Lighted Corners 2020

Lighted Corners cycles

Mount St. Mary’s University 16300 Old Emmitsburg Road Emmitsburg, MD 21727 301-447-6122 lightedcorners@msmary.edu msmary.edu/lightedcorners www.facebook.com/lightedcorners www.twitter.com/lightedcorners www.instagram/lightedcorners

Volume 39 Spring 2020

Editor

Breanna DeSimone

Art & Design Editor Assistant Art Editor Assistant Design Editor

Rachel Donohue Janelle Ramroop Emmy Jansen

Poetry Editor Assistant Poetry Editor

Sarah Johnson Gigi Gaston

Fiction Editor Assistant Fiction Editor

Betsy Busch Kayla Cooper

Creative Nonfiction Editor Assistant Creative Nonfiction Editor

Kerri Czekner Maria Stollenwerk

Submission Managers

Jazlyn Ibarra & Tyler Jackson

Public Relations Manager

Joshua Moreno

Faculty Adviser

Tom Bligh

Staff Hannah Barber, James Courtney, Oloruntomi Dare, Brittni Garms, Cara Gose, Conor Hoffman, Sydney Kelly, Rita Marcotte, Megan McCaskey, Marie Miller, Gabrielle Sease, Austin Wilson ______ Production Lighted Corners partners with Valley Graphic Services in Frederick, Maryland. Five hundred copies are printed by the company. The Spring 2020 issue is printed on 100# Gloss Cover and 70# Opaque Uncoated Text. The magazine body text is set in Whitman and headers are set in Multi Display. The cover is set in La Fraktouille. Lighted Corners is created using Adobe Creative Cloud. The Design and Assistant Design Editors worked collaboratively on the layout of the magazine. Citation Definitions of section dividers titled wither, growth, and decay were provided by Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary: www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/us/

About Lighted Corners is an annual literary and arts magazine that publishes poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, fine art, and photography created by students of Mount St. Mary’s University. Lighted Corners holds memberships with the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the Associated Collegiate Press, and the Society for Collegiate Journalists. Mount St. Mary’s University enrolls 1,889 undergraduate students. Policy Statement At the end of the fall semester, students from across the university submit works that reflect diverse perspectives and themes. After removing the names of contributors, the Lighted Corners staff reviews submissions. The editors make final selections and design the layout for the magazine by striving to create a union between word, image, and theme. Awards Columbia Scholastic Press Association is an international student press association, founded in 1925, whose goal is to unite student journalists and faculty advisers at schools and colleges through educational conferences, idea exchanges, textbooks, critiques and award programs. Gold Medalist 2019, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2012, 2008 Silver Medalist 2018, 2013, 2011, 2010, 2009 Silver Crown Award 2014 Gold Circle Award 2015 to Shannon Gilmore Work published in Lighted Corners has been recognized by plain china: the Best Undergraduate Writing. Three students on the staff of Lighted Corners are members of Sigma Tau Delta, Alpha Phi Iota chapter, as is the magazine’s adviser and the nine-member Department of English faculty. Sigma Tau Delta is the International English Honor Society, with over 900 active chapters located in the United States and abroad. Our contributors have earned recognition in Delta Epsilon Sigma National Scholastic Honor Society’s undergraduate writing competition. Delta Epsilon Sigma is a national scholastic honor society established in 1939 for students of Catholic universities and colleges in the United States. The Spring 2019 edition of Lighted Corners placed first in the nation for Literary Magazine Overall Excellence in a competition held by the Society for Collegiate Journalists.

The William Heath Award is an honor earned by the student who demonstrates outstanding achievement in creative writing. For more than twenty-five years, Dr. William Heath taught American literature and creative writing at Mount St. Mary’s University. In 2007 he retired as a Professor Emeritus. His courses inspired much of the poetry and fiction that appeared in Lighted Corners since its inception in 1981. 2020 Breanna DeSimone and Cara Gose 2019 Katherine Brittingham 2018 Trevor Fulmer and Maggie McCormick 2017 Joseph Theis 2016 Samantha Solis 2015 Kaitlyn Bryans 2014 Bernadette Gorman 2013 Melissa Caffrey 2012 Karolina Gajdeczka 2011 Erica Szalkowski 2010 Chelsea Baranoski

The new Lighted Corners logo was a collaborative effort between the editorial team and staff members during the 2019–20210 academic year. After several sketches were drawn up in the fall, students voted on which versions of the logo best represented the literary and arts aspects of the magazine equally. The finalized logo, as seen above, was created in Adobe Photoshop and Adobe Illustrator by Rachel Donohue, who served as both the Design and Art Editor for this year’s edition of Lighted Corners.

Editor’s Note

During an overnight stay at the Mount, before I was even a student, I visited a creative writing class and met Dr. Bligh. He handed me the 2015 edition of Lighted Corners. It ignited a spark that overwhelmed me and led me to send my poems to Lighted Corners, join the magazine’s staff, and eventually to become the Chief Editor of the 2020 edition. This journey has been beyond incredible. Lighted Corners will always hold a special place in my heart because it gave me the confidence to take chances and believe in my talent. This year’s magazine is a testament to the triumph of growth. Our theme, Cycles, explores the constant renewal of life, even in death. A number of the art pieces within the magazine belong to an on-campus exhibit called Earthworks. This temporary exhibit utilized natural elements found on the mountain, which were crafted into sculptures by the art students. Though the sculptures have now decayed, they remain immortalized in these pages. It takes a community to build a magazine such as this one. I have infinite amounts of appreciation for all of my staff and contributors, especially my design and art editor Rachel Donohue, who spent hours combining all of the edited works into one cohesive magazine. I’d also like to thank our faculty sponsor, Dr. Bligh. He is truly passionate about this publication and puts so much time and effort into making sure it continues to be a creative outlet for all students on campus, regardless of their majors. I am grateful to Dean Dorsey and Dr. Mitra for cultivating creativity and encouraging students to grow and prosper. I’d like to thank Nicole Patterson for all of her support and enthusiasm. I’d like to thank Professor Holtry for her time and advice. A special thanks belongs to Provost Creasman for working with us during the quarantine to bring Lighted Corners to people in a new way. Finally, my gratitude goes to Robin Jones and the employees of Valley Graphic Service Inc. for always being supportive and turning the magazine into a reality each year. I am proud to announce that volume 39 is the first digital edition in Lighted Corners history! I hope that you can feel the joy of all the passion and creativity that went into the manifestation of Lighted Corners volume 39!

Breanna DeSimone

wither - decay - growth

Contents Poetry

Creative Nonfiction

The Forest 11 Conor Hoffman Elegy 14 Rebecca Richard Beware of Dog(s) 17 Alba Sarria No Flowers Grow Here Anymore 18 Brittni Garms Cream and Sugar 24 Rebecca Richard Forever 32 Jazlyn Ibarra Hauntings in Little Places 33 Alba Sarria There are Different Kinds of Cold 40 Rebekah Balick VT 41 Kayla Cooper Tonton Macoute (Uncle Gunnysack) 46 Gigi Gaston Love’s Purgatory 49 Gigi Gaston Blue Boy 59 Therese Villarubia Perspective 65 Tess Boegel Symphony of Simple Sounds 70 Breanna DeSimone A Single Feather 71 Emily Salmonsen Snake 73 Sarah Johnson

Take Me Back 12 Lilli Heineman In the Haze of Their Minds 27 Breanna DeSimone Ovarian Doppelgänger 52 Kelley Northam

Fiction The Belly of the Beast 15 Therese Villarubia Find 19 Brittni Garms The Day it Happened 25 Betsy Busch A Mother’s Plea 34 Conor Hoffman The Rift 42 Tynan Gallagher Two Loaves of Bread 47 Marcelo Saunders Depths of Night 55 Tess Boegel My Darling, What if You Fly? 61 Cara Gose Lying on the Floor 67 of the Sistine Chapel Maria Elser

Visual Art

Photography

Science? Magic? God? 11 Otitodilichukwu Okpalannaka Fog in the Woods 16 Jordan Friedman Bridgette 17 Glennamarie Rivers Spiked Root 33 Tim Bonner Rooted 38 Trevor Kern Winter in Skyrim 40 Olivia Prevost Hot Breath 50 Rebekah Balick Wilted 72 Natalie Meador Sincerely, Jane 75 Oloruntomi Dare

Sorrento Sunset, Cliffside 26 Rachel Donohue The Swinging Bridge 30 Maya Marks Why So Crabby? 48 James Kempisty Escaleras en Valpo 49 Jazlyn Ibarra Portland Head Lighthouse 58 James Kempisty Wings of Spring 63 Paige Moseley Arno Reflects Florence 69 Rachel Donohue Monarch in May 70 Paige Moseley Fabricated Beauty 76 Breanna DeSimone

Earthworks Amaranth, Golden Rod, and Stick 14 Marie Miller Cicada Shells and Hydrangea Flowers 18 Emily Lewis Seed Pods 41 Katie Creamer Blackberry Lily Seeds 45 Jacqueline Ramos-Izquierdo Chestnut Tree Catkins 54 Katie Creamer Gingko Leaves and Beautyberry Seeds 59 Marie Miller Holly Berries and Log 66 Katie Creamer and Carolyn Ciccocioppo

Front & Back Covers Wilted Natalie Meador

wither

verb. to become less or weaker, especially before disappearing completely

wither Science? Magic? God? | Prismacolor pencils on paper Otitodilichukwu Okpalannaka

The Forest Conor Hoffman I see the dew fall from the leaves with grace. The birds are singing merry little tunes. The morning sun shines brightly on my face. I wish I could stay till the afternoon. Nevertheless, I’ll cherish this place now, For it is here my troubles all depart. I dread the day this place comes under plow And nature’s realm is once more torn apart. I know this day will come within the year And so I take in all the sights I can. I try my hardest not to shed one tear, For progress is the nature of a man. He has to prove his mastery over God And so, upon His canvas he will trod.

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Take Me Back Lilli Heineman You were sitting alone when I first met you. Our dads started talking; we sat in silence. The first words I said to you were that our dads would be good friends. They laughed and you smiled. Our dads got offered to coach the team and suddenly we were spending time together. We had to babysit the head coach’s kids. I dressed nice that day. Why did I dress nice? I was feeling good that day. Why was I feeling good? Was it because I was going to see you? No. Yes. We grew close. Wherever you went, I was right there behind you. In your shadow. I slept over and you showed me your uniform. I blushed. You smiled. I slept on the floor. I just didn’t want you to think I was weird. Just ask. No. You couldn’t know, no one could know. You were Catholic anyway; Catholics hate people like me. I would rather die than have you hate me. I would rather be your friend than have you hate me. Disgusting. You’re not. I am. You couldn’t know; no one could know. And no one knew. For three years,

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no one would know a thing. I would be happy and alone, terrified that one day, people would know. Terrified that you would know. And for those three years I waited for some indication that you were like me. You had a homecoming date that you despised. You called me because he was a disaster. You read books with people like me in them. They were your favorite books. You sang songs about people like me. They were your favorite songs. One day we went out for my birthday, just the two of us. You joked that you were taking me on a date. I laughed, and you smiled. On the way home you asked if I had a boyfriend. And for the second time since we met, we sat in silence. Just say it. No. On the fourth year, something changed in me. Was I more confident? Did I just care less? Did I just want to finally admit it? Yes. But not to you. Soon that little secret became part of my identity. People in my life accepted me with open arms because they were just like me. And you, you said nothing. I was sure you hated me. I was too scared to say anything. One day, you came over to my house. I was excited. Why was I excited? Was it because I was going to see you? No.

wither Yes, of course it was. I showed you my favorite movie. You laughed, and I laughed as well. You slept in my bed. I didn’t think it was weird. You put your head on my shoulder. When you woke up, we broke into the pool and sat by the water. And then I asked you. You were just like me. But no one could know. From that day, everything changed. I was no longer your shadow. I was confident and loud and obnoxious, and I didn’t care about what anyone else thought because you still were my friend. Just my friend. Your parents were Catholic anyway. Catholics hate people like us. You couldn’t act that way around them. That’s what you told me. That’s the reason we had to keep it secret. It made sense. It was okay. I understood the need to be secretive, to crawl into a shell and hide away for ever and ever from judgment that nags at the back of your skull. Not that it mattered anyway. After all, you were just my friend. My friend I went on dates with, went to bed with, went to prom with. You flirted playfully with other people like us. But it was okay, you were just joking. Right? You told me to calm down because we were just friends. Just my friend. Because you didn’t want your parents to know, right? Wrong. No, it’s okay. It’s okay to keep this secret. You’re hiding something.

You’re not! You left, and then I checked your phone. I wish I was there to make out with you rn. I didn’t cry. I didn’t move. I just sat in silence and smiled. Because, after all, we were just friends. And friends have secret friends they would never dare to share with other friends. You came back and fell asleep cuddled against my chest. And I never told you what I saw. You have your secrets, and I’ll have mine. One day, early in the summer, you, me and several of our closest friends went on a trip. You acted strange. Different. You were still my friend, but you didn’t share my bed, or my canoe, or sleep tightly against my body. You tried to avoid me. I could tell. I don’t know why I felt so at peace. And when we came home, you made sure I was the last to leave your house. You walked me to my car in silence. You turned and faced me and, for the first time in a long time, you began to cry. I’m sorry. I said nothing. I had been dating her for a while. I smiled. Before I started to like you. I laughed and smiled with tears in my eyes. I told you, it’s okay. After all, the past is in the past. And I wish I could just go back.

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Lighted Corners Amaranth, Golden Rod, and Stick Earthworks Exhibition Marie Miller

Elegy Rebecca Richard Ironic how we’ve forgotten how the song goes. The lyrics tangled in my hair somewhere; the rhythm keeping my heart in motion when the poetry cannot. I was hoping that eventually the sentences would stumble back to me, and construct a new stanza. One without empty promises and cut corners; one that listens to the symphony and is kind. A song that knows the meaning behind its verses; every letter and every stroke knows its importance. I lost my art in the storm once, wandering the streets in the hurricane’s eye. Now I’m just waiting to set the words free, waiting for the band to return. I, as conductor; you, as conducted. Music was always the thing I loved most, and I was always the thing you loved least...

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The Belly of the Beast Therese Villarubia whole human in his belly, one that he was still thinking about digesting, but I— Gurgle, gurgle, grah, feed me.

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Bones are pretty nasty when still inside creatures

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It was dark inside the wolf. Wet, too. I shifted my leg and grimaced as my foot settled against the fatty fold of muscle covering its hip bones. It oozed up through my toes and I shuddered with discomfort. I folded my fingers across my abdomen, staring up at the segmented spine above me. Bones are pretty nasty when still inside creatures; they weren’t white and smooth at all but layered in translucent pink tissue and slimy-looking. I was cradled inside the wolf’s belly, my back against its stomach and my knees pulled up against my chest. My kneecaps brushed its back. Thankfully, I had a once-white cloak pulled tightly around my body and the hood was drawn over my head, so at least my hair wouldn’t get gross. I stretched my legs out, just to spite the wolf. He shuddered as I braced my feet against his fleshiness and shoved outward with all my might. The curved red muscles on either side of me pulsed angrily. Eventually, the wolf had to decide whether I was more trouble than I was worth. Then he’d either cough me up, or he’d digest me. I wasn’t sure which I preferred. Suddenly, my stomach growled. Or maybe the wolf’s stomach growled— although, come to think of it, that wouldn’t make much sense. He had a

I sighed and reached up to rap my fingers against the wolf’s spine. The wolf would have to get hungry, too. I’d felt him running earlier, the length of his body compressing and widening weirdly in contorted ways that interrupted my nap. Conveniently, the wolf’s head bent (I could feel it in the vibrations of his dark, wet body) and began making harsh, jerky movements, as if he was tearing into something. Ah, good. Food. I tilted my head back, sure to keep my hair covered by the reddened hood. Any moment now... A swallow. Then— A neat plate slid down his throat and came to a rest in front of me. There was a salad covered in shaved carrots and drippy dressing, a cooked steak

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Lighted Corners with little toothpicks sticking out of it, and a glop of mashed potatoes. Another swallow, and a sweating glass of water slid after it. I inhaled and closed my eyes in pure ecstasy. “That’s for table twelve. Chop chop!” I blinked, opening my eyes. There the plate sat, but instead of in a wolf’s gullet, it lay innocently on a long wooden counter. There I stood, but I was surrounded

by the clatter of silverware and the chatter of sated people instead of a wolf’s belly. I was upright, my feet on a wooden floor that even now creaked at the slightest shift of my weight. I straightened my apron, selfconsciously fingering the dot of ketchup stain on it. I scooped up the plate (my stomach whined), tucked a lock of hair back into my headscarf, and spun around to head back into the belly of the beast.

Fog in the Woods | white and black charcoal on toned paper Jordan Friedman

wither

Beware of Dog(s) Alba Sarria He says he loves you. Licks your cheek, holds your hand. Hungry. But at the sight of another pretty thing in a skirt and short sleeves— just a flash of skin, he’s gone.

Bridgette | etching print on paper Glennamarie Rivers

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No Flowers Grow Here Anymore Brittni Garms No flowers grow here anymore, As wooden beams rot away. Forgotten but being watched, It suffers alone. Wooden beams rot away; Everyone turned away to sleep. It suffers alone As people begin to wonder why. Everyone turned away to sleep Without caring about sunrise. As people begin to wonder why, Flower pots crumble away. Without caring about sunrise, It sleeps alone As flower pots crumble away, As petals fall back to where they belong. It sleeps alone, Forgotten but being watched, Its petals falling back to where they belong. No flowers grow here anymore.

Cicada Shells and Hydrangea Flowers Earthworks Exhibition 18 Emily Lewis

wither

Find Brittni Garms I never liked seeing the train house so sad all the time. It was the one thing that kept me coming back. — It was 2007 when I first passed through Ijamsville. I just got my license and I was driving back from a local cafe with homemade brews. I was there because they had a new flavor to celebrate the end of winter, so, of course, I had to get my dirty hands on it. My rusty, used car had a hard time faring over the unpaved, makeshift road that led to the small town of Ijamsville. I never knew the town existed until I drove through it. I wasn’t at its heart, but I could see a small row of houses, some old and some new, in the distance. Right before them was a railroad. I groaned as the conveniently-timed railroad crossing gates closed and I slowed to a stop. I put my car into park; I was going to be here for a while. Lazily, I pulled the lever to make the chair seat go back and I relaxed. I tapped my feet on the dashboard and folded my arms as I watched the freight train go by. I flipped my phone to check for any messages. I had none. What was I expecting? The train tore my attention from my empty inbox with a loud whistle. I groaned again. Just then, as if God actually heard me, the last train car passed me by and the gates let up. As I reached to put my car into drive, my eyes followed the white and red gates

to the right. I left my hand hanging in midair. I was caught having a face-off with an old, ugly, red brick building. It appeared to have two floors, but there was no glass in the windows. Half of it was collapsed, probably from years of rain and earthquakes. The gates lifted all the way up, and I put my car in drive but pulled off to the side of the road to investigate. I grabbed my bag, left the car, and locked it. Stepping on bricks, I observed the lonely little structure. Inside, the floor was overgrown with brown grass and covered in scattered clay bricks. Above me were exposed wooden beams which were green with age and looked as if they would melt off the ceiling. The top floor was slanted downwards in my direction, like a frown of disappointment. I backed up to see more of the second floor, but it was completely devoid of anything besides rotting wood and crumbling bricks. Despite all the red, the building was empty of color; I felt the need to add some. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a can of green spray paint. My eyes sneakily crept through every empty window and I put my hood over my head to block my eyes. I shook the can eagerly and decided I would write something to literally make my mark on history and the fully intact brick wall. I sprayed on: EM WAS HERE I smirked at my creation and made

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Lighted Corners sure the calligraphy on it was refined and smooth. In the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I ducked out of the drooping doorway, unlocked my car, got in, and started up the engine. I hid my face under my oversized shirt and started to drive away. Before I left, I gave the train house one last pleased look. — At my friend Caitlyn’s place, we finished our 20x20 foot canvas piece. It was a lighthouse by the sea, but with a monochromatic blue scheme. “What should we name it?” I asked her. “I dunno,” she replied, her voice apathetic. She turned to me in hopes of hearing something good, but her tone told me otherwise. “You got any ideas?” I felt the dried paint on the lighthouse. “Maybe, ‘Stormy Lighthouse?’” “That’s really stupid, girl.” “‘No Sun Here?’” “That’s even worse.” “Uhhh,” I paused to think, “how about...oh! ‘Light Ends Here?’” “Damn,” Caitlyn muttered, wiping some paint off her forehead, “all your ideas are stupid.” “Shut up!” I pushed her playfully and she knocked me down to retaliate. We laughed for a minute before she picked up half of the canvas and said to me, “Let’s hang this somewhere where Mom will see! Maybe we could put it by the front door for now?” “That sounds good,” I agreed and picked up the other end, helping her carry it through the house. “You know, I was thinking about it—‘Light Ends Here’ would make really edgy graffiti art.” “You’re the only person I know in this whole town who thinks graffiti art

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is cool,” Caitlyn replied with a snort and a laugh. “It is!” I attested. “I found a really cool train house to write it on, too! You won’t be making fun of me when I’m famous.” “For graffiti art?” “Exactly.” — A week had passed since we finished our biggest project yet and I came back to the train house with more spray paint. I wore my black hoodie with a blue facemask. Again, I pulled over to the side of the road and crept into the building. I went to view my last, beautiful piece of art. It was still there, but I was taken aback when I saw a new addition to the wall. It read: WELCOME HOME I had no idea how to react. I was scared, but I couldn’t move. I was worried, but I didn’t feel threatened. I gathered myself up and took to the neighboring space next to it. I breathed in and started to compose my piece. I sprayed on all sorts of colors: reds, blues, greens, and yellows. I worked meticulously and quickly so I could get out before I got caught. In under twenty minutes, I decorated half of the brick wall with fancy lettering spelling out: LIGHT ENDS HERE I sighed and happily gazed upon my best graffiti yet. I took it all in before I left to go back to my car. I drove away to brag to my friend about my art. — “That’s creepy, Em.” “I think it’s kinda cool,” I responded after telling her about my encounter. “It’s like having a pen pal without the pen!”

wither word resonated within me. Why? I didn’t know why. I couldn’t answer it. Why does the light end here? I didn’t know; I thought it would be cool to write. I reached into my bag to reply, but I felt no spray cans in my bag. I groaned angrily and stomped my foot on the ground. Now I was left with this unanswerable question. I shuffled away, ducking my head under the wooden beam and got back into my car. I considered going home to get my paints, but I did not want my parents to find out what I was doing, so I drove away.

“

The word resonated within me. Why? I didn’t know why.

“

“I wouldn’t go back,” Caitlyn tried to reason with me. “You don’t know if whoever wrote that was a rapist or convicted murderer!” “What if he’s just an artist like me? That would be kinda cool, admit it.” I slouched back in the recliner, dirtied with years of spilled paint and passion projects. “Well, if you end up dead in a ditch somewhere, don’t come haunting me; I warned you,” she said, half-seriously and half-jokingly. I brushed off her worry and joined her studying. I spent the rest of my day at her place. — Three weeks later, I was almost done with my junior year of high school. My schedule had been packed with studying, so I was itching to make more art; I was never on artist block’s hitlist. I finished my homework early that day, so my parents let me leave the house. I decided to visit the train house to see if my pen pal left me anything. The sun was about to set, so I had to move fast. I performed my usual train house routine: pull to the side of the road, grab the bag, hide my face, get into the train house. I gasped at the sight before me. From the bottom of the wall all the way to the crumbling ceiling above me, there was colorful graffiti. The once muted building was alive with pinks, whites, purples and blues. My eyes tried following the abstract art from the wall to the ceiling. I walked backwards to look at it until it finally came into full view. It spelled out: WHY? I blinked, both admiring of and bewildered by this modern Monet. The

Cut to two months later and now I was out for summer. With Caitlyn’s help and creative mind, we completed three pieces, including painting a model train. This summer, we decided we wanted to create a miniature train set to match our train. All this locomotive talk reminded me of the rickety brick house by the tracks. It was a hot summer, so I figured the train house was miserable, crying all by itself, despite having new colors to cheer it up. I thought that with all the shimmer, the house would have a quirky personality, even if its exterior looked depressed, like a surprise-inside ordeal. I missed experiencing the excitement of returning to it and finding that my pen pal wrote something new on the wall.

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hoping to find something under them, but nothing was there. I was intrigued, so I scoured the rest of the building. I looked under old beams and up where the roof would have been. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. What was there to find here? I had no idea what to do besides write a reply in spray paint. I wrote on the board covering the doorway: WHAT?

“

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. What was there to find here?

“

I waited for the perfect day to return. Finally, my parents were out of town for the weekend. After passing through Ijamsville, I saw the train house at the end of the road and I could also see that the empty windows were now boarded up with ugly, brown slabs. I was disappointed, but I wouldn’t let boards hold me back. As I approached the old home, I saw that a large chunk of it was gone. The bricks along that wall were on the ground, as if something had knocked it over. Luckily, that was my way in. I stepped over the destroyed wall and looked inside. Even though the windows were blocked, it was even brighter than last time. The ceiling above me completely caved in and was on the floor. All of our graffiti was still there, as if it was put there yesterday. I searched it for anything new. I was distracted by the giant “WHY?” which was now half gone with no ceiling to show the rest of it. Nothing looked new on the walls, but to make sure I was not missing anything, I did a second take. Carefully, my eyes scanned the interior. I walked in my old footsteps, under the once-existing ceiling, out towards the end to look at the once-there second floor and up to the covered doorway. To my shock, I saw something graffitied in red on the old piece of wood that hung above the doorway. It was not as decorated as the other graffiti, but it still looked like my pen pal’s handwriting. I squinted to read it: FIND I backed away from it. The word faded from my sight as I distanced myself. What a strange word. Maybe there was treasure somewhere in the train house? I kicked around the bricks,

I decorated it a little. I lost some of my creative drive to the mystery that hit me suddenly. After, I sat against the wall and took my time in there alone. I let the personality of the train house soak in as I heard the friendly chirping of birds and leaves rustling in the wind. I had no desire to leave, but I knew that if I stayed here long enough, someone would find me—dead or alive. I stared at the “FIND” for what felt like two hours. When I felt that I spent enough time in there, I got up, brushed myself off and headed back out to my car. However, before I left it behind, I turned around to face it up close, something I dared not to do before. With loving care, I put my hand on the softly crumbling brick exterior. I knew it was going to go

wither away with time, but I wasn’t sure when, so I figured I could share one moment with it before it was gone. I got in my car but didn’t drive away immediately. I wanted to give it one final smile; I knew I wasn’t returning for a while with the family vacation coming up. Slowly, I drove away, waving at it mentally with my grin. — Autumn came. I was in the car with my parents after completing a back-toschool shopping spree. The car came to a halt at the railroad crossing. A train was coming by. My mom, driving the car, groaned irritably and threw her head back into the car seat. I sat up straight, excited, since I knew where we were. I went to look at the train house, but the freight train passing by was blocking my view. “Em?” my dad called from the seat in front of me. “Do we need to get anything else that we forgot? There’s a little store up the street.” “Not that I know of,” I replied, still looking out the window. This freight train was short, so the crossing was cleared quickly. My eyes were set on where the train house was, but there was one problem: the train house wasn’t there anymore.

— When we got home, I immediately ran back out of the house. I told my parents that Caitlyn needed me, so I had an excuse. I drove like a maniac through Ijamsville to get to the tracks. I got there and pulled over one last time, only to be met with nothing but an outline of where the building used to be. I walked into the middle and sat down. I began to process everything. All of my art, as well as my pen pal’s, was gone. The excitement of finding out what my pen pal wrote was gone. The charm of the old building was gone. All it left behind was a few bricks. There was no mystery to solve anymore. It only remained in my memories. I would never know who it was, but I knew my pen pal kept it in his memory, too. Worst of all, I would never know what there was to find. I sighed and got back on my feet. There was nothing to do here anymore except mope. I left for the last time. I wanted to smile at the remains but felt that there was nothing to smile about. I drove away and I never came back. Only a few memories soon to fade away haunted me: LIGHT ENDS HERE. WHY? FIND.

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Cream and Sugar Rebecca Richard I like my coffee early when I have homework to finish and finals to study for. I like coffee bitter and sweet, frothed and stirred, a lot and a little. Sometimes—all the time—I like my coffee. I like it in a coffee shop, in a dorm room, on a side street, in a Starbucks. Coffee and I have a good thing going. It’s a reliable friend, consistent and caring. I used to prefer You; in a booth or at a table, delicious and nice, warm and comfortable, with coffee to the side of your sweeter disposition. Now, I am the bitter one. Slowly cooling, fresh and steaming before You, as we small talk about the weather or our jobs. I’m avoiding the first sip. Revenge is best served cold; my coffee is best served hot and without You.

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wither

The Day it Happened Betsy Busch There came a winter that was not a winter, but the winter—the winter for which all the other winters had been waiting. The temperatures dropped to levels that broke every record and threatened to shatter the insides of every car and bus. Snow, nature’s most obstinate army, laid siege to house after house, piling to the upper windows and refusing to melt. Ice covered the streets, sidewalks, fields, yards, and rivers, and walking anywhere became a dangerous game of chance. And yet the people could not restrain themselves from stepping outside of their warm dens. The ice made sheets and ripples like diamonds beaten and spread out over the surface of the Earth. When the sun shone, the ice refracted rainbows everywhere until the whole world looked like the inside of a prism. Bundled up in all their clothes, the adults began to whisper over their coffee when the little children were not listening, “Is this the winter? Is this it?” But they could not be sure. Despite the beliefs of the people, spring did come—and what a glorious spring! This spring, like the winter, was the child of all the previous springs’ pregnant expectations. All of a sudden, warm breezes swirled around the piles of snow and whisked them away to the north. Torrents of water threatened to submerge the Earth as the leftovers melted, but, reminded of the promise

of the rainbow, they drained off into the already-swollen seas. With the benefit of four months’ sustained moisture, the grass emerged in a shock of new green. One second, all the grass was brown and dead. The next, it was three inches high and as soft as a new baby’s hair. The flowers, too, all exploded at once, from the forsythias to the chrysanthemums. Children tore from their houses to marvel at the unexpected wash of colors and to weave them into garish crowns or garlands or bouquets or victory laurels. Their parents surveyed the same growth and were filled with a horror that confirmed the latent sense of doom that had been lurking since the winter. This was the spring that all the springs had prepared for. In its time, the summer arrived, too, but it was not magnificent like the spring. The rain did not come. The heat burned the skin of anyone who touched an outdoor surface. The flowers which had bloomed so early scorched under the fading sun, never again to bear seeds for the future. Trees tried to grow leaves, but the hopeful buds failed. Few could survive until the onset of fall. The adults spoke of topics that could no longer be restrained to whispers; would there be enough water, and what were they to tell their children? The children, being children, knew much more than their parents thought. They too wondered what waited for them

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Lighted Corners after fall, if indeed they could survive until then. Just when the people thought they would surely die, the cooling rains of fall came. The scarcity of leaves was more than made up for by the explosion of color that popped out on each tree as the last remnants of chlorophyll were devoured. The people began talking freely about what was to come with their children and parents and neighbors. They strolled on the brown grass or yellow sand, which was softened by the temperatures and rainfall but still dead in appearance. There was no need to

save food or festivities for the winter holidays, so each night they stayed up late talking with each other and toasting the past with cider and tea, wine and beer. They greeted the fading sunrises by reminiscing and joking and crying and wondering...wondering...about the day that was to come. And when that day did come, when the fall ended and did not become winter, when the sky turned red and the earth began to melt, they held each other and knew that the waiting was done. It was over, and it was very good.

Sorrento Sunset, Cliffside | digital photography Rachel Donohue

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wither

In the Haze of Their Minds Breanna DeSimone I want to have on the people in my life. This is the reason I have come to volunteer. The stuffed animals hanging off of Wanda’s cart sway as we move on. I ask her questions about every patient, overflowing with curiosity. I want to know their stories, the lives they lived, the people they loved. Each pair of eyes staring back at me has a history hidden somewhere in the haze of their minds. To learn it is to carry those bright souls with me. Though none of them know it, they are also teaching me who I am.

“

In her movements, I see the cage her body has become

“

The contrast of her wrinkled hand against my smooth one is artwork. She touches my wrist so lightly I almost don’t feel it. My eyes are drawn to the web of bruising that decorates her delicate skin, and the way her fingers curl with arthritis. I look up to find a smile spreading across her face. “I really love you, you know,” she says with complete sincerity, “You’re such a beautiful girl.” I believe her, even though I only met this woman five minutes ago. As we sit there, I use the cotton pad to gently glide nail polish remover along her nails. The shimmering purple paint begins to dissolve beneath my gentle pressure. Every once in a while, she lays her hand on my wrist and tells me, “I really love you, you know. You’re such a beautiful girl.” — Wanda pushes her cart down the hall, stopping by every door. It is snack time, and I trail behind as she makes her rounds. She knows which drink and snack every patient likes the best. She talks to them as she fills up plastic cups with bright liquids. Their pure faces light up as they smile and joke with her. She treats them like human beings and in those small moments, they remember who they are. I am impressed by how well Wanda knows everyone and I am filled with affection for each beautiful soul I meet. I realize this is the effect

The beach ball floats ever so gently into the unmoving hands of the man in front of me. It falls into his lap and he grins like a toddler. I take the ball from him, careful not to bump his wheelchair. Looking around, I find the next participant. Buried in blankets, she barely lifts her arms, waiting to catch the ball. In her movements, I see the cage her body has become, unwilling to follow her commands. With this in

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Lighted Corners mind, my throw turns into a roll and I watch to make sure it settles in her lap. All the people who surround me here feel so breakable. I am careful to remember that. After exercise with the beach ball, it is trivia time. Wanda asks them to spell simple words like dog or sit. Sometimes, we ask them to name animals or items that start with a particular letter of our choosing. As the patients nod off, I ask Wanda about them. There is a couple sitting off to the corner, next to the window. The woman is chewing on her clothing, eyes closed. As I watch, the man takes her hand and laces his fingers with hers. I learn they have been married for many, many years. She is slowly forgetting who he is. Yet, they are together, and she knows him well enough to feel comfortable holding his hand. It is a bittersweet love story. — There is a box of old things in the activity room. Sometimes, Wanda will bring it out to reminisce and stretch the patient’s memories. Today, she reaches in and pulls out kitchen utensils and doll clothing. Inside the box, there is also a pair of well-worn baby shoes and a bonnet. The ladies sitting around the table are eating ice cream and putting together jigsaw puzzles. They relive old memories brought to the surface by these pieces of the past. Wanda lifts a chalkboard from the box. Across the top there is a faded, old picture of some children. May, one of my favorite people at the hospital, holds this one. She is deep into her dementia. She loves the chalkboard because she believes she knows the kids. Her voice is sweet and childlike as she tells me stories about

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them. This is my fourth visit and May surprises me by asking, “Do I know you? You look familiar.” I do not know if she actually remembers me from past visits, but I like to pretend she does. — I pass through the main room of the dementia hall with Wanda. She is telling me the names of patients as we walk by. There is a stiff old woman sleeping on a couch. Wanda gestures to her and says half-jokingly, “Watch out for that one. She’s our hitter. If you catch her on a bad day you could go home with bruises.” The next time I visit, I learn she has passed away. — Wanda tells me there are more deaths during the winter months. She theorizes about the holidays having something to do with it, or maybe the cold weather. In the time between my visits, patients pass on. We walk through the hallway and I pause by an open door. Wanda tells me about the woman within. She is dying. I watch her niece pace the room in tears as she lets family members know to come say their last goodbyes. I want to give her a hug. Instead, I watch the shallow breaths of the lady in the bed, and I pray for her. My chest is heavy with grief as I turn away. Wanda and I move down the hall, the rattle of her cart echoing through the silence. — Oscar, the resident cat, is waiting for me in the activity room. I reach down and scratch his belly when he rolls over. There is a painter here today, teaching a couple of women how to paint autumn

wither trees. Their walkers rest casually by their chairs. Bags of paint supplies hang from the sides. Watching from the corner, I listen to their idle conversation. I have grown comfortable with my elders. I am still careful but no longer afraid to break them. Instead of only nodding my head, I have learned how to converse with them. The silent ones I talk to, telling stories about my life and my family. I have even moved wheelchairs down the long, wide hallways. In my time here, I have learned that humanity is two sides of one coin, both strong and delicate. I have seen how true respect can bring life back when it is slipping away. Most of all, I have reached a greater understanding of human dignity and I have seen the human soul. Always, I observe, trying to learn from my experiences. I try to take in every detail, hoping to remember this far into the future.

“

“

I can’t help but to smile at the innocence.

woman sleeps on the other side of the room, her wheelchair pushed up against the wall. There are string lights hanging above her and they cascade across her body and her wheelchair. In her sleep, her fist tightens around the lights. It reminds me of a newborn baby grasping at a finger. I can’t help but to smile at the innocence. The women at the table try hard to match the numbers on the Dominos. I help them when they cannot remember. — “Excuse me ma’am! Can you help me? I have to use the bathroom!” I am flustered and don’t know how to respond. I tell her I don’t work here and then rush to find someone who does. I am told to push the woman’s wheelchair to the main room. The whole time she is yelling and my heart thumps with anxiety. I park her in the main room and let the nurses know about her needs. In the background she is yelling, “I’m gonna pee my pants!” I hover, afraid to abandon this woman in her distress. The nurses are unhurried and tell me not to worry. They tell me she does this all the time and it hasn’t been that long since she last went. My heart aches to see her suffer but as I head back down the hallway, they push her into the bathroom. — A woman in a wheelchair is wearing a bright red dress. She is beautiful for her age. She dances in her chair to a tune only she can hear. Her face is filled with a soft joy. A smile spreads across mine as I watch her sway. Lost in her own world, she has found a purity of happiness that I have never seen before. She is the reason the hospital brings

I am in the activity room with Wanda. We are playing Dominos with a group of patients. As we talk, a man wheels his mother into the room and asks us to keep an eye on her. She is asleep but she is yelling incoherently. She yells about bullfrogs and asks where her son went. We try to keep her calm and offer her ice cream when she wakes up. Another

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Lighted Corners in an Elvis impersonator, but all of the mark on me. There is such a beauty to patients find joy in this activity. Music is their condition; there is also an infinite a language that passes even the barrier sadness. I say goodbye to May and when of a fraying mind. The thought makes I smile, her face lights up; I can see the me smile. beauty of her youth within it. I touch — her wrinkled skin, look into her clear I walk by a woman with her arms blue eyes, and I see artwork. There is no full of items. She has stuffed animals, better way to understand humanity than a sock, a board game and other things to experience its intricacies firsthand. I can’t identify. She sits down in a chair and sorts through her treasures. I ask Wanda about the odd sight. “Oh, she’s just our resident kleptomaniac. None of that belongs to her. She wanders around the rooms and takes what she fancies. Eventually, she’ll set it down somewhere and we’ll figure out who it belongs to.” As we sit with the patients, Wanda names the owner of each miscellaneous item. It amazes me that she knows her patients so well. Wanda has grown on me in the time I’ve known her. I smile at the kleptomaniac and wonder what I will be like when I reach that age. — I have never felt such a permanence in saying goodbye as I did on my last visit with the patients. I know that even if I come back in the future, many of the people I find myself attached to will be gone. So many lives have already flickered out of being here in this hospital. The thin line that parts life and death was made clear to me over the course of a few months. The beauty that can be found in the bleakest of places has shown me a new way to view the world. Each soul is a soft touch of The Swinging Bridge | digital photography fortitude and each has left a permanent Maya Marks

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decay

noun. the process or result of being destroyed by natural causes or by not being cared for

Lighted Corners

Forever Jazlyn Ibarra I thought I saw you sitting in the pews, Following along with the reading. But you weren’t actually there. It was force of habit to look up and see you. We would follow along with the reading Side by side. It was force of habit to look up and see you; Seven-year-old me thought you were so tall. Side by side. Forever, you promised. Seven-year-old me thought you would be with me forever, But your illness didn’t put forever into account. Forever, you promised. Forever lasted eleven more years. Your illness didn’t put forever into account. But the memories I have of you will stay with me forever. Forever lasted eleven more years And you aren’t here. But the memories I have of you will stay with me forever; I see you sitting in the pews.

Next Page Spiked Root | white charcoal on toned paper Tim Bonner

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decay

Hauntings in Little Places Alba Sarria There is my aunt’s room: her papers, her books. The calculator she used for her online math course, tucked in the drawer. Her pillow that once smelled like Florida rain. The pictures of us as kids that she brought, framed, set like tombstones on the desk—collecting dust. Her Christmas present, unopened, lost under the bed. Her sheets. Her unfinished homework. That blue t-shirt we can’t bring ourselves to throw away. It all lays there, haunting. Her life is imprinted upon the walls she grasped, the floors she convulsed on, the couch she fell upon. The house seeps her. It reeks her. It can’t be cleansed of her.

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Lighted Corners

A Mother’s Plea Conor Hoffman The sound of high heels striking the cold tile floor echoed throughout the corridor of Wilmington Correctional Facility. The source of the deafening footsteps was a small, portly woman. She was sixty-seven years old, but she looked closer to eighty-seven. As she reached her destination, a guard leaned over to open the massive steel door at the end of the hallway and stood aside to allow her entrance. As she took in her surroundings, she looked in front of her and saw him. He was about ten years younger than her. He was cleanshaven and completely bald. His gigantic six-footeight frame was not meant for the chair he rested upon, but nevertheless, after seeing the woman enter the room, his eyes lit up like pearls. He leaned up against the countertop, his face inches away from the hard, plastic window that separated them. The man kept his beaming eyes fixated on the woman as she nonchalantly set her purse down on her side of the counter, pulled out her chair, and took a seat. They locked eyes. Neither said a word until finally, the man spoke up. “You’re here early.” “I don’t like to keep people waiting. Besides, I want to make the most of the time I have with you today.” The man’s already massive grin expanded even more. It was a sight that would unsettle even the hardest of

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people...he chuckled and looked down at his lap while composing himself. “It’s been a long time since anyone came to see me. Having nobody to talk to drives me crazy.” The woman leaned in closer to the window. “You’re a murderer, Robert. Why should anyone want to visit someone like you?” For the first time, Robert’s smile wavered. He slowly leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as he did so. “Huh. Straight to the point, aren’t you? Okay, I can play that game.” “This isn’t a game, Robert!” The woman sternly interjected. “You know why I’m here, and I want you to tell me what I want to know.” Robert’s lip suddenly quivered and his eye twitched. He took a deep breath. “This is about Brian, isn’t it? You wanna know where I dumped him.” “What have you got to lose? They’re putting you in the chair in a couple months.” “I’m well aware of my current predicament, but I appreciate your concern,” Robert sneered. “If you really cared about your boy, why the hell did you wait this long to come see me? Don’t give me that sob story, Carol. I know your type too well.” Carol leaned back in her chair as well but didn’t give any other indication of faltering. “I don’t expect you to understand me, Robert, but don’t judge

decay me. I had my reasons for waiting. Don’t pretend like you know me. You don’t.” Robert suddenly laughed and surged forward. This time his face was just shy of touching the barrier, and his breath began fogging up the transparent wall that kept mother and killer in separate worlds. “Do you know how easily I could kill you if this thing wasn’t stopping me?” Robert said, flashing a hideous grin. Yet even now, Carol kept calm. “I don’t care what you want to do to me,” Carol replied coldly. “Look at me, Robert. I’m an old, fat, ugly woman. My only kid is gone, and my husband passed away last September. Killing me would be doing me a favor.” Robert’s gleeful gaze dissipated. He looked like a child who’d lost his favorite toy. “Aww, c’mon! You’re no fun. Aren’t you gonna cuss me out? Tell me how I’m gonna burn in hell? Call me all the names in the book? Give me something!” Carol’s emotionless face slowly turned sullen. “It’s been almost twenty years, Robert. Any anger I’ve had for you is long gone. I just want my boy.” The guard entered and held the door open as he had before. “Alright, Mrs. Jacobson, your time’s up.” Carol turned and looked over at the guard, nodded, and stood up. She looked back at Robert one more time. “Same time sound good to you?” Robert didn’t say a word. Instead, he gave her a thumbs-up and exploded into a fit of giggles. “Ohhh this is gonna be great! You’re a fiiiiiine woman, Carol!” — The next day, Carol composed herself and stepped back into the meeting room. “Good morning, Robert.

Did you sleep well last night?” “Pft...wanting to be formal, huh? What’s the matter? You realize being bitchy just makes me angry and gets you nowhere?” Carol stared intently at the killer. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time...something that bothered me ever since I saw your face on the television...why did you do it? What made you want to kill Brian?” “That’s a stupid question,” Robert spat. Carol recoiled at the bluntness of his response but quickly recovered from the shock. “How? I don’t think it’s a stupid question.” Robert sighed, reclining in his chair and planting his feet on the counter. “What made you decide to talk to me, Carol?” “Because I wanted to. Because I felt like it had to be done.” “And that’s why I killed Brian. There was no thinking about why. I wanted to kill the kid so I did. Picked him up off the highway after his car broke down and strangled him. No thought about it.” Carol’s brows furrowed. “What kind of a person just decides to take a life? I can’t understand you.” In a blur, Robert rose to his feet and slammed his bearlike fist on the table. “Do you think I give a shit what you do or don’t understand?!” The guard behind him stepped forward. “I want to know you more, Robert. Can’t you just work with me a little? Please?” As much as she hated doing it, Carol gave a heart-melting smile. When she looked at the man who killed her son, she saw memories of a baby’s first steps, a first day at school, passing the

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Lighted Corners driving exam, adjusting a tie for prom night...a single tear went down her cheek. Robert saw this and he turned away with clenched fists, the veins in his arms bulging. “We’re done here...” he whispered. Carol scooted out of her chair, and made good her exit. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she strode out. “Damn woman, so fucking stubborn...” — “My old man used to kick my ass y’know? He was a hard old bastard.” Robert gave a weak chuckle as he sipped from the bottle of Coke the guard had given him. “I remember this one time he came home totally out of it. I could smell the booze on his breath a mile away. He was yelling at me to come downstairs and ‘take it like a man.’” Carol said nothing. She simply nodded softly. “Well anyway...” Robert set down the soda and took a puff from his cigarette, “I can still remember the look on my ma’s face. She just sat there at the table with a cup of coffee. Didn’t say nothing. Didn’t look at me. She just sat there like a fuckin’ zombie.” “What did he use that night? Was it the fire poker?” “Nah. He took this broken cue stick he’d picked up somewhere. That bastard knew how to take anything he found lying around and use it to hurt somebody. Violent son of a bitch he was.” “And your mom always stayed out of it?” “That’s right. She’d say she loved me when he wasn’t around...” Robert paused to put out the cigarette, “but

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the second things got hard she wouldn’t do jack.” He looked up the ceiling and blinked a few times. “In some ways I think she was worse than my father. At least when he said he’d kick my ass he’d do it. That woman was just full of hot air. Could never trust her to do anything without her turning tail and taking off when things got hard.” “Is that what you think about me? Do you think I’m someone who just wants to take the easy way out?” Robert gave a gentle smile, but then his brows narrowed and his expression went from friendly to combative. “I’ve given it a lot of thought. You say you wanna see your boy again, but you’ve only come to talk to me now that I’m gonna get the chair pretty soon. That’s the thing with you women: You’re all talk, but you jump ship at the first sign of trouble.” Carol looked down at the floor. Suddenly, she looked back up with a powerful glare. “I’ve got something to show you. It’s a special surprise, and I think you’ll be very interested to see it.” “Ohohoh that’s sweet. Is it a present? You gonna give me a cupcake so that I’ll give you what you want? Get the fuck outta here with that crap!” The clacking of high heels became muffled as the door to the room finally slid closed. — When the large metal door swung open the following morning, it wasn’t Carol who stepped through to greet Robert. Instead, one, two, then three burly men began to file inside. Each of them carried several large boxes, set them down on the floor, exited, and returned with more mysterious

decay packages. Then, as abruptly as they entered, all three movers left. It was only now Carol entered. “I bet you’re wondering what’s going on. You probably have quite a few questions.” “I’ll admit this is one crazy stunt you’ve pulled. You’ve got my attention.” Carol walked over to one of the boxes. She tenderly placed her hand on the top before opening it up and having the guard assist her in dumping its contents onto the floor. It was full of wrapped presents. Once that box was empty, then another was dumped...then another...Pretty soon, the entire room was littered in gifts.

“

We were hoping he’d come back someday to open them.

“

“What is this? You trying to play mind games or something? Trying to win me over with toys?” “No, Robert. These are birthday presents for my son. For the ten years he was missing, the family pitched in to get him all this. We were hoping he’d come back someday to open them.” Carol reached down to open one of the larger packages. It had the shape of a guitar case, and sure enough, out came a beautiful Gibson Les Paul. The thing must have cost a fortune.

“We got this the second year he was gone. We got donations from the community. Even got it signed by one of his favorite bands.” Robert’s eye began to twitch furiously. He sucked in his breath and pointed a finger at Carol. “Ha! That’s really something, but you can’t fool me! Most of those are probably empty boxes. Maybe just random junk you taped paper over. I ain’t falling for it!” “I figured you’d say that.” Carol opened the door, sticking her head out to peek around the corner. “You can bring it in now, George.” At her command, one of the movers from earlier wheeled in a large cart. On it was a VCR, a single tape, and a small television. “Jesus! Presents and movies? You really know how to treat a guy, don’t you?” Carol silently waited for the mover to plug everything in and leave. Then, she inserted the tape and pressed the Play button. A hum then emanated from the speakers. As the video played, it was clear by the grainy quality and lack of sound that this was decades old. The footage showed a family sitting around a table. They were dressed in party hats and wielded shakers, horns, and other accoutrements. A large “Happy Birthday!” banner hung over their heads and a cake decorated in a rainbow of lighted candles took the center stage. Robert could tell by the movement of everyone’s mouths that they were singing “Happy Birthday.” As they concluded, they all bent down, and in unison, blew out the candles. One woman in the footage caught Robert’s

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Lighted Corners eye. She was far younger and prettier here, but... “That’s you, isn’t it? The lady right there?” Robert asked. His excitement was gone. He sounded defeated. Carol only nodded. “Keep watching. There’s more.” For the next ten minutes, Robert saw several identical clips. Family and friends gathered to sing in honor of their lost loved one. And in every scene, Carol remained front and center. Each time, she offered a wave and kiss to a son long dead even then. The screen went black and Carol shut off the VCR. “That’s where it ends.” Robert looked down at his interlocked hands, then back up at Carol as she continued staring. Robert’s movements became more frantic. His breathing got deeper and faster. Finally, his fluttering came to an anticlimactic halt. “Guard...” he finally whispered. “Get me something to write with.” The guard quickly did as he was told. Robert yanked the materials from his hands and furiously scribbled something before slipping it under the slot in the window to Carol’s side of the screen. “Take this and get the hell away from me. I don’t ever want to see you again.” Carol hesitantly took the scrap of paper as if it were a rotten fruit or dead rodent before pocketing it and scurrying away. As she left, she thought she heard muffled sobs coming from Robert’s side of the room.

— Two weeks came and went before Carol finally got the call she’d been so anxiously expecting. She answered on the first ring. “Hello? Who’s this?” “Hello, Mrs. Jacobson. I wanted to give you an update on those remains we found at the location you provided us.” Carol didn’t say a word. “The skeleton was found buried with articles of clothing matching those Brian was last seen wearing. The forensics team verified it was an adolescent Caucasian male, and now they’ve done tests with dental records. We’ve got a positive ID on your son.” Carol began to shudder. Tears started to trickle, then cascade down her cheeks. “Mrs. Jacobson? Are you still there?” “Yes...I’m still here...I just need a moment to process this.” “Take all the time you need. When you feel ready, please come down to the station and we’ll go about giving you possession of the remains. If there’s anything else you need from us, please let us know, okay?” “Yes. Thank you.” Carol set the receiver down on the hook. Time froze, and she stood there in the center of the room. Then, Carol fell to her knees and sobbed. She sobbed for what seemed like years. Years of waiting, wondering, anxiously thinking about when Brian would finally come home to see her again. It was a long time coming, but now, Carol could be a mother once more.

Next Page Rooted | white and black charcoal on toned paper Trevor Kern 38

Lighted Corners

There are Different Kinds of Cold Rebekah Balick There’s coming out of the ocean when there’s a breeze blowing onto your wet skin cold. There’s stepping out of your house in your pajamas in the early morning to see the snow cold. There’s eating ice cream outside with friends on autumn nights and you forgot to bring a jacket cold. There’s sledding outside for hours in winter and you have your gloves on, but your hands are still numb cold. There’s sliding out from under your comforter and the room is actually warm but compared to the covers it’s chilly cold. —and then there’s the cold I feel whenever I see you.

Winter in Skyrim | acrylic paint on canvas 40 Olivia Prevost

Seed Pods Earthworks Exhibition Katie Creamer

VT Kayla Cooper His hands feel angry, Fingers wound tightly Around me. I watch in fear As his fingers slip down My body anxiously. Don’t pull it. I am meant to defend. I don’t want this. But I have no control. I am at the will Of the one who Holds me. He points my eye To his 32 peers; Screams echo through my barrel. I don’t want this—does he? No, because my next victim Is the one who wields my power. My bullets cry for Virginia.

Lighted Corners

The Rift Tynan Gallagher It is 1928. World War II ended ten years ago, but it is not how you remember it. Russia and a communist union of African countries teamed up and went after the United States and its growing democracy. America had no powerful friends at the time. Just scientists. All I know is that just before Africa and Russia took the capitol, their nations disappeared. They fell silent on June 4, 1918. After American troops crushed whatever troops were left, they went to investigate the two powerhouses. All that remained was rifts. That’s what we call them. Rifts. Shortly after the war, America began to celebrate. America strongarmed other countries into giving us their resources; otherwise we would make what happened to the other nations happen to them. Nations agreed to the terms without hesitation, and the U.S. began to prosper. That is, until the rifts began to form back at home in 1924. They began to pop up as small as golf balls. But then they began to grow. Now some city blocks are just...gone. At least I can tell you what a rift looks like...space. That’s where I come in, though. My name is Abraham, and I’m a cop in New York City. About five years ago, it was the easiest gig in the world. I would catch a few fellas having a bit too much fun, but that was about it. Nowadays, I’m in charge of the most fucked shit

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you’ve ever seen. I was tossed into the “Broadway Street Showcase” task force, named so lovingly by my partner, Herald, who was the first one to arrive on the scene of a rift victim. A man was hung up by his own organs, right in the middle of the street, over a rift. His blood was dripping into the rift when we arrived, and we could see the heart sagging out of his torn-open chest. Today, I’m on Houston Street. Same deal. We just got the body down. “24-year-old woman, stomach cut open. Eyes gouged out just like the last one,” Herald told me. I looked over the corpse. Disgusting, I’ll tell you. You never want to see inside someone. It’s a child-like fantasy, wondering what makes you up inside. But when it’s in front of you, splattered across the pavement, you can’t help but think about what a monster you were back then. “Any new details, Herald?” I asked. Herald looked over the body, then ran his fingers along the incision line of the stomach. “It’s a bit rougher,” he noted. I tilted my head and looked at him. “Ya wanna explain?” I asked. “Oh, yeah, yeah,” he said, “so what I’m gettin’ at is this. Look at where the stomach was cut open. It’s more jagged, more crooked than last time. Last time it was like a doctor,” he explained. I bent down, slapped on a pair of gloves, and ran my finger along the cut. He was right. It’s almost as if the knife itself, or the hand using it, had gone down in quality. “I see your point.” We handed the body off to Joe Fort. He was our local doc, an expert in autopsies and all that. I wouldn’t

decay dare step into his shoes for a day. After a massive rift opened up in a hospital in D.C., nobody wanted to be a doctor anymore. It was in the papers for weeks. Doctors were taken into the rift, while patients sat there without any help. Even some equipment was pulled in without the patients. Two guys woke up during surgery, and it’s said that people heard their screams for weeks. Herald and I went back to the office and looked over the case file. “It’s no coincidence anymore,” I said. Herald looked at me with a puzzled face. “This is the fourth body we’ve found like this. Torn open stomach, organs stringing them up over a rift. At first, I know we said it was because nobody ever goes near the damn things, but maybe it’s more than that,” I said. Herald rolled his eyes, “Not this again.” “C’mon man—” I tried to explain. “We both know it’s bogus. Rifts, even after all these years, scare the shit out of people. And when shit falls into them? It just disappears into the rift,” Herald countered. I let out a sigh and looked back down at my notes. All four cases. Same brutal, disgusting way of displaying a murder victim. But there was also always that rift. Always large enough to make sure anything that fell off the body fell inside. “A wager then!” I exclaimed. Herald raised his eyebrow. “We set up cameras at all major rifts in the city, but not so major they get much eye-traffic. Then, we check if our murderer shows up. If he never does, I owe you 20 bucks,” I offered.

Herald sighed and stared at his computer screen. After some silence and thought, he shrugged. “I could use 20 bucks,” he said. It was settled. We went to a few major streets that haven’t had a lot of foot traffic lately: Canal, Christopher, and Love Lane. Love Lane was included under Herald’s advice, although the place was just a bunch of apartments. Herald seemed a bit distant while we set up the cameras, but everyone tends to go quiet around rifts. “Alright. This one’s good. We good to go?” I asked Herald, as we set up the last camera on Love Lane. I glanced at him for confirmation, but he was staring into the rift. There was something very different about his eyes: his focus. He was looking at something in nothing. “Herald, you alright? What do you see?” I asked. “My wife,” Herald responded, with a crack in his voice. I squinted at him and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Shit happens. Move on,” I said, trying to comfort him in the only way I knew. This wasn’t uncommon for Herald. It’s also why he’s on the taskforce. He used to be a soldier, serving with his wife. They put their lives on the line for some shitty, dying country, but went wherever they were needed as long as they were together. He was in transport back to the U.S. when Russia turned into the rift. He made it, she didn’t. “Abe?” Herald asked. “Yeah man?” I responded. “The rifts have more to offer than loss,” he said, as he turned toward me. I didn’t like what he said one bit.

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Lighted Corners For the first time in a while, I wasn’t sure who I was talking to. “What in the hell does that mean?” I asked, standing up quickly. He stood up as well and looked over at the camera. “Abe, that thing isn’t even on. How are you gonna win the wager if you can’t confirm anything?” he said, as his shoulders relaxed. I let out a small sigh of relief and walked over to the camera. “Ya know,” I began, “you really have a way of creeping me out sometimes man, like re—” The camera light was blinking. It was recording. I reached for my gun, but it was too late. The next thing I felt was a sharp pain in my back, followed by a loud crack that echoed against the tall buildings surrounding me. “Everything is in there, Abraham. My wife, your sister. Everybody. We all belong there. We have to feed it. We have to feed it the color,” Herald whispered into my ear, as my eyes closed. I felt the warm below me, and the cold above. Like I was leaving some really shitty day to come back home or leaving a cold room into a warm shower. Like I was coming home to my family. This peace, this warmth, was all I could ever ask for. But she wasn’t in there. She was gone. And if she was gone, there was work to be done. All I had to do was open my eyes. “Hey, you son of a bitch,” I grunted, as I looked up at Herald. I was handcuffed to a drainpipe, right next to the rift. I was bleeding heavily from my right side, where he shot me. I saw Herald toss the camera into the rift and then look over at me.

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His eyes were not his own. “If I don’t get medical attention, I’m going to bleed out,” I said to the monster in front of me. All it did was smile, looking right at me. I clenched my teeth. It was just like before, with the murders. This thing needs blood for the rift. Right now, I was the unlucky supplier. I just had to stay calm. Just had to stay calm. “You’re not Herald,” I said, trying to distract it. I had to figure out a way out of the cuffs. “Rifts, even after all these years, scare the shit out of people,” it answered. Its voice was the same as Herald’s, but it was not Herald. Just something that had a fucking recorder for a voice. I turned my back to it, covering the cuffs. I quickly brought up my knee and jammed it into my hands. Luckily, all it took was one hit. Got my right thumb broken. I slid it out of the cuffs. The rush of adrenaline made the blood flow faster, but it was worth it. My vision started to blur, but I swung around, and raised my fist. It came in for a kick, but I brought up my hand and sacrificed a few fingers to take the blow. I pushed the foot to the side, causing it to fall to the ground. I slid out my other hand, lunged forward, and slammed my fist into its head. “You really have a way of creeping me out sometimes, man,” it said, in my voice. Shut up. I started slamming my fists into its mouth, trying to get rid of Herald’s face. Once I couldn’t recognize him, there was nothing to stop me. I grabbed it by its hair, pulled it up, and threw it into the rift. Everything went inside. Everything.

Then I heard it.

It spoke to me.

Blackberry Lily Seeds Earthworks Exhibition Jacqueline Ramos-Izquierdo

Lighted Corners

Tonton Macoute (Uncle Gunnysack) after a poem by Natasha Trethewey

Gigi Gaston The Tonton Macoute, created in 1959, was the secret service in Haiti in charge of keeping François (Papa Doc) Duvalier in power and getting rid of his enemies. The nickname came from a bogeyman myth in which misbehaving kids are kidnapped and put in a gunnysack to later be eaten for breakfast. The group was made up of illiterate fanatics who believed in voodoo and used their new power to terrorize people. The Doctor is leading them. Wake your kids and run away, our country is a stranger now. They threaten us with their voodoo. Wake your kids and run away. Another person goes missing. They threaten us with their voodoo and feed off submission and fear. Another person goes missing; They hate to be challenged. They feed off submission and fear and bruise and burn people for fun. They hate to be challenged; take your boats and leave the country. They bruise and burn people for fun. We’re all afraid of the bogeymen. We take our boats and leave the country, our country a stranger now. We’re all afraid of the bogeymen, and the Doctor leading them.

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decay

Two Loaves of Bread Marcelo Saunders I can’t sleep. I hate nights like these—nights when I have a lot on my mind or am just not feeling well in general. I get out of bed and sneak downstairs to the kitchen and grab two loaves of bread—one for me and one for Mom. I take them back up to my room, change into my clothes, and sneak out the window, careful not to wake up Dad. I carry the two loaves of bread—one in my shirt and the other in my teeth. Once I reach the ground, I head over to the fountain nearby, just down the street. I can already hear the quacking of the ducks that like to wade in the fountain at night. Upon reaching the fountain, I sit down on the edge, take off my shoes, and dip my feet in the cool water. I take Mom’s loaf and place it right next to me where she would normally be sitting, and I then take my loaf and start pulling it apart to toss the pieces in to feed the ducks. This is always so relaxing to me and helps me clear my mind. I remember when we started doing this—me and Mom. There was a baby rabbit in the backyard one day. Unafraid, it ran up to four-year-old me and I started chasing it around. Next thing you know, a bird of prey swooped in and carried the little thing off. As it got further away, it was making distressed squeaking sounds. Shocked and upset, I ran inside crying to my mother about how the bird swooped in and carried off the baby rabbit and was probably

killing and eating it. She got on one knee and pulled me into a comforting hug, complete with a soft yet audible there, there. As she tried to soothe me by running her warm hand across my back, tears soaked her shirt and shoulder. When that wasn’t working, she got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with two loaves of bread. She grabbed my hand and we walked to the fountain. Upon reaching our destination, she took her shoes off, dipped her feet in the water, and placed me on her lap. We then began to take the two loaves of bread—one for her and one for me— and we pulled them apart and tossed them to the ducks wading inside. Mommy, can I ask you a question? I asked that day as I leaned back to rest my head against her chest. Ask away, she said with her calm, soothing voice. I remember the question I asked being a very silly one: Why do animals kill and eat each other instead of just eating fruits and vegetables and stuff? She lowered her gaze at me and said, Oh sweetie. I wish I had an answer to that. That’s just how nature is, I guess. I then asked her, You won’t let any animals try and carry me off or eat me, right? She giggled slightly in response and said, No, sweetie. I won’t let anything eat you or hurt you. Mommy will protect you with her life. That’s a promise. She pulled me into a hug from behind and kissed

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Lighted Corners me on the crown of my head. She then continued, Besides...I think you’re fine. Out of curiosity, I turned my head to face her and asked, Oh. Why’s that? She smiled at me and said, Because you’re too cute to eat up! and tickled me in the confines of her embrace. I fought to stay on her lap as I squirmed and laughed uncontrollably. We eventually

settled down, finished with our two loaves of bread, and headed back home. After finishing with my loaf of bread, I look over to my mother’s loaf, still sitting right beside me. I let out a long and deep sigh. Why did she have to go and make that promise? I miss those days. I miss her.

Why So Crabby? | digital photography James Kempisty

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Escaleras en Valpo | digital photography Jazlyn Ibarra

Love’s Purgatory Gigi Gaston I have been to the place between Heaven and Hell, where paradise is within reach. The long wait is endured by each, and everyone is alone. I have endured the odyssey of Love, where time and time again, I’m shoved from rocks by sirens who’ve won my heart, only to smash it as I sink in between the ebb & flow; I have suffered the Sisyphus trial of traveling miles with a Purple Heart, gained from the muses who have bruised me time and time again. It is the purgatory of Love I’m forced to wander blindly, but bear its curse with comfort now that I navigate with a friend.

Hot Breath | charcoal on paper Rebekah Balick

growth

noun. the process of growing physically, mentally, or emotionally

Lighted Corners

Ovarian Doppelgänger Kelley Northam A knife pierces my abdomen. It drives itself through my outer flesh and thrusts itself deeper into my naked skin. It twists itself around in circles, tearing my insides with every movement. Another knife impales me, then another, and another ripping apart my guts like a paper shredder. My assailant must be skilled, for she knows how to butcher me in perfect synchronization as the serrated blades slice me up in absolute unity. She must be going for a clean cut judging by the way she’s carving me. Her strokes are powerful and strong, yet concentrated on the one area that she aims to eviscerate. She continues to stab, relentlessly poking holes in me until my abdomen resembles Swiss cheese. Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? My eyes fly open and I look down at my throbbing abdomen, almost expecting to see knives protruding from my body and the wounds spewing blood in all directions. My assailant has disappeared unnoticed back into my dream and has taken her attempted murder weapons with her. She has left me for dead and shrouded my broken body with my own sheets and blankets. My roommate’s congested snores fill the small dorm room. I smell the waning aroma of eucalyptus and lavender oil from the diffuser that I turned on to help me sleep and the awakening smell of percolating caffeine coming from the

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kitchen. I look over at my clock and there is still a 15-minute window left for her to return and finish me off before I have to get ready for class. Yet, the pain continues in her absence. I attempt to roll my aching body off my lumpy twin XL bed, but my abdomen howls at me for daring to move even the slightest bit. I cover my mouth to prevent the howl from escaping and waking my roommate as I recoil back into the safety of my warm sheets. My attacker has tried to trap me in my bed without even binding me, and she has attempted to convince my abdomen to prevent me from escaping her clutches. I taste iron as I gnaw on my bottom lip and try to swing my lower half onto the dingy dorm-room carpet far below. My translucent enemy has escaped from my dreams and is hiding under my bed; however, as she pulls the carpet out from under me, my feet hit the floor and my body collapses in a writhing heap. She is swift as a ninja as she overcomes me and impales me again and again, more forcefully this time, with a set of freshly sharpened steel daggers that annihilate my insides when I attempt to right myself. The faded blue carpet scrapes against my flesh like sandpaper as I drag my body upwards, grabbing the cold wooden bedpost for support. What’s wrong with me? My nails desperately claw into the

growth cream walls as I walk towards the living room with my raw wounds still seeping out, turning my head and scanning the hallway for another ambush from my invisible foe. My body gives out and I land on the loveseat, groaning. I should call 911 and tell the operator that someone has invaded my home and is attempting to bludgeon me to a bloody pulp, but instead I call my mother. “Have you tried lying on your left side? Is it gas pain?” Perhaps her doubt comes from all the times I faked having an incurable ailment in elementary school so I could stay home. Why else would you doubt that your daughter has knives protruding from the same place where you were once joined together for nine months? “No, mom, it’s not gas pain.” A knife wound cannot be soothed by a Gas-X tablet. “Well, give it ten more minutes and if it gets worse, get someone to drive you to the hospital and call me as soon as you get there.” Her anxiety still spills past the glass screen despite the calm facade she’s putting on through my speakers. I can feel her vice grip strangling the plastic case of her phone, as she knows that she can’t be there to diagnose, treat, and micromanage her own flesh and blood. I pause and entertain the thought of waiting another ten minutes and seeing if my new foe will raise the bloodstained white flag in defeat. How many more lacerations will she inflict if I lay here wounded, vulnerable, and afraid? How much more pain will she put me through? I can’t give her the satisfaction of taking another ten minutes away from my life.

“Well good morning, beautiful,” my groggy boyfriend says when he picks up, expecting me to greet him with a sweet morning birdsong. He has no idea that an invader is stabbing his girlfriend to death on the other side of the screen. “Scott, I need you to take me to the hospital,” I say through clenched teeth. My attacker is livid now that she knows her window of time is closing. She is relentless; driving her bloody knives deeper into me inflicting blow after agonizing blow, causing me to stifle a banshee scream. “I’ll be over in ten.” Harsh white light illuminates the bland room. The eerie smell of sterile medical instruments creeps in through the sliding glass door that leads to the nurses’ station. A synchronized cacophony of clicks, beeps, and unintelligible medical jargon is the everrepeating hospital playlist. Scott’s quick pulse beats on my pale, clammy hand as he holds onto me. I know that he’s trying to be the steady and unmoving rock in this situation, but rocks don’t have the pulse of a hummingbird. My mouth is as dry as the Sahara, as I have been refused food and water in case they have to wheel me into emergency surgery. The only liquid that touches my tongue is the leftover blood from biting the inside of my lips to suppress the screams when the doctor pushed down on my stab wounds, asking me “is this where it hurts?” Tears streamed down my twisted face as I nodded yes. My attacker, however, has gone with the nurses and doctors to examine the results of my blood tests, urinalysis, CT scan, pelvic exam, and ultrasound, no doubt pleased with her handiwork. I am

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Lighted Corners left to wait. The sliding glass door that separates me from the unknown finally opens and my doctor emerges with an unreadable expression on her face. The wheels of her gray metal swivel chair glide against the tile floor as she approaches my bed to deliver me the results. Can she pull the knives out of my body already? Isn’t that what doctors are supposed to do when their patient is mortally wounded? “So your results came back. All your blood work looked good, no problems there...” Even her excellent bedside manner cannot hide the “but” that’s coming; I can hear the heaviness in her voice before she says it. “But, your ultrasound and CT scan show that you have a number of cysts on your left ovary, and I think one of them is either a hemorrhagic cyst or an endometrioma.” Her piercing blue eyes blink at me, expecting some kind of reaction to that statement as if I know what either of those two words mean. “What does that mean?” “Well, you need to confirm this with a specialist as soon as possible, but basically the cyst causing you pain is leaking tissue and blood into the rest of your body. If your cyst is hemorrhagic, it’s just going to continue to do that until it bursts, like a normal cyst...” She pauses; my attacker sharpens her knives once more, ready to deliver her final blow.

Chestnut Tree Catkins Earthworks Exhibition Katie Creamer

“If an endometrioma, however, it may be an indicator that you have endometriosis or post-ovarian cyst syndrome, and you may have to undergo surgery to have it drained as it is likely to cause problems with fertility or other things later on.” My attacker creeps up to the side of the bed and stands beside the doctor, looming over me and sneering. She has chosen to reveal herself now; no longer hiding in the shadows of anonymity, but in plain sight, illuminated by the clinical hospital lights. Her eyes lock with mine as her last knife impales me, causing pain to radiate throughout my body. My 3.3-centimeter assailant has been revealed to me. How strange; she carries her anguish in her glistening eyes as I do. Her mouth trembles in time with my own quivering lips. Et tu Brute? How could you do this to me?

growth

Depths of Night Tess Boegel Lyra descended to the Depths of Night, bringing with her a faint red glow. She had left the diffused sunlight of the Twilight layers long ago, passed through Midnight and entered the Abyss. Beyond that was the Trench. Before her lay nothingness. A darkness so deep and intense and still, unshaken by currents, more suffocating than the pressure of the waters above. No kraken nor toothed whale that made the Midnight zone its hunting-ground dared to swim this low. According to the legends of her people, even the gods feared this place. So, why was Lyra so drawn to it?

“

“

even the gods feared this place.

Ever since she was a little pup, she had loved exploring. Her mother had called it stupidity; her father simply shook his head. They were hardly surprised when she first became curious about the Trench. Still, they had hoped she would eventually give up on the foolish idea to explore there. She never did and promised herself she never would. Only her little brother, Lepus, seemed to understand. When she was

little, he had followed her on many a make-believe adventure. As she grew older, he had always encouraged her curiosity about the world; together, they learned how to navigate by the stars, record the different animals and plants they saw, and, most importantly, how to fight with a spear. When she had returned from trying to explore the Trench the last time, their parents had been livid. Lepus came to her after their scolding, bringing with him a welcome silence. After a long while he simply said, “You’re going to try again, aren’t you?” He spoke calmly, with no accusation in his voice. She could tell he already knew the answer. “Yes. And no, you can’t come, it’s...” “Why not!” he cried suddenly. “Why could you possibly not want me! You need some help, Lyra, some backup! Be sensible!” As soon as he finished speaking, he seemed shocked by his own outburst. She just swam away from him. The two of them didn’t talk for a long time after that. Lyra found him again when she had an answer. “I need to do this, Lepus. I can feel it in my soul that I’m meant to go down there. It’s like it’s written in the stars, my destiny ever since I was small to discover something new and amazing. This is my fight, and I have to win it alone.” He didn’t look at her as she spoke.

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Lighted Corners “So, you just want it all to yourself?” he sighed. “Figures...” “Lepus, let me do this. I can win without you there.” For a moment, he stared up at the surface where the sunlight danced on the waves. Finally, he spoke, “It’s not that I don’t think you’ll win, Lyra, it’s... it’s the idea that you might not come back.” “Well, that’s just silly!” she protested. “How is that different from saying you think I’ll lose?!” Lyra turned to swim away, but he grabbed her hand before she could. “I’ll always love you, sis, but can you please listen to...” She twisted her arm out of his grip and swam away. He didn’t try to catch her. That morning when she snuck off to swim down again, Lepus found her. He hugged her tight and told her, “Just keep the light at your back, sis, and don’t stop. You’ll get where you need to go.” After all he had said, it struck Lyra that he still believed in her. She hardly believed in herself now, and even as she spotted the chasm below her, she didn’t really know if she would make it inside. She continued to swim more cautiously down. This was not the first time she had attempted to explore here; she knew it wasn’t empty. She sensed motion in the water. Gripping her spear, she spun to see only a little dragon fish following her, its red light mirroring her own. Dragon fish weren’t dangerous, despite their demonic appearance. In fact, their red glow was what inspired her to use a red light-charm while exploring the depths. Few creatures down here could see red light, so dragon fish could

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spot their prey without it spotting them. Using a red light like theirs, Lyra was practically invisible. She hoped. The dragonfish followed her into the Depths of Night, swimming patiently in her wake. Lyra wondered what it wanted. Did it think she was one of its kind? Was it hoping to scavenge off her kills the way pilot fish do off sharks? She’d have to know more about the little monster to make a guess. She hadn’t spent much time at these depths before. Only quick dives before she had to flee from the Night Serpent. The Night Serpent was the creature that made this Trench such a fearful place. It was a monstrous leviathan who would chase and devour any fish or mermaid that gave off light. Three times Lyra had swum to this depth only to be driven off by it. Now she returned again. This time would be different. This time she would not leave without killing the monster. She glanced behind her; the dragon fish had vanished. She wondered why. Was the pressure down here too great for... Something was moving. Instinct kicked in and she immediately went still just as a shimmering eye turned towards her. The light she carried reflected off an iris taller than she was long. The perfectly round and black pupil was staring right through her. It was mere inches away and she hadn’t seen it. Slowly, lazily, the eye passed over Lyra. The Night Serpent was right in front of her, swimming by without a care. The red light must be working, then. She had never been so close to the

growth beast before; it was astonishing to look at, like a piece of living seafloor. She could see shellfish and tube worms that had attached themselves to the beast, almost completely covering its exterior. She even saw a strange, hairy little crab scuttling across its scales. A piece of the skin leisurely moved up, like a tectonic plate shifting. Lyra barely had time to wonder what was happening before it slammed down again and a jet of water blasted her backward. Lyra hit the wall of the Trench and felt something sharp dig into the back of her head. She opened her eyes to see a darker streak of red in the water in front of her. Both hands instinctively went to feel the wound. It wasn’t deep, but hitting the wall had knocked the water out of her gills and...and... Both hands on the back of her head... where was her spear? She looked down to see it just drifting out of the light beneath her. She scarcely stifled a panicked scream as she dove after it. The only other weapon she had was a small knife strapped to her tail; she could never face the monster without her spear. She could see the bottom now, uneven and cracked in places, but her spear was nowhere to be seen. A low booming sound echoed through the Trench; Lyra felt it reverberating in her chest. The Night Serpent had turned back towards her. It wasn’t looking at her this time, but as its fang-crowded jaws opened and closed she noticed another feature she hadn’t seen before: nostrils. It was sniffing the water the way sharks do when they smell an animal bleeding, using that sense to

help them find prey they couldn’t see. Which, in this case, happened to be Lyra. The creature let out a terrible, screeching, roar. It sounded like fury and bloodlust and chaos all condensed into one horrible noise. Lyra wouldn’t have been surprised if her ears had started bleeding too... Where the Serpent had been slow to conserve its energy before, it now turned with incredible speed and agility and flung itself full force towards Lyra. She drew her knife (though what she was going to do with a knife just longer than her hand against a monster of literally mythic proportions, she had no idea) and managed to dodge the Serpent’s open maw at the last moment. The Night Serpent, in turn, almost slammed full speed into the floor of the Trench but veered up just in time. Lyra wondered if that was why there were so many cracks in the seafloor here. The gigantic head of the beast turned back and forth, sniffing. It was obviously trying to be more careful this time. She swam slowly backward as the Serpent’s head steered closer, closer, closer; its gigantic gills working up and down. As Lyra watched their rhythmic movement with fascination, she had an insane, nigh suicidal idea. She swam toward the monster and over its head as its trap-like jaw snapped below her. She saw the Serpent’s gills move slowly up, pulling in a strong current of water, and Lyra dove inside. Inside, the Night Serpent’s rawlooking flesh surrounded her like a living cave. There was a terrible smell of rot, undercut by the sharp, coppery scent of blood which could have been

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Lighted Corners her own. As the gill closed behind her, she drove her knife into it as deep as it could possibly go. The Serpent lurched quickly to the side; she had hurt it immensely. Good. The gill opened again, and she pulled the knife through the Serpent’s flesh as she darted out. She turned to see the monster writhing in agony, its gill bleeding terribly. Frantic attempts to breathe with it were widening the tear. Now, she thought, if only I could get it on the other side... Then the Serpent once again let out its blood-curdling scream, a scream of agony this time. It slammed itself into one side of the Trench and then the other, wildly thrashing its giant fins. It was all that Lyra could do to keep out of its way; the thing was almost more dangerous now than when it was after her. Finally, it tried to swim upward out of the Trench, but now its movements were labored, lethargic. It fell back down slowly and hit the craggy floor with a muffled boom, followed shortly by a lesser crack. The shells covering the Night Serpent’s skin broke off in pieces around it like shattered armor. The dark blood of the creature still oozed around its

58 Head Lighthouse | digital photography Portland James Kempisty

head in a murky cloud. All was quiet. The pain of her head wound hit her in the sudden stillness. She hadn’t thought about it since she dropped her spear. Her spear. Should she look for it? How long would that take? What if it was under the Serpent? It suddenly felt very empty in the Trench. Like Lyra was the only living thing there. Everything seemed to be swirling before her, red blood mixing with red light mixing with even more blood. She was staring into hell through a monotone kaleidoscope. The light was hurting her eyes so much she could barely keep them open. Not knowing exactly what she was doing, she pulled the vial of enchanted light from around her neck. She took one last, pained look at it before letting it fall. It floated gently down to rest in a pool of dark blood. Lyra turned her eyes up; before her was blackness, but behind her was light. “I...I brought the light...” she mused to the nothingness. Keep the light at your back sis, and don’t stop. You’ll get where you need to go. Lyra ascended the same way she came, with the light at her back, unsure if she would make it, but knowing at least someone believed in her.

growth Gingko Leaves and Beautyberry Seeds Earthworks Exhibition Marie Miller

Blue Boy Therese Villarubia Streetlamps make the car slippery with shine. It trundles down the long black roads at a tilt; inside are a girl with her pink happiness and a boy with his mentality colored blue. We talk and we laugh until our chests shake. Mom and Grandmom swoop the white slip under the corners of the table and click the remaining smile-pieces into their face-puzzle. Blue boy and I head into the basement, dump the pieces onto the table, and puzzle over the weirdness of the real adults upstairs with their eyes all a-shine.

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Lighted Corners We talk and we laugh until our stomachs ache and shake. I reach out to the powdery bookshelves and cluttered slats, shaking the slip until dust clouds make me cough up a storm and he tilts his sadness away until it dyes the floorboards blue. I snap the image into existence, piece by piece, and around the trim, it’s bright blue. He rifles through musty and watermarked pages until I call him to help me with our puzzle. I hand over a tiny woven heart, like a blossom in bloom, and we slip the threads back together and watch the yarn curl and tilt on top of the table with its rickety legs like old man’s knees and bald head’s shine. He snorts and I quake and muffled giggles make the house shake. We stumble up the stairs, knocking into each other, and shake the hand of my mother, her eyes blue and welcoming and shiny. We slide onto our seats while she tilts cake slices onto our plates, with their chocolate shine. Grandmom snaps blurry pictures and we puzzle out what we were saying or doing in that time-slip. He’s nervous; his hand slips on the fork while the silverware shakes and the light on the spoon like a sun-spot shines. I pull on my hat while he taps his foot and puzzles over the weirdness of women. His eyes are too blue and too intense; I turn my head away at a shy tilt. We stroll down the hill, lowering into the ground with a tilt. I lift my head and slip my hands into my pockets. We patch constellation puzzles together until our lips are blue. Cold burrows into our bones and we huddle and shake. Darkness is punctured here and there with golden lamp’s firefly-shine. He’s a blue boy while the night presses in, and I’m ready to stay, let my pink happiness slip and mingle with his mentality colored blue. My mind tilts and levels, and my hands shake but not with cold. He’s my puzzle and I know this, so I shine.

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My Darling, What if You Fly? Cara Gose Three years ago, she woke up as a bird. A chick, actually, brand new to the world and ripe with potential and absolutely terrified. She woke up buried beneath the sheets and pillows she had fallen asleep under as a slice of a human being, a mere six hours ago. She didn’t realize she was a bird right away; she was only aware of the soft, crushing darkness against her back, the slow siphon of air from the sheets, her tiny heart thump thump thumping against her fragile ribcage. She pushed against the sheets in an impressive display of baby bird strength, a creature of desperation and panic. All that seemed to accomplish was a few sharp bobbles from under the covers and a little heart beating with exhaustion as well as fear. She caught her breath with air she couldn’t afford to lose. Somewhere in between hypoxia and adrenaline, a bit of light caught her eye, and for the first time as a baby bird, she thought. She weaved forward, flopping over wooly clumps of blanket as large as boulders and as tall as mountains. She could feel a draft through the fine fibers of her soft, downy feathers, like a cool breeze on a spring morning. She took a deep breath and burst out from under the covers into sunlight so blinding it paralyzed her, and she tumbled gracelessly to the ground. When she finally shook herself, stood, and regathered her wits, she saw the world

above her, a looming and unfamiliar monster licking its lips, ready to gobble her up. She trembled in her new, helpless little body, wishing she could shed herself and fade into nothingness. Baby birds, however, don’t have the ability to cry. She retreated to a secluded corner of the room that used to be her sanctuary, returning to a darkness she had just escaped. She sat there, slipping in and out of a ghostlike sleep, cherishing the vanishing of her consciousness for one moment and desperately stealing it back the next. When she woke, fully and properly, she found herself blinking directly into sunlight. She waddled out from the corner, squinted, and saw a windowsill through the white patches in her vision. The windowsill did not seem very high, and if she could leave, she thought, she could get help. In a rapid series of hops and flutters, scrambling onto books, chairs, and two shelves, she stood, nothing but her feet between her and the rest of the world. She was amazed at the freshness of the air through the crack in the window and the vibrancy of the trees, at how her eyes could now pick apart every blade of grass. She could see her neighbor across the street as perfectly as on a picture screen, ambling around his kitchen, and knew that he would be able to help. She approached the edge, glanced over, felt dizzy. Stepped back, exhaled

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ground was the answer, had always been the answer, and that the feeling of flight was too dangerous to live by. But she had it all figured out now, and she was happy she did.

“

the feeling of flight was too dangerous to live by.

“

sharply a couple of times, peeked over again. Stood back, spread her wings, and sprinted to the edge. She shut her eyes tight, felt her feet kick in the air, but did not fall. She opened one eye, then the other, and twittered in pure amazement. She was flying. She stayed on course, riding a gentle breeze, flapping her wings only when she began to sink, squealing in delight, like she was finally where she was meant to be. Halfway across the street to her neighbor’s house, a fierce gust from the north knocked her off her path, the cold slicing through her like a knife. She barreled sideways, skyrocketing toward the ground, managing to throw her wings away from her body at the last second. Another wind current whooshed her upward, straining the new, delicate fletchings on her wings. She twittered, this time in pain and fear, losing control again, beating against the current and losing, until it pressed her small body into the unyielding trunk of a tree. Shocked from the impact, she tumbled between the branches, crumbling to the Earth in a tiny heap of feathers, leaves, and sticks. After some time, she woke, stiff and sore and broken, and stared up at the tree. The leaves above her shifted softly in the breeze, like it had asked them humbly and politely to make music, and they could do nothing but oblige. The sun twinkled overhead as if applauding the peaceful harmony of its things. She, too, noticed how beautiful and peaceful the sky seemed from the ground, and how stable and soft the Earth was beneath her toes. She was slightly disappointed that staying on the

She did not know how far the wind had carried her from home. She started walking, fearing she would not find somewhere to rest before the sun set. Along the way, she was chased by a cat, almost hit by a car, and nearly kicked by a toddler. Still, she was absolutely sure staying grounded was the way she should be. By the time she laid down to rest under some shady evergreen bushes, her legs were shaking from exhaustion and her wings, useless and aching on her back, were cripplingly heavy. When she woke up the next day, she tried with all her remaining willpower to fall back asleep. She had never been so spiteful and fearful of the sun, never recoiled at the thought of fresh air. She didn’t want to be awake. She wanted to sleep for the rest of her life. She couldn’t fall back asleep, so she stepped out of the bushes. For a little while, she pondered why she did this. She couldn’t understand why she would leave a safe place for one that, more likely than not, would defeat her. Her

growth little legs burned with each step, and she couldn’t walk far on them without taking a long break. The ground beneath her started to shake. She hopped to her feet, only beginning to tap into her old friend fear when a huge mutt’s large paws nearly trampled her, the huge beast barking its head off. She squeaked in shock and terror and scurried in the

abandoned her. The sky looked sadly down on her, too, wondering why one of its children had abandoned it, why this baby bird was too afraid to face it. She closed her eyes, steps slowing, and stretched out her wings to the mutt in surrender. When she opened her eyes again, the dog and the field and the world were suddenly very, very small. No, not small, she thought. Very far

Wings of Spring | digital photography Paige Moseley

opposite direction, willing her legs to hobble faster. Her wings were heavy on her back, nearly dragging in the dust, a weight holding her down. She could feel his slobber on the back of her little tail, his hot breath caressing her neck like a warning. She looked up at the sky, stricken, wondering why its peace she perceived from the ground had

away. She had been reunited with the sky again, and for the first time since she woke up a bird, she felt light and powerful and okay. In a mere few seconds of flapping her wings and riding the current, she could no longer hear the barking or see the field. She didn’t look back.

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Lighted Corners The sun was shining on her body, warming the sore muscles in her back. Her legs were tucked beneath her, finally at rest, as her wings, now strong enough to ride the currents, carried her through the world. She forgot all about the fear that had come with being a bird, and she flew instead. She changed her mind. It was much better to be a part of the peace in the sky than merely an observer. After many long hours of flight, she settled into a large oak tree that had been hollowed out with years of use. It was cozy, the bark soft against her feathers. Her belly was full of worms that had tasted like caviar and insects that had tasted like chocolate truffles. She said goodnight to the sun and hello to the moon and dove into a deep sleep. She grew stronger over the successive months, no longer a baby. The Earth was plentiful with nourishment for her body, and the sky never ceased to feed her soul. She lived at the oak tree until the leaves mimicked the sunset. The worms and insects began to retreat deeper into the ground, and the sun left her with the nights earlier and earlier, like an increasingly impassive guest. Still, she stayed. As the days shortened, she flew less. Some days, she stayed inside the

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tree, asleep, waking up multiple times in a row and seeing only the moon. She missed the sunlight. The wings on her back grew heavy, the feathers dull and broken. Sometimes, she laid awake, shivering for nights on end. Her perfect home, she felt, had betrayed her. For the first time in months, she felt like a scared baby once more. She decided to fly south on a crisp, cloudless morning, when the first fluffy snowflakes began to fall to the Earth. She outstretched creaky, crumbling feathers and approached the edge of the oak. She bunched her muscles and lifted from the tree with ease, just like she had done a thousand times now. When she flew, her feathers molted. The sky granted her new wings, like a Christmas present, something to help her on her journey forward. She flew tirelessly for hundreds of miles until she found a new home. She never understood why or how she became a bird, and these things she cannot know are okay. She accepts that the sky is her sanctuary, and the world is her home. She flies where she wants, uninhibited by fear, her heart tugged only by its own musings.

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Perspective Tess Boegel The pine tree taught me to climb. Reaching with her gently bending silver arms she Lifted me so I could view the world better; The world that lay below me and was mine. Reaching with her gently bending silver arms she, My mother, lifted me to take my first steps over The world that lay below me and was mine. I learned to keep going; I stumbled on. My mother lifted me to take my first steps over My challenges to read and to write. I learned to keep going; I stumbled on, I climbed with books between my teeth. My challenges to read and write Made me find mockingbirds to be better tutors. I climbed with books between my teeth, Struggling to read and repeat their song. Books made me find mockingbirds to be better tutors, In the arched green bower of nature, Struggling to read and repeat their song. One day I found I had mastered both. My challenges to read and write Lifted me so I could view the world better; I climbed with books between my teeth. The pine tree taught me to climb.

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Holly Berries and Log Earthworks Exhibition Katie Creamer and Carolyn Ciccocioppo

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Lying on the Floor of the Sistine Chapel Maria Elser “No, no, no, no! You did it all wrong,” my nonno explained in his slight Italian accent. At thirteen years old, I saw an image of Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” in an art history textbook and my love for the Sistine Chapel was born. The intricacy of the angels, the cracking, weathered paint, the emotional chord that is struck when one imagines God reaching out to the first created man with a gentle paternal love. From the moment I studied this painting, my dream destination became the Sistine Chapel in Rome, and I daydreamed about little else. I would concoct vivid scenes of me entering the doors as the subtle smell of incense reached my nose. In complete solitude, I would only hear the sound of my shoes echoing softly off the chapel walls. Just then, I would walk to the middle of that beautiful chapel and raise my eyes to the painting that brought me there: “The Creation of Adam.” This past summer, in my twentieth year of life, I finally saw the Sistine Chapel. And it was nothing like I had imagined. I went in the afternoon on a late July day with a sweltering temperature of 98 degrees. I funneled through the chapel doors shoulder to shoulder with

hundreds of other tourists. The smell of the Sistine Chapel? Any incense that had been burned or was being burned was imperceptible. With so many people bustling in and out, it smelled like nothing in particular. The sound of the Sistine Chapel? I could only hear the hundreds of people failing to whisper. The occasional security guard would scold someone for speaking too loudly. Every so often, a guard barked into a megaphone, “Attenzione. Silenzio. No fotos.” I finally plowed through the crowd like a linebacker to reach the room’s center and gaze upon the painting that had brought me some 4,450 miles. That painting which I had stared at in books and on computer screens for the last seven years was finally there above me, stretched across that stunning ceiling. It was much smaller than I anticipated, but no less breathtaking. God was reaching out to the first created man above my very head. But still, the madness pressed in all around me. When I got back to the States, I told my nonno of the outcome of this longawaited experience at the Sistine Chapel. A native of Italy, he had walked through that chapel dozens of times when he still lived there in his youth. I told him of it all: the disappointing smell of nothing, the overwhelming bustling bodies, and

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what you did wrong,” he chuckled in that kind-old-man sort of way. “When you stare at the artistry on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, you cannot just crane your neck and squint as if you’re searching for cobwebs in your dusty old house. This is the Sistine for goodness sake,” he said raising both eyebrows.

“

They understand... the beauty that you are seeking.

“

the interrupting sounds of impatient guards. Throughout my explanation, he wouldn’t stop reiterating, “No, no, no, no! You did it all wrong.” “Did it wrong? What do you mean?” I retorted. “How do you visit a building ‘all wrong?’” “Oh, in so very many ways!” he exclaimed with flailing hands. I furrowed my brow in confusion and interest in whatever wisdom he was about to impart. “For one, you chose the wrong time of day,” he explained. “The afternoon is peak tourist time. You can never soak in the peace of that Chapel with hundreds of people pressing in on you. “Back in my day, I would visit the Sistine at 6 a.m.—as early as they’d let me in,” he went on. “That early in the day, there is hardly a soul around, save the few guards who pay you little mind. I would stroll through those heavy wooden doors with a purpose and excitement that never diminished, no matter how many times I visited. In the silence, I could only hear my shoes click, click, clicking, my deep breaths, and my own thoughts of awe and wonder. I could stare at a fresco for ages and ages but notice something entirely new in that painting each time I went back. That is the magic of the Sistine. It is always new. It is always a work to be freshly analyzed. Appreciated. Prayed over.” “That sounds so very different from my own visit,” I explained. “I mean, even when I was looking at ‘The Creation of Adam’ I felt so rushed. So run over. I couldn’t even fully appreciate the piece because of the madness around me.” “Ah, yes. And that is part two of

“No, no, no. To truly take in the fullness of beauty, you have to lie down on the Chapel floor,” he said. “Now, I know what you’re thinking: those guards wouldn’t even let me take a picture, much less roll around on the Chapel floor. But I am telling you, that early in the morning, they will let you,” he insisted. “They understand, I think, the beauty that you are seeking.” “I can still remember it myself as if I visited just this morning. The first time I ever lay on that chapel floor, I was 17 years old. It was my fourth visit. A hot July day much like the day you visited. The incense from that day had not yet worn off and my nose welcomed it. My footsteps shuffled rhythmically. Hesitatingly, I looked around the room for any monitoring guards. Seeing that they were preoccupied with casual banter, I got down slowly and lay on my back, feeling the cool tile against

growth my overheating skin. From that angle, the ceiling seems all the more vast. The frescos seem to stretch on for acres. The stories that the paintings tell seem to cry out, “Read me! Read me!” And at first, you are overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by what to look at first. But eventually, your eyes will settle on one piece and you’ll stare and analyze and absorb and feel for as long as you need to. Mostly, I myself felt two things. For one, I felt the immense smallness of myself. I, a young Italian man who knew only of hard work, family, and the city of Rome, was somehow born into this massive Universe by a massive God who loved me infinitely. Secondly, I felt simultaneously in union with this massive Universe and this massive God who loved me so. I, in all of my smallness, was satisfied if life meant that I was in communion with the birds of the air. The fish of the rivers and streams. The plants, the grass, the sea. The people. The painters. Michelangelo himself. Adam. God. I felt that all things were one. This, above all

else, is what I felt lying on the floor of the Sistine Chapel.” We sat in silence for a few moments as I processed all that my nonno had said. This experience of his was all of my dreams of visiting the Sistine plus more. This meant that it was real. The magic and beauty of the Sistine was real and it was still waiting for me. But I thought of a slight hitch. “That’s really incredible, Nonno, but...nowadays the Sistine doesn’t even open until 9 a.m. I highly doubt they’d let us in any sooner,” I explained. “Especially if our only reason is we want to lie on the floor.” “Oh, really? That is such a shame,” he said with a genuine frown. He stared off into the open air for a few seconds before his frown shifted into a mischievous smirk. “But don’t you worry,” he said turning to face me again. “I think I know a guy.” You will never guess what floor I’ll be lying around on all summer.

Arno Reflects Florence | digital photography Rachel Donohue

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Symphony of Simple Sounds Breanna DeSimone I wake up to the sound of geese spearing through the spring-infused sky, native arrow strung from bow half a world away, aimed and made to fly. I wake up to ROTC chants crawling past window glass, men yelling pride to the morning as they learn how to defend. I wake up to the caressing cold of early morning pressing through insulated walls and sending me deeper into my cocoon of blankets. I wake up to the trill and chirp of dancing birds as they pass from tree to tree, searching for breakfast and company. Their song sounds like smiling feels and tugs at the corners of my drowsy lips. I wake up to the smell of severed grass and the low drone of mower blades; I can almost taste the dew outside. Monarch in May | digital photography Light flickers in between closed blinds, Paige Moseley teasing and tickling my tired skin and I stretch my bones, prepping for my own awakening. I open my unsteady eyes, grainy with the weight of too little sleep, and I thank the day for its symphony of simple sounds.

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A Single Feather Emily Salmonsen She asked me about the birds, if I knew about the strictness of their migratory routes. A bird must travel across the world, feather and bone, straining to follow the flock and settle in warmer lands together. We sat in the sun together, chatting idly about the lives of birds and watching our children flock toward a freshly­-placed bowl of chips. I saw a feather fall on the balloon shaped like an A. By nightfall, that balloon shaped like an A had popped, and we popped the rest together and the feather fell. It was a beautiful feather. In Maryland, it was illegal to collect birds’ feathers, to prevent the hunting of said birds, but I never even saw the flock. I couldn’t have killed one bird from the flock. I showed it to her, and she agreed; what a beautiful feather, rows and rows of color, let’s find a place for it together. We should consider it a gift from the birds; we didn’t do anything to find the feather. I found the place for the feather on the cord for our ceiling fan. Our flock of children was still too small to reach the birds’ gift, so we didn’t worry too much that a single tiny hand could ruin it. Together, we tied it on with a bit of glue, of course.

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Lighted Corners Even now, years and years of use haven’t tarnished the feather a bit, somehow holding together. Though the adults that were once our flock have migrated south, a single feather will remain: a gift from the birds.

Wilted triptych by Natalie Meador gouache & Micron pens on paper

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Snake Sarah Johnson She was foolish and fell, fell for one who cared nothing for her. She gave him every waking moment, every thought and every word. Late nights lit by a glowing screen, waiting for a text back; shy smiles in the hall, lingering, waiting for him to notice her. He was her whole world, She was his conquest. She trusted him until he took everything from her, used her, emptied her of her soul, of her safety, of any trust she had left for men. When she put her clothes back on, she forged her battle armor: scales to protect, venom to defend, a steely gaze to separate her from the rest of the gullible ones. Unapproachable and safe. Her black nail polish glinted like scales. Her words dripped with venom. Her eyes froze those in her path. The boys called her a snake, words that hit her leather jacket and rolled off, but some got stuck in her scales, wedged their way in like maggots. She answered their catcalls with a rigid finger straight to the sky, as small as her self-confidence, as unmoving as the wall around her heart. They said she should be nicer to the “good boys,� smile more, lose the tight pants, she was asking for trouble. Look happier, look like a girl.

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Lighted Corners But she wasn’t a girl. She was a goddess: broken, bruised, and betrayed. When the new boy came into her life, she was heartless— strengthened her scales and sharpened her gaze. but he was patient. He knew when she needed space. Her defenses kept him always at arm’s length but he stayed and silently walked beside her. Slowly, glance by glance, she learned to love again. They still called her a snake, but there was one soul in the world, one soul who slipped through the cracks of her scales, who warmed her heart and blood. Medusa of the modern day, brave and bruised woman warrior. She is your daughter, your sister, your friend, a stranger. She is in your classes, in your workplace, in your home. She is you and me. The myths say that she will lose but she wins in each moment, each breath, each day that a woman stands up to the world despite her trauma and the memories that haunt her every night. She has won the battle and she will win the war.

Next Page Sincerely, Jane | digital art Oloruntomi Dare

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Fabricated Beauty | digital photography Breanna DeSimone

contributors Rebekah Balick is an International Studies major, but that’s just her cover story. She enjoys being with family and imagining her life as an adventure novel. Therese Boegel is an undecided major discovering how to channel her passion for creating. She enjoys pulling stupid pranks, climbing trees, sharing terrible jokes, and singing in the Chorale. Tim Bonner is an Entrepreneurship and Art double major who aspires to have great success on the Mount swim team during his time here. Betsy Busch is an English, French, and Music major. She enjoys hiking, playing board games, and rereading The Lord of the Rings. Carolyn Ciccocioppo is senior double majoring in Economics and Fine Arts who cares about helping people and building authentic community. She loves going on fun adventures with her friends. Kayla Cooper is an English and Communication double major who hopes to become an accomplished writer or journalist. She enjoys hiking and playing guitar. Katie Creamer is an Art major and Theology minor who aspires to bring beauty into the world to glorify God. She loves listening to music and going on spontaneous trips. Oloruntomi Dare is a Communication major and a Spanish minor. In her free time, she practices graphic design. She aspires to use her skills to work in public relations. Breanna DeSimone is an English major due to graduate in May. She loves Kit-Kats, but only if she has someone to split them with. Rachel Donohue is a Communication and Fine Arts double major who uses her talents to express her ideas. You will most likely find her chugging coffee or listening to music. Maria Elser is an English Secondary Education major with a minor in Theology. She aspires to be a published novelist who draws others closer to Christ through her writing. Tynan Gallagher is an English major who hopes to be a creative writer. He wants to bring people into universes they never would have thought about on their own.

Brittni Garms, a junior English major, can often be found in her natural habitat writing fiction, drawing dorky characters, and struggling to animate with only eight frames. Gigi Gaston is a Communication and French double major who seeks to promote more diverse stories. She participates in Mount theatre and “Tonton Macoute” is dedicated to her grandfather. Cara Gose is a senior Biology and Literature double major who plans to go to medical school. She likes hiking and reading. Lilli Heineman is a Criminal Justice major who wishes to work outdoors and with law enforcement. She is on the women’s rugby team and enjoys spending time with her friends. Conor Hoffman is a History major from Howard County who wishes to expand his writing career into the realm of self-publishing. Jazlyn Ibarra is a junior majoring in English and Communication hoping to pursue a career in editing and publishing. You can usually find her with her nose in a book. Sarah Johnson, an Elementary Education major, is passionate about using the arts to connect with others. She is involved with Mount Theatre and loves to write music and poetry. James Kempisty is a sophomore Biology major. He hopes to serve others by becoming a physician’s assistant in the future. His hobbies include chicken farming, hiking, photography, and drinking coffee. Maya Marks, a Baltimore native, is studying to become a physical therapist and has had a lifelong passion for photography. She is a captain of the MSMU equestrian team. Marie Miller is pursuing an Art major and a double minor in Theology and History. Her artistic voice often expresses the overlooked wonders of ordinary life. Paige Moseley is a Psychology major with a passion for capturing the beauty in the nature that surrounds us. In her free time, she loves hanging out with her friends. Kelley Northam is a Communication and History double major who spends most of her time writing. In her spare time, she enjoys dabbling in travel and music. Otitodilichukwu Okpalannaka, or Otito, for short, wants to understand the totality of the human person through science, psychology, and art.

Olivia Prevost is a Philosophy major who plans to attend law school after graduation or possibly play the fiddle in an Irish band. In her spare time, she enjoys painting. Jacqueline Ramos-Izquierdo is a Visual Art major who has loved art since she was a child. She focuses in mixed media and sculpture, but enjoys the occasional watercolor piece. Rebecca Richard is a Communication major who aspires to work in production and writing for the music industry. Rebecca enjoys running track, traveling, and going to the beach. Glennamarie Rivers studies Elementary Education and minors in Theology. She creates art with the intention of testifying to the beauty of creation and life itself. Emily Salmonsen is a freshman planning to major in Visual Art. She hopes to create stories that will affect others positively. Alba Sarria is an ardent writer and plantsman. When she’s not studying, she’s plotting to fake her own death and live in the Amazon Rainforest. Marcelo Saunders is a history major with a passion for writing who likes to look for ways to improve as a writer. He also enjoys music and plays percussion. Therese Villarrubia is double majoring in English and Criminal Justice, and she wants to blaze a written path through her college years and life. She likes playing tennis and reading.