PAHA Review 2023

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.

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

Jean C. Prior Land Forms of Iowa

Editors

Annie Barkalow

Grace Byers

Submissions Manager

Jenna Welty

Copyediting Manager

Catherine Kratoska

Copy Editors

Annie Barkalow

Aly McConnell

Catherine Kratoska

Autumn Puffer

Jenna Welty

Layout

Grace Byers

Catherine Kratoska

Aly McConnell

Liz Solorio

Cover Art

Grace Byers

PAHA

Digital Illustration

Cover Design

Grace Byers

Faculty Advisors

Jose Clemente

Mary Vermillion

Writing Selection Committee

Annie Barkalow

Kristina Glackin

Aly McConnell

Catherine Kratoska

Jenna Welty

Art Selection Committee

Grace Byers

Liz Solorio

Special Thanks

Billie Barker

Devin Caldwell

Chris DeVault

Joe Hendryx

Joy Ochs

John Thomas Richard

Hannah Baker Saltmarsh

Joe Sheller

Ben Thiel

On select pages you will see bookmarks in the corner. For the written pieces, these were the highest ranked poetry and prose from the Selection Committee. The one marked art piece placed 1st in the 2022 Student Summer Art Show.

Congratulations to the following writers and artist!

Art: Be the Change

Brianna Riedel

Poetry: I have a dream

Kelly da Moura Semedo

Miseducation of the Colonized Aly McConnell

My Body Is Not My Own Aly McConnell

Obituary

Annie Barkalow

Prose: Stuck During a Crisis

Abigail Hill

"Love" and Gardens

Catherine Kratoska

Friday the 13th

Autumn Puffer

As Time Goes By...

Thing Men Have Said To Me

Does it make me less sexy if...

To the Little Girl in the

Annie Barkalow Obituary

“Charlie loved to cook during the holidays for his family.”

—Obituary for Charles Edward Conrad, 09/23/1946-11/23/2021

I imagine tongs gripped tightly in hand as though he had found a way to live through seared steak, BBQ sauce stains

drying in the shape of the Madonna’s visage on his apron, an indelible icon there to grant aid to all the lost souls by the grill.

Handing you a plate, he wasn’t satisfying a desire, an appetite— he was telling you how to get to heaven.

Rose be gentle.

Therapeutic communication is essential in the field of nursing. Healthcare professionals must be able to effectively understand their patient’s symptoms, worries, and needs. Nurses provide lifesaving services while remaining cool, calm, and collected during any adverse circumstances they may encounter.

If a patient calls me a bitch, I am expected to inform the client that is inappropriate and reflect on their verbal and nonverbal communication, stating something along the lines of: I see that you are upset, tell me more about that. If a fully capable man asks me, a 19-year-old girl, to hold his penis while he urinates, I am expected to encourage the patient to do as much as he can for himself, and if he insists, I am expected to assist. I assist, even though it makes my stomach feel hollow and my body shudder in disgust, as he gently caresses my arm with a suggestive smile as I remove the urinal.

According to the American Nurses Association, 1 in 4 nurses are assaulted and only 20-60% of incidents are reported. This is not taught in nursing school. Students are taught to be gentle and find out why their patient may be acting out. Incidents are not reported because nursing assistants and patient care techs are often taught to handle a situation on their own until they are no longer able to do so themselves, which is almost always after the damage has already been done. The lines are blurry between what can be attributed to patient confusion or classified as sexual assault, but it has never been more clear that change needs to occur in healthcare.

My Body Is Not My Own

Aly McConnell

My body is not my own. Pushed. Prodded. Poked.

Broken down to numbers on a scale, other biometric measurements I can’t understand, “Do you have any questions?” The doctor’s accessing gaze is cool, collected and detached, I don’t know what to ask.

My body is not my own. Filtered. Fabricated. Fake.

Simplified to the number of likes I get on my social media post, body image shattered by the pursuit of perfection, a foreign face with too thin limbs and waist stares back at me.

She is not me, I am not her.

My body is not my own. Examples. Evaluations. Expectations.

I am but a vessel to be filled and give life for… my government, my country, my husband, my family I can’t be a selfish woman. It can never just be for myself.

My body is not my own. Spicy. Sexualized. Sensual.

I am but a stimulating view for the male gaze, I should be all things, innocent, smart, sexy, chef, maid, teacher, therapist, my consent should be, “Always”, otherwise my voice will be suppressed.

My body is not my own. Choices. Consequences. Costs.

I am but a catalog of rights and choices that are limited to my gender. Do I get to have affordable contraceptives? Respect? Rights? Every four years it changes.

Motion Immobile

Sydney Kaup

Note: This poem can be read as three poems—one as the unaltered text, one as strikethrough text, and one where both are combined.

I’m running as the earth rotates beneath me.

I’m standing in wet cement as it solidifies around me.

There’s brightness on my horizon, my future.

The blazing sun burns my eyes; I turn my face away. The walls of this rut tower above and fold in on me.

I’m longing for a time and place that exists only in my mind. The sun beckons me out into its warmth.

I’m tethered to the familiar ground beneath my frozen feet.

I know what I want. I have no clue what I want.

Saltwater Love

Kristina Glackin

I want to experience you the way the ocean experiences the sunset. Yet, I have only the experience of a child sobbing over broken chalk, dust in their eyes, hindering the view of the setting sun. The ocean when waves are too high. You, when I come crashing down in a wave of fury and resentment, colliding with the Rock of my salvation. My soul a chalk outline on pavement. I’m sobbing while the sun sets on our anger. Drowning in an ocean of unmet desire—water made salt by way of my tears. The sunrise; my saving grace.

Instance of Break

Cael Joens

I bore a wildflower comforted between concrete yearning to be kissed by the sun

still through disjointed paths, and even by the driest degree the stoic seed brewed onward through crust a solitary echo of light the instance of break

with naked stem outstretching, a thousand amens spring spread wrinkled grins cross the sky

a spike of color tinges the thousand amens repose growing from spine gracing the scraped Earth whispering lost nothings igniting flame from within

make my mind the bud dancing breezes collect the pastel marks of mourning

Stuck During a Crisis

Abigail Hill

Sitting on the floor in our coach’s office, no one expected this to happen.

It was a sunny day, a Thursday, to be exact. It was ten minutes to four, and everyone was arriving for cross country practice, getting ready to start our long, easy jog. Suddenly, our phones lit up like no other. Everyone’s phone was going off simultaneously with emails, texts, and calls. Different alerts shared that campus was in lockdown. No one knew why. No one knew who. All we knew was that we were not allowed to go outside to run until we got the “all clear.”

Coach thought this was a good opportunity to discuss our upcoming meet. After all, we did have conference championships in two days, and we were leaving for Des Moines the next day at noon. He told us about our itinerary, what to expect, the weather conditions, our goals to strive towards, and how amazing it would be if this were the year we went back to nationals. No one looked at their phones. No one paid any attention to what was happening in the outside world. We were stuck in the moment, focusing on our meet.

After about a ten-minute conversation and no “all clear,” Coach decided to have us play a game. After all, we should just enjoy each other’s company before we brave the long run in what we hoped would be a couple of short minutes. So, he explained the game. We all found partners, and we lined up to start it. There, we faced our partners with a relay baton in between each of us. Coach gave out silly demands for places to put our hands, like our knees, head, shoulders, and floor. At the last moment he would yell “stick,” and the person to reach down and grab the stick first would win. After getting through to the final round, everyone decided to be done with the game and try something else to pass the time.

At this moment, twenty minutes had passed, and there was still no “all clear.”

We were getting antsy and bored when we all started getting alerts. It was not the alerts that we wanted to get. Multiple family members and friends messaged us to check in and make sure that we were all ok. No one really knew why until one of my teammates opened Twitter and saw an alert: “Mount Mercy Cross Country Runner Shot.” At that moment,

we all looked around frantically to see who was missing. Coach started doing rollcall as his phone was spamming with calls from the university president, athletic director, and multiple other coaches. After figuring out that everyone was accounted for, we started to make jokes about how false media is today. We were laughing about how they thought one of us got shot when it was probably just a civilian on a run.

Well, we were far from the truth.

Not a moment later, Coach got off one of his calls and was in tears. Every one of us was confused, not knowing what to expect. His voice seemed so distant, yet his words were so pronounced. Something I will never forget. “We were wrong,” he said. “It was someone on our team that got shot.” That was when we were stuck. Sitting. On the floor. Not wanting to move. Not being able to move. Everyone was very still. If you were an outsider looking in, you would probably think someone paused us on TV.

Shock.

We were all in shock.

Tears were flowing down everyone’s face. There was not a dry eye. We did not know the extent of everything. As much as we pried for answers, no one knew anything.

Phones were still exploding. Everyone’s parents called and texted them as reports in the news were coming out with more and more information. My mom called me with so much panic in her voice, seeing if I was all right and wanting to know answers that I did not have.

Not but a couple of moments later, we got the “all clear” notification we were longing for in the beginning. However, at this moment, that was the last thing that we wanted to see. Our coach waited a little before telling us he was canceling practice and we were ok to leave. As we all left slowly, everyone was silent. We still had no answers as to what happened.

All we knew is that from that moment on, nothing would ever be the same.

Jenna Welty To my neighborhood

A small town

With a gas station, a shop that could never decide what to be, and a newly built Dollar General

White streets and your speed displayed in digital orange letters

The cashier at the gas station did not wash his hands when he made that last pizza

You know because your friend used to work there

Low pay, the employee tries to buy your boyfriend’s necklace one day

There used to be an ice cream shop

A bakery

A boutique

A photography studio

Each occupying the same building

One by one

It’s empty now; its creativity driven out of town

A new day, a brand-new store

We marvel at the soup and Starbucks cans just a walk away

No twelve-minute drive into town where your friend works now

The mayor lives on my street

His wife taught me to play piano

I used to be a kid

A student

A skeptic

A dreamer

Each in the same house

Where will my creativity go?

Who will I decide to be?

The digital numbers displaying my speed turn green

And I’m still driving in town.

Flowers Jenna West

Flowers are given on the first date. What should be a heartwarming gift is up to the eye.

Roses and daisies are so fresh but die all too fast. At weddings, the church is filled with reds of all kinds. The smell was overwhelming but a sign to bring hope. Given as a sign of good faith, they signify so much more than some object that looks pretty.

A sweet pea flower as a nod to a father's nickname for me. A bed of flowers to a person who died too quickly for this world. They blossom into greatness.

But you seem only to notice when they go bad. Everything needs more time. What would happen if we just had one more hour one more day

to spend together?

Would you bring me more faith?

All good things come to an end. But what would have happened if we just appreciated more at their full bloom?

Mental Health

Faith Janaszak

If only the cry for help didn’t have to come too late for some. Daily struggles from my peers can be a minute-by-minute struggle for others whose names I don’t even know. But for everyone?

They’re all wondering what they ever did to deserve these awful thoughts to be in their head. Demons inside them telling them they aren’t worth it, and no one on the outside telling them that they are. It feels like, in a way, we all share the same scary dragon in our minds. It’s like the mastermind of the devil, just making himself home inside all of our brains.

We all share the feeling of locks and chains around our ankles and watching the person we once cared about most throw the key into the ocean.

Paper

Catherine Kratoska

"Why won’t you talk to me? you wrote your feelings down on a piece of paper, why am I so different?”

Why?

Paper demands nothing but myself. It has no Expectations, so I cannot Disappoint.

Beautifully Cold and Heartless, it will never let me down.

Paper Wordlessly holds onto my tears, and waits, Patiently for me to cover it with emotions, never throwing the Grief back in my face that makes it Uncomfortable.

It will never Belittle my pain, or tell me, “She would want you to be Happy.”

I don’t have to explain to the paper, that she wouldn’t want me to Pretend either. She knew grief was nothing to be Ashamed of.

I could tell the paper one word or a thousand and it will be Satisfied.

Feelings do not Offend it, so it Accepts me.

It is Apathetic so it cannot look at me with Pity, that Disgusting look you give someone who is Broken.

Paper doesn't care.

Paper cares the most.

Sock it to Me Clare

Bechen

Open the pack of squares, you got a light?

There’s a puff of smoke as the embers glow it’s the sixties man, didn’t you know?

Watching your grandad smokin’ his pipe. Sittin’ on the porch in the mornin’ sun, or in the evening when the day is done.

It’s been popular since the sixties. Far out, groovy, & dig it were the decade’s vocab hits.

Sock it to me. Say what? Give it to me I is what I say. I don’t care if I feel blighted, I can do this all day.

It’s relaxing, stress reducing. Work? Not now. It’s time for a break, have a smoke or as many you can take.

Uh oh, it’s the fuzz, hide the liquor, the pack of squares. We’re blitzed & we gotta scat.

*Sirens scream*

Teenagers stopped by the fuzz for smoking & getting blitzed outside their front door. One said to bug out, one flipped his wig, and another was a fink.

What do you wanna do now? Hey, open the pack of squares. You got a light? Sock it to me.

Double Consciousness of the Blood Quantum

Aly McConnell

I am 25% Colonized I am too white to be native my skin browns to a crisp like burnt toast in the sun melanin protects me from the rays of the sun

I wonder if I prayed to the gods if they would look at the 75% me

say, “You eradicate my people, my culture… exploit and destroy my Earth. We are silent because all you Colonizers know how to do is conquer and destroy.”

I dance in my Pocahontas dress, finally, a Disney princess who looks like part of my family, she is from a tribe too I dance even though I am too shy to dance in a pow wow so, I dance in the living room to be Pocahontas, accepted by my tribe, loved fiercely by my father.

I am 75% Colonizer too ‘exotic’ to be white my baby hairs lighten to a white blond green eyes make me more sensitive to sunlight

If I prayed to God or his Son would he look at 25% of me and say,

“You’re too primitive to save.”

My father watches. I look like my mother but… I have his pale complexion his light blue green eyes. I am my own Disney princess now. I do not want my John Smith. I dance for him in my Pocahontas dress. He looks at me, his own child, and asks, “Did you know Indians are savages?”

As Time Goes By... Taylor Dearborn

Tears burned my face every time. I never knew why my body screamed under yours. I wouldn’t move, I wouldn’t struggle, But you knew.

Our story was not normal. It wasn’t simply associated with assault. Even I didn’t want to believe the things you did to me.

Your hands forced my flying body down, stinging my delicate heart. The moments still puncture my brain from my locked memories.

As time goes by, I begin to realize the severity of my past and that I blocked it out, blocked you out, blocked the pain out.

That piece of me I’ll never get back. A moment I never wanted to unpack can only hold me back if I allow it.

I can no longer hold back flashbacks. Believe me, I have tried. So, I’m letting them out and allowing myself to feel.

Does it make me less sexy if...

Joselyn Hildebrand

Does it make me less sexy if I doubled jeans sizes in a year?

Do I seem less sexy if I always feel like I need something sweet to eat after a good meal?

What about if I just don’t feel like doing it tonight, even though I said that last night too?

Do you think I am less sexy because I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth before bed?

Would it make me less sexy if I told you I like women too?

Does it make me less sexy if I don’t give a fuck about what your answers are? Things

To The Little Girl in the Grocery Store

Catherine Kratoska

You looked just like me.

Same golden hair, I wonder if it will darken like mine.

Same height, I wonder if you’ll stay short as I have.

Same bright smile, I wonder if you’ll cling to it as I have, never letting life take it away.

You held your mother’s hand as the two of you inspected the cereal shelves.

She stroked your golden hair absentmindedly as she listened to you with a smile.

I couldn’t have watched you for longer than half a minute, but you’ve been in my mind far longer.

Days Weeks

Truth be told, I don’t remember the difference between What I saw and What I dreamed.

I wonder if I still see you in my mind, or if I’ve corrupted your image with my grief.

I’m no longer sure if I see you with your mother, or if I’ve seen a glimpse of my life 15 years ago.

It feels as if I’ve forgotten you and remembered me.

Months

My selfish mind has banished you, and now all I can see is the innocent child I used to be and my damn good mother.

But they’re both dead now.

May I give you some advice, You blonde little girl with the sweetest smile?

Don’t you ever let go of your momma’s hand. Please, don’t you ever let her go.

Pigeon Warmth of the Bed

The warmth of the bed has long faded, and the sky has changed many times. The photographs of you have all yellowed, and I have grown older with every phase. The time we spent is all just a memory, and I lie in wait every day for your return. But the hand that I held is no longer able to grasp, and the heart that beat with mine is now ash. I wish to see you again. I wish to feel you again. I wish to have these tears wash away, and instead have you back in my arms.

Sonnet for the Seasons

Jenna Welty

When February nighed, our love began. With Spring, it sprouted and blossomed and flushed. Butterflies and tulips made truer than, Crimson virginal roses, cheeks who blushed.

Searing sun in sultry-scarlet beat down. With you, it gleamed brighter than any past. Feels warmer, tastes sweeter with you around. A new kind of Summer I hope will last.

Leaves fall, but you linger with Autumn breath. Smells fresh as the first and new as the day–Truly my original Fall till death. A genuine season, I dream you stay.

But Winter will tell if your heat persists. Through the cold bite, my love always exists.

Giving Voices Back to The Women Who Were Silenced:

Three Generations

Aly McConnell

For my naïve Grandmother:

She was his child bride when he had her wrapped around his finger, Got her pregnant, Left her, Got her pregnant, Left her, he did this seven times,

did the tango of present and absent father, his only dance with her outside of the quickstep of his fists, painted her body and face with hues of black and blue, no matter how brutally he beat her, she stayed,

my mother watched, they didn’t know they deserved better, For my broken Mother: She left home but her feet still wandered along the same path, she finds her father in other men, the ones that cheat, the ones that beat, she loved him, he loved her, he kisses her nose with a fist leaving it and her broken, his token of love has left her with swollen eyes, a multichromatic symphony of blue, black, and yellow, she looks at her reflection

she sees her mother

she questioned if she deserved better? For my younger self:

She will meet the man who will dictate her life from childhood to womanhood,

he doesn’t raise his fists, toxic mind games and verbal warfare are his masterpieces, emotional abuse can be a pretty song, if you have a gifted fiddler, she tries to balance on the line of the lies she uses to convince herself to stay,

it’s not abuse, it's normal, generations of abuse of women in her family tells her so, the men’s voices were always louder.

However

one day the song will S k I p

and she will be jarred from her stupor

she will realize this song is tired and overplayed

her new ballad will be that of a support system, platonic love and falling in love with herself

she knows she deserves better.

Rose they were dead

It is hard to write about something I have never experienced before, but I can only imagine what the near future will bring.

I picture my head going foggy, my body freezing up, and my mind forgetting all the years of training.

A patient stops breathing, but no one gets there until two tantalizing minutes later.

Alert the code team, start CPR, 30 compressions, 2 breaths, not too fast or slow, what song do I keep beat to?

Help arrives, and I step back. It’s not working.

“All clear!”

The defibrillator sends volts into the patient’s chest. Resume CPR.

I am thrust to the front as my short break is up. In my head I think: the patient looks dead.

I continue chest compressions. The body is zapped four more times, but vital signs never reappear.

I was right, they were dead.

I leave the room, take two deep breaths, slap on a smile, and walk into the next patient room, knowing I have 11 more hours left of my shift.

“Love” and Gardens

Catherine Kratoska

She shut the back door with a sigh. This was the third date this month that had been a disaster. Why was it so hard to find “The One”? The risks May took never seemed to be worth it, and it all seemed to be too much work. May picked some dirt out from underneath her fingernails as she kicked off her heels. She walked down the dark hallway to the downstairs bathroom. May flicked on the light above the sink and washed her hands and face. On the way back inside she had been so upset she fell into the pile of dirt in her backyard. Maybe she was pushing herself to find love too fast. Either way, May wasn’t sure she could handle much more heartbreak.

Still, after May flicked on the living room light, she collapsed onto the couch with her phone and opened her dating app. She double-checked that she didn’t have any messages and went back to sifting through the trash in the hopes of finding treasure.

George? No, he was eighty-seven miles away.

Peter? No, he looked a bit creepy.

Eric? No, he was thirty and still unemployed. He probably lived in his parent’s basement.

Tom? Actually, he looks like a catch. Let’s see, he’s a teacher, only nineteen miles away, about the same age as May, and he doesn’t smoke….

“Oh, damn,” May mumbled. Just as she was about to swipe right, she noticed the “no pets” icon. May saw her cat stretch in his sleep on the other side of the room. No. Felix might be an ungrateful jerk who liked to sleep on the floor next to his expensive cat bed, but she loved the little guy. No man could replace Felix.

May’s eyes began to grow heavy as she seemingly continuously

swiped left. Jarred, Alex, Logan, James, Tim, the list of unsuitable candidates just kept piling up.

The old clock above her fireplace struck one a.m., telling May that she needed to wrap it up and go to bed. It might be Saturday, but she needed to be up in a few hours to do some early gardening. May always made such a mess. The thought of her neighbors watching gave her anxiety.

But one man caught her eye. Sean. He was only five miles away with a good job, didn’t smoke and liked pets. Sean was even looking for someone to be a stay-at-home mom! May was beaming and happily swiped right. But she soon froze, realizing she hadn’t read his whole profile.

Sure enough, his “About Me” said “I want a woman with zero body count, but I might be willing to accept 1 or 2.”

May jumped up and began pacing the room. Her third was a few hours ago. What if she had missed the chance to have a soulmate by a few hours? Taking in a breath, she sent him a message.

May: Hey Sean, loving your profile, super interested!

May: I do want to be honest tho, I’ve made some mistakes and my body count is 3, unfortunately ):

Almost immediately her phone lit up with the notification Sean Typing…

May squealed with glee when his message came through.

Sean: Hey, no worries May, we all make mistakes. I’d be willing to meet sometime for dinner and give it a try (:

Sean: No guarantees tho, if your a ho it wont work

Sean: No offense, but i dont date ho’s lol

She let out a relieved breath. Body count must be another way of saying how many people you’ve slept with. If that’s the case, then May can rest easy knowing her’s is zero.

May: I get it, but don’t worry, the only hoes I’m around are for gardening (;

Sean: Lol that’s great

Sean: Wanna meet tomorrow night?

May: I’d love to!

May grabbed the unsuspecting Felix and twirled around with him, grinning ear to ear. Sean just has to be the One. She wasn’t sure she could take the pain if she was rejected again. Even now, her muscles were screaming at her to rest. So, she flicked the light off and went up to bed with Felix tucked into her arms. This date would go well, May just knew it. After all, what would she do if it didn’t? She wasn’t sure if she would have the energy to do much more gardening after tonight.

Tomorrow she would wake up early to plant hostas above her third date and take the rest of the day to rest for her fourth, and hopefully, her last.

Body Dysmorphia

Joselyn Hildebrand

What is that in the mirror? There's no way that is me

That is not my body

I could never fit this size of jeans

I’m a size 8

Always have been

The larges are getting tighter though

Try something bigger

I don’t want to

I’m a medium

I’m a medium

I’m a medium

Be the Change

Brianna Riedel Mixed Media

In this piece I wanted the viewer to visually experience a few of the monumental events that occurred throughout the 20th century. My goal was to create a piece of art from items that already existed (vintage magazines and books, vintage television set, etc.). Some of the materials I had around my house and some of the materials I found at local thrift stores. The assembly of the interactive part of the piece was the most important process to me. I wanted the viewer to see themselves inside of the decoupaged historic moments covering the television set. Every event depicted on this piece has influenced humanity to some degree. Many of these moments in time impacted feelings, thoughts, actions, and reactions and continue to do so today. Something that is incredible to me is the ability for an individual to form their own thoughts, opinions, morals, and values. But what is even more beautiful to me is when the individual standing next to them respects that ability.

My reason for making art is to express my thoughts and questions in forms other than words. I enjoy doing sculptures and decoupage art. The uncertainty of how the piece will turn out is exciting to me, and I love trusting the process.

Friday the 13th

Autumn Puffer

Late 2014, on Christmas Day morning, I woke up to my dad whispering for me to wake up. As I opened my eyes, there was the silhouette of a small creature wagging its tail. That creature was my first ever pet, a chocolate lab we named Tucker.

Before I knew it, Tucker grew right before me with a beautiful brown coat and golden eyes. He was a handsome dog but had no other notable attributes. Not only did Tucker wake us up early with his barking or never learn how to swim, he took every opportunity he could to get into trash and leave it strewn. Though we persistently tried, there was no changing these traits of his.

For years, Tucker and I had a routine. He would greet me at the door after school, learning to recognize the driveway and Life360 alarms. I never had enough time to set down my bags before he melted at my feet. After getting a sufficient amount of attention and covering me in hair, he would grab a shed antler and get me to chase him around the house. He was always caught but never let the antler go.

It was only when I started college that I noticed Tucker slowing down. The once unruly and energetic canine I knew was now weary and gray in the face. You could hear his hip pop as he walked, and he groaned when getting up or sitting down. When he stopped eating and became needier, I knew in my heart something was wrong.

My stepmom, Rachel, took Tucker to the vet soon after these symptoms occurred. They noticed his gums were pale and that he had a fever, but they didn’t know the cause. He was prescribed some medication and a follow-up biopsy.

I went to see Tucker as soon as I could after this appointment. I spent the entire drive from campus crying, furthering my misery with sad Taylor Swift music, never being so nervous about coming home. There was no way it could be happening so soon. He was only seven.

I opened the door to see Tucker standing there wagging his tail, with subtle excitement on his face. I collapsed in front of him, dropping all of my things, and held him in my arms. He was almost taken aback by this, wondering why I could possibly be so distraught. I don’t think he knew yet.

A few weeks went by, but there was no change for better or for worse. I inevitably had to go back to school, unable to do anything but worry and keep Tucker in the back of my thoughts. His next appointment was coming up.

The next time I heard about Tucker was from my dad. After the follow-up appointment, it was discovered Tucker had an inoperable tumor on his liver. There was nothing we could do but make him comfortable. If “make him comfortable” meant throwing dietary restrictions out the window.

I never saw him eat his dog food after that vet visit. But he was more than happy to accept chicken strips, table scraps, and his nightly grilled cheese my sister would make for him. He looked happier, and it put my mind at ease. Things started looking a little less grim.

It was the last day of finals week when my dad texted me. He said Tucker hadn’t gotten out of his La-Z-Boy, the very dilapidated chair that he’d slept in every night for the past few years. He refused to eat and wasn’t very responsive to touch or sound. My dad told me he didn’t know what we should do. But deep in my gut, I knew we both did.

I rushed home for a second time, worried I wouldn’t get to see him in time. The drive was such a blur, and no thoughts were going through my head. After pulling into the driveway, I opened the door to see Tucker struggling to look up at me, wrapped in a blanket on Rachel’s lap.

“He’s so cold,” she said through her tears.

I put my bags aside and sat down with him on the floor. My stepmom was right; he was cold. We suspected his liver tumor had burst or spread, resulting in internal bleeding, which caused his stomach to bloat. His gums were even paler than before, his eyes struggling to stay open. He occasionally

groaned; moving was painful.

My grandfather had been a vet for decades, at one time owning his own clinic. Though he had long since retired, he still had euthanasia packets used to put down his own animals. Our family had agreed putting him down at home would be more comforting for everyone, including Tucker, than going to a vet. My dad set out to pick the materials up, leaving the rest of us to wait.

I took Rachel’s spot, allowing Tucker’s head to rest on my legs. For the next hour or so we all gathered around him crying, telling stories, and laughing while looking at old pictures. It relieved the tension for a while, but we all awaited the inevitable: hearing the driveway alarm. My dad came back through the door, everyone in silence.

“I don’t wanna do it,” Rachel said quietly. None of us did.

We stalled for a good fifteen minutes, telling Tucker how much we’d miss him and how much we loved and would always love him. I noticed my dad delaying opening the euthanasia packet, holding back his sobs. It was the first time in a long time I’d seen my usually stoic dad unable to contain himself, especially for a dog that he found to be an annoyance, maintenance, and nuisance. He leaned down to pet him one last time.

“You son of a bitch… I’m gonna miss calling you a son of a bitch,” he managed to say, giving us all one last chuckle before he finally unwrapped the first syringe. This syringe contained a medication that would make Tucker go unconscious, preventing any further pain.

“This is going to hurt, buddy. I’m sorry,” my dad said, absolutely defeated, as he injected the intramuscular medication into Tucker’s lower stomach. We all smothered him one last time and told him to say hi to past animals already over the rainbow bridge.

As soon as we knew he was asleep, my dad pulled out two more syringes. One of them was enough of a dose to make Tucker’s heart stop, but a second one was provided just in case.

Rachel shaved the fur off one of Tucker’s legs, exposing a vein. I laid my head down on his chest, and at that moment, hearing the cries of everyone else around, I felt acceptance. Just for that moment, my sadness was overcome by embracing what I knew was the right thing to do. Dad pushed in the first syringe, then the second, the contents successfully fulfilling their purpose. Seeing the last breath of life leave a body is something I hope I never experience again.

For what felt like hours, we all sat there covered in dog hair, drool, and filth from the floor. One by one, we all left, none of us knowing what to say or do next. Both of my sisters left immediately, while my dad and Rachel called our neighbor, who was coincidentally the owner of a pet cemetery. I decided to peer in at Tucker and say goodbye by myself.

My heart broke seeing him there alone. It was unsettling how still he was. I laid down beside him and put my head on his. He would never let me get that close without play biting or moving away, so I instinctually expected either of those. Much to my dismay, neither occurred.

I took this time to tell Tucker personally how much I was gonna miss him, how I knew he didn’t always particularly take to me and probably got annoyed with me too. But how I did it all out of love, and that I was lucky to have had him. I covered the rest of his body with the blanket, taking one last glance before Dad and Rachel carefully carried him to the car.

As soon as he was taken up to the neighbor's, I felt an unexpected amount of relief. The small silver lining of this day was knowing my worrying and his suffering were over. But alas, I had work that night and the next morning. I didn’t have any of this time to process the loss.

I returned to my dad’s after the morning shift, half expecting Tucker to be running alongside the driveway or waiting for me at the door. He wasn’t. Stepping over the spot where it all happened, I listened. Rachel wasn’t there, but I heard my dad’s voice out in the living room. He was on the phone with my grandfather, and the volume was loud enough for me to hear what was being said on the other end.

It’s always quiet the day after. I’d never heard silence so loud.

This was the dog I expected to graduate college with, the dog who was a symbol of the highs and lows in the most developmental stage of my life. He would’ve been nine; labs live ten or so years, so it wasn’t an impractical thought. But I jinxed it, and of all days, on a Friday the 13th.

The irony of this story is that Marley and Me is my favorite book. It’s fun, makes me smile, and recounts the growth of Marley’s family during his life. But right near the end, it takes your heart and wrenches it right in front of you. The unwanted end is inevitable. No matter how long I put off that book, even if I never finished that book, the pages I left unread were always going to be there. Though almost all of the story is good, is it really worth having to read the bad?

That is what I am still trying to decide.

Switzerland

Grace Byers

Digital Photography

Lion’s Tooth

Kristina Glackin

I was born a dandelion made to believe I was nothing more than a weed to be cut down, discarded. That by existing I tainted their perfectly green lawn. Landscape would be prettier if I was gone. Uninvited.

I overlooked my intricate design. Perhaps, they saw it— threatened by what would happen if my reflection would be displayed through a lens they did not dictate. If their fields of green had splatters of me. If I caught a glimpse of God’s likeness in the wonder I was wove in I may find out why I was created, even by one-night stand. Unplanned.

Just like the weed that I am, I ruined every field of vast predictability. Every seamless canvas stained by my pollen. No matter their efforts they couldn’t be rid of me. Every poisonous syllable, unsuccessful attempt to uproot,

sharp blade of betrayal, every vengeance infused ounce of vinegar, through it all— I stand.

Unwavering.

They must have known, you cannot kill what God intended to grow. Determined to grow under any condition, I am discovering that the majesty of me is my resiliency. Cut down, risen again. My roots must have been hidden just out of reach because I keep growing. I am dandelion, loudly proclaiming my existence “I AM HERE.”

Unaborted.

My Mother is Jesus

Annie Barkalow

Miami in 1972 is Jesus.

My mother, in a golden gown, is Jesus. Her friends are Jesus, the parties she was the life at are Jesus, her jokes are Jesus. Her family is Jesus.

Her Camaro is Jesus.

The Spanish she speaks fluently at the hospital she works at is Jesus,

the dark-skinned good-looking men she dated are Jesus, the white sand is Jesus, the ocean is Jesus, the Cubans escaping Castro are Jesus, the Copacabana is Jesus.

Her golden hoop earrings and bracelets are Jesus, her mother’s beehive and heels are Jesus, that cult is Jesus, “that ski trip” is Jesus, my dad is Jesus, Iowa is Jesus.

The flat fields and gray skies are Jesus. The combines and potlucks are Jesus. My dad’s hometown is Jesus.

My mother’s gray sweater is Jesus, her withdrawal is Jesus. Her obsession with end times is Jesus. I try to find my mother behind all that Jesus, I want to loop the earrings into the holes in her ears and see her white teeth laughing in her tan face, hear the words she left in Miami roll off the fields of corn. But the preacher tells her “When people see you, they should see Jesus,” and she’s been hiding ever since.

Emily Buckingham Mine

I don’t know how to like someone a little. I haven’t figured out how to give just an ounce of myself away or how to introduce myself slowly, in a quiet drizzle, drip by drip like a spring rain when it's warm.

I am a Flood. I am cold and gushing and desperate. Drink me like a man from a desert, crave me like you have never tasted life before! Marvel at my masterpiece.

A masterpiece I have spent nineteen years to create A masterpiece I cannot keep. A tapestry of beautiful color that could be yours.

My tapestry is worn. It is touched and felt and known by faces I can’t remember, belonging to people I never knew.

I cannot reveal myself thread by thread, leading someone along to know me slowly. I cannot keep pieces of myself hidden away. “I am Beautiful and Proud!” I scream. Take my secrets for I have none. Learn my story, I’ll write it just for you!

I will write you my story. I will fall in love with yours. I will tell you my secrets so you can call them “mine."

You can call me “Mine."

Across Barren Waste

Pigeon

Digital Illustration

Executive Dysfunction

Susana Zierke

At night tears roll down my cheeks

I will myself to disappear

Between the sheets

I have been behind now for weeks

A stifled scream knocks restlessly into my chest

The feeling adding to my unrest

I swear I am trying my best

The hatred I harbor is for me

All my many insecurities

Overwhelm and cripple me at the knees

I am not punctual

I have never kept order

And I will never be normal

Anything I hand in is tainted with anxiety

Hurried work completed as I beg and plead

Please extend the deadline because I cannot breathe

A New Kind of Heartbreak

Epiphany

You felt too good to be true

And you were

I pleaded with you to Stay

I would’ve given anything to change your mind, even at a cost to myself

What you said was not with words, but with emotionless eyes that I can never unsee with mine

All of our potential, the future we could’ve made, faded away as you shook your head “no”

The worst thoughts came and went, bringing feelings of hopelessness and resentment

I felt so disposed of like I played and lost the game

I wish you knew the pain like I did

Though I went to sleep that night with a broken heart, something kept it beating: relief

Relief that the fight was Over, and that the worst had happened

I’d told myself I had you to lose

But when I did, I discovered it was myself I risked losing

With time, I thought I had crafted the perfect formula to overcome you

But songs can only be so relatable

Crying can only be so Relieving

And time can only go so fast

I still see flashes of the times we shared

I let them Replay in my mind over and over like a fool

But I can never bring myself to think of the love within them

I won’t admit those feelings to myself anymore

Seeing you now is a punch to the stomach

I can’t look you in the eye

I don’t want to notice you, hear you, or pass by you; it nearly angers me to think I still have to

But I am grateful for one thing

I have yet to see You smile again

We slowly go back to how it was before Your physical appearance subtly reverts But my regression is on the inside I return to feeling generally dissatisfied But at no risk of feeling worse

Because the last time I took a risk It left me even emptier With a new kind of heartbreak.

Think

I could never tell my mother. How would she look at me? Her beautiful daughter, broken and impure.

I could never see the heartbreak in her face, the face that so perfectly mirrors my own. The face that has cheered for me at football games and show choir competitions and taken me to church on Sundays. I could never meet her eyes, or hear her say she’s so sorry.

I’m the one who is sorry.

Would she be disappointed in me?

Shame me for even letting him in the shower?

Criticize my recklessness?

Tell me that I was asking for it, or that I deserved what happened?

I think that would be better. Better than seeing her heart break. I think her pain would make it too true. I think I’ll never stop thinking.

I wonder what his mother would think.

Benson Lee Lifesaver

Transitioning was a lifesaver for me

I was finally able to open myself up Finally able to be myself

It took me a while to come to terms with it

That the discomfort I was feeling

Was the dysphoria creeping up on me,

It was slow at first but now it consumes my whole being

But it is a part of who I am

So, I take medication to become the man I am I will have scars that go across my chest

But the feeling of being free is better than wanting to take my own life

So yes, transitioning saved my life.

And I do not regret that.

Meghan Brewster American “Dream”

As I walk on the uneven path to those big blue doors, I feel my heart start to thump in my chest, excitement bubbling within me. As I open those hefty doors, I see flocks of students, all with smiles on their faces. My nose is hit with the stench of lemons and body odor as I look at each student walking past. Lockers slamming, feet pounding, people shouting, all filling my ears. As I walk into the band room, my ears are filled with clarinets squeaking, tubas booming noise, snares tapping away, and marimbas hitting notes that play out a random rhythm they came up with. I then hear my students shout out to me, excited to see me. A big smile forms on my face as I walk closer. Seeing them smiling back at me makes my heart full.

Suddenly, there is a loud boom.

I immediately look at each exit. Fear in my mind. Heart dropping to my stomach. Anxiety rushing through my body. Make sure all the students are safe. Look for each hiding spot. I go through each step in my head, mind running, counting each student. I’m ready to put myself first, hoping that today is not the day.

I come to find out it was a music stand falling and that we are safe. I sigh in relief, still thinking about how it could happen to us at any moment. I look at my students’ faces and realize they were not affected by the noise. I start to wonder if I overreacted but am just glad that my students are safe.

When did a place I love also become a place I fear?

Disassociations

Molly

Seyller

There are days when I wonder, and my mind is a wanderer. Is it worth it?

Am I fighting hard enough?

Will I be able to do what many others have failed to do? What makes me different?

What makes me special?

Then I remember.

No one is me. No one is as stubborn as me. No one has the same fighting spirit as me. No one has my life experiences, my thoughts, my emotions. No one feels the way that I feel.

But am I really that unique?

The way that the morning sun shines on my skin is a feeling unique to me.

The way that raindrops make my hair curl is unique to me. The way that my emotions are felt is unique to me. The way that I learn is unique to me.

The way that I improvise, the way that I adapt, the way that I overcome, it is all unique to me.

So when my brain wanders and wonders…

Is it worth it?

Am I fighting hard enough?

Will I be able to do what many others have failed to do?

What makes me different?

What makes me special? I just have to remember… I

am me.

That makes me special enough.

The same with you.

You? You are good enough.

Jenna Welty Mime Me

sticky white paint covered my face while two black triangles marked my cheeks just below my eyes

drab & dull, black & white suspenders clipped my black pants they were cheap, snapped

the shirt we found was from the women’s section

fifth grade

black and white and black and white stripes lined my torso

a beret mounted my head

my hands boxed me in on stage, lined up

I hid behind my sticky white paint hands up, knocking on the box muted

even my sign said “trick or treat” for me

$15, I won second place in the costume contest wooden floors and the Ghostbusters theme song blaring through old speakers

a dark night sky invited us back outside my shirt is too tight

my piano teacher didn’t recognize me white paint, no words

my shirt’s from the women’s section

I'm 10, I'm 10

snapped, no more suspenders

the box is closing in

I play pretend on stage, giving the judges a show

$15, 10-years-old

I'm crying triangles

I can’t speak there's no more box, it’s me

pale skin’s my own, no sticky white paint

Emily Buckingham Suicide Hotline

My palms are sweaty, always I am checking my phone, always you are going through life and I am worried, always

her mom is screaming at her, always my friend is throwing up, always he is drinking away his heart and mine is heavy, always.

I am so scared for you, always.

I answer my phone. Always.

Bird's Eye View

Jordan Smith

Film Photography

A ( ) to Ruin a Life.

Taylor Dearborn

My activities and eating habits had not changed. But I had started birth control and other aids. The main side effect: WEIGHT GAIN.

One day and one photo that’s all it took to realize that I was no longer my ideal figure. My shirt size went up, my pants size went up, but I didn’t notice until that jarring picture. Then all I could see were the negatives in me. My arms, legs, stomach, fingers, round face.

I was active all the time, so why was I still gaining weight? Why was I burdened with illness and birth control? Why was I burdened with being a woman? No one ever seems to understand though. Because if I wanted to be skinny again, I should just work harder for it.

But no one sees the times you have worked for that body back, cried for that body back, screamed for that body back, prayed for that body back.

For me it was one picture, someone else just one harsh comment, or one unflattering piece of clothing and that day too will ruin their life.

The Beautiful Human Herself

Sarah Schneider

Mother nature, the life she gives us through sunny days to rainy.

Many colors appear that makes mother nature beautiful.

She’s got the power to calm, please, and comfort the souls living within her

Powerful, mighty, great, loving.

Take a little walk with mother nature. Take the moment in and learn from her.

She is the empire that birthed this world that we call home.

Post-COVID Parosmia

Sydney Kaup

Rotten, rancid, repulsive—

I can’t stomach a meal.

Offensive olfactory oddness—

Why does everything smell so wrong?

Distressing, disheartening, disgusting—

Nearly everything has a smell.

Fickle faux fragrances.

I can’t stomach today what I ate yesterday.

Unappetizing, unpredictable, uncontrollable—

Every meal is a risk.

Having headaches, hungry—

Gagging at every bite.

Sickly sweet, soapy—

A chemical scent inside my brain.

Dangerous deadly disguises—

What if that burning smell is real?

Inescapable, intolerable, insufferable—

I can’t stand the scent of the air.

Author’s Note:

Almost a year later, I am about 80% “cured.” I continued to push through as many bad tastes as possible in hopes of getting my scent and taste working properly again. I do think this helped me, but what worked for me may not work for others. Some foods are still off, like cucumbers and yogurt, but I have accepted that they will likely stay that way. It’s a good reminder to me of my battle with parosmia and makes the foods that taste normal again all that much sweeter.

Miseducation of the Colonized

Aly McConnell

“This land was unoccupied before the white settlement.” (Terra nullius policy)

Native to this land, they were here first children taken, re-educated to fit the mold of their oppressor women stolen from their homes, raped, discarded innocence lost to the greed of colonization

“Don’t you know I am trying to save you from your primitive ways?”—Five-year old Maori boy (Ngataua Omahuru), kidnapped and renamed William Fox exposed to the superior culture to "improve" him.

Light skin good, Brown skin bad we’ll breed the dark looking ones out, eradicate the ‘ethnic’ parts of them sometimes you find yourself on the wrong side of the fence sometimes you are born the wrong color

“Tongue bleeding, don’t speak that language it’s not English.” "Physically tortured by his teachers for speaking Tsheshat: sewing needles through the tongue, a routine punishment for language offenders." —Randy Fred

Stolen generation the mission school syndrome, raped of the culture children returned the same but different, some never return they are in unmarked graves decaying as their family wonders “where’s my baby? Where’s my child?”

“A rising tally of these graves—more than 1,100 so far—has

triggered a national reckoning over Canada's legacy of residential schools. These government-funded boarding schools were part of policy to attempt to assimilate Indigenous children and destroy Indigenous cultures and languages.”

Talk like the Colonizer walk like the Colonizer betray to the Colonizer die by the Colonizer

Lament of the Phoenix

Catherine Kratoska

Rising from the ashes, adored, admired, they all praise your transformation.

No one cares how you got there.

The pain and suffering that must be endured before your rebirth.

Once life has ended you welcome the searing flames.

But the fire doesn’t just burn away your old, crippled body, marred with scars and gaping wounds.

The price of immortality is steep.

The heat of the flames melts away your Soul, until you rise one day,

and no longer recognize the person in the mirror.

The Phoenix remembers it all: Love, Heartbreak, Life.

Try as they might, that’s all it will ever be: distant memories.

You can never be the same. Just a scared child starting again.

Vigil

Susana Zierke

Ceramic Rattle with Iron Oxide

Aviating Adrenaline

Conner Allender

My brain runs through everything one step at a time. Right hand on the throttle. Left hand on the controls. Feet on the pedals. Trim neutral. The front wheel on the numbers.

Give the departure call over the radio.

Romeo Juliet Alpha 285 departing thirty-one Carroll. Don the instructor gives the all-clear for departure.

Right hand on the throttle. Full pull power. We launch forward. Left hand on the controls and pull back. The adrenaline hits. My body vibrates with the rush. My feet control the pedals. A touch of the right rudder evens the plane out. The runway flashes by.

The back wheels leave the ground. More adrenaline rushes in.

Right hand on the throttle. Left hand on the controls. In ten seconds, we go from 1,000 RPM on the ground to 25,000 RPM.

Left hand on the controls. Left tilt adjust the ailerons. A touch of the right rudder.

Ninety more seconds go by. We cruise at 3,500 feet. Averaging 120 MPH.

24,500 RPM. Below the landscape are pastures and fields. Right hand on the throttle. Left hand on the controls. Being the pilot.

Adrenaline soars again. Don gives an instruction. No power stall.

My mind quickly runs through the steps. Pull controls back. Nose up. Lose airspeed. Maintain attitude. Ninety MPH. 4,000 feet.

Right hand on the throttle. Pull back to 21,000 RMP.

Right-hand pulls back a lever. One notch of flaps. Pull the throttle back again.

17,000 RMP. Second notch of flaps. 15,000 RPM. The final notch of flaps.

Seventy-six MPH. Pull controls back. The nose goes up two inches. Tilt controls left.

Touch of right rudder. Then the sound. The beep. Stall horn warning.

Push the controls in. Nose drops. Right hand on the throttle. Full power.

Reset and do the maneuver over again.

The adrenaline is high.

My eyes want to look at the ground below. My brain thinks of two things.

Please let us not crash. Only thirty-six more lessons to go. Mind in focus again.

Right hand on the throttle. Left hand on the controls. Feet on the pedals.

This is aviation.

Jordan Smith

Film Photography

I have a dream

Kelly da Moura Semedo

I have a dream that one day we give as much importance to the wars in Africa as for the 2022 World Cup, where we put more emphasis on Messi than the atrocities done by the army of RDC Congo that use rape as a weapon of war.

I have a dream that one day I can go to school without wondering if someone is going to shoot me in the arm with a gun.

I have a dream that one day if you hear a racist remark or you see an inappropriate gesture that you have the courage to intervene.

I have a dream that one day we can find a cure for cancer.

I have a dream that one day we offer more flowers to the living than to the dead because, for the moment, regret predominates over gratitude.

I have a dream that one day I can walk down the street without wondering if my outfit is too short or too sexy, which could be the cause of my rape.

I have a dream that one day I no longer need to ask myself why the man who does the same job as me has a higher salary than me.

I have a dream that one day the words of a coach are no longer the cause of a mental health crisis or that athletic-school pressure is no longer the cause of suicide.

I have a dream that one day I can get married without worrying that my husband will hit me if we don’t agree.

I have a dream that each child can have a roof and something to eat every day.

I have a dream that one day the time you spend on TikTok will be the time you use to face reality.

I have a dream that one day we are taught to control our emotions instead of being taught to protect ourselves with weapons.

Mama don’t know, but I fight for equality and freedom.

Zoonotic Teapot

Kelly Koppel Ceramic Teapot

The quotes in this essay are lyrics to “In my blood,” by Shawn Mendes. This song was constantly playing in my head while I sculpted my Teapot. Join me in my emotional state by listening while reading.

I can’t breathe. The gravity of what I have to do weighs on me like my bricks of clay. It’s like having an asthma attack, as though my chest is about to cave-in, but the feeling is not in my chest. I reach out, but it’s not my inhaler I need, it’s human contact. This feeling in my chest is all in my head. I took on this assignment, but this is not how I envisioned accomplishing it. I had every thing sketched out, materials prepped and I was ready to create. For the first time, I had even made my own terra cotta clay. In an instant, it all changed. Spring had arrived, it was time to take a break before transforming my sketches into a sculpture. Yet there was no break. Every single day life as I knew it, as we all knew it, was changing. Song lyrics are constantly playing in my head, one song in particular, “I'm trying to find a way to chill, can't breathe, oh… Is there somebody who could help me, it's like the walls are caving in.” Every time I prepare to work, I turn on the light in my basement and it’s so dark. Is there a light at the end of this dark seemingly never-ending pandemic? I knew all my plans had to change. What I had originally envisioned, is no longer valid. The world we live in today is not the same. My thoughts resume to the original intent of my assignment. What does pursuing happiness mean to me now? I envisioned for years, literally decades, studying art and finishing my bachelor’s degree. But now, all I can think about is what I value even more; spending time with family, friends, neighbors, classmates, colleagues, even strangers. The need for social interaction is so overwhelming. This zoonotic disease originating from bats is taking over our society leaving me and everyone yearning for human connection. I want to reach out and touch someone, yet escape from this virus encircling us. I knew I had to represent this concept of reaching out, yet being held back as our society is warped by this new way of life. I was finally able to make some progress with a teapot and two hands. The human hand

struggling to escape this virus from the bat hand. While the teapot, our society, is confined by this struggle. When you remove the teapot’s lid, the bat’s thumb nail, the crown of the virus is at the other end, which rests inside the teapot, the bat’s hand, and the human hand. Then the news arrived, I would not be able to return to school and finish what I started. “I'm looking through my phone again, feeling anxious. Afraid to be alone again, I hate this.” Would my piece remain this greenware piece forever? It will be so fragile like our society. “Keep telling me that it gets better, does it ever?” I’m alone in my dark basement again, preparing a pillow to prop up my piece to work on its underside and all I want to do is scream into the pillow. “I'm crawling in my skin, sometimes I feel like giving up, but I just can't, it isn't in my blood.” Instead, I press my hand into the bottom of my pot leaving my palm print. I never knew that hallow part of my palm created a heart shape. Now I’ve truly put my heart and soul into my work. I forge on, hoping one day my piece will make it to a kiln. Beyond the teapot’s spout, I choose not to hollow out the human hand, allowing it to remain as heavy as this weight I feel to complete it. I know that until this piece is fired it will continue to weigh on me.

As I stood at the podium today presenting my Teapot for the first time, I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. I had to take many pauses and deep breaths. I was reliving the past two and a half years since the pandemic started. My work was bisque fired around the time the vaccine was released. During that time my brother spent ten days in the hospital fighting the Coronavirus. I graduated from one school and moved on to another. When I finally had access to a kiln again, the President also happened to announce the pandemic was over. I underglazed and fired my earthenware piece to Cone 01. I am mystified by the timing of the progress of this piece and the events that ensued. My work may be done but my heart is still broken. I spent two years away from my family and friends so we could protect each other and yet I lost a handful of family members. My Grandma and my Dad were the hardest to lose. The last two years of their lives that I could have had time with them… gone just like that. Two years gone, but they will never be forgotten. Creating has always helped me through my healing process. I’m at the final stage, acceptance. I’m left feeling numb.

Contributors

Conner Allender is a sophomore Criminal Justice and Psychology major, with a minor in Political Science from Jefferson, Iowa. Conner is a Project Connect and Mustang mentor, a Student Ambassador, and the president of Mustangs Unleashed the on-campus service dog club. In her free time, she likes to work towards getting her pilot’s license, go horseback riding, volunteer with IOWA Service dogs, and hang out with her cows.

Annie Barkalow is from a little hamlet in Iowa called Whittier. She graduates in 2023 with a major in Media Communications and a minor in Creative Writing. During her time at Mount Mercy, she has been on staff of the campus newspaper, the Times, and The Paha Review. 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 sophomore Outdoor Conservation major and is adding a Criminal Justice minor next fall. She's involved in Emmaus, campus ministry, and a Bible study. A few hobbies include stargazing; playing games with Fr. Greg, the campus chaplain; and watching videos from the YouTube channels Korean Englishman and Jolly.

Meghan Brewster is a sophomore at Mount Mercy and is a Secondary Education major with endorsements in English and Special Education. Meghan loves writing and wants to share their message to others through their writing.

Emily Buckingham is a freshman Biochemistry major from Pella, Iowa. Emily is pre-med and plans on attending medical school to become a trauma surgeon. She is pursuing a minor in Spanish and is involved in other activities on campus including singing in the University Choir and cheering on the MMU competitive and sideline cheer team. Emily loves writing and hopes to find time to publish a book by graduation, in between study sessions for Joe's Chemistry exams.

Grace Byers is many things: designer, teammate, leader, sister, aunt, traveler, and friend. She loves an adventure, especially when it involves trying something new. In the future, Grace looks forward to travelling to visit her friends around the world. Let the new adventures begin.

Kim Clements is a senior Fine Arts major. She started her college journey later in life, after her 20-year marriage ended. She is passionate about spreading awareness for domestic violence. She enjoys being a mother, spending time with her best friend, and creating meaningful art.

Kelly da Moura Semedo is a black girl coming from nowhere in order to have a better life. She was born in Switzerland and and has blood from Portugal and Cabo Verde. Her tongue can speak six languages, and she is thirsty for learning more. Life has shown her the darkest days, and she is manifesting to see the bright future.

Taylor Dearborn graduated from Mount Mercy in 2023 with a major in English and minors in Creative Writing, Diversity Studies, and Psychology. She was a member of the Cheer Team and Council for Student Athletes. She was also a Student Ambassador. Currently, she is a Contract Administration Specialist at Cedar Memorial. In her free time, she enjoys reading and traveling with friends.

Epiphany has always enjoyed writing, but this is her first published poem. In her spare time, she likes to read, watch good shows/movies, and find other ways to learn about herself.

Kristina Glackin is a junior majoring in Secondary Education with endorsements in English and Creative Writing. She began her journey as a high school drop-out, single mom and non-traditional student in 2018. She works as a human trafficking survivor advocate sharing the truth of trafficking and redemption through Jesus. In her free time, she enjoys board games with her kids, road trips, and trying new foods.

Elsa Gustafson is majoring in Graphic Design with minors in Media Communications and Diversity Studies. She uses digital illustration, printmaking, and mixed media in her art. Her work focuses on themes of women's issues and social justice.

Joselyn Hildebrand is a sophomore from Des Moines, Iowa. While studying Political Science and Spanish, she is also on the women's golf team, a Mustang Mentor, an editor for the Mount Mercy Times, the president of Law and Politics Club, and social media coordinator for Gen 1. In her free time, she enjoys writing poetry, eating new foods, and laughing with friends and family.

Abigail Hill is a junior from Polk City, Iowa. She is majoring in Nursing. She also is on the Cross Country and Track and Field teams at Mount Mercy. A fun fact about Abigail is she race walks and throws javelin for the Track and Field team!

Faith Janaszak is a junior from Rowley, Iowa, with a major in Finance. She is involved in the Bandana Project, Emmaus, and is also an MMU Ambassador here on campus. A fun fact about Faith is that she also has two minors—one in Accounting and one in English!

Cael Joens is a senior Education major. In his free time, he can be spotted jamming out on his guitar in McAuley 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 Sheperd: paying tribute to the beauty of the Earth from which we came.

Sydney Kaup graduated from Mount Mercy last May with a major in English. She currently works at the Marion Public Library in Teen Services/Programs. When not working, she enjoys reading, playing video games, and spending time with her dog. She is grateful for this opportunity to share her writings with others.

Kelly Koppel is a senior studying Fine Arts. Her ceramic work involves creating sculptural utilitarian vessels that most often express her current state of mind. By sharing her stories, she hopes others will feel more connected through commonalities.

Catherine Kratoska is a junior English major from Chelsea, Iowa. Along with working on The Paha Review, she is the treasurer for MMU’s LGBTQ+ Alliance. When she isn’t reading, writing, or playing video games, Catherine is helping her dad maintain the family cattle farm.

Benson Lee is a sophomore at Mount Mercy. He studies English and Sociology.

Aly McConnell is a senior from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She is graduating in 2023 with a major in English and a minor in Creative Writing. She has been involved with The Paha Review during her time at Mount Mercy. In her free time, she loves kickboxing, reading, writing, playing video games, and spending time with her doggy, Jasper.

Pigeon is a junior Marketing major from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Aside from daydreaming and discovering new places to visit in Cedar Rapids, they also enjoy writing, drawing, and long naps. You can always find this lil birb sitting on a good novel or poking cats with various sticks.

Autumn Puffer is a second-year Criminal Justice and Political Science major. She is involved in multiple clubs, plays trombone in university and jazz band, gives tours as a Student Ambassador, and is SGA’s 2023 treasurer. You may see her working at the info desk as well.

Brianna Riedel is a young 39-year-old art student at Mount Mercy. After traveling the world while enlisted in the military, Brianna decided to retire, plant roots, and raise her three children in her home state. A Cedar Rapids native, Brianna plans to use her art degree working with children—one of her many passions.

Rose is a Nursing major who is chronically stressed and overwhelmed because, you know, she is a Nursing major.

Sarah Schneider is a senior here at Mount Mercy. She is majoring in Elementary Education with her Reading and Language Arts endorsements. Sarah can't wait to get into her own classroom and help her students create their own stories.

Molly Seyller is a freshman Nursing major. She is a part of the choir and MMUANS, and she enjoys writing and baking in her free time.

Jordan Smith has a great eye for the world around him. He has the ability to see the art in everything. He uses photography to make the mundane stand out in a lot of ways.

Liz Solorio is a junior pursuing a Graphic Design major and a Marketing minor. She is also a member of the Art and Design Club. This is her first year working on staff for PAHA. She feels honored to have this opportunity.

Jenna Welty is a sophomore English major with minors in Creative Writing and History from Atkins, Iowa. She is involved with the creation of The Paha Review, plays French horn in the University Band, and is the campus editor for the Mount Mercy Times. Apart from writing, Jenna adores eating food (especially pasta with pesto!) and taking road trips to off-beat places.

Jenna West is a senior Elementary Education major from Illinois.

Susana Zierke is a senior from Amana, Iowa. She is double majoring in Studio Art and K-12 Education and will be graduating this spring of 2023. She enjoys all mediums and forms of art, including written word, and a new-found love of ceramics. One of the main themes in her work is her faith, which plays an important and vital role in her life. She loves to hang out with friends and family, as well as her elderly cat Samantha. Lastly, she is excited to unveil her final art thesis during her gallery show in April.

Paha was composed in 10 point Rustica and printed on Lynx Opaque White 70 lb. text. 80 lb Flo Gloss Cover. The printer was Welu Printing Company.