PAHA Review 2022

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

2022

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

Editors Annie Barkalow Grace Byers Sierra Earle Copy Editors Annie Barkalow Sierra Earle Quinton Gaul Catherine Kratoska Autumn Puffer Jada Veasey Layout Grace Byers Quinton Gaul Suzanne Rodriguez Cover Art Haley Hartshorne Love is not a sin.

Digital Drawing Cover Design Grace Byers Faculty Advisors Jose Clemente Mary Vermillion Writing Selection Committee Annie Barkalow Sierra Earle Quinton Gaul Aly McConnell Catherine Kratoska Suzanne Rodriguez

Art Selection Committee Grace Byers Brianna Ostwinkle Special Thanks Devlin Caldwell Chris DeVault Andrew Lorig Hannah Saltmarsh Joe Sheller Ben Thiel

This year's edition of Paha is dedicated to our seniors on staff: Sierra Earle, Brianna Ostwinkle, and Jada Veasey. Thank you for all of your hard work.

Contents Icy Burn

Lori Judy

8

College

Breanna Felderman

9

Rose Tattoo

Taylor Dearborn

10

Desolatra

Orlando Clark

11

Clammed Up

Pigeon

15

Cold AF

Nabil Abugattas

16

Cold Hands & Warm Hearts

Clare Bechen

18

Gray

Kendra Wirtner

19

Prosperity

Cael Joens

20

Repeat After Me

Aly McConnell

21

Two Broken Dolls

Pigeon

26

The Dress

Addison McGuire

31

Elizabeth Miene

32

Aching

Shea Bohland

34

Cosmic Void

Pigeon

35

20 Things You Should Know About Being a Woman: A Beginner’s Guide

Somber Blues and Disconsolate Purples

Abbie Kay

36

Assignments

Skyler Postel

37

Pastel Warde

Ayra Aminuddin

38

FRANK

Jada Veasey

39

Boy

Sierra Earle

40

Dear America

Joselyn Hildebrand

42

Nature’s Reclaim

Sydney Kaup

43

Pumpkin O’ Mine

Grace Steffensmeier

44

Pansy Diptych

Grace Byers

45

I Have a Lantern in My Hand

Orlando Clark

46

Flawless Driving

Vanessa Gaul

47

It Is

Katy Mitchell

48

RAC Pastel

Ayra Aminuddin

51

Thanksgiving Day

Autumn Puffer

52

Things Left Behind

Annie Barkalow

55

The Journey

Taylor Dearborn

56

Our Bodies

Zoey Paone

58

Embrace

Elsa Gustafson

59

7:48 A.M.

Ryan Knowlton

60

Means to an End

Q

61

Untitled

Alexander Carrick

63

Insomnia

Rose Carson

64

Proof of Life

Annie Barkalow

65

Today I Rest In Peace

Brandi Witt

66

Badlands

Grace Byers

67

Ode To Earth

Cael Joens

68

Contributors

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Icy Burn Lori Judy

Straight to the gates of hell is where they carry me.

It is time to let the ice run through my veins.

And feel nothing within.

No more cries no more lies, only my heart dies.

Let the monsters in and erase this weak human life.

No light, only darkness, only pain, only rain.

My darkness holds me well, loving me and only me.

It sings me a dark lullaby, no more rain, no more pain, just let me in.

The silence is so loud now, even mine; I scream without a sound.

I let the ice in, it’s running through my veins.

My heart is a better place, cold and without pain.

Just as it needs to be.

Now I no longer feel and all I had to do was let him in.

It’s a relief, no more pain, no more lies.

Perfect, feeling nothing.

My cold dead eyes could give me away, but no one cares enough to notice.

It’s better this way, no more fear of the dark.

Nothing, no one, the end.

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College

Breanna Felderman More independence than ever.

Moving to school away from family.

The bird leaving the nest.

Doing your first load of laundry.

Do the clothes get washed in cold or warm water?

Does the soap go in first or last?

Calling home for laundry help.

Slowly getting it figured out.

Paying your own bills.

School, housing, gas, food.

Learning to save money.

Getting an oil change on your own.

Putting air in the tire yourself.

How do I know when to stop?

What if I fill it too much?

Making your own phone calls.

Going to the doctor alone for the first time.

Do I know the family health history?

What if they ask me a question I don’t know?

The list goes on.

It’s the beginning of a new adventure.

Many different emotions.

Anxious, scared, excited, lonely, and free.

College prepares us for the future, While building life-long skills and friendships.

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Rose Tattoo Taylor Dearborn

Six deep, cool-toned, red roses, with blackened edges planted at the edge of the ditch remind me of you. They were your favorite flower. Whenever you spotted them on the side of the road, you would pull over to pick one. You liked to bring them home to Grandma because they were her favorite too.

Grandma doesn’t leave home anymore. She sits in her creaky rocking chair staring blankly at the tv. Sometimes I hear her talking to you and a lump fills my throat.

It’s been almost seven months and every day is still just as hard as the first.

On the sixth of September I will plant another rose for you, Papa.

The snow will fall soon. The flowers will shrivel. But I will pull a petal off a rose and put it in your scrapbook. Don’t worry Papa, the roses won’t end there.

I am getting a rose tattoo and when Grandma goes, there will be two.

It won’t be long before she reunites with you.

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Desolatra Orlando Clark

…for time has a mind of its own.

It makes brittle of sound men bones. …There is a hole in the roof—tip tap, one droplet after another hitting the base of the hollow piss pail that sits beneath the hole in the roof—tip tap. Rain rarely visits these parts; she comes once every two moons. Like a thief in the night she comes, always catching the town off guard, everyone but Him. He sits on his old oak chair that has felt the backside of his father and his father before him. He sits there looking at the hole in the roof—tip tap. “The world has a mind of its own,” he whispers almost inaudibly, as his voice is overpowered by the visitor from few and far between.¹ He pulls his chair a bit closer, staring at the hole in the roof-tip tap. He stares, with wide eyes as if he was looking down the barrel of a gun. He stares.

He waves his hand similar to that of a dictator. Shooing away any efforts made to empty the piss pail that sits beneath the hole in the roof—tip tap. “The world has a mind of its own, it makes brittle of once sound bones,” he murmurs again. He cares not that the carpet beneath the pail will be saturated and that within a few moons it will smell like the stench that emits from a corpse shell. Many will say that that inconsideration was one of his only flawed acts. A well-learned man is he, read all the epics and the classics, from the Iliad to Faerie Queene, he knew the Bible. Many have him as a sage; wise, prudent and true. He is a man of high morality and verbal ambiguity. In a sentence he utters, “Two is better than one, because they have good return for their labour.” And he would add, “Up to the king or down to the throne, he walks best he who walks alone.” ¹Euphemism for death

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He oftentimes leaves them in a quandary with his proverbial enigmas. But now, now all you hear from him is the sound his eyes make as they sync with the droplets that fall from the hole in the roof—tip tap. In the midst his toneless orchestra, the still silence is broken by the barks of the neighbor’s mutt.

After hours of sitting he turns his body toward the door. And with a climactic resonance he rises, hauling his old oak chair behind him, which he uses to hold the door open as he sits, looking in the direction of the wet mutt that barks. He sits with a smile as if he is expecting a visitor.

The roof on the veranda has more holes in it—more holes, with not enough piss pails to catch the sky’s tears that seep through the many oracles above. Now, with a more harmonious and eclectic tempo—tip tap, tap, tap—he now looks down the road with the same obedience as he did the hole on the roof—tip tap. “Trouble is nigh when the infants cry, trouble is sure when a mother sighs.” The mutt’s instincts see further than the eyes of the common man. In a cinematic accord the mutt barks, droplets of water from the roof on the veranda percusses—tip tap, tap, tap. He focuses on the anonymity that comes.

And then there is a hush, a hush louder than Verdun and Somme.² And from the hush comes a sound before the light-clippity clop clip clop. The mutt runs. The old man rises once more from his old oak chair. He walks to the veranda as if he was meeting a visitor halfway. The petrichor lingers, the fog clears. And from the bleak emerges a man leading a black beast of some sort, resembles an ox. The ox-like beast bellows, then breaks its gait as the man leading it halts. The man is of average height, slender, pale-faced as if he hasn’t seen the sun for many moons. His ensemble was an array of blacks of different shades. He ties the beast to the neighbor’s fence, the mutt looks with prey’s innocence. The man walks toward the house. He walks with a limp, and as the silhouette disappears, one feature of this already-odd man put the others to bed. His right hand, rather unique, seems as if it is some sort of metal, maybe bronze or copper. It has a dark red color.³ In his peculiar ²British and French against Germany ³The red right hand symbolizes divine vengeance in Milton’s Paradise Lost.

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hand he has an umbrella; using the ferrule to support his limp as he walked toward the house—tap, tap, tap. By now the rain, at its all-time low since it has started, is down to something slightly heavier than a drizzle. The man with red right hand breaks his silence.

“The hands of time give motion to tolling bells,⁴ listen closely to the name they yell—Mort! Mort! Mort!’⁵ The lantern lights the old gravel road on bleak winter night must one day succumb to the chill of the winter’s lips. The gong beats, judgement verges on, curtains, drawn, the minstrel can no longer go on. The world has a mind of its own, it makes ashes of once sound bones. Mort! Mort! Mort! Come with me, I can show you many things, if thou heart was good may you be in heaven four moons before the devil knows you are gone. If thou heart was filled with transgressive acts may the retribution for each be doubled.⁶ Take my hand, for once a man, twice a child. I’m your conduit to this place and the next.

Come with me as we know the good are always taken first.

Come with me and listen to a caged bird sing.”

“I fear not this life or the next, for tolling bells to make a sweet melody-ding dong, a symphony for me to time lapse my memories. I fear not death, I face it head on, I fear not the absence of my shattered lantern,⁷ my dilated pupils will see me through. If the roll is called up yonder, tell your Maker I’ll be here waiting, just as I did in the unknown of my mother’s womb. If transition comes, make it quick so I can enjoy the comfort of my father’s bosom. I cannot die, as death is an illusion, I will transcend. If my time be now, just like the leaves that fall from trees, I, too, will go back to whence I came, dust.

And like the bud that blossoms in the spring my soul will rise again. My time is now, my valediction to both kith and kin, miss me much but mourn me none. Brave men are great men who should be laid to rest in a celebratory manner, as did all the good my heart allowed. May I be forgiven for the wrongs my goodness has allowed. And like the droplets that come through the hole in the roof reunites in the piss pail beneath it, ⁴John Donne ⁵Death! Death! Death! ⁶Purgatory ⁷Being in heaven

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may we too reunite in the next life or the next, as two is better than one, because they have good return for their labour. But as I enter so I shall leave, up to the king or down to the throne, he walks best who walks alone.”

“Death creepin’ in my thoughts lately, my one wish in this bitch, ‘Make it quick if the Lord take me’ I know nobody meant to live forever anyway…”

—Jermaine Cole, “Immortal”

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Pigeon

Clammed Up Digital Media

Cold AF Nabil Abugattas

Part 1: It was almost 2 a.m. on a Friday night and Johnny was getting ready for his night rounds. His son was sleeping in his room, dreaming about tomorrow and his 21st birthday. He kissed his wife and left to work. He was rolling on his patrol, showing off his badge, trying to get some extra money that night. After an hour went by, he got enough money from bribes. Around 3:15 he started to drive towards the nearest red light district. After a couple minutes, he was getting close to a stop light at the intersection between Recoleta drive and Lincoln Ave. Coming from Recoleta drive, he had to turn right on Lincoln. Because it was late, he decided not to stop at the stop light. Just while he was turning right at the corner, for less than a second, Johnny was able to see two men at the left corner. One was screaming, but Johnny couldn’t see them well or hear what was being screamed because he was driving too fast, and he did not care either. After a couple of blocks, he thought that the cab behind him was following him, thinking maybe he was being paranoid. He got to his usual brothel, and paid for the finest prostitute in town. He got naked, kissed her lips, opened her legs, and was ready to jump inside. Right at that moment he heard a couple steps and a gunshot. Johnny was dead.

Part 2: It is quarter to 2 on a Friday night. Johnny´s wife made him a snack and kissed him goodbye. Some minutes after that, she left the house. She took a cab and asked the driver to follow “that police car.” After one hour they were at the red light district. She saw Johnny going inside an establishment.

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She paid for the ride, and started walking towards the entrance. At that moment, her phone rang and it was her son calling: “I can’t talk right now baby.” She hung up and walked inside. She asked for Johnny, the cop. Of course the staff of the brothel were reluctant to tell her any information about a client, but she finally convinced them to tell her in what room was Johnny doing the dirty, with the excuse that “I am his wife and I know he is here. I came to join him on a threesome.” She finally got the room number. She walked in. She caught Johnny red handed. In less than the time it takes somebody to turn around, she took a gun from her purse, and shot him dead.

Part 3: It is around 2:30 on a Friday night, and Johnny’s son woke up. He realized he was home alone. He sparked up a joint and called his dealer. They were to meet on their usual corner on Recolet with Lincoln by 3:15. It was a trap. The dealer wanted to steal from him. The dealer pulled out a gun and told him “give me your wallet and your phone.” Right at that moment, a police car’s lights were reflected coming from Recoleta drive. Because of that, the dealer got nervous. He shot Johnny´s kid and left running. The kid was hardly breathing. He still had his phone with him. He called his mom. The last thing he heard was: “I can’t talk right now baby.”

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Cold Hands & Warm Hearts Clare Bechen

The Emmaus leaders, Confident and calm, Might recite any verse from Psalm.

They’re all similar, Kind-hearted & fair, They all have either brown or golden hair.

Spunky are the sophomores, With their happiness & wit, When they get a lot of energy, zip it!

Sassy the juniors can be, If given too much coffee.

They feel like older siblings, Even if they are the youngest in their family.

It feels more fun with them, Especially when they tease the freshman.

Blessed is a word to describe how lucky I am, Learning more about the Saints & the Paschal Lamb.

Listening to stories & laughter, Every day the community becomes even closer.

As winter draws near, The same routine of snow & ice each year.

Warm hearts of love, friendships, & kindness.

The quality traits of them all, Hopefully they’re ready when I throw the first snowball.

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Gray

Kendra Wirtner The question why always ponders Then I reminisce on the word sonder We are all living in sequence But somehow only need each other for convenience We often question our ability But we all live in a civility Throughout this complex life Creates invisibility A color that many cannot vision An idea where black and white make a collision Where two meets one In the presence of a gun A life where we all live in unisense But reasoning on why we put up a defense The question still present A life where we all need to see color as luminescent.

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Cael Joens

Prosperity Digital Photography

Repeat After Me Aly McConnell

“She hates me.”

My little brother is walking with me during our daily walk with our dog. He has his hands jammed in his pockets.

“She tells me how I am a fat pig, and I am stupid.” I remember the sting of those words. I developed an eating disorder at eleven years old and struggled with anorexia until I was 15 because of those words. My mom’s insults resonate—”white trash, fat slut, dumb bitch.” I loved my mother, but her words stabbed me. The insults were meant to wound.

“She doesn’t hate you,” is all I say as I take over the reins of our unruly dog who has decided to visit a friend. My little brother always likes to come on walks with me because it’s our time to talk. I tell him he can always be honest with me. If it’s not detrimental to his life or safety I will keep what he tells me between us.

“She does. Why would she say those things?” I look over and see he’s crying. My brother tries to quickly wipe away the tears that are leaking from his eyes, his face turned, and I stop walking.

The relationship I had with my mother was a puzzle I spent my childhood trying to understand. Through the stories she told me I pieced together why she was the way she was.

My mother didn’t have a healthy relationship with her own mother. She tried to raise us with broken building blocks that never formed from her own disjointed childhood.

I would be lying if I said we were always close. She was an absent parent who coped with her emotional turmoil by turning to the bottle and turning away from us kids. My

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mother could never just have one drink. Once she took that drink, it took her. Addiction is wicked that way. We did have moments when we were very close. We would stay up late at night watching movies, eating nachos, and sleeping in the living room together. When she was around, she gave me parts of her story and herself while the night hours would fade, and the morning light crept in. Through her stories she revisited a memory she couldn’t quite shake, and I gave comfort in my words in a way that my touch never could. I loved my mother, but I vowed to never be like her. I promised myself I would never drink.

I broke that promise. I remember the first time I came home drunk. I felt like it was playing with fire having two alcoholic parents. Alcoholism was a match you couldn’t unlight once you put the striker head to the matchbox. I told my mother about my night and how I had gotten a ride home from a bunch of my guy friends. She was infuriated.

“How can you be so fucking dumb?” She had left me alone to marinate with her words. Was she mad I drank? Was she mad I was out with my friends? They were my friends; they wouldn’t try anything. They were nice guys. That night she gave me another part of her story. As she showed me how to cook rice, she told me about how she had been raped. She explained that she got angry because she was worried for me.

She said be careful when you are drinking around men. I had all but rolled my eyes.

“Sometimes the nice ones aren’t actually nice.” She handed me the wooden spoon to stir the rice.

My mother stirs up her past trauma with remembrance as she hands me her story. She asks me not to repeat it, as she spoon feeds me the stories on repeat. She was abused until she was eight years old mentally, sexually, and physically. Her mother shared in this trauma. Grandpa painted Grandma’s face black and blue while he left the handprints of suffering on his children. Grandma remarried a new man, Gary.

“He says I was trouble, so at 15 I was homeless, out on my own,” my mother reminisces. She still hates that man to

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this day. My mom never saw a man treat her mom right. She finds her dad in other men. Their anger, their fists, and their willingness to take, take, take.

The problem with abuse is it’s a cycle, doomed to repeat. Abuse is sickening relief. It feels like traveling down a familiar road winding its way by the recognizable trees, the comforting gravel path leading you back home. Home is all you’ve ever known, home is what you are acquainted with, home recognizes the hurt in you. It’s only until you finally say, “no, not me. I won’t accept this anymore. I deserve better.” Only when you truly believe those words that it may stop. But even when it does stop you still feel its echoes.

The wind is wicked cold and tears at our skin as our dog continues his perusal of the fence where his doggy friend lives. My brother is shivering, and I can’t tell if it’s from the cold whipping at our backs or because he can’t quit crying. I can’t tell him the stories I gained from my mother. Her abuse and trauma are her own to tell. I never understood why she told me and not my brothers. I don’t know why mother gave me the fragments to her puzzle that I could never quite piece together.

I must think about what to say to him. What parts of her do I give to him? What parts will be helpful? What parts will break him?

“Do you think I am white trash or a fat slut?” I pull away from him and his eyes widen in shock. I try to refrain from cussing in front of him so for me to say such vulgar words makes his mouth pop open a little. “Do you?”

“No, I don’t!” His childish features harden. “You are not those things.”

“Those are the same words Mom told me I was growing up. Don’t worry, I didn’t believe them either,” a lie I told myself growing up. It was my way of fighting my own battle for my self-worth, for me. I don’t tell him this. This isn’t about me. It’s about him and his story right now. “I still don’t. I know I am not those things just like I know you are not those things. You are smart, funny, sweet and one of my favorite people to be

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around.”

I lean over and hug him with a fierceness, hoping that my love for him will spill into our hug and he will know how much he means to me, how much I love him. I try to be the person for him that I needed growing up.

He pulls away suddenly, ashamed to be hugging his sister in public. He’s getting to the age where he cares what others think, which is why my mom’s words bother him so much. I decide in that moment to give him a part of my mother’s story.

It’s nothing specific but something that he can hold onto to understand her like I did growing up.

I take his hand which seems still so small in mine.

“Mom was abused. She had a very hard life and this verbal abuse she throws our way is remnants of what she had to endure. I am not saying it right but it’s something to keep in mind. She loves you so very much.” He looks up at me now.

His features soften as they transform out of anger and hurt.

“Sometimes when you are mad at someone or you are caught off guard, you say things you don’t mean. Keep this in mind when you fight with someone how much words hurt.”

I don’t tell him that our oldest brother is verbally abusive and when he’s angry with you he uses his wordplay like a weapon. He cuts you down and stabs you in the all the right places, so it leaves you reeling. I don’t want my little brother to be like him.

I don’t want him to be like me. I am not the abuser, but I seek out the abuse instinctively. The first boy I gave my body and soul saw me and we fit together perfectly, our dysfunctions intertwined. His words and manipulations didn’t leave bruises or marks, so I thought it was normal. It was not.

When a man ostracizes you from your friends, your family and your support, there is a reason.

I don’t tell my brother this because I want him to remain the sweet little boy who always tells me how much he loves me every time I come and go. I want him to be different

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than my mom, myself, and my brother. So, I keep holding his hand and explain how the abuse has been in generations within our family and the abuse ends with us as long as we choose to end it.

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Two Broken Dolls Pigeon

I lived with this girl for many years without a name.

Long ago, when the girl’s babbly way of speech was the only communication she had, I was purchased as a gift.

For a birthday or a holiday, I still do not remember; all I knew was that from the day she unwrapped the layers of packaging around my box, I was hers.

Everything from then on is a blur. I do not know my maker, nor do I care enough to recall. I was hers, that’s all I ever needed to know. Yet, from the moment I arrived in her life, I did not expect much.

And it turns out I was correct.

For many years, I stayed enclosed in my box while the girl toddled in and out of her little room. Whenever she left me alone, she would either call on her parents, go to school, or venture out into the world.

All while I was alone, enclosed in my box.

I did not feel envy, for the outdoors was nothing comprehensible to my simple mind. However, perhaps the reason I forgot the outside world was not entirely my fault.

Fragments of my memory are lost to me… Maybe it was due to my tumble.

I could never feel pain, but when my box teetered too far off the shelf from one of the girl’s tantrums, I had a glimpse of what pain could be like. Before I fell, my final thought was that I would break without ever seeing the outside of my

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enclosure.

What a fitting end.

Luckily, my box broke the fall, but the damage remained.

Since then, a small chunk of my forehead broke off, marring my beauty forever. The girl was always indignant of my appearance. Either because I was a doll—and she abhorred dolls—or maybe it was something else entirely. It didn’t matter anyway.

Shortly after the incident, she left the room, leaving me disfigured within my box. Her mother then came and hid me with the others just like me.

I did not see the girl for eleven more years.

When the time came, her mother dug me out from under the clutter. As she fiddled with the other trinkets, a young lady—with familiar features—walked past the living room couch.

The young lady said a few words to the mother, and I was able to study her up close.

She was vastly older than I remembered. Long gone were her bangs and pigtails. Her hair remained short, and her face was more set, but she still had the aura of a child.

Reaching out to my box, she commented how creepy I still looked.

Ah, so that was why she detested me.

Yet, she went on.

“Can I open the box?”

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Her question raised another. If you want to open the box, why haven’t you? You kept me in the clutter so long… What changed? Don’t you still loathe me? It’s almost laughable you want to take me out to adore me.

Her mother gave her the go-ahead, not really caring why she even asked. After all, I was her doll.

Growing confused—well, as confused as one could personify a doll could get—I watched as the girl grabbed a sharp blade with looped handles and began cutting away my restraints.

When the box, tattered with age and full of dust, slipped away, I felt a refreshing breeze from the fan nearby, tussling through my golden curls.

Ah, so this was freedom: clean air and warm hands beneath me. I never understood the concept until now, but it wasn’t disagreeable. In fact, it was rather… sweet.

The girl grabbed my bangs and lifted them up, revealing the hole marring my complexion.

The small ounce of serenity I had instantly crumbled.

Don’t look at it! I wanted to shout.

The girl only rubbed at it soothingly, as if trying to mend an invisible pain that we both shared. At that moment I realized how similar we are. Though the scars of time were visible on my face, a human couldn’t easily show them.

What a remarkable and disheartening concept.

I couldn’t describe this emotion, but it felt like we were comrades; we could sympathize with each other without having to speak about the atrocities of our pasts. We just knew, and we merely comforted one another.

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me.

She held me within her arms and kept her attention on “She’s broken,” the girl remarked to her mother.

“She was probably bought that way,” was the reply.

But I knew I was never created broken. If I was, no one would buy me. We toys are broken because of people, and the person holding me within her arms so lovingly now was the very person who had broken me in the past.

The girl didn’t really say anything back. A new resolve passed through her eyes. She got her mother’s assistance to help me on my stand and carried me to her new room.

Finally, I could take in my peripheral surroundings without cardboard obstructing my view.

The girl’s room was no longer full of pastel colors and baby quilts. It was the room of an adult, and it was messily organized. Nothing had a common place, but the ground was clean, and the air was crisp.

Two bookshelves on either side had young adult novels or comics, mismatched and out of order. There was a desk with two large screens; though it had no loose objects strewn about, there was a stack of papers occupying a large corner.

Even the bed had all its proper beddings tucked neatly, but it was unkempt with cords and small remote controls.

The organized mess reflected her perfectly.

The girl placed my stand atop one of the dark-wooded bookshelves, admiring my appearance against her white walls full of artificial leaves and lights.

As we stared at each other, we each came to an understanding.

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She still has not given me a name, nor will I call her after hers. Yet, I am free from my box and free to watch her every day from now on.

After all, things that are broken complement each other so well.

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The Dress Addison McGuire

The Dress my grandmother wore before me The Dress my aunt could not slip into The Dress my mother coveted The Dress my mother wanted to wear but could not The Dress my mother gave to me The Dress that lives in the box in my closet The Dress with the slippery silk The Dress with the lace that refuses to conform The Dress that is meant for a tiny woman The Dress that was made before hips were curved The Dress that was made when women were tiny The Dress that looks at me and says horrible things The Dress that mocks me with its tiny straps The Dress that tells me I will never change to fit you The Dress The Dress The Dress The Direct consequence of my distress The Direct pain I feel in my chest The Direct correlation to my dysmorphic unrest

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20 Things You Should Know About Being a Woman: A Beginner’s Guide Elizabeth Miene

1. Always buy men’s razors, they’re cheaper and last longer.

2. Always buy men’s deodorant, it smells and works better.

3. Never let a doctor underestimate your pain, no matter what.

4. One in six women have been/will be sexually harassed/assaulted in their lifetimes.

5. Never allow someone to call you “bossy” or “bitchy.”

You are The Boss, and you’re doing your job.

6. Never apologize for speaking up, even if it’s just in a meeting at work.

7. Never let a man tell a woman what to do with her body. No uterus = No opinion.

8. Always have some sort of weapon in your bag, something like a metal nail file is a good start.

9. Always walk with your car keys between your fingers.

10. Lock your car doors as soon as you sit down.

11. Never roll your window all the way down, even for police.

12. If an undercover cop pulls you over, call 911 before pulling off to make sure it’s actually an undercover cop.

13. Never walk alone at night.

14. Stay off your phone while walking, don’t look distracted.

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15. Never wear ponytails out for city walks, they’re easy to grab.

16. Never put your drink down and return to it.

17. Always watch your drink be made.

18. Always cover your drink with a lid or with your hand over the top of the glass.

19. Never leave without telling someone you trust where you are and when you’ll be back.

20. Never yell “rape” if you’re being assaulted, yell “fire,” more people will respond.

The list could go on forever, We continuously add new tips and tricks.

This is just a Beginner’s Guide.

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Aching Shea Bohland

A large dog jumps out of the car, And his decade-old joints crack under His 120 pounds of muscle and fur.

His once-black face has morphed into grey.

His paws press against the grass, Propelling him at maximum speed Despite his arthritic hips and repaired ACL. Slobber flies from his giant, smiling mouth.

His body aches when he gets home.

The mutt who once ran like an energizer bunny Immediately curls up in his bed Where he slumbers until late the next morning.

His human hears his hips pop when he finally stands And a twinge of guilt floods their thoughts Because the park has hurt him so badly.

They wonder Are the things we love truly worth it When they begin to cause us pain?

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Pigeon

Cosmic Void Digital Media

Somber Blues and Disconsolate Purples Abbie Kay

The sound of the neighborhood children’s feet slap the pavement as they run.

Their voices cheer and shout to their game of chase.

C-5s and C-17s roar overhead decorated with the familiar “Dover AFB” symbol.

The sun low in the sky, creates swirls of oranges and yellows, soon to be blues and purples.

My bedroom window is permeated with these sounds and images going unnoticed until I finally glance up from my book.

But when I do I’m drawn to their game, wishing I could be a part of it.

I don’t dare go downstairs and outside for fear of dinnertime magically manifesting for my so-called friends the moment I appear.

So instead I stare in awe from my window at the planes and Watch

as vibrant oranges and cheerful yellows

turn into somber blues and disconsolate purples.

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Assignments Skyler Postel

What to do, what to do.

Every assignment, a new challenge.

The feeling of the smooth keys against my tired fingers.

The sound of smooth lead against rough paper.

Hearing the clicking of laptop keys as everyone rushes to get it done.

The stress of it not being good enough.

The anxiety monster wreaks havoc, looming over the students crawling towards break.

Hoping for the best, as their assignments load into the Dropbox.

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Ayra Aminuddin Pastel Warde Digital Media

FRANK Jada Veasey

My grandma told me That he never wore a watch And it felt so painfully fitting Because it always seemed to me That he’d never run out of time But life stops for no one Not even for Dads Uncles Brothers Grandpas Great grandpas And now I wonder Is he mowing the lawn in heaven?

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Boy Sierra Earle

I call myself boy, but I hate men.

Soft boy, strong boy, boy who can take the pain.

Boy whose heart beats too much, too rough, til the vessels burst.

Whose heart beats out of their flat chest.

Bloody the palms that hold it stained in their own confusion of feminine women appropriating male language.

I fall into the smooth round forever of the letters. They hug themselves, leave room in the middle for someone to fill them in.

Call me your post hardcore boyfriend or your metalhead husband.

Skater boy, but I am a poser spitting on the shadow of my own image.

That word makes me sick but I am not used to feeling well.

Boy, it’s a nauseous feeling that swells in my throat.

How considerate, how noble, of a woman to interrupt her hand washing to point me to a gender-neutral bathroom.

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Don’t look at me while I purge it, soured by a soul exposed to cold winds of conformity, onto leather boots women’s size nine.

Just another ugly person undeserving of “girl”, hunched over their worth; warming the tile beneath their feet with frustration and irritation, despair and rejection, hate and love.

What would it be to call myself boy without being mistaken for man?

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Dear America Joselyn Hildebrand

Dear America, Did you tell your bisexual son you loved him today? Or does the internet know more about him than you do?

Did you tell your Latina co-worker to get home safe today? Or do you question her transportation to and from work?

Did you tell the cashier with autism to have a good day today?

Or did you laugh at them after walking away?

It is so much easier to be kind than to judge people first.

I’d hope no one judges you as hard as you do others.

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Nature’s Reclaim Sydney Kaup

The water flashes like a blinding light,.

A sudden flooding of this town tonight.

The water churns and slaps along house walls, Streets once for cars are now huge waterfalls.

A town destroyed by nature’s biting wrath.

As she administers an ice-cold bath.

It’s true that on this night many will die, But nature just ignores their anguished cry.

She will reclaim all that once was hers.

All men long gone is what nature prefers.

Someday no one will know of what was here.

That bleak awareness now fills me with fear.

Humanity was never meant to last.

Soon, we will be a snippet of the past.

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Pumpkin O’ Mine Grace Steffensmeier

I remember first seeing you when I drove past a field and saw hundreds of you alike.

I saw a maze of gourds and wanted one to reflect my feelings of anticipation for the up-and-coming season.

I can’t help but think of the frigid air that is soon to come. May it bring warm hugs from a sweater and time with my family.

You will reveal yourself in April, with insides showing and a rotten smell wafting from the brown, aged flesh.

The time for spaghetti straps is over.

And although the crunch and squelch of watermelon is my favorite, I will save it to look forward to when the slick roads prevent me from getting things done, and the novelty of winter is gone.

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Grace Byers Pansy Diptych Oil on Canvas

I Have a Lantern in My Hand Orlando Clark

I have a lantern in my hand— I was told that it had greased the palm of my grandfather’s hand— and before him, a man taken from the motherland.

I have a lantern in my hand— when I was young the wick was thick, its flame shone bright— then, I dreamt endlessly and courageously, hope was infinite.

Stagnated by stratification, but I broke free via my imagination.

I have a lantern in my hand— my father had given up before he had time to pass it on to me— the oil was low— the globe was cracked— with a broken ventilation cap.

I have a lantern in my hand— yes, I still do—but now I am big— and I see the world as it is— I still dream, but now I try— for now, stagnation holds both my body and my mind— I still dream, but now, I do so fearfully and with limits.

I have a lantern in my hand— the wick is thin, and its flame burns fickle— the handle is broken, now I hold my lamp at base— scorching my hand as the kid in me will not let go— while the hands of time wane— so does the fight in me to dream— now, now I see why father hid my lantern from me—

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Flawless Driving Vanessa Gaul

Something clicks in your brain as you significantly increase the pressure of your foot on the gas pedal. The engine of your small silver Chevy Cobalt busses louder than its usual hum, bringing energy into the atmosphere. Your stomach drops as the line on the speedometer jumps to higher and higher numbers.

Smiling, you keep your foot on the gas. The trees and fields that ambled past at slower speeds are now whipping past your sight, too fast for your brain to distinguish. The left lane becomes your home, and pride fills your chest with each car you bypass.

The fast speeds become comforting, too comforting. You close your eyes and count: one, two, three. On three the car jolts, aggressively pushing your body against the seatbelt as rumble strips shake the cockiness out of your heart. As you resituate your vehicle and remove the pressure from the gas, calm glides through your being. For a moment, you are scared shitless, but you’re fine, like you always are. Teenagers are invincible after all.

Meanwhile, your sister, your cousin, your niece are taking exams through middle and high school, always wanting to finish first, be the best at everything. You grew up like that too, with the pressure of being perfect, with a mindset always driving you to want more. You were raised to be the best, with mental illness and self-loathing as a side effect. Still today, you drive faster, push harder, love stronger and with reckless abandonment. When nothing seems to be wrong in your life, you almost beg for things to be fucked up, so you have a reason to embrace the emotions within. not to.

You go fast to fight the world, to feel when you were taught

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It Is

Katy Mitchell It’s the criminal justice system.

It is.

It’s the criminal background checks.

It really is.

It’s the corporations preying on the weak; knowing the stain that makes them unemployable to others; makes them desperate; ripe for the corporate harvest.

It’s when the job comes without a crim check because profit margins grow through the advent of sorting the good from the bad.

It’s the minimum wage and nothing more, ever.

It is.

It’s the explanations.

It’s events you talk to no one about; except the interviewer holding hostage a job or apartment; an education.

It’s that we talk to strangers now.

It’s a constant state of apology.

It’s the subtle way it turns into telling people what they want to hear; what they’ve been trained to expect from such a person.

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It’s the way you change up the telling of it to see if it can get you the job. Because the integrity you held so tightly to six months ago cracks under the weight of an eviction notice.

It’s the self-fulfilling prophecy of living up to your criminal nature.

It’s that society has one acceptable reaction deemed appropriate for the criminal: begging for a place at the table.

It is.

It’s family trauma and mental illnesses played out over generations; being treated by law enforcement instead of medical professionals.

It’s the retelling of it that takes you back to that day, that moment, that choice, every time. It’s the emotional triggers. Reliving vivid moments of horror and grief.

It’s that after all that they offer you the job.

It’s a cake decorator for $12.50 an hour at Walmart.

It’s that you started reading everything about cake decorating, just waiting for the check to be done and HR to approve you because you told your story; and they offered you the job and smiled and shook your hand.

It’s the job offers rescinded that shake you each time; and it’s that you still press the fuck on because you have known those that have not.

It’s about the emotional toll that it takes on you, your family and the disappointment of never being able to leave that moment behind.

It’s being ostracized from the community you were once a part of. It’s the loss of opportunities and the constant state of rejection.

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It’s the realization that your child will suffer; socially, economically.

It’s being classified by the wrongs you’ve already paid the fines for; done the probation for and jail time for.

It’s the reparations not listed in any code of law that are paid with no release date in sight.

It’s that it never ends.

It’s the sharp reminder of sins so red even the blood of Christ can’t wash them away. And that’s why it’s about the criminal justice system.

It is.

It’s the criminal justice system.

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Ayra Aminuddin RAC Pastel Digital Drawing

Thanksgiving Day Autumn Puffer

“Tell me the story.”

My dad is very taciturn, doesn’t talk unless needed. But I had never heard what happened the last time he ever saw his mom. I always enjoyed stories about her and thought about our similarities, and wondered how life would be if she were still here.

He looks up at me, across the kitchen table.

“Ok,” he said, and the story began.

—————————————————————————————————— It was November, 1991. I was in Wyoming at the time. That’s where I was going to school. One day, my grandma, Edith, called me. Grandma Edith had been taking care of my mom since the cancer diagnosis. It started off as being there for her, to talk. But as my mom worsened, Grandma Edith did a lot more for her. She told me to come home, and said it wouldn’t be pleasant. The day had finally come.

I drove home with two other people. James, who was, and still is, my best friend. Then there was Krista. Krista was the daughter of my mom’s college roommate. Looking back, I realized I was with the best two people I could’ve chosen. One was a great friend of mine, the other had a connection with my mom.

We had to drop off Krista in Lincoln, which was on the way home. She drove quite a bit of the way. Before we got there, we went across a bridge. There was a sudden patch of ice and Krista slammed on the brakes. We did at least a full 360, narrowly avoiding an enormous passing semi. The car started to roll and

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we were sure it would tip. But then, it didn’t. It came back down with a hard thud, sending adrenaline throughout our bodies. I was convinced that someone was watching over us that night to make sure we could get back on our way.

James took over the wheel and Krista was hysterical, but we didn’t have time to waste. We found the nearest ramp and merged back onto the interstate. The entire trip, including gas stops, the spinout, and dropping off Krista, took about sixteen hours.

It had been a few months since I was home. I wasn’t there to see a lot of my mom’s conditions. Let me tell you, it was not pleasant in the slightest. She could barely talk and was very weak.

It was hard to see her that way.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said, “it’s going to be okay.”

The next day, we said our goodbyes. She couldn’t really speak, or write, so it was just a goodbye we had to say, with no response. I remember finally knowing that feeling, the one that says “This is it, she’s going to be gone.” She passed away November 27. That year, it was Thanksgiving Day. I went to clear my head afterwards. Being outside in nature was the best way I could think to do that. Just to try and make me feel at peace. It was one of the hardest days I had ever gone through. The grief was almost unbearable, slowly breaking my heart more and more with each passing minute. Even though I went back to school, I imagined what my younger brother had to deal with back home. It took a lot of time, but I found the best ways to deal with the grief. I still had school, and kept busy with schoolwork, trying to keep myself healthy. The only other way was to push through it. Trying to keep going, even when it was overwhelming, was the biggest help I could give myself.

My Grandad and Grandma Edith took over the parental roles for the most part. But it took a toll on them, too. The big parties they planned every year, family get-togethers they hosted, stopped for good. My maternal grandmother, Hazel, was older than my Grandad and Grandma Edith. The difference

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in generations is likely what made Hazel omit talking about my mom. It was hard on everyone, especially when no one wanted to talk about it.

Through it all, I’m grateful I had the chance to say goodbye at all. She had waited for me. Pushed through all the pain and fought it, to see me one more time.

—————————————————————————————————— “She was genuinely good, like you,” he concluded. “Any other things you’d like to know?”

“I think I have what I need,” I said.

I tried to play it cool, like he was. But I felt like I unlocked a whole new level of understanding with my dad, while feeling just a fragment of what he experienced.

It made me want to cry, hearing the detailed story of her deterioration. It made me want to hug my dad, since the story must have been difficult to recall so vividly. But most of all? I felt like I lost her too. Like she was a part of my heart that I can never have.

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Annie Barkalow Things Left Behind Photography

The Journey Taylor Dearborn It truly is one step forward

two steps back with monsters in my head.

You look pretty for once, but

you are fat and your hair is frazzled.

You just made

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everyone laugh, but

you can be spiteful and a try hard.

Every day there is progress, but

the steps back make me hate this journey.

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Our Bodies Zoey Paone

As women We are told to love our bodies We are told to nourish our bodies We are told our wide hips are preparing us for what’s to come We are told to love our curves We are told to be body positive We are told that it doesn’t matter what size we wear We are told that we don’t have to order the salad But as young girls We watch our mothers scold their bodies in the mirror We watch as women turn down meals and settle for a handful of berries We watch as women reminisce on their younger bodies We watch as women try to flatten out their curves We watch them hate their bodies We watch them diet to size down We watch them order the salad.

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Elsa Gustafson

Embrace Acrylic on Matboard

7:48 A.M. Ryan Knowlton

How can I leave these covers when your presence is so warm, So comforting?

And break eye contact when your stare is addicting, And mine barely functioning.

How can I stop running my fingers down your back, And your hips?

When I can’t resist touching.

And lift your arms from around me when your touch is so perfect, I can’t fathom leaving.

Not now, Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

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Means to an End Q

—after Margaret Atwood’s “An Angel” I know what the spirit of suicide looks like. Not the action, but just the spirit. The spirit is what causes the action. The spirit is the force that causes the final motion. The spirit is the road that leads to the destination. The spirit has no face, but it is what matters because if you want to fight against the will to kill yourself, you ought not fight the hand tying the noose, but rather the mind telling the hand to make that twisted knot. The spirit is a peculiar thing. It has no face, but it can be seen. It is tough to see because often those who it resides in are doing their best to conceal its presence. As a society, we don’t want people to see our individual pain. When going down a tough path, most people choose to do it alone; that way they are only risking themselves.

They feel that if they involve others, they will then be responsible for any damage they may cause to others they cued in.

The spirit of suicide looks like a kid spacing off in class.

They will tell you that they are just thinking about what they are going to have for dinner. What they will not tell you is that they are thinking about what they will be able to make for dinner using the few ingredients in their nearly empty cupboards because their mom doesn’t get home until late. They won’t tell you that they are considering stopping by the supermarket to steal a can of soup so they can give their younger sibling something to eat. They will not tell you that all this thinking makes them tired, and they are tired of being tired, so they are wondering if all of it is worth the effort— maybe it would be easier to simply remove themselves from the situation for good. They will not tell you this, but rather just tell you they are spacing off because they are thinking about dinner.

The spirit of suicide looks like the girl in the back of someoneshe-just-met’s car, smoking weed, looking out the window at the dark, empty parking lot. If you ask her what she is doing, she

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will probably tell you that she is just spacing off. She might tell you that she is thinking about how good the weed is, or that she wants some water for the cotton mouth. She will not tell you that she is wishing the weed was stronger, strong enough so that she won’t feel anything ever again. That way she won’t have to face her abusive boyfriend, or her boss who is always asking for “favors.” She will not tell you that she wishes that the prayer she says every night would finally come true. The prayer that she’d go to sleep and never wake up.

The spirit of suicide looks like the kid working her ass off at the grocery store, stocking shelves hour after hour. People always ask why she works so hard, and she just tells them that she “likes the money.” Every time she says it though, she wishes that she could tell the truth. That she needs the money and the job. Hours. When people ask why she always looks so irritated, she says that school is getting on her nerves, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. She doesn’t care about school, but rather that the number in her bank account is not going up as fast as it needs to so she can escape the nightmare of living with her violent parents. She is irritated because she knows that if she doesn’t have enough money to escape, she will leave another way, and do so permanently.

The spirit of suicide is not something that you can see in any traditional way. I can promise you that you have seen it before, but chances are, you had no idea. You may tell yourself that you can’t have seen it because no one you know has ever killed themselves. But can you be certain that no one you know has ever been institutionalized for an attempt? Anyone you know has hurt themselves just to feel something? Or anyone you know has truly wished deep down that they were literally anywhere but where they are, six feet down included?

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Alexander Carrick

Untitled Mixed Media

Insomnia Rose Carson

Insomnia, Insomnia.

She keeps me up at night; keeps the other side of my bed warm.

She doesn’t like sleep; she creeps throughout the night.

She wants my eyes burning and me Pleading to please let me sleep, she’s a never-ending prison.

She has me trapped in an invisible cell; insomnia, you’re a cruel woman.

She has a strong hold on me, sleep can’t even save me now.

The night feels pity for me, the day can’t wait for me to get started.

I am tired and defeated, she has won another night.

Insomnia, Insomnia, I have one simple question for you, Why do you always get what you want?

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Proof of Life Annie Barklow

He was old-school, say the tie tacks in the snack-size Ziploc bag, and he liked fishing, says the khaki vest hanging on the makeshift clothes bar, he hosted poker nights, say the multiple packs of dog-eared playing cards, and he wasn’t one for reading, say the bookshelves, mostly empty except for two or three westerns.

He liked to laugh, say the dusty Bob Hope records.

He had children, say the “World’s Best Dad” coffee mugs, and he coached Little League, says the gnarled baseball glove.

He had a sweetheart, says the cigar box full of Valentine cards, and she was a good housekeeper, say the expertly sewed patches on pants.

But he had secrets, say the pill bottles in a box under the bed.

He had demons, say the various lighters lined up on the plastic banquet table, but they tried to make light of it, says the souvenir Pensacola crocodile ashtray.

There was always enough to go around on poker nights, say the collection of beer steins, and sometimes one wasn’t enough, say the shot glasses in the pantry.

But he was competent, argues the hand-crafted coffee table.

He was strong in the beginning, says the high school football yearbook photo, proud, too, says the musty military uniform, but not a man who believed in peace, says the Glock locked in the safe, and he held grudges, says the photo with the face cut out.

He spent his last years an invalid, say the hospital bed and oxygen tank.

Visits were scarce, say the grandkid school pictures, faded with age, And he was lonely, say the religious tracts on the kitchen counter.

And his family? Their remains are scattered, like ashes from his Lucky Strikes: A coffee mug, some cards, a few pictures, a baseball glove, a rusty toy truck; Something went wrong, they say.

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Today I Rest in Peace Brandi Witt

Today I rest in peace, But tomorrow’s nightmare is lurking behind closed eyelids They say don’t worry Just don’t pay attention Just calm down, don’t rush into battle with the mind just yet Have you tried to heal on your own Or do you pay the clipboard people?

Do you still eat the blue pills for breakfast? Your mom is worried Do you still hear the voices, do they still say you’re not enough?

Well don’t listen then! It’s just you anyway Just get out of bed they say, Put on your shoes and walk away.

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Grace Byers

Badlands Photography

Ode to the Earth Cael Joens

Except for my soft breath The Earth moves with quiet tones A distant sparrow A mourning dove I, too, find myself in this state Head full of song Alas, a different song A song that played in my head long before the trees Long before the sun Before the low, violet hushes of the sky The sound in my head is that which is echoed in the woods Far beyond where I can see Where the trees remain different Yet uniform Where the sky with its lantern Rests in the bosom of the horizon Each to its own, the trees smile Against the Earth, they push Hopeful, in their quest to join the abundance of the sky To them, the earth is too small, the woods too cumbersome Even the elders make church of the sky Their hope and elastic engraftment With their wrinkles and ancient voices All seem to bring younger seedlings too I imagine not, that I am bigger than any that I see For I know that they only seem big to me at the bottom The ocean which they outline is greater Than the Singleton that from my view stands alone, solemn Nor that I am contributing to their intent Rather, it was something they knew to do Not out of necessity, but of curious certainty

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But the ocean disappears Along with it the sky The mighty machine Which once held tightly upon man’s arm Now breaks the silent Earth Though she cries for help She makes no sound She falls silently Stamped by Styrofoam, trash, and waste By plastics, wires, metals, and wants From her we receive the gift to create We return to her what we use Never to be used again Packing up roots with garbage My head, once filled with sweet song, Now rattles, spits, and yaws Choking black smoke and tire Great gallows appear where doves nest Man scrapes the Earths skin Her blood to be bought and sold Yet, she remains silent Still As she once was And always will My soft breath now shaky, The Earth draws me in once more Not with scorn or condemnation But yet still with the gentle, untouched whisper From which she began

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Contributors Nabil Abugattas is a 22-year-old Mount Mercy student. He is part of the men’s soccer team. He was born and raised in Peru, coming from a Palestinian descendant family. During his senior year of high school in Peru, he transferred to IMG Academy in Florida, a boarding school in which he played for their soccer team and graduated high school. He then went to play and study at NCAA Division II college in TN, named Tusculum. After three semesters there, he transferred to MMU. He is a senior here, seeking an English major.

Ayra Aminuddin is a senior from Malaysia majoring in Graphic Design with a minor in Media Communication. She is on the women’s bowling team. In the future, she plans to bowl and be a successful graphic designer.

Annie Barkalow is a junior majoring in Media Communications with a minor in Creative Writing. She is on a mission to discover her own Personal Legend, while perfecting sourdough bread and learning new songs on the ukulele along the way. She likes black licorice and coconut flavored anything. You can find her standing sentinel by the coffee pot and ducking out of parties.

Clare Bechen is a freshman Outdoor Conservation major involved in band, Emmaus and playing music in the chapel for mass on Sundays. A few hobbies include creative writing, surfing, playing piano or organ, snow sculpting in 0˚C weather, and showing up to breakfast before 7:00 a.m. every weekday.

Shea Bohland is from Marion, Iowa. She is graduating in 2022 with a major in Marketing and a minor in Creative Writing. She’s enjoyed sharing her writing with friends and family, as they’re one main source of inspiration. She also draws inspiration from her rescue dog Henry and his canine foster brother Duke.

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Grace Byers is a junior studying Graphic Design (major) and Spanish (minor). She is ready to take on all the world’s adventures, wherever that may be. Grace will be creating art every step of the journey she takes.

Alexander Carrick is a first-year Graphic Design major. He started his art journey his junior year of high school with recreating drawing. He graduated from Metro High School, started taking college classes at Kirkwood Community College his senior year of high school to prepare for college at Mount Mercy University. His main art media are charcoal, ink, and digital.

Rose Carson is a 24-year-old senior majoring in Secondary Education and English with an endorsement of ELA 5-12. She’s planning on graduating and teaching at a virtual school in the fall of ’22. She has a passion for rescuing animals and has four of her own fluffy cats. She wants to express her past experiences and traumas throughout her writing. She wants to further explore her writing after she graduates from college.

Orlando Clark is a Jamaican international English major. His writing style is best described as eclectic. Orlando is inspired by various genres which he expresses in his writings, from Jamaican folk tale to the beat generation all the way back to 17th-century British poets. Orlando places himself in no box as he learns from all.

Taylor Dearborn is a senior English major with minors in creative writing, diversity studies, and psychology. She is on the Mount Mercy Cheer team and in Council for Student Athletes. She is also a Student Ambassador. In her free time, she enjoys reading or hanging out with friends.

Sierra Earle is a Psychology and English double major graduating in May 2022. Their poetry placed first in the collegiate division of the 2021 Lyrical Iowa contest and was subsequently published in Lyrical Iowa 2021. They currently work as a remote administrative assistant for Sinister Wisdom. With their degree, they plan on pursuing a Master’s in Library and Information Science.

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Breanna Felderman is a sophomore Elementary Education student from Dubuque, IA. She is also on the Women’s Golf team. When Breanna isn’t doing schoolwork or golfing, she enjoys spending her time with family and friends, being outdoors, playing card/board games, and making memories!

Vanessa Gaul is a freshman nursing major, originally from Dyersville, IA. She enjoys online shopping, hanging out with friends, and writing. Vanessa is also the SGA class of 2025 Vice President, as well as being active in several clubs and being the work study student for the Mount Mercy Times. Her favorite parts about Mount Mercy are the tunnels and the community environment.

Elsa Gustafson is a junior majoring on Graphic Design with minors in Diversity Studies and Media Communications. Her work aims to share a story or feeling through use of motifs and color.

Haley Hartshorne is a freshman majoring in Graphic Design. At Mount Mercy, she is a member of the women’s soccer and track and field teams.

Joselyn Hildebrand is a freshman Political Science major at Mount Mercy University. She plays for the Women’s Golf team and participates in Student Ambassadors, Gen1, and writes for the Mount Mercy Times. In her free time, she likes to visit home in Des Moines and go out to eat with friends.

Cael Joens is in his Junior year at Mount Mercy University studying education. In his free time he can be spotted jamming out on his guitar in McCauley Auditorium, horsing around with his Improv buddies, wandering through the forests of America, and occasionally playing a friendly game of Blackjack with his roommates. He tends to write on the same subjects as his literary heroes like Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, and Nan Shepherd; paying tribute to the beauty of the Earth from which we came.

Lori Judy is a junior Human Resources Management Major at Mount Mercy University via online. She lives and works in West Virginia; however, she has plans to move to Detroit, Michigan in the near future. In her spare time, she loves reading, writing, and drawing. She is a mom of one son; and has two fur babies, one dog and one cat.

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Sydney Kaup is a senior majoring in English. She currently works as a library director and is a member of the University Band. In her spare time, she enjoys reading and spending time with her dogs.

Abbie Kay is graduating in May 2022 with their BS in Biology and a minor in Psychology. Abbie enjoys reading and writing poetry and currently calls King George, Virginia home.

Ryan Knowlton is a senior Psychology major with a minor in Sport, Health, and Exercise Psychology.

Aly McConnell is a Junior at Mount Mercy her major is English with a creative minor. In her free time she enjoys kickboxing, reading a variety of fantasy, YA, and horror novels. Her writing explores generational trauma/abuse and how to overcome it. She also enjoys writing horror and fantasy fiction and has recently started dabbling in nonfiction and poetry.

Addison McGuire is a senior English major with minors in Diversity Studies and Creative Writing. In her free time she enjoys spending time with her pets Oliver, John, and Ahsoka.

Elizabeth "Lizzie" Miene is a 2021 graduate of the Mount Mercy English program. She is doing freelance graphic design work as well as being a barista. She also holds the position of digital strategy and social media manager at Roaster’s Coffee House.

Katy Mitchell is an American criminal and drug addict working on her bachelor’s in Criminal Justice. She is also the mother to a wonderful son and “wanna be” poet. While she considers the terms criminal, addict, mother, and poet all to be labels, it’s her goal to proudly advocate and own each of these labels as a whole individual.

Zoey Paone is a double major in English and Criminal Justice with a minor in Pre-Law. She is on track to graduate May of ’23. She is on the women’s bowling team and the secretary for the Student Government Association.

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Pigeon is a sophomore Marketing major at the Hill. As a smol birb who’s grown and lived in Cedar Rapids, they occasionally like to drive around and discover niche places to spend their free time.

When the birb refuses to leave their nest, they like to dwaddle around—drawing, writing, or obsessively reading a good book.

Skyler Postel is a senior Psychology major with a minor in English from Monticello, Iowa. She is a University and Show Choir member, and in her free time she enjoys reading science fiction.

Autumn Puffer is a freshman Criminal Justice and Political Science major at MMU. She plays trombone in both Jazz and University band, is a Student Ambassador, and on the SGA Cabinet. In her free time, she likes to read, cross stitch, and watch movies.

Q Husband. Cat feeder. Stress eater. Wearer of steel toe boots.

Grace Steffensmeier is an Education student who loves to read in her free time. Creative writing is a new joy and she has especially found a love for poetry. She works at a daycare and spends time with her cats.

Jada Veasey is a senior level nursing major from Rock Island, Illinois. She served as the Editor-in-Chief of the Mount Mercy Times for the 2021-2022 academic year. When she isn’t studying or writing, Jada also enjoys reading, listening to Taylor Swift, watching period dramas, and baking ridiculous amounts of bread.

Kendra Wirtner is majoring in Nursing and minoring in Psychology. She enjoys writing poetry.

Brandi Witt is a freshman Psychology major. In her free time, she likes to write, watch Netflix, workout, or hang out with friends.

Brandi ran track in high school and also participated in other sports but doesn’t do any at Mount Mercy. She was born in Marion, Iowa, but lived in Colorado for a few years.

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Read our blog, Literary Mustangs, at mmuenglish.wordpress.com The Paha Review seeks creative writing and art from ALL Mount Mercy undergrads.

Email your work to Paha@mtmercy.edu.

Please include a third-person bio.

See past editions of Paha at www.mtmercy.edu/campus-life/activities/paha-review

Paha was composed in 11 point Rustica and printed on Lynx Opaque White 70 lb. text.

80 lb Flo Gloss Cover.

The printer was Welu Printing Company.