Paha Review | 2018

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

2018

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

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

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

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

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

80 lb Flo Gloss Cover.

The printer was Welu Printing Company.

Editors Savannah Oler Jessica Purgett Tyus Thompson Charles Uthe Art Editor Laura Slovakova Copy Editors Joshua Cole-Brodnax Joshua Jurgensmeier Savannah Oler Jessica Purgett Tyus Thompson Charles Uthe Haley Weideman Doriann Whitlock Photographer Laura Slovakova Cover Art Chelsie Mangold

From the Heart Woodcut print

Cover Design Laura Slovakova Faculty Advisors Jose Clemente Mary Vermillion

Writing Selection Committee Todd Bender Jessica Hiney Erin Johnson Joshua Jurgensmeier Savannah Oler Jessica Purgett Bailey Rickels Amber Salow Tyus Thompson Matthew Trueblood Lauren Weiland Doriann Whitlock Charles Uthe Art Selection Committee Dylan Catalano-Wild Cassie Neff Laura Slovakova Special Thanks Billie Barker Chris DeVault Kathryn Hagy Joseph Hendryx Joy Ochs Jim McKean Gail Murphy John-Thomas Richard Joe Sheller Courtney Snodgrass Benjamin Thiel Carol Tyx Eden Wales Freedman

special thanks to Billie Barker, whose constant presence helps to ensure the success of this magazine

Contents Drunk Girls We Meet in the Bathroom

Catheryn Recker

9

Together

Tyus Thompson

11

Contraceptive

Haley Weideman

12

Dying Rose

Kayla Ridgeway

13

Polaroid

Abby Estabrook

14

Cell Phone Choirs

Courtney Snodgrass

15

Eating Cake

Abby Herb

17

Open Your Eyes

Doriann Whitlock

18

Untitled

Morgan Ortmann

21

Untitled

Paris Sheck

21

Custodial Artist

Logan Schroeder

22

The Language of Coffee

Alexa Zamora

23

December

Cameron Junge

25

Missed Connection

Jessica Purgett

26

Caleb’s Story

Catheryn Recker

27

Twelfth Night Epicene

Haley Weideman

31

Change

Charles Uthe

32

Some Broken Headphones Rachel Shoop

34

Loops

Krysten Martinez

38

Self-portrait

Maggie Murphy

39

Ode to Odes

Abbey Konzen

40

Loving You

Bailey Rickels

42

Helmet of Power

Corbin Evert-Fratzke

43

Hope

Cally Salter

44

Pop!

Tyus Thompson

45

Villain Archetype

Derick Harman

47

Straight to Hell

Logan Wilkes

48

Holy

Rachel Vaughn

50

I Live

Anonymous

51

The Leader

Jessica Purgett

52

Just a Whistle

Tanner Childs

53

Self-portrait

Dylan Catalano-Wild

55

When it Was Me

Doriann Whitlock

56

I Broke Up With My Therapist

Courtney Snodgrass

57

Trafficking

Amber Salow

58

Lone Wolf

Danielle Meister

59

Potential

Abby Estabrook

60

Melted

Haley Weideman

61

Dragon Teapot

Melissa Deeney

65

Retro-Romance

Cally Salter

66

Just Sing: A Poem to the Younger Me

Catheryn Recker

67

Women in Mirror

Abby Herb

69

Road to Recovery

Jenna Schutte

71

Somnolence

Rachel Vaughn

74

Thief

Logan Wilkes

75

Hope

Jessica Hiney

77

Self-portrait

Laura Slovakova

79

I Didn’t Cry

Courtney Snodgrass

80

Scriptotherapy

Jenna Schutte

82

Adulthood/You’re Not An Adult

Logan Schroeder

83

Tonight

Anonymous

85

Untitled

Jacob Herndon

87

True Love

Joshua Jurgensmeier

88

Murder Victim

Logan Wilkes

89

Contributors

90

Drunk Girls We Meet in the Bathroom Catheryn Recker

We’ve never met before this moment but we are both crying holding each other on the dirty, sticky floor like we’ve known each other forever.

We promise to look out for each other and keep each other safe I came in here with my friend but now, I comfort you.

“Your friend is sitting down” you tell me as I think “duh, what else would she do?”

I peek under the door and see her on the floor, her head inches above the toilet seat.

“Is she going to be okay? Am I?” you ask me as if I know all about your recent breakup I’ve only just learned about two minutes ago.

“He doesn’t deserve you! You’re amazing!”

I hold you tighter and act as if I know how big a jerk that Dustin guy is and how stupid he is for leaving you.

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In this moment, we are one, bound together by six shots of tequila and this dirty bathroom floor.

We are the drunk girls in the bathroom.

Like sisters we comfort each other for ten minutes while we pull ourselves together so we can part and never meet again.

10

Together

Tyus Thompson Every night, we were together.

We became wrapped in each other’s arms, breaking down our individualities.

Every night, we were together.

The warmth of our skin radiated, forcing us to remove the covers that engulfed us.

Every night, we were together.

Your soft skin put me into a trance, lulling me to sleep.

Every night, we were together.

I thanked God for bringing you into my life, praying loneliness would never return.

Every night, we were together.

I closed my eyes knowing our love was strong, until the morning came when our bed was only half full.

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Contraceptive

Haley Weideman I am that little blue pill that keeps her midsection from splitting, that keeps her from the pain.

I am that quarter-yearly injection that keeps her in school, that keeps her from current responsibilities.

I am that bar in her arm that helps her keep control of her life, that helps her stay safe from society’s judgmental stare.

I am that T in her body’s center that keeps her from making a decision, that keeps her from choosing life or death.

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Kayla Ridgeway · Dying Rose · Oil on canvas

Polaroid

Abby Estabrook

I watch myself fade like a polaroid picture set in reverse Then I slip back inside the camera waiting to escape again but no one ever pushes the button Outside I hear them asking “Why won’t the picture come out” That’s when I begin filling my canvas with doubt Every day that passes in the dark and alone my worry slowly grows but still I remain on my own Maybe the shutter flashed and I remained unaware but now the camera’s smashed and lost somewhere.

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Cell Phone Choirs

Courtney Snodgrass

After the Pulse Nightclub Shooting In a room of darkness, bodies are thrown around the room, dodging bullets.

Legs wearing distressed jeans, and arms holding lovers bent in directions they weren’t meant to bend.

Some victims on their stomachs, others on their backs, depending on how their bodies fell.

Blood spills from wounds, lead shot from a magazine loaded in an automatic weapon. One small trigger and a finger that didn’t know how to stop.

Mouths are frozen open, screaming in pain, yelling for help, their voices lost in the midst of flying bullets; others passed silently, peaceful, found without a pulse.

A choir plays of ringing, buzzing cell phones.

Some in pockets, safe.

Some in hands, some mid-sentence in a message telling someone, anyone how much they love them and they’re about to die.

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Some phones stop ringing long after the bullets stop flying.

Others don’t.

16

Eating Cake

Abby Herb

Smooth white frosting with a moist center. Patterns of flowers and accent colors of purple staining the edges. Three layers of delicious sugar. The knife with a richly patterned handle cuts into the cake revealing the white between the layers—oozing blood. As the knife cuts, cries echo off of its blade—unheard by the cutter. The knife slices the people’s bank accounts reaching balances of zero—bills are calling to be paid. No more affordable healthcare. No more insurance for women’s health. Defunding Planned Parenthood.

The blade mocks the people who worry about their marriage rights. The blade smeared with the cake’s frosting and crumbs on the shiny surface laughs in the face of rape victims watching their rapist walk away guilt-free. Taken, removed to be put on a plate. A fork pierces the cake’s edge like words piercing the hearts of the people. Ban on Muslims. Let’s build a wall. Grab them by the pussy. As the cake is raised to his lips, he might as well have aid, “Let them eat cake” as if we could afford it so easily.

17

Open Your Eyes

Doriann Whitlock

When I first opened my eyes, there was nothing. There were no shadows, purple hues or grey spots. Jjust darkness. I shouted into it praying for an answer but dreading a reply. The next few moments passed in a blur as I desperately walked into the unknown, trying to find a way out of the pitch black. With each step the darkness became thicker and the air less breathable.

I should have turned around. I should have walked away from it. Who knew that the darkness could be this cold and lifeless? When the feeling of oppression became too much to bear, I froze. Not knowing what else to do, I squeezed my eyes as tight as I could and waited.

And waited... and waited...

The silence in the darkness got the better of me. “What do you want from me? I have walked more than a thousand steps! Walked until I was out of breath and on the brink of collapsing. Why am I here?� Shouting my rant into the dark did not coax a response from it. Falling to my knees in quiet despair knowing that I would never be able to escape this darkness. A darkness that had not only encompassed the land but my very being. Still, I continued to wait until finally there was a sign of life other than I here in the darkness. Just one tiny, bright flame burst to life in the distance coaxing me forward.

I leapt up from my knees and ran as fast as I could.

Praying the flame would continue to burn until I could reach it. As I got closer, the flame began to take on the shape of a small girl no bigger than my pinkie finger. She was exquisite. Glowing amber was her hair, sea green for her eyes and a beautiful smile brighter than the flames that

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surround her.

“Please,” I begged, “tell me your name and explain why I am alone here in the darkness?”

She smiled at me for a few seconds. “Why are you so afraid of the dark, of the unknown that lies before you?” she asked while still smiling.

I blinked at her. Why was I afraid of the dark? No longer was I that child scared of the monsters waiting in the dark or needing a nightlight to soothe my frayed nerves. What she asked of me was a demand in need of an answer.

“I fear the dark, the unknown, because I am alone. No one should have to face this darkness alone,” I whispered to the flame.

Her smile was frozen in place. Not once did her piercing gaze leave mine. We stood staring at each other for a long time. A feeling of dread started to ease up my spine as seconds turned to minutes and minutes into hours. I was ready to walk back into the darkness but as I turned my back to her, she began to laugh. Her laugh was soft but full of warmth and joy.

“Accept the darkness that surrounds you now for this is your soul. Soon my light will grow until it combines with your dark. Everyone has a darkness and a light within them it is up to you to accept both, only then will you, and your darkness, not be alone,” my flame said with wisdom beyond her tiny appearance. As she said her last word she began to fade back into the darkness.

“Wait! Don’t go I need you!” I shouted, desperate for her smile and warmth to remain with me.

“I am not leaving you forever. You will find me sooner than you think,” she whispered.

She leaned in to kiss my forehead, as I stood there frozen once more. The darkness started to creep in again.

Cold,lifelessness started to fill my very core. My flame had al-most disappeared entirely, but I heard her say to me as she drifted out of sight, “Open your eyes.”

I jolted out of bed with a gasp, not completely understanding what had just happened in my dream. I sat for a

19

few minutes in silence trying to piece it all together when I felt a hand on my back and another in my hair. Slowly, I turned to face the amber hair flowing around her like a halo. Her eyes a sea green filled my soul with peace and love while her smile was sweet as she stared up at me. My flame was not a dream at all, she was my light, my wife.

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Morgan Ortmann 路 Untitled 路 India ink, watercolor, BFK paper Paris Sheck 路 Untitled 路 Charcoal on paper

Custodial Artist

Logan Schroeder

Confetti fallen on filth covered floors.

I push it around for a paycheck.

On a canvas meant For cleaning covered in spilled beers broken glass and half remembered conversations.

Your excess evenings create work for people like me.

I want to be left alone to clean and ignore You. You think New Year new you, but you’ll be back tomorrow.

And I’ll push the confetti around while You nurse your New Year hangover by the hair of the dog.

22

The Language of Coffee

Alexa Zamora

Kaffee.

The German word for the creamy, rich and warm delicacy.

Caffe.

Italian for the caramel, vanilla, and hazelnut macchiato.

All flavors my tongue desperately craves.

Kafei.

Chinese for the mellow beverage that kisses my lips for a moment before trickling down my parched throat.

Koffie.

The Dutch drink leaving an earthy aroma behind; scent lingering in the air teasing my sense of smell.

CafĂŠ.

The sweet refreshment given to me as a child.

My papa served it in a red, plastic cup

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to hide it from my Hispanic mother.

She threatened I would never grow.

Kahvi.

The Finnish stimulant used in exchange for a real meal.

The food of my Adolescence.

Kava.

Czech for a treat once consumed for self-pleasure evolving into a way of life.

Whether brewed, iced, hot or blended the beverage continues to bring the world together as we share this bittersweet love.

Coffee.

24

December

Cameron Junge The ground is bathed in flakes of snow, delicate ice crystals swaying to and fro.

Leaves no longer fall in cascades of yellow and red, as winter arrives bearing a white color instead.

Twinkling stars shimmer in the sky so bright, against the background of a cold winter’s night.

Trees decorated in ornaments from head to toe, showing off dazzling colors that hang high and low.

Presents sit under the tree wrapped in green and red, as stockings filled with candy canes and treats hang overhead.

A pale moon gradually rises over the twilight, exposing a December so exquisite and bright.

25

Missed Connection Jessica Purgett

Paramedic.

Saturday Morning.

Brown eyes reflecting soft sunlight.

A shared look I cannot forget.

I want to hear from you.

26

Caleb’s Story Catheryn Recker

My name is Calee, but I wish it was Caleb. I’m 17 and what people might call a “butch dyke.” I am a man in a woman’s body. I don’t feel like a chick. I dress like a dude, talk like a dude, think like a dude and love like a dude. I use men’s deodorant, men’s body wash, cologne, and have a crew cut. Technically, I’m a lesbian, but I don’t feel gay.

I feel straight. I feel like a man. I’d be so much happier if I could be true to myself, body and soul. But I can’t. Mum would have an aneurism. She barely managed to stay sane when I brought a girl home and introduced her as my first girlfriend.

I had been seeing Tammy for a few months and knew that if I didn’t tell my mother, someone else would. It had to be today. Tammy was the kindest, funniest, prettiest girl I had ever met, and I hoped that my mother would take an instant liking to her, much like I had. When Mom got home from work that evening, I decided to just get it over with.

That was a fun conversation.

“Mum, I’d like you to meet Tammy, my girlfriend.”

Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.

“Your what?” Her face turned red immediately, and that big vein in her forehead started popping out again like it usually does when she’s mad.

“My girlfriend.” I tried to smile to ease the tension. No good.

“Tammy, I’m sure you’re a nice girl, but you need to leave my house. Now.” She was seething. I was just waiting for that vein to pop. Tammy looked at me like a puppy looks at his owner after peeing on the floor. I gave her a quick peck on the lips and told her I’d call her later. She opened the door and walked out the back door in our kitchen. Mum

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had the decency to wait until Tammy had shut the door behind her before tearing into me.

“You are never to see that harlot again! No child of mine is going to be a fucking faggot!” Spit flew from her mouth as she yelled. I wiped my face off and told her that I couldn’t change who I was.

“Aren’t you just happy that I’m finally happy?” Tears suddenly burst from my eyes.

Her fist connected with my jaw before I even realized what had happened. It wasn’t until after I fell and smacked my head on the counter that it dawned on me that she had just struck me. My eyebrow burned and when I reached up to touch it, I pulled my hand away to find blood on my fingertips.

Mum grabbed a hand towel out of the drawer by the oven. “You will stop with this foolishness. Never speak of this again.” She tossed me the towel. “Clean yourself up before you stain my new floors.”

Of course, I didn’t listen and continued to date Tammy in secret for another six months, until she cheated on me with our Chemistry teacher.

Since then I’ve been meeting with our school therapist twice a week. He thinks I should talk to my mum about Hormone Replacement Therapy and an eventual gender reassignment surgery. He thinks having her support would take a tremendous weight off my shoulders. He can see how unhappy I am. He knows that my grades are slipping and my social life is nonexistent.

He says that with every passing month I get worse, and I know exactly why. Three weeks out of each month, I’m a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. It’s only that one week a month when my insides betray the rest of me that I really get down. It’s a cruel reminder that I’m not really me. In my mind, I am male. When that time of the month comes, I am thrust back into the body of a female, and I hate it.

To top it all off, I get bullied a lot at school. It started when I tried to use the men’s locker room to change before gym class. I didn’t feel comfortable changing with the

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girls because I’m not a girl. It didn’t go over well. The guys freaked out and told the gym teacher. When I tried to explain my situation to Mr. Hansen, one of the girls overheard and told everyone about it. Mr. Hansen said I had to use the girls’ changing room because I’m a girl and I needed to get those “perverted thoughts” out of my head. When I went to the girls’ locker room, they all freaked out too.

They called me a dyke and said they didn’t want me in there where I would prey upon them. I can’t even use the boys’ bathroom; I have to endure torture every time I walk into the girls’ bathroom. I hate all of them.

Eventually though, the school therapist convinces me that it’s time to at least start this conversation with Mum. I just have to wait until she’s in a good mood so she won’t freak out as bad as before.

That night came about a week later, which is great because it gave me time to practice what I wanted to say. I feel ready. Terrified, but ready. She’s in the kitchen singing “All Shook Up” by Elvis Presley while she washes the dishes.

That’s how I know she’s in a good mood. She always sings Elvis songs when she’s happy. I walk up behind her and pat her shoulder.

“Hey, Mum, can I help?” I pick up a towel and begin drying the dishes in the drainer. As I finish drying the first plate, I set it on the counter and pick up another and start drying that one. “Can I talk to you about something?” My voice is barely audible. A mere squeak.

She lovingly responds with “Of course, sweetheart!

What’s on your mind?” So far, so good. She only calls me “sweetheart” when she’s in a really good mood. It gives me hope.

“Do you remember when I brought that girl home?

Tammy?” She freezes, with the exception of the almost imperceptible snarl forming on her lips. I rush on. “Remember how I said I can’t change who I am? Well, that’s not exactly true. I can.” I pause as she seems to relax a little.

I know she is thinking that I’ve come to my senses. I have to finish this. Just get the rest out. I take a deep breath.

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“I can change who I am. I can become someone else. A boy.

I can become a boy. It’s a long, expensive process, but it is possible.” Her face turns red and she launches the coffee mug she just washed across the kitchen, where it shatters, the pieces falling to the floor along with my heart.

I brace myself, but the blow never comes. Not a physical one, anyway. Mum breathes in deeply through her nose and closes her eyes. I don’t know what to think. She hasn’t said a word, not even when she threw the mug. Silence. I’m afraid to look at her, already coming to the understanding that she will never accept me, and I will therefore never be happy. Finally, after what seems like hours have passed, she speaks.

“You have 30 minutes to pack a bag and get out. You’re not my daughter.”

It hit me like a full-speed 18 wheeler. Well, yeah, that’s kind of the point! Why don’t you get it? So that’s that then. The end. Okay. I walk out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs across from the front door. I enter my bedroom and lock the door. I don’t pack. I don’t need anything she bought. I strip my bed and take the sheet in my hands. I use one corner to tie a hangman’s noose.

Tammy taught me this when I started sneaking out to see her. The idea is that you loop the noose around your ankle and tighten it, so if you lose your grip and fall while you’re climbing down, it will tighten around your ankle and catch you before your brains splatter all over your back yard. She always said “It’s better to snap your ankle than to snap your neck.” Luckily, I haven’t ever had to learn that first-hand.

I tie the far corner of the sheet to the pipe that runs up the wall next to my window. I perch myself on the window sill and chance a look down. I hate heights. I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat and take a deep breath. I close my eyes, slip the loop over my head, tighten it around my neck, and jump.

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Haley Weideman · Twelfth Night Epicene · Acrylic paint, watercolor, ink

Change

Charles Uthe

The president steps up to the podium.

She faces thousands of people, all waiting for her response.

Faces of strong, diverse female leaders awaiting their role in the world.

The crowd no longer a sea of whites, but rather a sea of unheard voices, bravely ready to conquer and build a changing world.

A young Indian woman holds her daughter’s hand as they stand in the crowd.

She remembers promising little Athlyia she could see the president who would change everything.

Her daughter is so excited to see America’s first female president up close.

She’s been begging her mother to go see the beautiful new leader of the nation she was born into.

The young woman prays that this new leader could keep her promise.

An older African American woman holds her stocking cap to her chest.

She looks at the woman standing at the podium.

Her husband said that she wouldn’t live to see a female president.

She chuckled and told him he could bet on that.

Now the older woman, in a sea of people just like her, smiles gleefully to herself.

A middle-aged white woman wraps her fingers around her wife’s hand.

They both look at each other and smile.

They repeat their wedding vows,

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promising to work for a new future.

They continue to donate, and support the local Planned Parenthood every day.

It seems that their lives are changing for the better.

The president smiles as she scans the crowd.

Thousands of women all in one place, fighting for their futures.

Every single one of them unique.

Every single one of them willing to give their all.

To change the world.

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Some Broken Headphones

Rachel Shoop I never cared for music—it was useless background noise. Sure, I listened to the radio, but I never went to concerts or watched music videos on YouTube. All of my friends had iPods and iTunes full of hundreds and hundreds of songs. I was always content with the few songs I had.

Honestly, music was just something I didn’t care about. At least, I thought that way until I discovered music worth listening to. It was when I was 16 years old that I would finally discover my love for music.

Even after realizing how great music was, I still always thought, “How music saved my life” was a super cheesy cliché. I never really understood that statement, at least until the band that changed my opinion of music, One Direction, literally saved my life. For the record, I didn’t care about the lyrics while listening to their songs. I liked their high-energy music and I also thought they were adorable.

Soon I became obsessed listening to their music constantly, watching all their interviews, buying all their music, and going to a couple of their concerts.

Eventually, I dragged my best friend into the fandom and we both became hooked. Every day on the bus, my friend and I would share a pair of headphones and listen to One Direction’s playlist while en route to Kirkwood, where we would spend our afternoons. On the bus, the 5th seat on the right side was ours. We would sit there every day and listen to music for the 45-minute journey. Even though no one had assigned seating, everyone was fully aware who occupied what seats on the bus.

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The juniors were always in the front, and seniors were in the back. Anyone who has gone to high school is fully aware of the importance of “dibs” or claiming your spot.

However, one day that sacred rule was disturbed, causing a series of events to occur that brought me here, to this exact moment of time.

I honestly don’t know what happened that day. Maybe we were late boarding? Maybe someone took our spot just out of spite? I mean it honestly wasn’t that great of a seat, so I doubt that was the reason. Or maybe we simply just chose to sit elsewhere. Whatever the cause was, on that day we sat on the left side, the first seat right behind the bus driver. Not the right side. Not in the 5th seat from the front. The nature of the bus had been disturbed. It was us and two juniors, sitting in a place usually reserved for the studious senior introverts; it was all wrong.

I sat next to the window and my friend took the spot on the outside, just like always. The seat was the same shade of brown, the same size, and it even felt the same as our usual spot. The bus ride to Kirkwood was bumpy like always. The seniors slept and the juniors were studying or talking loudly. As always, we listened to music. Just like the day before and the day before that. Today wasn’t different than any other, or so I thought.

As my friend pressed play, I immediately noticed something was off.

“Your right headphone doesn’t work,” I told my friend matter-of- factly after not hearing any noise after she started the song.

“What?” she says, while slowly taking out her own earbud.

“I said your right earbud doesn’t play music. We started the song like 10 seconds ago, and I hear nothing. You probably blew out the speaker or some—” “What? No that’s impossible, I just used this pair during study hall. Here let me try.”

I pressed play and waited. I waited for her to confirm my thoughts, for her to admit that she just owned a cheap

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pair of headphones that were obviously broken.

Before she could explain herself, I spoke, “See! I told you! Next time we will use my headphones and—” “Rachel, they work just fine for me.”

“Wait, what?” I asked confused.

“They work just fine for me,” she said slightly annoyed.

Then everything went silent. I didn’t understand. I asked her if I could try again and I did with the same results as before. Desperate, I put the right headphone in my left ear this time, praying I’d hear no noise. But I did. I did hear music from the same earbud that didn’t play any music earlier.

“See,” she said, “my headphones aren’t bro—” “No,” I started, “but my ear is.”

The incident that took place on the bus forced me to acknowledge the thing I had been afraid of most. Something was terribly wrong, and I knew I needed to seek help.

So that’s how I found myself leaving school early the following week, and making my way down to an ENT. I had no idea what to expect. Maybe I wanted some type of confirmation that I was indeed experiencing hearing loss or be told that everything that I was suffering from was caused by something minor, like plugged ears from my previous ear infections. A part of me wanted reassurance that nothing was wrong, which I knew wasn’t the case, but I still let myself entertain that idea. I anticipated that I would probably get a hearing test. What I didn’t want to expect, was to find out that I was almost completely deaf in my right ear, that I would have to get an MRI, or that I’d cry. Unfortunately, I did. Everything happened so fast. By the end of the week, I was told I had multiple brain tumors and a disease called Neurofibromatosis Type II. “Neuro-what?” was all I could think. Any word longer than 3 syllables and ended in “-osis” never seemed like it would be a good thing, and it wasn’t. Never did I imagine I would find myself in a situation like that, finding out I had a disease that would forever change my life. Never did I imagine I would have hearing loss; never did I imagine I would

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have tumors; never did I ever imagine a boy band would save my life by lifting the blinds from my eyes through their music and some headphones; never did I imagine my life would turn into this, being sick.

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Loops

Krysten Martinez

Tie the knot. Hold the yarn in one hand and the needle in the other. Bring the yarn around and hook it to make a loop.

Continue taking the yarn around the hook to make more loops. Eventually this turns into a chain. The process just keeps on going—it is a constant and a distraction. Just focus on the loops, I keep telling myself. One loop. Then another loop. That’s all I have to keep on doing.

One loop. Just like one step. Somehow, I need to take that step to try to find motivation to do homework, take a shower, and eat. My depression has been bad again, and everything seems so hopeless. The thing is time just keeps on going like all of this yarn. It is just constantly there and always will be, but I am the one that has to decide to create something out of it. I have no energy though so instead I return my focus to creating more loops. Maybe when I’m done crocheting I can give this scarf to a friend to make them happy. I can’t control my own happiness, but maybe I can make someone else happy.

Another loop. My scarf is coming out so well. The stitches look so nice, but then I make a mistake. Everything changes in an instant. I make a loop too tight and the yarn starts getting tangled. I have to pull the string and restart my progress from multiple loops back. My depression is like this. Every time I think I am fine it ends up pushing me back and I have to attempt to start over. I have to try to get my life back together and create something useful out of tangled yarn.

I try this again. One more loop. One after another. Things seem to be going smoothly even though you can see all the distorted yarn, but I can’t focus any longer. I lose all energy and motivation, even the amount needed to crochet. I officially put the scarf away.

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Maggie Murphy ¡ Self-portrait ¡ Spray paint on poster board

Ode to Odes Abbey Konzen

Oh, ode. What pompous poetry, the ode.

What mockery of feelings, reaching to describe a piece of lint or light itself.

Anything I pick, you make it matter. Choose my words, my subject, good or awful, pressure’s off. I can’t mess up when anything goes anything—but no. The transformation comes when I put feelings into you, oh ode. Feelings I can’t reach right now.

Would you do the work for me? Would you just write yourself, if you have to be an ode, if you have to come to life, just take a breath, take a fucking gulp ode, create yourself I’m tired, I can’t pretend

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to care enough about a paperclip to turn it into gold, enough about a cruddy set of paints to write an ode.

If you have to be an ode, be an ode. Be you. Be free, but when you question your existence don’t come scrawling back to me.

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Loving You Bailey Rickels

Loving you is not the hard part.

It is loving the guns and war that shaped you that is hard.

It is loving the first swig of the fifth beer you drink on Friday after work, and Saturday watching the game, and Sunday before church.

It is driving you home after too many, when you raise your voice at me because of course I said something to piss you off again, that is hard.

I know what I said. Please stop reminding me.

It is loving the ability to wake up every hour of most nights to make sure that I don’t miss your 4 a.m. alarm because you’re counting on me to wake you up.

It is loving the yelling and the fighting you do in your sleep, and the comfort and protection that I want to give you, but you won’t let me, that is hard.

It is loving your unaffectionate and emotionless sides.

It is knowing that the mere touch of my curves does not electrify you like it should.

It is going without good morning kisses, and good night kisses, and “just because I love you” kisses.

It is crying “I’m done” and “I’m leaving,” and you staring around the room blankly, not bothering to ask me to stay that is hard.

I long for the day you feel something more than nothing.

But I love you because loving you is not the hard part.

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Corbin Evert-Fratzke · Helmet of Power · Woodcut print, gold spray paint

Hope

Cally Salter A blind woman sits hunched in rags of gold Atop a decayed globe, wrinkled and old Calloused fingers pluck at a harp long played Her music floats like ripples in a stream Spreading softly, but at the last, it fades— The restless crowd can’t bear its mournful sound So with eyes closed, dive back into the dream Where springs rush eternal from the ground— When sleep no longer holds the nightmares down And monsters from the frozen deep abound, That’s when she knows to pluck the broken string For the world shall go on, in pain and strife And in the morning light, yet still she sings A withered love song to this rusted life. (based on Robert Frost’s “The Oven Bird”)

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Pop!

Tyus Thompson

Love, a fire in the soul with no love given a heart turns cold, that coldness stems from past transgressions; fights with family, losing friends, doing things with no confessions.

No critical sense of what’s good and what’s wrong the only way he draws peace; words.

Stress levels rising, he sits in his house; alone.

He has a secret.

Amphetamines reveal his goals, writing cleanses his soul.

He wrote about things people wouldn’t understand, some would call him mad.

Drugs filled his body passing through his veins sending thoughts to his brain.

Time stops.

Life has no meaning.

He’s alive yet trapped in his body nobody listens to him, not family, not friends.

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Entering his mind is one final thought his life, his works ended.

One easy shot.

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Derick Harman ¡ Villain Archetype ¡ Digital print

Straight to Hell Logan Wilkes

Straight (Noun)

1) The angular definition that a line goes from

Point A to Point B to no hindrance or

deviation en-route.

2) A modern slang term for being heterosexual in

regards to sexual orientation as opposed to

being homosexual.

For Homosexual, see; Faggot (Fag), Dyke, Lesbian (Lesbo), Gay, Homo, Carpet-Muncher, Fairy, Queer, Abomination, Pussy, Fudge-packer, Bean, Butch, Queen (drag), Tranny, Bender, Bugger, etc.

(Straight) Power: Secure in the knowledge that the minority sexuality (the gays) don’t deserve to get married because of a bullshit line in a book that may or may not be written about what a God preached thousands of years ago. Being able to thrust your sexuality onto the mainstream public without anyone batting an eyelid, but as soon as a gay person is mentioned or portrayed, they are vilified immediately and more likely than not to be killed. The ability to say that ‘the gays’ have an agenda that they are trying to push onto the younger generation when you are the ones constantly pushing them to be ‘straight’.

(Straight) Pride: The ability to believe that because ‘the gays’ partake in ‘sodomy’, you are above them in every way. You are safe in the knowledge that because God and Jesus hate the gays with such ferocity, they will overlook your adultery, stealing, seafood eating, blended material clothing ways. You

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are safely able to say that because some dude thousands of years ago created a man and a woman to love each other, they don’t deserve to marry who they love because they are unable to reproduce, while millions of children lay neglected in foster homes while you sit in your high-castles pretending everything is alright with the world.

Synonyms:

· Heterosexuals

· Linear

· Right-Wing

· Conservative Christian/Catholic

· Donald Trump Supporters

· Proud American

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Holy

Rachel Vaughn

I used to play hide-and-seek as a kid and I first remember wishing I was smaller so I could fit where no one could find me.

And there’s something appealing about wanting to be less because what if there’s more to what’s leftover?

As if boiling your bones down into concentrate is the best way to find yourself And worthiness is measured in tags, Living a life where sins coat my tongue and throat and I repent on my knees at a porcelain shrine, begging forgiveness from the numbers and knowing that I am one of the damned.

I fell in love with my sickness and turned this war on myself into a testament of strength and perseverance, that child, another casualty, Jesus must have been light in order to walk on water because I am too.

Judgement comes at 100.00 and I will finally be saved.

Hollowness is the prayer seizing my lungs as I fall asleep.

I think the only thing I’m hiding from now is myself.

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I live

Anonymous

i live that is to say i continue breathing i live every day, but not for me and most days i don’t choose to live for myself it isn’t hard to make the i live for those around me choice, i love my family, i have and that’s because supportive and caring friends, if i lived for me they’re great i wouldn’t but i look at who i am and what i’ve done, and and i would— i wish only to be if i could leave gone and no one here would miss me—i’d be gone, forgotten but i live and never have to face myself again because i can’t i’d bury my nature in the ground, so easily leave, no no one left behind— i exist here, in people’s lives i’d die and be good people who don’t deserve to at peace be left hurting, wondering, having to bury not only tell me why the body but the is it so easy to love memories the other people in my life when it’s just as easy to hate myself? but every time the hate grows too strong the ones who love me come to mind and i continue breathing that is to say i live

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The Leader

Jessica Purgett

Just stop your crying!

That’s what he tells us while all around people are barely surviving.

He says, “Don’t make a fuss—” and lines his pockets with the wealth that belongs to the other ninety-nine.

There is a division, growing, Growing, GROWING, of class, of race, of people willing to make the decision to speak up against a man so unjust.

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Just a Whistle

Tanner Childs

Little Timmy loved nothing more than the only treasure his grandmother had ever given him. It was a small silver object no larger than his favorite candy bar. It opened up at either end, with a narrow slit carved into its top. The metal was cast in the likeness of the most magnificent machine Timmy had ever laid eyes on…

A train.

His most treasured possession was his grandmother’s train whistle. She had given it to him on a sticky summer day, entrusting him with the secret of its magic. Blow the whistle and she would come. She warned that Mother would be furious if he ever blew it in any case except emergencies. So Little Timmy kept it safely in his pocket each day, his fingers idly stroking its cold surface.

Then Grandma died.

Mother said she had gone to a better place. Father told him it was just a part of life. Brother said that Grandma would be eaten by worms, and Mother smacked him for it.

Teacher told Timmy that he would see Grandma again, and Counselor just wanted him to draw pictures. Little Timmy cried and kicked and fussed. Then he remembered the whistle. He ran from Counselor, dodged around Teacher and rushed out the door of his school. He heard Mother calling him, but he ignored her, grabbing for the whistle in his pocket.

He stopped on the tracks, the train tracks. The train whistle was magic, and it would bring Grandma back, and the tracks…the tracks would help!

Little Timmy’s mother screamed, her voice shrill and panicked. Timmy ignored her. He wanted Grandma, even if Mother would be mad at him. He clamped his eyes shut and

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took the whistle from his pocket. He placed it between his lips and blew with all the wind in his lungs.

Wwwhhhhhhhhh!

The sound was deafening. It filled the air and sprang out into the land with unnatural clarity. But it worked! Timmy could feel the magic shaking through the ground, pulsing up through his feet, its strength growing every second. He could hear it beating the air in its perfectly timed rhythm.

Then its screech split through the noise. The ground quaked with excitement, shaking Timmy from head to toe.

He could hear Mother, but her voice was like that of an insect, drowned out by the chaos of the magic. The whistle fell to the ground as a smile spread across Timmy’s face. He was going to see Grandma!

Then another whistle cut the air, the noise a deafening curse to the world of a child. Timmy’s smile faded, and he opened his eyes. Mother lunged, her hand extended as tears raced down her cheeks.

In that moment, Timmy stopped believing in magic.

How could he not?

After all, it was just a whistle.

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Dylan Catalano-Wild · Self-portrait · Embroidery

When it Was Me

Doriann Whitlock

Our life wasn’t supposed to be this way, You promised me forever.

What I got was a happily never after.

Now I see you with her and wonder what she has that I don’t?

You kiss her with the same passion you used to kiss me She touches your face as I once touched your face.

Together you laugh as if the world could never come between you.

You take her to our spots as if our memories meant nothing to you at all.

Looking back I realize it now…you never loved me.

What we had was all make believe.

We kissed...because you wanted to kiss We touched…because you wanted to touch.

There was never a we…there was only you.

No more tears flow from my eyes.

No more heart left for you to break.

She can have you.

She will learn just as I did what kind of man you are, and when she does, be ready.

I do not know if this change is for the better, this change happening inside of me.

All I know is that I have been changed for good.

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I Broke Up With My Therapist

Courtney Snodgrass

after three dates, I always paid the bill; she never offered.

I felt like she didn’t understand me, wasn’t even willing to try.

I ended up crying whenever we met.

I always left feeling sad, empty, like our relationship hadn’t grown at all in the time we’d been seeing each other.

By the third date, I’d stopped talking almost completely.

We were set up by a third party, who I don’t talk to anymore either.

I felt like I was wasting our time.

I couldn’t think of anything to say that I hadn’t already said.

I was the one who ended it.

I left.

I drove away with her in the rearview mirror.

I did not cry.

I still paid that bill, but I couldn’t afford any more dates.

After a few months, I tried calling to reconnect, hoping she was doing well, as I was not.

She was too busy to meet.

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Trafficking

Amber Salow

I am used torn and abused thrown in a dark room I am stripped of my morals crying myself to sleep I am broken physically weak have not eaten in days I am shook detached from the world feeling empty in the darkness I am vulnerable lost with no options lying there spiritless I am hopeless waiting for an end my body a piece of meat

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Danielle Meister ¡ Lone Wolf ¡ Intaglio print, oil and acrylic paint, ink

Potential

Abby Estabrook

Where there once Was potential There is now regret The past is poison The future is set Time has betrayed me For youth was the key But that is the truth Youth cannot see

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Melted

Haley Weideman

Ryan was new to Jackson High School. I was still considered new-ish. I moved here last April and didn’t attempt to make friends over the summer. I didn’t make a single one until the fifth day of the next school year. It was the first Friday.

I went to Big Scoops every Friday over the summer. I’d sit in the far corner booth, well hidden from reality, and I’d read until my eyes grew dry and my mind started slurring the words that were on the page. I’m pretty sure I was the only girl at JHS that even enjoyed reading. The girls I’d spoken to seemed less complex. School was back in session much too quickly, but I wasn’t about to let it ruin my sacred Friday afternoon ritual. I am quite the fan of routine, which explains why moving to Alabama from Oklahoma was the worst thing to ever happen to me. Big Scoops might be the only place in this small town that doesn’t suck. For some reason, I didn’t hate this town when I was at Big Scoops.

Even though it was only two hours a week, it helped.

Anyway, on the first Friday of junior year, I got in line. I was very surprised that the line existed, but school had just gotten out. I pulled out my wallet and my loyalty punch card. I ordered one scoop of vanilla and one scoop of strawberry: the usual. I didn’t have to tell Theresa my order, but I did anyway. Another punch in my loyalty card. As I watched Theresa scoop first white then pink, I realized someone was sitting in the corner booth, my booth. I hadn’t even bothered to look at my booth when I came in because it had always been vacant before.

I was so caught off guard. I stood there, as frozen as the dessert in my bowl. I knew that I wasn’t going to sit anywhere else in the parlor, so I took the last few strides to

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the corner. I must’ve thought I would tell the stranger all about their huge mistake in taking my booth. The guy in my corner was new to me, yet I sat down without thinking twice. It was pretty obvious that he was alone here as well.

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. My mind had caught up to my actions and I was in shock. He peered over Twelfth Night and grinned at my loss for words.

“I’m Ryan.” He answered the question he assumed I might ask.

“Oh, yeah. Uhm, I’m Kat.” I barely got through it. Luckily there wasn’t any direct eye contact.

“What did you order? It’s my first time coming here and I didn’t really know what to get.”

“Well, I get vanilla and strawberry.”

“Wild.” He was joking. He had a gleam in his eye that told me to joke back, but I was here on serious business.

This Ryan guy was way too animated for me, but I found myself letting out a little laugh at his tease. This laugh came as a total surprise to me.

I think it was in that exact moment that we became friends. I never ended up telling Ryan about my intentions to make him get out of my booth so I could read alone. I just let him tell me about himself, how he’s new and moved here from New Jersey. I told him that I was still new-ish here, but that I loved Big Scoops. This conversation was refreshing. To each other, neither of us were really “the new kid,” because everyone we met at Jackson High was new to us.

Ryan and I met at Big Scoops every Friday through September. We learned about each other’s hobbies and talked about school work. I was looking to major in English, just like I thought I wanted to. October: we met every Tuesday and Friday, same time. We learned about each other’s families and talked about our lives before Gillville. He was going to be valedictorian at his previous high school, now he wasn’t sure. November: we went back to only meeting on Fridays. We learned about each other’s beliefs and talked

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about our lifelong goals. He wouldn’t consider himself religious, but spiritual and I admitted to not understanding the difference. I had mock trial every Tuesday that month and Ryan was okay with returning to only one day per week. I thought he might keep going Tuesdays without me, but he told me it just wasn’t the same.

December: the worst month of junior year. Ryan didn’t come the first Tuesday. Maybe he forgot I didn’t have trial again until February. I guessed that was all, until he didn’t show on Friday afternoon either. I gave him a call, but was sent to voicemail. I thought I’d give my old routine a shot.

I sat in the corner booth alone. I read some novel for class, but I only got three pages in before I got lonely. Maybe something happened to him. Maybe I should be worried.

I was right. Sort of. Something didn’t happen, rather someone happened. Her name was Jenna. She was a really pretty sophomore. I had seen her around school, but Ryan never mentioned her name to me. I didn’t even hear about them from him. I saw a snapchat story later that December Friday night that featured Ryan at the high school basketball game. He hates basketball. He hates all sports, but he was going to watch Jenna cheer.

I called him as soon as I saw it, not really sure what I planned to say, but got sent to voicemail after the second ring. I hurriedly hung up to avoid leaving a message. That weekend was rough and Ryan never called me back. He just texted me to let me know that he didn’t think he’d be coming to ice cream anymore.

I went to Big Scoops on Tuesday and sat in our booth alone. I got more schoolwork done this time. I glanced up to look for Ryan as I flipped pages, only to be disappointed.

That Friday I hardly glanced up to look for him at all. My reading was much more fluid. I was beginning to enjoy my own company again. I was beginning to crawl back into my shell again.

A few months later, it might have been a Tuesday or a Friday in March, Ryan walked into Big Scoops without his blonde girlfriend. I was currently in my booth doing

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my thing. I made eye contact with him as he ordered his ice cream. My eyes flickered right back to my statistics homework. I was in the middle of a problem when Ryan sat across from me. Was he crazy? He was the one who ditched me. Was I crazy for being happy to see him?

“I broke up with Jenna.” He hadn’t talked to me in months and he already said Jenna’s name. Perfect start.

“I’m sorry.” I clearly wasn’t genuine but rolled with it.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t know where to go from there, so I awkwardly asked if Jenna was okay.

“I don’t know. That’s honestly not what I’m too worried about right now,” he sighed. “Kat, I was such a jerk to you.”

“I mean, yeah.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Jenna made me someone else and cut me off from the only real friend that I had.” A long silence followed this truth. Our eyes were locked.

“You, Kat. You were—are—my only true friend.”

I took a long time to conjure up a response. What are you supposed to say when someone flatters you while admitting to tearing your heart out? I looked around nervously for inspiration or something when I noticed what Ryan had ordered. A bowl of vanilla and strawberry. There were two spoons next to the bowl.

I took a deep breath, picked up a spoon, looked from the bowl to my friend and said, “Wild choice. Welcome back to our booth.”

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Melissa Deeney · Dragon Teapot · Ceramics

Retro-Romance

Cally Salter

A hand lowers the needle down, silence in the shadows – before sound swells and bursts into life, a note of shattered intimacy A vinyl is a half-written love letter of an old romance that slips away like fragments of a dream Maybe all life is surface noise, playing on repeat like indiscreet chatter of an urban subway The needle stutters on a scratched disc, A never-ending loop of broken bits

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Just Sing: A Poem to the Younger Me

Catheryn Recker

I see you there preparing your razor and the rubbing alcohol you keep by your bed for that extra little sting I know you need to feel something anything but there’s a better way.

Just sing!

Put down the bottle put back the pills that rattle I know you feel too much, need to numb the pain make it go away but there’s a better way.

Just sing!

Put your clothes on pick up your dignity I know you feel alone sex is the only way you can feel loved even if it’s only for a few minutes

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at least you are seen wanted but there’s a better way.

Just sing!

Some day you will win talent shows be in bands people will drop what they’re doing to stare at you in awe you want to be seen to feel joy to be free feel what it’s like to fly.

Just sing!

Sing until your throat is raw until tears stream down your face Performing takes that bliss you are trying so hard to feel and amplifies it multiplying its power until you know what Heaven feels like.

Put the razor down.

Just sing.

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Women in Mirror Abby Herb

Mirrors reflect what the mind sees saggy boobs, cellulite, and stomach rolls lines painted across our bodies are the judgements of the world teaching us to hate ourselves We only see the stick thin models on T.V. and we celebrate their slim legs, perky breasts sun kissed skin—not too white, not too black make up making us into a different person who resembles Marilyn Monroe or the natural look perfected by the Kardashians Yet, we all are different the colors of our souls try to shine brightly orange, pink, red, yellow, gold but society is telling us that those colors are ugly, unattractive, not desired by men turning us into the color of sadness and sickness blue and green mingling with distaste at the sight of our own bodies in the mirror I AM sexy from my touching thighs to the cellulite that caresses my legs all the way up to my ass dimples sumptuously licking my skin stretch marks lining my body

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perfectly like eye liner sharply lining the eye my body is desirable because I AM beautiful

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Road to Recovery

Jenna Schutte

Sitting in the driver’s seat next to my mom, I start the engine for the long trip ahead of us. As I back out of our driveway, I look over to my mother. She looks nervous.

“It’s gonna be okay, Mom. The doctors up in Rochester will know what to do.”

“You know what’s funny? I’ve never ridden a bike,” she says in a daze, almost as if she is somewhere else. “You’d think a country kid would have ridden a bike before, but not me.”

A month ago, my mom fell in the shower. Mom is young and healthy, so with the fall, we knew something wasn’t right. The doctors at the local hospital found a mass on her right femur and referred her to some specialists in Rochester three hours away to get some tests done. They’re suspecting cancer; I just hope to God it’s not.

“It’s 1974, the doctors say Rochester has treatments now like chemotherapy and radiation. We can get through this, Mom,” I say, trying to find the silver lining in all of this.

“My family had this one bike. It was red with the scooped handlebars and a white, wicker basket.” My mom seems a million miles away. “Every single one of my eight siblings got to ride the bike, but by the time I was big enough, the chain was broken and the pretty little wicker basket was tattered and unraveled.”

It’s almost as if Mom is trying to avoid reality. She may have cancer, she may get treatments, she may die. Instead of acknowledging these possibilities, she’s talking about a damn bike! I want to comfort her, but I just can’t when she is acting like a daydreaming child. It’s so irritating!

Frustrated, I turn on the car’s radio. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s

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“Free Bird” fills the car with its sweet, almost hypnotic melody. I let my mind ease away to the sound of Johnny Van Zant’s voice speaking of freedom. “If I leave here tomorrow, Would you still remember me? For I must be travelin’ on now, There’s too many places I got to see.” How I wish I could be free as a bird…

Andrew, my boyfriend, asked me to move to Chicago with him to pursue his music. He’s confident that he will make it big someday, but Chicago is the only way to start.

There’s so much opportunity out there, Pat, Andrew said. Before you know it, I’ll be opening for Zeppelin! I’d love to leave this small town for a place like Chicago. It’d be a dream to write for a big-time newspaper like the Chicago Tribune, but with Mom’s health declining, I just don’t think I could do it. Before the song can get to my favorite part with the electric guitar solo, my mom clicks off the radio.

“Turn that hippy crap off! You want real music? Buddy Holly was a real musician!”

All I can do is roll my eyes. My mom has always been traditional, never giving anything new a chance. Mom got married to my father when they were nineteen. She had gotten pregnant with my older brother Sam, so their strict Catholic families forced my parents into marriage. The two of them have always worked hard together at raising our family. It is obvious that they love and respect each other, but it’s clear that both Mom and Dad had dreams of their own they never had the chance to chase.

We sit in silence as the wheels of my 1968 Mercury Commuter Station Wagon turn against the pavement of Highway 18. Outside, the sun is just starting to peek up over the trees, turning the sky a pinkish shade. Corn stands tall in straight rows in the fields that line the road. Every now and then we see a rabbit dart across the road into the brush of the ditch. As we pass a hog farm, the thick, heavy smell of the pigs fill the car. Out of my right eye, I can see Mom lean over to check my speedometer.

“Sixty? Christ, Patricia! Are you looking to get a speeding ticket?” Mom says as if I’ve committed some crime.

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“Mom, I’m only going five over. I don’t want you late for your appointment.”

“You drive just like your father…” she mutters.

Before I can think to stop myself, I fire back, “Would you rather drive, Mom?” She is visibly hurt. Mom hasn’t been able to drive herself for two weeks. The tumor in her leg causes too much pain to walk, let alone maneuver between the accelerator and brake correctly. She sits quietly for the remainder of the trip.

“I’m sorry, Mom, I shouldn’t have said such a nasty thing,” but she remains quiet. After what seems like an eternity, I pull into the parking lot of Rochester’s hospital.

Before I can get out to open her door, Mom says, “Patricia, I know it seems like I come down pretty hard on you, but that’s because I want you to expect more out of yourself than I did at your age. I know you’ve been going with Andrew for a while now, and he’s a nice boy, but I hope you follow your dreams before you find yourself compromising those dreams for his.” I think of my dreams of writing, and I think about Andrew asking me to move to Chicago. I wonder if Mom knows it’s not Andrew I’m compromising my dreams for.

“Then again, you are a terrific writer and I would like to see that take you somewhere,” she continues. “I suppose I should say don’t compromise your dreams for anyone.”

Mom pauses as she watches an elderly couple walk across the parking lot and into the hospital. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say here?”

Staying in this small town will allow me to be with my mother for whatever time she may have left, and maybe I could make something of my writing right here. However, making that choice would sacrifice my chance at true love and success. Either choice leaves some part of my heart broken, but there’s still opportunity for true happiness. I sit and run through her words once more, knowing what I have to do before I answer, “Yes Mom, I promise I will make you proud.”

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Somnolence

Rachel Vaughn

I try to forget that it was you that built stars in a mobile of promises and wonder I try to forget that you made our bed and tucked your own demons between the sheets to grab my ankles when it’s late It was you that held poison to my mouth under the guise of warm milk and dreamless sleep thinking that perhaps the best way to forget myself was to strip it away like clothing and replace this body, this body built on nightmare with yours.

I can’t forget that you were the last one to turn off the light.

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Thief

Logan Wilkes

I think I’ll take a purple one today.

It’ll look beautiful amongst the reds and the blues.

Briefly looking left and right, I pluck the flower and run, not noticing the shadow in the window.

Inhaling the scent that fans my face, I let out a small smile as I lay it at your feet.

I’m gonna take a pink one today, change it up and create a rainbow for you.

‘Hey!’ I hear as I pluck the flower.

‘What are you doing?’ I release a smile and mention my wife.

I carry on my way, with a kind smile, a wave, and an unexpected shadow.

I’m going to try and get a yellow one today that exudes happiness, just like you.

Waiting in the garden was a beautiful array of flowers,

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filled with colours and all wrapped up.

Walking closer to the bouquet, I lifted it gingerly and saw the neatly printed note.

‘I followed you away yesterday; I’m going to leave a bouquet every day to say I’m sorry.’

I sat in front of your grave today and laid the flowers down as I inhaled their scent.

I never got a chance to say ‘I love you.’

All those wasted years reduced to my tears.

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Hope

Jessica Hiney

Going through prison security, I realize just how much I take for granted. The ability to go where I wish to go, to say what I wish to say, to see who I wish to see. So many things that seem incredibly common. Freedom.

After going through several stages of identification, we make our way to the classroom. It is my third time partaking in the prison book club. The classroom is simple: a circle of green chairs with built-in desk tops. There are four of us who have come to join over a dozen prisoners to discuss our latest read, a novel by Sherman Alexie.

For an hour and a half, we discuss the book. We talk about the development of the characters, and their hardships growing up in poverty. Many of those in the room speak of their own lives, growing up in a similar situation as the characters. It’s strange, the things we take for granted. Growing up with an income that was stable enough to provide food, along with every other necessary item—and then some. Not living in a constant state of fear. Privilege.

At the end of our time together, my professor brings up a theme we had not yet discussed—lost dreams. The moment the words are spoken, they become a heavy presence.

Several of the prisoners look down and shield their face. I see one pull at the corner of his eye, tears glistening in the fluorescent lights. A large number of the men in this room are serving life sentences. They will never see a world beyond these walls. The ache in my soul sharpens.

“We place our hope in those who still have a chance,” said one of the men, looking up. He stares at the four of us who can’t possibly understand. I want to weep as the bitter taste of his words sit in my mouth. It’s strange, the

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things we take for granted. Dreams of a future made better. Dreams to be seen as more than the mistakes we have made. Hope.

After a few moments, another prisoner speaks up. “I continue to try and better myself. I may not be able to change the world, but I can change how I see the world. I can change who I am.� Many of the prisoners around the room nod their heads in agreement. Looking around, I can feel it. The spark. A hope for something better, within these prison walls.

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Laura Slovakova · Self-portrait · Woodcut print

I Didn’t Cry

Courtney Snodgrass I didn’t cry when the nurse used the wand and jelly to rub over my swollen belly, searching over large hills and deep ravines of stretch marks, searching for you in the vastness of my womb.

I didn’t cry when she apologetically left the room, searching for another being, returning with our doctor.

I didn’t cry when she, too, suited up and went on voyage searching for your little soul inside me, journeying through the darkness as I watched on the tiny screen next to me but seeing only the blackness you left behind.

I didn’t cry when I crawled inside our home and pushed up the stairs to your nursery, getting lost within the pale blue paint scheme.

I didn’t cry when I imagined your tiny body lying in the ocean of your crib.

I didn’t cry when I sat in the rocking chair and held my belly, hoping you were just hiding really well.

I didn’t cry when your daddy came home and found me lying on the plush rug we’d bought because it

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matched the elephants and tigers in your future room and I liked the way the fabric felt against my face, soft like your skin would’ve been.

I didn’t cry when he put his arms around me and tried to massage your little lost body back to life.

I didn’t cry when he started to cry, his tears landing on top of the home you used to live in.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t cry.

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Scriptotherapy Jenna Schutte

I am the natural glide of the pen on blank paper.

I’m the powerful flood of inspiration, pouring into the unsuspecting mind.

I am the far away land with star-crossed lovers, fighting for love.

I’m the inanimate object given life by a single word.

I am the story waiting to unfold, begging to be told.

I’m the author’s true therapy, their only solace.

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Adulthood/You’re Not An Adult Logan Schroeder

I used to be happy but now life moves at a speed I don’t like.

Like it’s a bullet train careening from one island to another, when all I want to do is stay put in one simple place.

Kerouac said something about chasing falling stars and not catching any.

It seems like that’s all life is as an adult.

I really thought these episodes of existential crisis would grow out like a beard but the dread is always just a thought away. But lucky for me fighting it off is as easy as 1 2 3 whiskey.

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Fight dread with poison they taught me: Faulkner, Bukowski, Hemingway.

But what do they know?

Just how to write prose not how to live life anymore Hemingway’s manliness seems almost toxic I’ve been on the outs like Buko and I didn’t have the taste for skidrow.

Whiskey is good and all but Faulkner was a functioning Alcoholic And well I’m not Faulk.

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Tonight

Anonymous the stars make me feel alone they are many they are distant they care not for who i am or what i want they only stare down silent, unwavering i try to see the stars as a sign that i am meant to be more than i am that my feelings are valid that there is a god among them who hears my cries and desires to comfort me but the stars remain the same regardless of what i think or say or feel most nights i stare at the sky and pray i look at the moon as it hangs among them i remember all the times before when the stars silently watched me while i prayed for a refuge while i begged for an answer some nights, however i watch the clouds roll in and blot out the moon and the stars the sky is relieved of its permanent gaze if only for a time and all its candles are engulfed in black and on a night like this i am not asking god if he exists or if he cares to hear my prayers

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i’m not bemoaning my existence or my lack of motivation i do not wish i was dead or somebody else tonight i simply feel the dirt and the dew and know that i am enough

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Jacob Herndon ¡ Untitled ¡ Ceramics

True Love

Joshua Jurgensmeier To paint for you my true love, I cannot equate, as poets oft’, her grace and turtledove.

Words flee from out me at but this notion; Eyes fierce and calmer still than the grandeur of the ocean.

Her heart full, and full to brim, of all the world’s devotion To walk with God; To walk with her.

It’s heresy to say.

Yet still I must and oft’ I do: They differ not a way.

To dream and dream and dream of her, Is but a shallow, pallid shade For in no prison can her radiance be kept That by mortal means was made If but her names I was blessed to know, These lines of dross and prose Could not be rendered so poetic than to be rendered so Burn these words! and place instead, those by which she goes.

No band of Earth nor rite of matrimony No indifference so far flung Could make us more (nor more than) one Or rival our lacking plurality If the blind, chaste wise caught one word I say, They’d presume that in folly, infatuation I commit.

It was merely, they’d scoff, yesterday That but once I saw her, so divine, on the Internet.

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Murder Victim Logan Wilkes

Let’s drink in celebration!

Cheers to me!

I finally got the job done, I’ve never felt better I can hear laughter through the door as the crowded noise ringing in my ear the streets are dark as the gravel moves beneath my feet as a shadow creeps behind me causing me to run a voice behind me calls out when I fall to my knees as the knife burns my flesh without sound cherry blood drops as the earth cries.

Now read from the bottom up.

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Contributors Dylan Catalano-Wild is a sophomore Graphic Design major with a Business Administration minor. Dylan is on the men’s bowling team. He also enjoys heavy metal, bowling, and video games. He plans to continue making art and designs in the near future.

Tanner Childs has had passion for writing ever since he was little. With an overabundance of imagination, he loves being able to share the worlds he traverses with his characters. Even though his stories tend to face the darker sides of humanity, Tanner himself is a kindhearted person that loves to meet new friends, see new places, and try to make the best out of this good life!

Melissa Deeney is a Secondary Art Education student who enjoys making fantasy based sculptures out of clay.

Abby Estabrook is a freshman from Muscatine, Iowa who is majoring in Secondary Education. She is on the women’s soccer team and in Math and Computer Science club. She plans on teaching in her future, but also dreams of becoming an author one day. She enjoys writing, reading and bingeing anything on the CW. Corbin Evert-Fratzke has always been one of a kind and his artwork exemplifies that. Showing his individuality and attention to detail, despite the medium used, is something that Corbin holds close. The soon-to-be senior Graphic Design student is looking to pursue a creative freelance career following his graduation.

Derick Harman is a senior Graphic Design major. He enjoys playing video games and card games with his friends in his

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free time. He is excited to graduate and see what the world has in store for him.

Abby Herb is a May 2017 graduate currently working at Toyota Financial Services as a Late Stage Collections CSR. Since graduation, she has adopted a dog named Zora, who is more like a toddler than a puppy, and has gotten engaged to Jake Anderson, who is currently at Mount Mercy studying to become a math teacher.

Jacob Herndon is a senior Graphic Design major from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He is a member of Mount Mercy’s track and cross country teams.

Jessica Hiney is a senior Biology and Outdoor Conservation major, with Psychology and Philosophy minors. She is a lover of lichens, literature, and darkroast coffee. After graduation, she would like to continue her search to discover what her “personal legend” may be.

Cameron Junge is a senior History major. His current plans are to stay an extra semester to complete the requirements for an English major.

Joshua Jurgensmeier is a freshman Computer Science and Mathematics double major from Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

Occasionally, he enjoys supplementing his programming and polynomials with poetry. When asked, he will always reply that his dream job would be to program rockets and spaceships.

Abbey Konzen is a 2017 graduate who majored in Art and Graphic Design and minored in Creative Writing. Now she lives and works on a small animal farm in Pennsylvania and creates art to sell in her free time (when she isn’t cuddling baby goats).

Chelsie Mangold is currently a sophomore Art Education

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student. Her passion for art has existed since a young age, and she is fulfilling her dream by incorporating her passion into her future career choice. Chelsie enjoys many art forms, but her favorites include painting and drawing.

Krysten Martinez is majoring in Criminal Justice and minoring in English.

Danielle Meister is a junior Fine Arts major with a minor in Business. Outside of work and school, Danielle enjoys spending time with family and friends, traveling, and biking.

Maggie Murphy is a senior Graphic Design major. She played soccer at Mount Mercy for four years and will graduate May 2018.

Morgan Ortmann graduated in December 2017, majoring in Graphic Design and Marketing. Morgan is originally from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and is currently working at Mount Mercy in the Alumni Relations office.

Jessica Purgett is a sophomore English and Marketing double major and a Creative Writing and Spanish double minor. She is a member of the bowling team and is an editor for Paha. When not working, she can normally be found in her bed reading.

Catheryn Recker is a December 2017 Cum Laude graduate with degrees in English and Secondary Education, with endorsements in 6-12 English/Language Arts and 6-12 Strat I Special Education. When not working, Catheryn enjoys reading James Patterson novels, singing karaoke, and caring for her nephew. Catheryn hopes to one day work in a low-income middle school as a Special Education teacher.

Kayla Ridgeway is a senior Graphic Design major and is graduating in May 2018.

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Bailey Rickels is a senior Criminal Justice major with minors in Writing, Psychology, and Legal Studies. She is a four year writing scholarship recipient. She is grateful to have had four poems published in previous editions of Paha. She wants to thank her high school English teacher, Ms. Kelley, for provoking her enjoyment of writing and also all of the English professors at Mount Mercy who have given her the opportunity to explore the creative side she didn’t think she had through writing. When Bailey is not busy with school or work, she enjoys baking, watching Netflix, fishing, and thrift shopping.

Amber Salow is a sophomore Nursing student. She is active in MMUANS and with Paha. When she is not busy with school she likes to hang out with friends and family. She also has a cute dog named Sophie.

Cally Salter is a senior History and Political Science major and English minor. She plays on the Mount Mercy women’s soccer team, and is a big Wolves FC supporter. Her hobbies include traveling, reading, and ping-pong.

Logan Schroeder is a Journalism major from Cedar Rapids.

Jenna Schutte is a sophomore Nursing major from Castalia, Iowa. She is working toward an English minor and enjoys writing in her free time. Upon her graduation, she plans to work as a third-generation nurse in an Emergency Department while continuing in her education toward her Master’s degree. With that degree she plans to work as a Nurse Practitioner in psychiatric care.

Paris Sheck is majoring in Graphic Design. She is from New Zealand, but her family is currently living in Gold Coast, Australia. Her ethnicity is Samoan and Maori. She plays basketball and is trying to compete in track and field.

Rachel Shoop is a Graphic Design major and enjoys writing

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and art.

Laura Slovakova is a spontaneous, organized, logically emotional Graphic Design senior with her head firmly up in the clouds. She is a homesick adventuress with wanderlust who hopes to use her design skills to engage people in solving issues ranging from racism to gender inequality to global warming.

Courtney Snodgrass studied English, Creative Writing, and Psychology before graduating in August of 2017. She served as the editor of the Paha Review for three years and has since founded and created Mount Mercy’s newest literary and art magazine, Mercy Creative Review, which features writing and artwork from Mount Mercy University faculty, staff, and alumni.

Tyus Thompson is a senior English major and Creative Writing minor. Writing and running are his two biggest passions outside of his family and religion. After he graduates, he plans on becoming a high school teacher so he can influence kids in a positive direction and show them how to use writing as an outlet in their lives the same way he has been taught for the last eight years. He has greatly enjoyed his time at Mount Mercy by being involved in crosscountry, track, the Mount Mercy Times, Student Government, the ACE Writing Center, as well as being an editor for the Paha Review. He hopes this Review reflects how much effort was put into it, and he thanks all of you that are reading this because it means you picked up a copy!

Charles Uthe is a junior at Mount Mercy. He is currently studying English with a minor in Creative Writing. He’s also involved in several clubs on campus and loves to write stories and play video games in his spare time.

Rachel Vaughn is a senior Nursing major. On campus she works as a tutor in ACE and as a mentor for Project

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Connect. Her goals for the future are to continue her nursing education with an emphasis in adolescent psych and to get a weiner dog.

Haley Weideman is a sophomore English major. She is from Center Point, Iowa, and plans to move far, far away after graduating.

Doriann Whitlock is an English major with minors in Creative Writing and Verbal Communication. She enjoys being outdoors, reading books, and spending time with family and friends. She has written for the Mount Mercy Times. By the end of her senior year she plans on becoming a book editor with a publishing firm somewhere in the Midwest. She wants to take part in the process that helps people of all ages find themselves among the words in a book.

Logan Wilkes is a junior Criminal Justice major from Scotland, who plays for the Mustangs women’s soccer team.

They are an avid writer, with hopes to pursue some form of career through writing, whether it be published works or starting their own business. They hope to travel the world with their wife before settling down and joining the Police Academy whilst continuing writing.

Alexa Zamora is a junior English major. She is from a small town in Apple Valley, California. She is a member of Mount Mercy’s cross country and track team. Alexa enjoys reading, writing, drinking coffee and traveling. Her plans after graduation consist of volunteering with her boyfriend in Africa for a year, then moving to Germany to fulfill her dream of teaching English. One day she hopes to own a coffee shop, as well as publish her first romantic novel.

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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.

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