by the graveside Feet forward but eyes glancing back And you look in that pit you climbed out of

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Weighted, warm comfort compared to wide open air That known place and name on the headstone A siren song of familiarity the call of the void to return to the role And bury yourself alive

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Isabella Blohm Author Biography This author’s biography can be found on page 95.

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My World, In Ink

A stroke in pencil leaves room for erasure: thoughts lost to an unsure nature.

Pen gliding over paper, personality & posture gilded forever in legacy and future I think: when I die,

I want to be remembered.

I do not want to be severed from my life, and the thoughts that made me want to pry for moreI think: when I die,

I want you not to cry from grief, but happiness.

After all, you have pieces of me, in the literature I write, and the books that I read.

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I think: I write in ink for those who knew me, and those who don’t.

My ink is my legacy: Every stroke of my pen, every misspelled word crossed out and written again

I want my mistakes in full view, so I can’t run from them.

I write in pen instead of pencil, so my thoughts are cemented so long as the book, or the paper, I write them in remain in trusted hands, again and again I write in ink instead of pencil, so I can be remembered as I was— Human 152

burnout

im tired and sore and dont really care anymore ive got too much to focus on and not enough

anything left to wear it my energy is gone still, I put on a smile to go the Extra mile when Duties require it.

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in other words: I grin and bear it. it doesnt help that im pushed in every direction: from Politics to Womanhood to striving for Perfection theres Academics and Money and Relationships to foster but not even the grades or the scholarships make me feel less an imposter ive worked hard to get where i am: lost friendships and opportunities and joy to achieve it i feel numb

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its no wonder ive got no Motivation: to move myself toward a better station not to get out of bed without panic setting in not to care about people whose lives continue morbid not even the state my home country is in ive lost my spark, my reason for being my meaning of life is shrouded in the dark of strife that just keeps feeding off my soul, my love, my passion, my life I can only keep being. after all, when passion burns bright, it can only last so long before day must turn to nigh

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Born In The USA

BANG! Blood splatters out of your head or your chest; you’re dead.

Maybe you’re lucky: it hit you in the thigh, so you can sigh in relief; that’s more than the others got as they were shot, And their parents flood with grief as— Their blood flooded the hallways, the streets, dead for being alive, wrong place, wrong time; too loud about their beliefs.

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School is no longer a place to learn— to grow— to be— human.

This generation grows up to survive not thrive Give them your Thoughts & Prayers and perhaps . . . they’ll make it out alive.

THEY DONT! From conception you’re a murderer, a sack to be shot at: target pra-ctice.

You’re important, until you’re not.

After all, you’re raised to be shot, or do the shooting--meant to be fought for, except when you start breathing.

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Our attention is drawn to fighting amongst ourselves, so much so that we miss the real villains involved: their corruption is shelved.

We’re pulled in every direction: Do this!

Do that!

A cycling spat that never ends.

We’re “Born & Raised” and can’t see what we’ve been raised for: A never-ending war.

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Karley Blau Author Biography This author’s biography can be found on page 76.

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Numb

To my left, a bright screen flickers, Images of violence and concerned news anchors, Spewing theories and facts recklessly intertwined.

The blue glow cuts through the depth of midnight.

Across the empty yet cluttered dorm My lover stirs in his sleep, Soft huffs leave his lips as he argues in his dreams.

To the right, Taped to cold stone bricks is a cheap posterBought for 4 dollars at the nearest Walmart:

‘Be kind to your mind’ And there’s a butterfly printed onto the paperThe colorful dots of its wings dulled Because the pattern on its face seems a twisted grin.

I lean into the pillow beneath my head, Both present and somewhere far away, And specks of dust dance in the air overhead.

What am I doing with my life?

The drone of static cuts through the fog in my mind, And a voice whispers, Disguising itself as anything but my own.

“You are wasting it” In the embers of my heart, The desire to rebel sparks and twists and fights to break free.

But I’m too tired to care.

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Sternum

I hate pity, Sympathy even, I’m a big girl And I can handle my own shit, I have my own life Independent life That’s mine alone to shape and craft Into something that I’m going to Be proud of when I die.

My life, My responsibility.

So when I’m hurting, I turn the pain into 4/10 star poetry That can only evoke any sort of emotion from me The writer…

Which means it fails, Because all the art I partake in Is meant for the viewer But if I can’t make them feel anything, I fail.

It’s really that simple.

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Yet I find myself struggling to put one foot in front of the other– Hear the hammer pounding nails into a coffin as I’m buried alive, But my voice is clipped.

There’s a hole in the center of my chest, I don’t have a sternum.

I should have a sternumEveryone else has a sternum And can breath normally, So where is my sternum?

That’s not something that gets misplaced.

It’s gone.

I think that acid wore it away While I was focusing on shouldering other things.

I think I’m drowning?

In an ocean made of a million drops of rain…

A million tiny drops battering against my skin.

And I’m weightless as I sink to the bottom Lost and floating.

I don’t even try to claw to the surface– Shock racing along my skin leaving me paralyzed.

My sternum is replaced with salt water.

Stings.

Useless body, Can’t keep the ocean at bay– What’s it for?

I don’t even like her: Mirrors and minds Manipulate and meld the image of her.

I fear this shell is nothing but a magpie Leagues under the ocean With mindless mutterings falling from cracked, chapped lips.

She is too much And never enough.

Maybe if I slept, I’d have a chance to breathe.

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But even in sleep I don’t get rest…

I’m tormented by visions of my own demise and ruin– Finding that there was a difference between the two Hurt worse than when I found my chest empty– I see in my sleep the ways I go.

If I described, in detail, what exhausts me and keeps me from shutting my eyes, I would be looked at With pity.

Pity.

I don’t need itDon’t want it.

Keep your pity And keep your sad looks.

I don’t want them.

If I have to go to bed, And live through my death Every night To keep marching and stumbling towards some future Then I’ll grit my fucking teeth And watch the last of the sun’s rays While I fall to the ocean floor, Because life exists down there too: Horrific and hideous But even without light Or air Or sternums, They find ways to live.

I can find the way- find the path to enjoying it.

I can see things that others will never And that has to be something special, Right?

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Maybe I should go to therapyToxic thoughts traipse through my thick fucking skull, They carve their own path, Then get trapped in it.

Running and sprinting Faster and faster Until the groove is so worn in, that the ocean, My friend, Marvels at her depth.

I know that therapy could help me, But the trickery in my mind says that if I go, That’s when I finally admit that something is wrong with me, That I’m broken and there might not be a way To fix all that’s been shattered.

Do you know how that feels?

To not want to admit it?

To absolutely believe that seeking help Means that you are beyond repair?

I don’t want to be like this.

I want to hold someone’s hand Laugh with a friend Greet a coworker, Make love with someone…

And not think that they’ll leave Or that they’re using me.

I’m scared a sick part of me likes that one: Being used…

Because if they’re using me, That means I’m worth something; That I’m pretty enough to abuse, Useful enough to want, Treasured enough to shatter.

I am grown though, I don’t need pityI think that I can handle what’s mine.

I’ll carve myself a new sternum From ash wood

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So What If I Die?

I will die.

Not today most likely, And tomorrow seems improbable too, But I will die.

I age and age, And so I’ll dieI die a little more with each passing breath.

Her boney hands beckon To my mortal soulIt can’t deny her forever- I cannot.

That has never been my goal.

I will die, And that doesn’t matter.

Does it matter…?

I know what matters.

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I know I’ve felt the sun on my skinBeen burned and warmed by its rays.

I know I’ve ran barefoot across a beach, Been cut by a shattered shell.

I know I’ve tasted cinnamon and sugar, Been full with food made with love.

I know I’ve held my grandmother’s hand, Been cared for without the expectation of gain.

I know I’ve let myself be a fool, Been reckless and wild.

I know I’ve loved, Over and over again, I’ve loved.

I know I’ve been lovedBy so many.

So it doesn’t matter That She comes for meIt doesn’t.

I’ll ride Her boat, Cross the river without a cry.

It doesn’t matter.

But did I ever matter?

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Did I leave enough behind?

Will my words become ink, My worlds become known?

Will my creations make them think, Will they see that I had grown?

When She takes me, Will I have left enough behind?

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Meet The Editors

Isabella Blohm Editor Biography Isabella Blohm is the current Editor-inChief of Collage. She is a sophomore at Millikin University, majoring in English Creative Writing with a Publishing & Editing minor. Isabella hails from Superior, Wisconsin, worked on Collage as a Co-Editor in her freshman year, and hopes to continue publishing throughout the rest of her Millikin career.

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Ella Bianchi Editor Biography This editor did not submit a biography.

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Tabitha Barowsky Editor Biography My name is Tabitha Barowsky and I served as one of the Co-Editors for this edition of Collage. I am a senior double major in Music and English Studies with a minor in Writing and a Jazz Certificate and a part of the Honors college. I play the bassoon in a variety of ensembles, including the Millikin Symphonic Wind Ensemble and Jazz Combo B. Outside of academics, I am a member of Pi Beta Phi, Panhellenic Council President and the Panhellenic Student Affairs Assistant to Greek Life and Culture.

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Vivian King Editor Biography Hello! My name is Vivian King, I am a junior here at Millikin and I am majoring in English. I was born and raised in the south suburbs of Chicago but I recently moved to Springfield with my fiancé. I began writing at a very young age and it’s something that I still enjoy doing today. I personally love writing short stories and poetry and hope to one day publish some of my work. After Millikin I plan to become an educator and teach Middle and High School.

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