PAHA Review 2020

Paha Review Writing and Art from the Hill Mount Mercy University Cedar Rapids, Iowa

2020

The term paha comes from Dakota Sioux dialect meaning “hill” or “ridge,” and it was first applied in 1891 by W.J. McGee to the special hill forms in this region of Iowa…

Their distribution and alignment parallel to (and very often near) river valleys strongly suggest that paha are actually wind-aligned dunes that accumulated in response to the strong, prevailing northwest winds that were scouring the Iowan surface during this period of glacial cold.

Jean C. Prior Land Forms of Iowa We need to recover the ancient sense of homeland as an area defined not by armies and flags…but by nature and geography and by the history of human dwelling there, a habitat shared by other creatures, known intimately, carried in the mind as a living presence.

Scott Russell Sanders Mount Mercy University is built on one of the many paha in Iowa, most clustered near or southeast of Cedar Rapids.

Editors Jessica Purgett Haley Weideman Assistant Editors Quinton Gaul Emilio Ramos Art Editor Dylan Catalano-Wild Assistant Art Editor Brianna Ostwinkle Copy Editors Sierra Earle Quinton Gaul Andrew Lorig Jessica Purgett Emilio Ramos Haley Weideman Jada Veasey Cover Art Pixelation, Mixed Media

by Brianna Ostwinkle Cover Design Dylan Catalano-Wild Faculty Advisors Jose Clemente Mary Vermillion

Writing Selection Committee Sierra Earle Quinton Gaul Andrew Lorig Jessica Purgett Emilio Ramos Abbie Ring Haley Weideman Jada Veasey Special Thanks Billie Barker Chris DeVault Kathryn Hagy Joseph Hendryx Joy Ochs Benjamin Thiel Carol Tyx Eden Wales Freedman

Special thanks to the Mount Mercy University community for coming together during the global COVID-19 pandemic.

Contents Headstones

Jessica Purgett

9

Chapters Apart

Cassandra Gillmore

12

Climate Crash Jumper

Ayla Boylen

13

Mister Dead Man

Anonymous

14

Sweet Like Honey

Jewel Barnes

16

Bee Days

Clare Heinrich

17

Intent to Destroy, in Whole or in Part

Matt Trueblood

19

A Night at the Pond

Elizabeth Miene

20

Someday

Madison Knight

21

Dream

Orlando Clark

22

Ask not for Whom the Dough Rises

Jada Veasey

25

Penrose Divine

Matt Trueblood

27

Void

Sarah Langholz

28

Flora Guides

Alex Diercks

29

Among the Roses

Anonymous

30

Panic

Hannah Tesar

32

Macro/Micro Map

Elee Edwards

33

Blank Walls

Abbie Ring

34

Yakin’

Quinton Gaul

36

Let Me Be

Jade Milota

38

Day Dream

Payton Waters

39

Play Your Role

Joseph Kehinde

40

Ramblings and Roses

Rachel Shoop

41

Cars and Angels

Hannah Mougin

43

Unit: Three Scale

Ayla Boylen

45

The House

Sierra Earle

46

Dragons

Melissa Deeney

51

My Boxes

Rachel Shoop

52

You Tricked Me

Taylor Dearborn

54

Green

Abbie Ring

55

To the Little Girl with Optimistic Blues

Paige Toomer

57

Dissociation

Susana Zierke

59

I Remember

Clare Heinrich

60

Trains

Charles Uthe

61

Moonlight Night

Jasper Severn

65

How to Care for your Newborn at Night

Ally Killean

66

To the Voice inside my Head

Sydney Burlingham

69

The Teddy Bear

Jessica Purgett

70

Money Talks

Susana Zierke

71

No

Charles Uthe

72

Little White Pills

Quinton Gaul

74

Ophelia Fills out a Housing Jada Veasey Complaint Form

75

Funerals

Abbie Ring

76

Hands

Taylor Wright

78

Two Years

Paige Toomer

80

Anxious

Willa Sughroue

81

Light

Orlando Clark

82

Passerby

Cassandra Gillmore

83

One Lone Snowflake Falls

Taylor Dearborn

86

Self-portrait

Dylan Catalano-Wild

87

Bodily Function

Susana Zierke

88

Contributors

89

Headstones

Jessica Purgett

One of my first memories is from my great-grandfather’s funeral. I must have been about four at the time, and while everyone was grieving around the freshly mounded soft brown dirt, I was having fun jumping from headstone to headstone. The names of the deceased would disappear under my formal black flats. They were insignificant to me then. That sounds bad when I reflect on it, but I was young, and I didn’t know what death was. I didn’t know that those shiny slabs of hard rock symbolize a person. I didn’t know that they stand as a reminder of accomplishments that would otherwise be forgotten. World War II Veteran. Father. Mother. Beloved Sister.

I never got to meet my paternal grandma; I only knew her through her headstone. Every Mother’s Day, my family and I would go up to see her grave, which is about an hour from my house. While my mother wrapped beautiful plastic flowers around the shepherd’s hook behind the gravestone, my sister and I would trek across the graveyard to the pump well. She and I would grab the cold black handle and pump as hard and as fast as we could, eventually making water splash into the plastic bucket we carried with us. Then, slowly we would walk back, careful not to get ourselves wet. We had to scrub away the grime that built up on her stone. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a rectangle set slightly into the ground. It was nothing like my great-grandmother and great-grandfather’s shared stone.

The rich gravelly brown mountain of rock stood proudly above their resting place just to the left of my grandma’s.

My great-grandfather’s side even had an engraving of a cowboy sitting on a horse, his lasso spinning around the animal’s body. My great-grandfather was famous for this

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in his little town, he mesmerized the audience that gathered at the annual parade. Sometimes he’d even sing to the crowd, playing his guitar as his horse, Santana, meandered down the street.

My grandma didn’t have a headstone for a while after she died. She killed herself when my dad was twelve, and my grandpa was too busy with his mistress to be bothered to buy a stone for the woman he supposedly loved. My grandma’s story is a sad one. I’ve only been told bits and pieces of it, but now that I’m getting older, I think my dad wants me to know just how malicious my grandpa really is. My dad told me that his mom had suspicions that he was cheating on her, and that she had become depressed. He told me that she went to a field away from her home and she shot herself there. A farmer found her the next day. I can’t imagine what she was feeling as she drove to that field. Was she relieved that it was finally going to be over? Was she scared? Did she feel guilty? Maybe all these emotions swirled around in her mind. What’s really screwed up, though, is that my grandpa didn’t even grieve. My dad tells me that my grandpa was taking his mistress out to dinner for her birthday a month after the funeral.

My grandpa is married to his mistress now. My dad stood for their wedding—I think he was either thirteen or fourteen—and he always tells the story of how he knew their union wasn’t right. Towards the end of the service, my dad started feeling hot and dizzy. He actually fainted in the middle of their wedding. He always says that it was my grandma sending a sign down from heaven.

My dad resents my grandpa. He hates the fact that his father wouldn’t talk about his mom’s death. He hates the fact that, to get the truth, he had to go to the courthouse to read the police report. He hates the fact that he and his little sister weren’t given the closure they needed. He hates the fact that my grandpa had a garage sale of my grandma’s things only a few days after she died.

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I haven’t seen my grandpa in years. My mom wanted my sister and I to have a relationship with him, no matter how screwed up the past was. My dad only agreed to let us see him when my sister and I were five and seven, respectively.

We only ever saw each other maybe once a year at Christmas when he would buy my sister and I lavish gifts. One Christmas he even gave us televisions. However, I haven’t seen him in years because he wasn’t allowed over to our house one Christmas. My mother was going through chemo, and she couldn’t be exposed to more germs than necessary because of her compromised immune system. He took it as a diss, and I haven’t seen him since.

Secretly, I hope that my dad doesn’t ever reconcile with him. He had a heart attack a few years back, and honestly, I was (and am) so disassociated from him that I didn’t feel much. When I got the news from my hysterical sister that he was being airlifted to the hospital, no sense of dread washed over me. When I went to go visit him in the hospital a few days later, I didn’t feel any relief. It was kind of like he was a stranger. I wonder if I will go to his funeral to see what his headstone will look like. Maybe he won’t even have a headstone, like my grandma.

After cleaning my grandmother’s stone, my mother, sister, and I would usually leave my dad to have a few minutes alone with his mother. When he walked back to the car I noticed that he was crying. I was surprised. He doesn’t cry, not ever. I also felt bad for him because I knew just how much he wishes he could have one more day with her. He said that as soon as my mother, sister, and I left, the wind died down and everything was quiet. He knew his mother was there with him. That’s the day that I realized just how powerful a headstone can be. It serves as something permanent in a world of temporary people.

11

Chapters Apart

Cassandra Gillmore

I was reading chapter ten, while he was three behind.

I knew our characters differed, but I I guess that I was blind.

I wanted to keep reading, but he was growing tired.

I looked towards a sequel, but he was uninspired.

My heart was torn off the page, but he didn’t even look Because I was stuck in our story, while he moved to a different book.

12

13

Ayla Boylen

Climate Crash Jumper, Lithography

Mister Dead Man

Anonymous

Who were you?

The nameless body that we drove past that day.

The one who I still mourn without knowing your name.

The ambulance who couldn’t save you that day.

Did they even try?

Or were you already gone when they arrived?

Mister Dead Man. Who I will never know.

Why were you just lying on the side of the road?

There alone with only the paramedics.

Or were they only trying to keep you company?

Mister Dead Man. Forever in a dream.

What was it like drifting off into that sleep?

With the frost over your grave keeping you warm.

The moon becoming your guide to my home.

Mister Dead Man. A stranger.

Why do you affect me so much?

That you haunt my dreams, so much that it pains me, and I wake with a scream.

Mister Dead Man. The one I cry for.

Why do I mourn you so?

When even those I am supposed to love receive no grief, as they pass on to the unknown.

Is it because I know where you’ll go?

Mister Dead Man. Let me see your face, so I can face my accuser

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without any disdain.

Or am I asking too much?

Mister Dead Man. How dare you haunt the living.

Without a trace.

Why did it have to be me?

Mister Dead Man. You take up too much space in my memory.

Or was that your plan all along?

To never be forgotten.

Mister Dead Man. Maybe if I knew you by name, I would finally be at rest.

So what do you say Mister Dead Man are you free next Wednesday at three?

15

Sweet Like Honey

Jewel Barnes

They were the first thing I noticed when we met my heart thumped as I stared back at them with my own Genuineness, honesty and love he held in them our future together I found in them Honor I feel when I see them dreary in the morning Shame I feel when I fight with them When lost I find myself in them Fear I seek them When smiling they are the source Admiration they show me Our bodies and minds will age but not those honey colored eyes

16

Bee Days

Clare Heinrich

My dad and I love to place a couple lawn chairs next to our beehives and enjoy the presence of the honeybees, perhaps with a glass of lemonade on the side. They come and go, come and go, never stopping, never slowing. Their seemingly bumbling flight patterns make no sense to us, but after a few minutes, we pick up on a consistent path. Up and over to the left, back and forth, down and under to the right, back and forth, up and down again. And their hum, oh their hum. It’s a soothing rumble, the softest of songs. Like the purr of a contented cat, or the vibrations of a gentle massage. It sinks into you, slowly, gently, easing away your anxieties and stress. You feel like you are inside the hive, this great structure teeming with life, energy, warmth. The golden messengers carry their charges to and fro, and you would be honored to be considered a member of their court. The smells reel in memories of baking soft, sweet cakes, the glow of a dying candle in a darkened room, the ding! of the toaster for breakfast. Each memory is distinct but connected.

I look over at my dad. He has that characteristic grin on his face, the one that is genuine and unabashedly real. He is just as in love with these miniscule, wonderful creatures as I am, entranced by their effortless order and communion with the world around us. What they must see, what they must feel, I can’t imagine. But their looping, graceful flights back and forth, back and forth, lull me into a sense of peace, of ease.

The flights the bees take when they first emerge from their hive are called orientation flights. Having already spent

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about half their life inside, taking care of new bees and preparing food and resource storage, they are ready to venture forth into a strange, huge world. But first they must know where their home is—these orientation flights, the consistent up and over, down and back motions, lock their home’s location in their minds, fixing it so they won’t get lost. Then they leave, flying up to two miles to find pollen, nectar, and whatever else they need to survive.

I glance down to the small birdbath we keep next to the hives as the bees’ source of water. A handful of garden rocks line the bottom, providing a base for them to land on so they don’t drown in their eagerness for a sip. Three or four rest on the rocks now, their itty-bitty tongues slowly unfurling like the miniature curly straws I would save to drink chocolate milk with as a child. One inches forward too much, splashing into the water, its little legs flailing.

I poke my finger underneath it, guiding it back to the side of the pool. It quickly scrambles up onto one of the rocks, shaking its wings. It licks my finger, almost as a form of gratitude, perhaps as an afterthought. I pet the air above its head, then it flies away.

18

Matt Trueblood

Intent to Destroy, in Whole or in Part, Intaglio

A Night at the Pond Elizabeth Miene

It was just one drunken night.

Cold and cloudy, fire keeping them warm.

Conflicting personalities keeping tensions strong, But they were still having the best night.

There was a pond nearby, Right next to the cabin.

They went for a swim.

Stripped to their underwear, boys and girls alike.

She had trouble getting out of the water, Thankful a good friend was there to help.

She couldn’t find her jeans, standing, nearly naked, On the dock with her friend.

A man came up behind her and grabbed her waist.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while now.”

She felt his hand travel lower.

She froze.

She looked to her friend, he wasn’t paying attention, She begged for help.

He pulled her away from him, held her tight.

Thankful. She was so thankful.

She found her jeans, her protector helped her put them on.

She was still shaking, and her hatred for that man grew more and more.

She knew his past, he’s always been a pig, But that’s an insult to pigs.

I can’t believe I’m one of his victims.

He was a monster.

He is a monster.

He won’t forget.

I won’t let him forget.

20

Someday

Madison Knight

Someday we will laugh again like we did before.

Someday all the hurt will go away like finding a one true love after a heartache.

Someday we will hold hands like we used to do when I was a kid.

Someday I won’t miss you anymore like a kid saying goodbye to their toys.

Someday I’ll tell you I love you like we used to at every goodbye.

Someday we will be face to face, but right now, heaven is too far away.

21

Dream

Orlando Clark

You are a sea of endless possibility You are a fountain, overflowing with potentiality.

A vacuum of creativity guided by the hands of the almighty.

You can do more far more than the eyes can see.

You are bigger than any boundary made by society You are love are the world and the world has a mind of its own, so dream and dream big.

Never stop dreaming and dream lucid because your mind is a wonderful landmine you can explode at any given time.

Explode and expand far beyond the walls made by man.

Expand and alter the hands of time.

You are an altar sanctified with divinity.

You can do whatever you dream A man is what’s in his mind.

That means the man can achieve whatever the mind conceives but only if he believes.

So throw your doubts into the sun toss your fears to the sunset give your sadness to the sea change your gloom to glee plant your goals like a pea water it with labour as it becomes a tree and watch your dreams as they manifest to reality.

In you glows a light a light that shines so bright a light that illuminates the sky at night

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You are the future and the future is now.

You will be guided by your ancestors who were before you.

You have within you the valor of 300 Spartan hoplites so gather your sarissas and phalanxes kiss your insecurities goodbye.

Gather cavalry load up your infantry you are now on the path least travelled.

No looking back you have already crossed the Rubicon No time to second guess.

You are at war. War. A war where no blood will be drawn. because you are at war with yourself.

The battle is between you and you between what you think you can and cannot do The universe has given you all you need to proceed.

The result, the outcome, depends on you indeed.

You came from the womb of a Queen a lineage of kings, sages and bards you are a masterpiece manifested by time.

You are destined for greatness like the sun, like the beacon of light that shines through the prisms.

Freedom and happiness are your birthright you were made in the image of love, made to do great things.

You are a Queen as much as you are a King.

Nothing can stop you but the other half of you.

You are magnificent a kaleidoscope, a rainbow with gold at your feet.

You are royalty.

You are a winner from the scrotum to the cervix, from the cervix to cradle, from the cradle to the grave.

So dream and dream big, dream and dream lucid, dream and sweep fear out the room, dream and bring doubt to its doom.

You are great, greatness is in you.

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From the semen to the cement from sperm to soil from the womb to the tomb.

You are possible you are a sea of possibility So, keep dreaming and dream with lucidity.

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Ask not for Whom the Dough Rises

Jada Veasey

I am making a mess of the kitchen, but I do not have the wits about me to care. I know that somewhere else in this room there is a bread pan made of sleek glass with smooth edges and a plastic lid. It would be easier to find than the dingy one I am looking for, but I don’t care about that. I am a woman with strong opinions; one of them being that bread that comes from ugly, dented pans older than I am just tastes better. Maybe beat-up pans have magical properties. Stranger things have been true. At last! I am victorious!

I’ve spotted the pan, and I set it on the counter. Now it’s time for the actual baking to begin. I throw the ingredients in the bowl and let my mother’s fancy mixer, the one with the bread hook and everything, do its thing. I dance around the house to the beat of its mechanical whirring. Eight minutes go by; I’m dizzy, and the dough is done. Into another bowl it goes, this time greased and covered in cheap plastic wrap that wants to stick everywhere but where I need it to.

I win the war with the plastic and set the bowl on the oven.

Time for the dough to rise, time for me to pray that it rises, time for me to text someone about how long it’s taking for this damned dough to do anything. I must wait for an entire hour. An hour. I am a toddler with no attention span. Hell is not a burning pit, a crowded shopping mall, or a bowling alley; Hell is waiting for dough to rise. I twirl around some more, and time ticks by. The hour runs out quicker than I expected it to. Out of the bowl and into the bread pan the dough goes. I slide it into the oven. Oh God, the oven means even more waiting. Half an hour more at least! May-

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be baking bread isn’t Hell, but it’s Purgatory, at the very least. More praying, more dancing, more texting. The timer dings again. It’s done! And now the dough is bread! And now I’m yelling up the stairs that “the bread is done; do you want a slice?” And the answer is a resounding “yes!” And now suddenly we’re buttering, laughing, eating, savoring.

Heaven is having someone to share a slice of bread with.

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Matt Trueblood

Penrose Divine, Hand Colored Linocut

Void

Sarah Langholz

I thought breaking your heart would heal mine but it left me empty with a hole I cannot fill.

I should know I’ve tried but strangers are a cheap fix the sweet nothings whispered sour in my ears.

As the night comes to an end and they disappear into the darkness I’m left alone with my heart aching for you.

28

Flora Guides

Alex Diercks

It spreads quickly in all nature, found even in the harshest conditions. its roots pollute the earth, encouraging the thorns of negativity.

It grows slowly only with care, blooms with a gentle touch and time.

One must be a sensitive botanist to cultivate flowering positivity.

Negativity is a weed, thriving without aid.

A beckoning thicket to those rushing for answers.

Positivity is sparse, it must be watched over.

Those with care and patience will blossom with its peaceful glow.

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Among the Roses Anonymous

You were a weed growing among a garden of Roses.

It was too late when we finally noticed.

You had taken everything from us, and even now you just want to take.

You harmed us in ways that cannot be fixed, trust us the gardener has tried.

You just kept coming back, asking for more.

You would leave, and we would worry.

The following season you returned, you would bring more of your family, hurting us more, without a care in the world.

Your roots and those of your family took up all the ground.

There were times when you were generous, and opened up space for us, but it was all for your own convenience.

The next time we would owe you, and would take more than what you had given.

There are still some of our Roses that fall for your tricks, they carry a disease, and everytime you leave, it hurts them, they begin to wilt.

Everytime you come back, they stand right back up.

This last time that you left, they turned their backs and said no.

It was for your own good.

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It was your family you abandoned, in order to make your own, your version of perfect.

The one that raised you.

That loved you.

Who got tired of your tricks.

Now you’re just a weed, trying to make your own garden of Roses.

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Panic

Hannah Tesar Panic waits. It builds. Until you can’t breathe. Just breathe.

It finds moments, imperfect times when you pause. Just pause.

How does it find me? I learn to hide. Just hide your fears.

Why must it do its best to strike? Just strike against your thoughts.

They would go away if I could learn to be mindful. Just be mindful of where you are right now.

They only stay for an instant. Not long do they last. I just want this one to be the last.

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33

Elee Edwards

Macro/Micro Map, Mixed Media

Blank Walls

Abbie Ring

The yellow light that once seemed warm and inviting now only casts jaundiced shadows.

Bed converted to couch.

Pushed up against the door, bracing shut your options.

Desk tucked underneath like every hour you spent there— now overshadowed.

Entire life below the springy mattress.

No one is here to sleep on it anymore.

Maybe your tones of pink captured the homey-ness but with them all gone all I have is green growth or puke.

The smell of death that we used to joke becomes a reality in bleach scrubbing out each channel of what you left behind, like maybe I can be rid of the isolation.

Killing germs only serves to lessen the number of living organisms in my company.

Hold up three fingers and a disjointed thumb in solidarity.

Melancholy never too much before—when eye contact was there to ground me.

I need a person to make me be a person.

Their circadian rhythm a metronome that reminds me of what mine should be.

Set the pace.

All left behind, a penny.

Tails up, not heads; unlucky.

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I’ll leave the windows open tonight fan on, in memory.

Don’t know if I’ll turn it off, can I ever sleep in silence?

Even though I shiver, the air creeps in.

Being cold and empty suits the mood of the room.

Scrunchies, glasses, and tie-dye fell by the wayside.

No more sloth dishes or llamas by the sink.

An end to the background movies.

For although the settee is made, I cannot bring myself to sit on it, unplug the icicles for the first time since you did, but it needs to be done.

Every time from now on, it will be me.

Immediately, it’s 2:05 a.m. and there’s no one here to make me go to sleep.

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Yakin’

Quinton Gaul

Kayaking has always been held in a special place in my heart. There is something special about going out on the water on a tiny little craft that is nearly an extension of oneself. In calm waters, it can be maneuvered with the simple swipe of the paddle. There is no motor to control, only the tips of the paddle. In order to move, one must do it all on their own, with nothing to aid but an oddly shaped stick. Being as the watercrafts are so small, there is no guarantee that it will not flip as soon as you get in.

That is part of the fun, though, being completely at the mercy of your own balance and ability to fight against the current, which may well try to toss you in.

The physical action of moving and staying upright is only a part of the fun, though. The other part comes with going places that no other craft can go. The water needs to be no deeper than six feet to kayak, much shallower than most boats can go through. This does not mean that a kayak is the only boat that can go there, though, as some boats are designed for just that. What I can tell you is that no boat other than a kayak is designed to be carried across land to get from one part of the water to another.

Sometimes the water goes down a path full of rocks and trees, so you can simply pick the kayak up and skip the treacherous parts.

Eventually, you get to places that are completely secluded with nothing but you, your kayak, the water, and any friends you might have brought with you. That is perhaps the best part. Being alone with nature, with nothing to distract you from the beauty of it all. You can find turtles,

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fish, and if you are unlucky, as I once was, you might even see a snake swimming in the water. You hear the birds above and see the leaves as they drift from their high perches in the trees down to the water all around you. You get to smell the water in all its odd scents and feel it drift as you stir it up with your paddle. Nothing comes close to this feeling of serenity. If you decide to bring friends, all you hear is their voices, uninterrupted by any man-made sounds. The deepest conversations happen when you are paddling side by side, completely immersed in your surroundings. It is those conversations in that surreal place that I would not trade for anything.

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Let Me Be Jade Milota

I was born this way.

What else can I say?

Yes I look different from you, but you look different too.

I wish this topic never came up.

Why can’t we just leave it at “sup?”

I bet mice don’t ask one another why they look the way they do.

They’re probably nice to each other one not making others feel blue.

We’re all unique, can’t you see?

So, please just let me be.

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Payton Waters

Day Dream, Digital and Lithography

Play Your Role Joseph Kehinde

You never seemed to care enough.

You never seemed to realize that money doesn’t buy love.

You never showed me how to treat women.

I had to be the Artistotle of my life my naivety made me act like you, selfish and self-centered.

I feel like you could have been more loving.

Time and attention are things money cannot afford.

Were you not able to see this?

I wish you were there for me I wish you never left I wish you were more accountable I wish I didn’t need to wish for a basic necessity like you.

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Ramblings and Roses Rachel Shoop

I am sick. Not like “cough-cough” sick, but like chemotherapy sick. For the sake of my story and to save some time, the type of sickness doesn’t matter, but all you need to know is that it requires me to visit the hospital more times than any human should.

I guess going to chemo isn’t as bad as it once was. Like, before the new children’s hospital was built, I always went to an outdated pediatric specialty clinic for my chemo. It had these yellowing walls and faded paintings of unrecognizable shapes like clouds and airplanes. Not to mention it was full of sick kids.

Chemotherapy is already a pretty nasty thing, but throw in some innocent children, and you get the closest thing to hell on Earth. For me, I was one year away from being a legal adult when I first entered the children’s cancer center, so I had to witness these young kids throwing up or being knocked out while getting poison injected into their bodies.

I had to hear small babies crying in the room next to me because of how unfair life is, and I had to endure that messed up shit while also putting poison in my body. I knew it was depressing, and my dad—the person responsible for taking me to chemo—also knew it was fucked up.

I don’t know if it’s like a sixth sense or just plain common sense, but my dad always knows I feel terrible after every round of chemo. So, to make me feel better, my dad and I always go to Trader Joe’s after every hospital visit. And I know what you are all probably thinking, “but it’s just a grocery store, how can getting groceries make a person feel

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happy?” Like I get it, it sounds kind of weird, but if you have never walked into a Trader Joe’s before, it’s like visiting my own version of a floral heaven.

I wish I could take you from wherever you are reading this and scoop you up and just throw you into my brain, so you understand and see what I’m talking about. Walking in, you become engulfed by pink, white, yellow, orange, purple and green flowers. All these plants welcome you into the store like you’re their old friend and envelop you into a big brightly-colored and pollen-scented hug.

When I see all the colors and shapes of flowers, everything stops for me. The world stops spinning, all clocks freeze, and time no longer exists. It’s like within that moment of entering the store, I forget about everything, I forget about being stuck at the hospital, I forget having to miss class for appointments, I forget about chemotherapy, the IVs, the needles, the blood, and I forget about being sick. I only care about the beautiful things I see in front of me. Seeing all the plants and flowers, I instantly become intoxicated with happiness. And this is now my dad and I’s unspoken tradition: flowers after chemo.

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Cars and Angels Hannah Mougin

May 10th, 2018— it was from that day on that I prayed to my angels everyday when merging onto the intimidating interstate.

Screeching sounds replay in my head, the sound of confusion followed by fear, the longest thirty seconds of my life, the pain that could have been caused.

Cedar Rapids’ S curves are now my hidden fear, a hidden emotion, a loss of trust in all other drivers.

Lay it to rest, bury it they say, but all I can do is rewind it in my head.

Driving past it everyday seeing my side mirrors still lying at the scene.

The goose bumps come back as I relive it in my head.

All I can hear is the screeching of the tires, followed by the impact of the cement wall hitting the front of the car, the roll that lasted what felt like years.

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Climbing out the back-passenger door, looking at the mess that has been made.

The shattered windshield of my sharply painted Kia that had been my dream car, now demolished and caved in at the top.

Looking at the red Jeep involved, with only a faint scratch of silver paint on the grill thinking to myself, “how is it that all the damage has been put on me?�

Telling the ambulance to leave, the cost was too expensive for my needs.

Hugging my parents and driving away, leaving my brand-new car of only short two years, my beauty, behind me, dead.

Realizing how thankful I am, for my angels in heaven looking down on me.

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Ayla Boylen

Unit: Three Scale, Pen

The House Sierra Earle

We had already been texting when Carolyn invited me over to her boyfriend’s place. Life made us busy, had made us change, but there needn’t be an elaborate plan to unite us.

The sun was still climbing when I pulled into the driveway, and it was quiet.

Suburbia was abandoned for now. Its people at their jobs they settled for and their children in school. Inside Carolyn was reheating leftover Chinese from the night before in the microwave while exchanging words with me about house chores and nights spent drinking. “Well what do you wanna do? We could go into that house I’ve been telling you about,” she said, and I sensed some premeditation in her voice. If there was an adequate time to do this, she supposed it was now.

It had taken twenty minutes to put rationality aside, to enter the derelict house that sat two doors down from Carolyn’s boyfriend’s place. We were now trotting through the sodden floor of the exposed garage; mud, paper, old tools, and a phone that belonged in another decade obscured the concrete underneath.

“I wonder what happened,” Carolyn said, looking up. Wires hung from the ceiling, forgotten, but not to the blue sky that broke in through the holes above our heads. She began shuffling through tools along the back wall. “I can’t believe they left all this stuff here.”

“How long has this place been abandoned?” I asked. It looked as if the floral arrangements printed on the phone’s

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receiver had recently been ripped from the ground. There were buckets filled with water and mud, a table saw subject to the elements, lightbulbs, and other bits which suggested the work of a handyman. “We should take some of this stuff.” I turned to face the hole where the garage door belonged. We were exposed.

“Yeah, I bet some of it is worth a lot of money.” She investigated everything for a moment. “And I don’t know, it’s been this way for a while now.” After walking down the alley that ran beside the house and back, neurotically checking for people, we came upon the front lawn. What or who would greet us inside was what frightened us the most. I was reminded of what Carolyn mentioned earlier; she had seen men enter the house but did not see them leave. My steps lead us. My heart raced but my feet moved slowly, deliberately. Some of the living room windows had been covered and the screen door was tattered. I checked to ensure Carolyn had not abandoned me. As I pushed open the screen door latch, I heard rustling. My curiosity was overcome by my terror; I sought safety in distance.

“I think I hear someone in there.”

“Marie, no one’s here,” Carolyn said, adjusting her paper towel mask.

I was never the one to lead us into anything, but today was my chance. Chills cooled my bones, and I wished for the comfort of Carolyn’s shadow. I again approached the door and opened the screen. We were now breaking the law because of naïve curiosity. I wondered if I would have ever crossed the threshold of that ripped screen door if it weren’t for her. If I were to ever risk getting caught, losing my scholarships, or my job, if it weren’t for her.

Entering the house, I was struck by the sight of clothes covering the floor. Black bags filled with trash, piled at random,

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were surrounded by food wrappers and paper, A television as wide as the living room couch framed the scene.

“Woah!” Carolyn exclaimed. “I can’t believe this thing is in here and in this condition.” Her gaze was fixed on the television. She found a piece of exposed carpet to put her bag down on and took out her gloves, then handed a pair to me.

“Why would they just leave all his stuff here?” I turned in place to take in all the trash.

“Maybe the roof caved in,” she said. “It looks like they started cleaning up.” She pointing to the city trash can which sat in front of the door. Confronting such a mess would have reduced me to infuriating tears. Everywhere we looked, there was more trash. It hid, it multiplied, it overtook our senses, and it seemed to take on its own life. Papers peeked through a briefcase in front of the couch. “Look at this.”

Carolyn opened it and I crouched besides her to watch. She looked through each individual piece of paper as we took verbal inventory. They were mostly invoices and letters from the city. “Woah, a social security card. John Jameson?”

She held it for a moment, contemplating the terrible things we could do to a man who was probably having his morning coffee with god, but she took mercy on him and returned it to the cracked leather briefcase.

“I don’t think they’re coming back,” I said looking at the back of her head.

She continued her search. “I wonder how many promises he never kept; how many deals fell through.”

We toured the rest of the house, using our phones as flashlights. We ducked by windows and held our breath whenever a car passed the house. The kitchen was full of moldy food, Coke two liters, plastic cups, but had surprisingly few insect occupants. Every room smelled of mold, and there

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was a spare blue toilet in one of the bedrooms.

“Carolyn, all I smell is pee, all I smell is pee,” I joked when we reached the bathroom. My voice was muffled by a paper towel wrapped around my face. Carolyn suggested this out of fear of black mold, which broke out along the edges of the walls in most of the rooms. Years of neglect left a grey powdery filth along the sink, toilet, and bathtub. I thought about how I would tell my mother if I got sick.

A shadowy figure sat in the master suite. Though it gave into the prodding of its hairy shoulder and fell to the floor, its blank gaze affirmed its inanimate nature. Carolyn put her hand on the bed and almost fell as the mattress gave way to her weight.

“It’s a waterbed. What the heck, how is it still filled?” She turned and noticed a dirty antique dresser in the corner. I was still struggling over a mountain of clothes when Carolyn began opening the drawers. Multiple exclamations later, I saw a blank excitement pass her eyes. She found boxes of foreign currency.

It was all so interesting. We both had never traveled out of the country, so everything looked alien to us. I became jealous of the life experience that laid before me. I scrutinized every coin, imagining where they had been and how much farther they had traveled than I. We slipped them in our bags. It seemed victimless, taking the abandoned and robbing the dead while eluding the living. Then we found a news clipping with a story about a little boy earning his Boy Scout’s honors; the name underneath the attached photo said “Jameson.” He smiled at us with big open eyes, unaware of the crime we were making him a victim of. I had never done something so terrible to a child before. I put down the clipping and stood back to watch the rest of the crime unfold, the photo looking back at me.

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After we had searched all the rooms, our bags were filled with another’s belongings. The discomfort weighed us down. I inched closer to the front door. Carolyn continued to grapple with the living room.

“Can we leave now?” I asked.

“Let’s go,” she said. She shifted the weight of the backpack on her shoulders.

Once I crossed the threshold of the screen door I couldn’t look back. We knew nothing of this man except what his son looked like, that he had a wife and business, and his social security number. We knew where he slept and how he kept his house, in squalor, with no one to pick up the pieces when we left. As cowardly observers, Carolyn and I took what we wanted and left the undesired with the rest of his personality, forgotten.

Weeks later, Carolyn saw a truck outside the house. From it emerged a man that looked like the boy in the photo we found in the bedroom; perhaps the house had been neglected, not abandoned.

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Melissa Deeney Dragons, Charcoal

My Boxes Rachel Shoop

A Nike shoebox that’s shoved underneath my bed, full of receipts and gum wrappers, from the year 2017.

At Michael’s annual Christmas sale there was a deal on photo boxes, two dollars each. I bought four. They are not filled with photos yet. They are just sitting on my bookshelf, momentarily abandoned, just like the stacks of pictures patiently waiting to be discovered in my closet.

A fruit box I’ve had since I was fifteen hidden away in a closet. It’s big and perfectly rectangular. The top of the box is separate from the bottom, so it opens and closes so nicely.

It contains all the old junk I used to care about like my high school report cards, test results, and achievement awards.

A box I received when I ordered something from Amazon.

It’s missing to flaps on the top and cannot close properly.

I keep it next to my dresser and fill it with blankets and pillows. My cat Banana sometimes sleeps in it.

My “donate” box. It’s full of clothes I will donate someday.

Located upstairs in our office, it has been sitting in that same corner for the past six months, ready to be taken to the local thrift store.

Another shoebox, not Nike, but perfectly blue Adidas, filled to the brim with important stuff. You know important stuff like my ticket to a One Direction concert from 2013, or a snippet of my high school senior interview from my local newspaper. Oh, and hospital wristbands.

Three gift boxes I ordered online for a project I had in Printmaking. Each box is painted on the inside. They sit in my art room, on my desk, not full of objects or really

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anything but air. Oh, but a story about the past five years of my life and everything that was taken away from me is pasted on their inside walls.

One sad-looking moving box I stole from my sister’s house.

It has a total of three holes in it. All of them are randomly located on the box. When I first saw it, I felt bad. It looked lonely and lost in my sister’s basement. Now, it’s a home for clothing hangers that I don’t use. My mom says I should just get rid of it, but I can’t seem to give it up. I keep it in the storage room in my basement.

A couple of empty tissue boxes lying on the floor next to my bed, they are more than likely the result of some nosebleeds I suffer from after treatment. Although bleeding while on chemo is always a possible side effect, I never had an issue with it . . . until recently.

When I was twenty my sister got me a necklace from Kate Spade, in the cutest,greatest box I have ever seen. It’s small, so small. Not like “fits in your hand small” but it’s more like the size of a piece of cheesecake. Also it’s round and not square. It is blue and green, not the sand color usual cardboard boxes are or yellow like a piece of cheesecake.

The top and bottom are separate so every time I take the lid off, it’s like a figure skater gliding on ice. So smooth, so wonderful. It’s currently empty and is sitting on my dresser, where I open and close it every so often. My sister gave me the necklace box at “The Cheesecake Factory” after she announced she was planning to move away.

A couple red boxes I received from a monthly subscription snack company. The boxes no longer contain snacks, but they do smell like chocolate. I stack one another on top of each other and use it as DIY tablet stand.

A box full of pens that I still keep around even though they no longer work correctly. It’s okay though. Just because they do not work the same as other pens doesn’t mean they are broken. They are just a little different.

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You Tricked Me Taylor Dearborn

You tricked me.

You made me think I was loved.

You made me think no one else could love me as much as you did.

It was all a lie.

Someday someone will love me.

They will love me more than you ever did.

Love me better than you ever could because not only did you break me, but you were broken yourself.

Your heart was fractured.

Your days were mournful, but that did not give you an excuse to treat me the way you did.

You tore me down every day.

You made me hate everything about myself.

I am fractured.

I am lost but I am here.

You may have taken my happiness, but you did not take my life.

I am here for my family, my friends, and I am here in spite of you wishing I wasn’t.

Most importantly I am here for me.

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Green

Abbie Ring I like this time of day when the sun stretches out the shadows long squirrels skitter away down each trunk searching for what I’ve already found here and possess within myself.

Occasionally, a reminder is nice where the air is bug-filled and the leaves scream.

These places that people see as space between the useful buildings, spots to pass, not dwell by.

Bustling through, never taking time to see the flowers even though you might get stung tramp over the opportunity.

Bask in its glory inherently good and full for this space in time, a little holy tinged with light that frames each blade of grass as if to give it a shining halo.

Rays of gold bestow my heart the effort to get through each night each trial every conversation equipping my soul to guide others as You provide self-direction.

Introspection is coming to me use the beams as a highway for the clarity to race down I can feel it upon entrance the background, muted, now gains highlights.

Foliage edges into yellow

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keeping everyone beside the main point of discovery then, and re-definition; I am Yours.

So remind me.

Coat my throat with your honey with every leaf, every pinecone, every twig.

You are the vine I am the branch together we will bear fruit.

No one seems to know how full this place can be if they’d just stop to take a look and see.

This is good and it is good only because it is Yours.

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To the Little Girl with Optimistic Blues Paige Toomer

I remember you and your big blue eyes viewing the world innocently through optimistic lenses. Do you think about me? Do you wonder how I am or who I will be? I think of you almost every day of the week. I miss you and the innocence you held. The wonder that was experienced in your view. I miss feeling the warmth that you held inside you. The smile you displayed every day without delay.

I wonder if you still exist today. Does the innocence in your eyes lie steady, or did I interrupt it? Do your blue eyes shine the way they used to? Or are they dimmed by new blurred lenses? Did the future disappoint you, or do you appreciate the new view? Do I disappoint you? Do you hate me almost as much as I miss you? I miss you. Do you miss me the same way too? Don’t, even if you do. The world no longer shines the way it used to. Believe me, I’ve seen what offers it has for you. The sun is dimmer these days than your big blues.

Fourteen years later, and the world is completely different than what you viewed. There are problems we didn’t see before that we do now. There is war, bad people, and abuse.

The world is dirtier than your tiny skinned knees. Stress, depression, and illness are prevalent too. Sometimes I wish you never had to see this view. The one with the problems you weren’t equipped to do. I miss us and our innocent big blues. Where we only worried about if mom was going to make chicken nuggets or nasty beef stew. Where our world consisted of what we game we decided to play the next day, house or Scooby Doo?

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Listen well to the advice I give to you. Enjoy the warmth of being held by your mother after crying with your big blues.

Don’t be impatient to grow up fast. Be unapologetically you and don’t overlook the view. Run fast and free. Play both house and Scooby Doo. Live in those optimistic blues for as long as your heart can possibly give. Feel the world for both me and you. Run with the feeling of soft grass beneath you. Smell the homecooked food and touch all the animals you want to. Yell loud enough to be heard. Play with your brothers and sister too. It goes away fast as the clock continues to tick away from you. They will one day no longer play or be there with you. So, live in the feeling of being young and do it for me. For you.

Don’t come chasing after me because I will unfortunately be here waiting for you. Let yourself be oblivious and keep the innocence close until it disappears from your big blues.

Don’t let the words of people affect you the way they will in the future you. Keep the memories and playdates as close as possible too for both me and you. Do all of this because one day you will grow up and you will miss it the same way I miss you. Be my five-year-old you.

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Susana Zierke

Dissociation, Mixed Media

I Remember Clare Heinrich

I remember...

I remember the sunset red and pink I remember driving past huge, white wind turbines Why don’t people like them?

I remember pulling up to Nana and Poppy’s house hiking up the hill through piles of red and orange leaves I remember the scratchiness of their carpet orange and brown swirls adorning the floor I remember clinging to the tree, ten feet in the air too afraid to climb higher or climb back down I remember Dad making peanut butter and surprise sandwiches the ones with chocolate inside were my favorite I remember racing across the yard to leap into the giant pile of leaves my cousins hot on my tail I remember the aches in my chest from laughter running back to the house for dinner I remember listening to “Dancing Queen” on the ride home drifting off to sleep I remember...

I remember

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Trains

Charles Uthe My love of trains started with my grandpa Fred. He collected, built, and even painted his own model trains.

His grandchildren were never allowed in my grandparents’ basement, for that’s where he kept his collection. He was always worried that we would wreck his pride and joy, his trains.

I only saw that basement two times. The first was when my grandfather specifically brought us down there to show his grandchildren his collection of model trains. When I saw it that first time, his collection was massive. There were model trains EVERYWHERE, as far as the eye could see. He introduced us to the different kinds of trains and models. Each time he introduced a new model, he described it in enormous detail. He would explain to us the different kinds of wheels and different kinds of engines. As he would demonstrate how fast the trains could go on his track, you could see the passion in his curious smile and his lighthearted eyes as he shared with us his life-long hobby, the hobby he dedicated his life to.

The second time I saw the basement was after my grandfather had passed and I was helping my grandmother clean it out so that she could sell the house. When I walked down those stairs as I had only once before, I was in complete awe of the empty space I saw in front of me. The abundant collection of model trains had been replaced by an empty abyss of carpet and dark wood that grazed the walls. The passion that I had seen in this space was gone but not forgotten, for my grandfather’s legacy would continue in other forms: through my father, through my siblings, and through me,

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even though I wouldn’t recognize its existence until after he passed. The model trains that had collected dust in my grandparents’ basement were separated and given to my father and my three aunts. So, even as the trains that occupied this space were now gone, they were moved to a location where they would not be neglected.

All the drawings he made in his final years remind me of his strength as he held onto his last breath. He was placed into a rehab center because his dementia was far too severe to stay in a nursing home. Every time my family and I would go visit him, he would always have several new drawings hung up around his room each with a different brightly colored train. My father would have my siblings, especially my younger brother who loves to draw, color various coloringbook pages (usually of trains!) to give to our grandfather whenever we went to visit him. Our grandfather would trade his drawings for theirs, and he would have the biggest smile on his face when he would see the drawings my brother would give him. I miss that bright, beautiful smile that would spread in just a moment, so much so that I’ll never be able to forget it.

I remember my grandfather’s funeral—it was mid-summer and the rain pounded on the roof like wounded soldiers crying out for help. We had reached the final stage of the burial: we brought my grandfather’s casket to the memorial hall. Veteran soldiers marched in through the entrance as the employees from the funeral home carried my grandfather’s casket and placed it onto the stone block in the middle of the cold, stone room. I watched as several of the veterans slowly folded up the flag and placed it into my grandmother’s hand.

“For Fred, may he rest in peace.”

The veteran soldiers all marched one-by-one outside and began their twenty-one-gun salute to my grandfather.

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One of the lieutenants ordered the soldiers to fire all at once, piercing the gentle, quiet sky with their bullets to remember my grandfather and the service he completed for his country.

“Ready… FIRE! Ready… FIRE! Ready… FIRE!” Each gunshot pierced through my ears like a tiny drill digging through my eardrums, and each one of those gunshots dug further into my tear ducts. By the time they had gotten to five-gun shots, I was bawling. Tears streamed down my face, and I quickly brought my hands to my face to try to hold the tears in, but they just wouldn’t stop. They just kept coming with no sign of stopping.

When the veteran soldiers finished their salute, my father stepped up to my grandfather’s casket and placed his left hand onto the hard, metal casket. In his right hand, he held my grandfather’s favorite train whistle, the train whistle that several times I had taken and played with during my visits to my grandparent’s house. My father put the train whistle up to his chapped lips and blew, creating a booming echo throughout the stone building. The train whistle echoed and simmered for several seconds, and I watched as my father burst into tears. Several seconds later, I was crying once again. The sound of the train whistle brought back all the memories of seeing my grandpa Fred, even as he started forgetting me in his last few days. I remembered my mother telling me that my grandpa didn’t have much time left and that we should go see him. Or at least, that’s what my father wanted to do. He wanted to see his dad one last time…

I remember walking into the hospital room on the sunny summer afternoon expecting him to have forgotten all of us there. The doctor had told us that his dementia was at an all-time high, so much so that he hadn’t remembered most of his visitors the day before. Yet, without fail, my

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grandfather recognized his three grandchildren when we asked him who we were.

“Yes, you’re Charlie. You’re in college, right?” I nodded with a large smile across my face. “You make me so proud.”

Of course, I burst into tears then and there. That was the last time I saw my grandfather alive and even though his dementia was at an all-time high, he remembered exactly who I was.

I see my grandfather’s legacy and determination in my father. I see my grandfather’s legacy every time I see a train pass by through town, and I see his face as the carts scroll past my face, reminding me of the time I spent with him before he died. Here one minute and gone the next.

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65

Jasper Severn

Moonlight Night, Linoleum Block Print

How to Care for Your Newborn at Night Ally Killean

First, lie quietly and still for as long as possible, just in case the baby is only whimpering in his sleep. Remain still yet— your husband might wake up and hush the baby or change his diaper. When the baby’s whimpers turn to cries and your husband is still in his indifferent slumber, carefully and slowly sit up in bed. No matter how slow you turn and rise, the fresh line of pink disfigured skin above your pubic bone will sear like a white-hot brand that identifies you as a new mother.

Turn on the dim lamp and take the two painful steps over to your newborn son who is now sufficiently crying in earnest inside his bassinet. Notice his arms flailing due to your inept attempt at swaddling two hours earlier. Consider trying to wrap him back up in the swaddle and switch on the vibration setting of the bassinet to gain a few more precious moments of sleep. Realize quickly that this is a pipe dream and pick up the baby.

As you lift him, feel the drenched crib sheet that surrounds your son’s upper body and detect the all too familiar and sour smell of regurgitated breast milk. Proceed to stripping the bassinet and then the baby—who is now sufficiently scandalized about being hungry, tired, wet and cold—of its soiled linen. Curse yourself for not putting extra crib sheets or sleepers in your bedroom.

Hold your baby close, walk across the hall to the nursery

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and lay him on the changing table. Proceed to change his diaper and dress him in a fresh sleeper. Just as you zip it up and snap it closed, hear the explosive sound of the diaper becoming instantly re-soiled. Unsnap, unzip, re-diaper, zip, and snap again. By the way—the baby has been screaming his head off through all of this.

Pick him up again and, on your way to the rocking chair, grab the nipple shields whose existence you were blissfully ignorant of one week earlier. Move the nursing pillow off the rocker and sit down extra s l o w l y. Your incision smolders and you’re reminded that you are probably overdue for your pain pills.

Place the nursing pillow gingerly on your lap, over your incision, and hold your baby with his face toward the breast that feels like it might erupt and unhook your nursing tank top. Thank God that these things exist and remind yourself to get more at Target. Try to remember what else you might need there. Fail at this.

Grab a nipple shield and try to see if this is the right size. Be annoyed that not only do you have “flat” nipples that make it next to impossible for a baby to latch on to, but also that said nipples are apparently two slightly different sizes. Remind yourself that, even if this is a pain in the ass, it is at least better than your baby starving like he was beginning to do at the hospital. Remember the failure you felt when the nurse insisted that he needed formula. Cry. Remember Carol the Lactation Consultant and how she, with her maternal expertise, knew exactly what to do. Cry. Wipe your tears, place the correct size nipple shield over your breast and brace yourself for the pain that is to come. Watch as your baby, searching for nourishment, opens his mouth wide and seals it on your engorged and leaking breast. Grimace briefly—thank God—the

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stinging pain is only temporary and is replaced quickly with the deep, pulling sensation that means that the precious milk is transferring from mother to son. Audibly sigh, lean your head back and let the Oxytocin that is released work its magic. For a few moments at least, don’t focus on your exhausted psyche and mangled body. Focus instead on your healthy, beautiful baby.

Breathe. Marvel. Love.

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To the Voice inside my Head Sydney Burlingham

your words made my brain shudder your mood made my tummy turn eventually you made me feel small then live small then eat small then think small but it’s time to start growing i want to crawl into a hole and sleep until my bones grow sunflowers my brain blooms into daisies

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The Teddy Bear Jessica Purgett

The stuffed teddy bear sits atop my father’s dresser.

The hand-embroidered fur looks soft. I dare not touch it.

The eyes are unfinished, a map of crisscrossed white lines where buttons might go.

It was his mother’s— my grandmother’s.

She made it while in a rehab facility.

Something to keep out the depressed thoughts, her inner demons, I suppose.

She never got the chance to finish it.

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71

Susana Zierke

Money Talks, Pastel

No

Charles Uthe No Two letters One syllable So much power “An adverb— used as a function word to express the negative of an alternate choice or possibility.”

“No, I can’t, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“No, that doesn’t work with my schedule, sorry.”

One word— Yet, a word so often disrespected.

“I know you said no, but…”

“Oh, come on, just say yes!”

“Don’t say no to this!”

An adverb that should hold immense power; a way out of an uncomfortable situation.

“No thank you.”

Saying no can be seen as an act of revolution.

It breaks down barriers.

It’s not as easy as saying “yes.”

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It doesn’t give someone what they want.

A child screams no, as their mother forces food into their mouth.

A woman screams no, as a man forces himself onto her.

“No, I don’t want to drink.”

“No, I don’t want to go home with you.”

“No, I don’t want to have sex with you.”

If “no” means no, then why is it so often used as an opportunity to change that “no” into a “yes?”

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Little White Pills Quinton Gaul

At first it was just a doctor’s prescription At first it was just a little white pill a day At first it was just for the pain in my leg Then it was a doctor’s created addiction Then it was two little white pills a day Then it was for whenever I felt the thirst Now the doctor has cut me off, but I get them elsewhere Now I don’t even keep track of those little white pills Now I need them to get through the day The little white pills will be the end of me

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Ophelia Fills out a Housing Complaint Form Jada Veasey

Dear Ophelia, We regret to inform you that your recent change of roommate request has been denied.

Your insistence that your current roommate, Hamlet, has been acting “hellish lately” is simply not a significant enough grievance to grant you a change of roommate.

Hamlet’s comment that you should “get thee to a nunnery” is also not a significant enough grievance to grant you a change of roommate. Hamlet’s “creepy skull décor” is another irrelevant detail that does not help your case.

In order for your request to be granted, you would need to prove that Hamlet has broken one of our residence life policies. If at any point you find that Hamlet is breaking policies, please contact your RA for further assistance.

Sincerely, The University of Wittenberg Residence Life Team

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Funerals Abbie Ring

“Funerals aren’t for the dead they’re for the living.”

But what do we gain from twelve minutes?

Surrounded by people we barely know pretending to pay attention having to keep up a front instead of having our space forced to meet head-on with reality.

Harried made to think it’s good that we are not buried.

This shit is too heavy to hold I have to put it down.

Let me pretned for a while at least.

Denial is easy, comfortable.

The mind can fall backwards into past.

Sleep is easy too blissful darkness until reality catches up.

Dreams hold power make you relive situations you didn’t know you remembered.

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I wish I knew how to grieve how to let go all funerals do is remind me that I can’t.

Using gallows humor to cope “Too soon?”

It’s been fifteen years.

They say, “it gets better” but when?

Time doesn’t heal. You just get used to the pain.

Growing up in an atmosphere of death normalizes the concept.

Life ends deal with it, kid.

Use drugs and alcohol to take the edge off for a bit until you sober up again.

A vicious cycle escape is temporary the only way out is six feet under.

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Hands

Taylor Wright They are one of the most important parts of our bodies, the hands. They help pick things up, they feed us, they do every minute task we need during the day. Whether it be cleaning, cooking, or counting, our fingers bounce from one thing to the next, much like our minds bounce from one idea to the next. They control our lives. They only contain the palm and the fingers, yet there is so much to be said about them and they say so much about a person. A thumbs up says good game, the pointer finger of a mother scolds her child. The middle finger an angry adult gives as they’re cut off in traffic. A ring on the fourth finger, to symbolize the unity of two people, and a pinky promise shared between best friends. They say hands tell the story of a person’s life.

The small, chubby fingers of a newborn can put a smile on anyone’s face. Fingers covered in slobber from an infant discovering their hands for the first time. The messy finger prints of a toddler learning to paint. Fingernails with dirt caked underneath them that decorates a seven-year old’s fingers and illustrates their imagination. The clammy, sweaty feeling of a student’s palms before they give their speech in front of their language arts class. The hands of a recent graduate, holding their diploma with their class ring sparkling from the flash of the graduation photographer. A ring on the third finger means they have found someone they care about so deeply they have committed their life to them. Rough calluses depict the hard work that an individual endures throughout the day. Fingernails bitten to nubs represent the anxiety that someone can’t cope with or addiction to an unfortunate habit. Wrinkles show off the years of life and knowledge someone has under their

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belt. Painted, manicured nails illustrate the elegance and attention to detail someone wants to portray in their hectic life. These details make up each and every person’s story.

Hands are more than just a body part, but more a personality trait. They only make up around one percent of our body, yet they tell so many stories in a person’s life. Each hand contains twenty-seven bones, fifty-four bones in all, yet tell a countless amount of details about each individual. The hands are so much more than just bones, skin, tendons, and veins, but instead an essay of our lives. They not only tell a story by showing where we came from and what we have been through, but they’re also our most versatile tool. Our hands can be illustrators, writers, mechanics, musicians, secretaries, artists, anything we put our mind to. They can communicate how we feel, where we want to go, and when our time is up. They can hold our world inside them.

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Two Years Paige Toomer

Two years.

That’s my time limit, the time when I need to know what I’m doing with my life, my career?

The answer to the constant question, “What are you doing after school?”

Why is it a need to know?! My teeth grind with the same, “I don’t really know.” It’s exhausting, the effort, the constant, “I don’t know.” Why can’t you all just go bother someone else.

I am tired. Tired of hearing on repeat, “Oh, well you have a couple years still to go” or “Really, what would you even do with that?”

Would me knowing satisfy your need to know?

Does it matter?

Would you be happy if I knew? If I wanted to be a doctor or climb a ladder. Tell me, please, what I can do to satisfy you and your mind on that matter.

What would you say if I told you— I wanted to be a writer?

If I wanted to create art with words?

Would you cheer me on or just respond in the oh typical— “No seriously, what are you doing after school?”

There is no time limit, the two years will come and go. I will have decided what to do five hundred different times, each with completely different goals. But when the time comes that I find out what I want to do—I’ll be sure to update YOU!

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Willa Sughroue Anxious, Linocut

Light

Orlando Clark Fear not the unknown because the unknown is change— and change is the only certainty we will ever see.

Fearing the unknown is like fearing the dark.

Why do we fear the dark?

Is it because darkness is the absence of light?

Is that a bad thing?

What if I tell you that a flower can bloom in a dark room?

Aren’t we all flowers?

Were we not once in the dark room of our mother’s womb and here we are grown, former seeds now fully bloomed?

Wasn’t everything in the universe once desolate and formless?

Wasn’t it once all engulfed in darkness?

Now we have flora, fauna, skies and seas.

Even the very sun that emits rays that shine so bright— doesn’t it reside in a place that is as dark as night?

Darkness should not be feared.

Darkness should be revered.

Because if perception is key— we have to change the way we look at what we see.

Change is the unknown, the unknown is darkness.

Darkness is merely an opportunity.

Darkness is not the absence of light.

Darkness is simply the origin of light.

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Passerby

Cassandra Gillmore Driving down the highway is almost a peaceful downtime for me. It is a time to sit with my music and my thoughts. I am able to think about everything or nothing, plan out my day, create a shopping list, or do whatever else I want. That is, if it is a normal day. However, on this sunny, fall day, I drove by a car accident. It seems like such a normal thing that people see daily and pay no attention to at all. I did not know the people. I did not have any connection to the car accident at all, but I felt something as I drove on by.

There was a little boy, maybe around the age of four, standing there among the wreckage. Time seemed to stand still as I passed by the scene. The young boy held a teddy bear in one hand, its feet getting dirty from the gravel while it dangled on the ground. He watched my car silently as I slowly drove by with tear-filled eyes. There was also a man.

He must have been hurt in the crash because he was on a stretcher being rolled away from the car. I don’t know what his relationship was to the little boy with his thumb in his mouth, but I watched as his unconscious body was lifted into the ambulance by a team of paramedics.

I remember being in that little boy’s shoes. Watching as someone you loved gets wheeled away from you. Standing there helpless because you are simply a child who can do nothing but watch. Using all your strength to keep standing when all you want to do is collapse and be taken away with them. Holding back tears because you are not the one who is physically hurt, but it feels as though you are falling apart.

Eight years ago, it was my dad being wheeled away. My

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brother and I were the children left there helpless and alone while he was taken by the paramedics. There was nothing we could do to help him. Nothing we could say that would change the outcome. I remember riding in the back seat of my aunt’s van while it followed the ambulance. The whole ride there I thought everyone was overreacting. Papa was going to be fine. I was unbelievably confident he was going to be ok. That everything was going to be alright.

I was wrong.

We sat in that hospital waiting room for what felt like hours; surrounded by family yet feeling so alone. Our pastor came, which had the opposite of a calming effect. The couches were somehow more comfortable than the silence in the tiny room. There were too many bright lights for the dim feeling hanging over us. They took my mom out of the room. I knew in that moment it was something bad.

They had her break the news to us. My dad had a heart attack. There was nothing they could do. He was gone before the ambulance even arrived. We all cried, holding each other like we were worried someone else could be taken away.

We were eventually given the chance to say goodbye to him, even though he was already gone. Normally the hospital made me feel sick, but somehow on the walk to see him, I felt fine. You would think that the emotions of a twelveyear-old girl who just witnessed her father die in front of her would be at their peak.

You’d be wrong.

Entering the room, I felt numb. Nothing. Like a bystander watching. This was not my life.

Then I saw him.

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My heart sank in my chest. Seeing the lifeless body of the man who raised me; the only man that I always trusted to be there. I stood there waiting for him to pull off a miraculous recovery. I hoped that the feeling would just go away. I still wait for that feeling to go away. Oh how I prayed that night when I got home, that the man from the accident was alright. That he was going to live. I had a rocky relationship God after my father, but I needed him now more than ever.

I could not stomach the idea of that little boy feeling the weight of his heart in his chest. The man had to get better.

He simply had to. Not for his sake, but for the sake of the young boy who would have to grow up way too quick, if he had witnessed this man’s death.

The amount of trauma and therapy he would have to endure. The nights he will want to give up, simply because it is easier than continuing. The nights he will ask God why it was not him who was taken from the world too soon.

The dinners that would be silent because that was Dad’s favorite meal. The mornings without the smell of coffee, because he was the only one who drank it. Not having him around for your first heartbreak. Not having him around to teach you to drive. The thoughts of not having him there for your graduation, your wedding, for your kids’ birth. Not having him every day for the rest of your life.

I keep searching the papers to find out what happened.

I watch the news every night, hoping to see a story of a miracle. Nothing appears. I have no clue what happened to that man, or the little boy with the tear-stained face.

Honestly, I don’t know what I would do if I did know the truth. What could I do? Make an appearance at the funeral to grieve the man I never met? Give the little boy a hug, even though he doesn’t know me? Cry hopelessly because I happened to drive by a random car accident? I just couldn’t do that.

I guess I will just have to go on living, like I always do.

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One Lone Snowflake Falls Taylor Dearborn

It’s cold.

Below freezing.

It’s onyx black and hauntingly silent.

The air stops. Frozen.

One lone

snowflake falls incredibly gently, grazing the highest part of my cheek.

I stand frozen like the air. On this stagnant night.

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Dylan Catalano-Wild

Self-portrait, Digital

Bodily Function Susana Zierke

I’ve come to a realization.

Most people live their lives perfectly healthy. Every single one of their organs is performing its individual task, continuously, without fail. The hot blood pumped by their steady hearts flows through their veins, each capillary gladly accepting it, breathing in deeply.

I’ve realized not all people are struggling. Not all humans have an illness ailing them, controlling their very existence.

To think that there are no limitations to what their bodies can do. What would it feel like to not be trapped by the skin you were given?

Is it selfish to think that they might take their perfect bodies for granted? Their flexibility and fluidity, their endless drive and undeniable strength. My perceived weightlessness of their shape. Do they know their bodies can scale mountains, swim across oceans? Day-to-day life is tainted by this notion, a black stain on my hope.

This body weighs on ambition, takes away drive. I loathe the shell where this soul is tethered. It is not me and still I claim it, my fragile prison.

I cannot help but surrender to my body’s reluctance to function. Every single step I take it constrains and limits.

It prohibits and slows, emergency brake preventively engaged at all times. My chest tightens, constricting my life, poisoning my blood. It withers, with each syncopated beat.

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Contributors Jewel Barnes is a junior majoring in Business. She is from Cedar Rapids, Iowa and enjoys writing in her free time.

Ayla Boylen is a third-year Art major who minors in Environmental Justice and Psychology. She spends her free time volunteering with the Sunrise Movement and operating as the leader of the Cedar Rapids Climate Strikers. Almost every aspect of her life is influenced by art and environmental justice.

Sydney Burlingham has struggled with anxiety since she can remember, and writing has helped her sort out what she’s feeling. Her poem, “Anxiety,” started out as a collection of snippets that eventually merged into one cycle of blooming from the restrictions we place on ourselves.

Dylan Catalano-Wild is a senior Graphic Design major who minors in Business Administration. He is from Channahon, Illinois, and he is part of the Mount Mercy Bowling team.

Some of his favorite activities are bowling, playing video games, listening to rock and heavy metal, and hanging with friends and family.

Orlando Clark is a fifth-year English major. He enjoys writing poetry, reading, and listening to music. His poetry is a free boundary-less type; he tends to bend the rules of normal writing. His poetic motivation comes from his Jamaican roots, his love of the past, and his zodiac attributes.

Taylor Dearborn is a sophomore English major. She is on the Mount Mercy Cheer team and in the Council for Student Athletes. She is also a morale captain for Dance

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Marathon. In her free time, she enjoys reading or hanging out with friends.

Melissa Deeney is a senior K-12 Art Education student at Mount Mercy. She enjoys playing video games and making art in her free time.

Alex Diercks is a junior Computer Science major who minors in English and Math. He is a varsity bowler for Mount Mercy, and he also competes on an individual level.

Sierra Earle is a sophomore majoring in English and Psychology. This is her second year contributing to this magazine.

Elee Edwards is an Elementary Education major from Garwin, Iowa.

Quinton Gaul is an Actuarial and Computer Science double major who minors in English. He says he can sometimes write competent sentences.

Cassandra Gillmore is a sophomore from Monticello, Iowa studying English and ESL Secondary Education. She is a Student Ambassador, member of the University Choir, peer writing coach, and she works in dining. She enjoys singing and spending time with her friends when she isn’t catching up on homework.

Clare Heinrich is a junior majoring in English, Outdoor Conservation, and Music Performance. She is from Urbandale, Iowa. She enjoys writing because her favorite stories inspire her to contribute her voice and imagination for others to enjoy. Her favorite book is The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey.

Joseph Kehinde graduated in 2019 with majors in Math and minors in Creative Writing and Philosophy. He was an international student from London, England, and

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his biggest reason for pursuing an education in America was to experience a new culture as well as play collegiate basketball. In his free time he enjoys listening to soft jazz music and reading books about philosophy as well as selfhelp books.

Ally Killean is a Secondary Education Major with an English endorsement. She lives in Cedar Rapids, Iowa with her husband and two children.

Madison Knight is a senior Psychology major. She is working towards pursuing a Masters in Marriage and Family Therapy.

She minors in Verbal Communications so she can express her passion through writing. Her poem, “Someday,” was inspired by her grandmother who passed away October 23, 2018. She will forever be missed.

Sarah Langholz is a first-year student from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She majors in English and minors in Spanish.

Elizabeth Miene is a junior majoring in English and Graphic Design. She enjoys writing in her free time, as well as singing in the University, Jazz, and Show Choirs. She can be found in her room listening to her favorite podcast or at her favorite coffee shop, Roaster’s Coffee House in Hiawatha.

Lizzie finds inspiration mostly from real-life events and the people around her.

Jade Milota graduated in December 2019 with a minor in Mass Communications and Public Relations. She is currently the Executive Marketing Manager and Events Director at McGrath Powersports.

Hannah Mougin teaches second grade at Mid-Prairie East Elementary in Kalona, Iowa. She loves working with her students and is grateful for her job each and every day.

Outside of school, Hannah loves to spend time with her family and friends, be outside, workout, and cheer on the Hawkeyes.

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Brianna Ostwinkle is a Graphic Design and Media Communications major from Monticello, Iowa.

Jessica Purgett is a senior English and Marketing major who minors in Spanish and Creative Writing. In her free time, she edits The Mark Literary Review, which she founded in 2018. This is her fourth and final year editing the Paha Review.

Abbie Ring is a freshman majoring in Secondary Education and English. In her free time, she enjoys playing the piano, thrifting, caring for plants, and is involved with The Navigators.

Jasper Severn is a Math and Secondary Education major from California. He is also a member of the Track and Cross Country teams.

Rachel Shoop loves drawing and creating stories.

Willa Sughroue is an Art Education major from Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

Hannah Tesar is a Secondary Education major with a Social Sciences endorsement. She graduated from Mount Mercy in 2014 with a major in History. She aspires to be a middle school Social Studies teacher. Hannah lives in Coralville, Iowa with her fiancÊ, Zach, and their two cats, Stella and Carson. When Hannah isn’t writing, she enjoys spending her time watching classic film.

Paige Toomer is a sophomore majoring in English and Psychology with a minor in Diversity Studies. She is involved with multiple organizations on campus including Public Safety, Dance Marathon, Project Connect, the Executive Board of M2AP Board, NSLS, and she is a Mustang Welcome Leader. As an English major, her hobbies include writing and reading.

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Matt Trueblood (he/him) is a senior Media Communication and Graphic Design double major. He works in a variety of mediums from performance to painting to video. He likes coffee too much and loves his friends the right amount.

He enjoys performing improv and is president of Mount Mercy’s troupe Begging for Mercy two years running. Matt doesn’t have all the answers, but after graduation he will continue to seek them out.

Charles Uthe is an alum who spends his time writing poetry and spreading his love for creative writing wherever he can. He graduated from Mount Mercy with a major in English and a minor in Creative Writing. His work has been published in the Paha Review for the past three years.

Jada Veasey is a sophomore Nursing major and Creative Writing minor. She currently serves as the opinion editor for the Mount Mercy Times and is the president of the Law & Politics Club. In her free time, she enjoys reading, watching movies, using out-of-date slang, volunteering for local political campaigns, baking new recipes, and drinking way too much coffee.

Payton Waters is a junior art education major with a K-12 endorsement. She plans on teaching at a local school in Iowa and her goal is to inspire students to embrace their creative side.

Taylor Wright is a senior Psychology major and English minor. She is in the Psychology club and is the Executive Director of Mount Mercy Dance Marathon.

Susana Zierke is a freshman Art Education major who minors in Psychology. She plans on becoming a high school art teacher or going into the field of art therapy. She enjoys spending time with friends and family, and making art is her passion. She hopes to write more in the future.

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Paha was composed in 11 point Iowan Old Style and printed on Lynx Opaque White 70 lb. text and 80 lb. White Flo Gloss Cover.

The printer was Welu Printing Company.

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