Paha Review | 2016

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

Spring 2016

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

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

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

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

Editors Billie Barker Cassie Green Courtney Snodgrass Art Editor Mariah Kidd Copy Editors Billie Barker Anna Bohr Cassie Green Matt Howell Erin Johnson Courtney Snodgrass Photographers Anna Bohr Kathryn Hagy Mariah Kidd Cover Art Lauren Brunson

Worm Medusa mixed media on paper

Cover Design Mariah Kidd Faculty Advisors Jose Clemente Mary Vermillion

Writing Selection Committee Billie Barker Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg Todd Cross Cassie Green Zachery Hooper Nakola Nyambe Bailey Rickels Zach Salow Courtney Snodgrass Alyssa Vicente Art Selection Committee Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg Mariah Kidd Alyssa Vicente Special Thanks Chris DeVault Jim Grove Kathryn Hagy Joy Ochs Carol Tyx Art Club English Club

for Jim Grove in celebration of his retirement and in honor of his 36 years of service at Mount Mercy University

Contents Book

Cassie Green

9

Writing

Matt Howell

10

the thing about loving someone with multiple personality disorder

Courtney Snodgrass

11

Things I’ve Broken

Hilary Nekvinda

13

Fidget

Billie Barker

16

An Honest Poem

Molly Hahn

17

Dad

Matt Howell

18

Purified

Hilary Nekvinda

19

Good (Grey) Hair

Char Jacobson

20

Amanda’s Autumn

Courtney Snodgrass

22

Momentos

Carmen Delgado Harrington

24

My Baby

Alyson Oberdries

26

Waking and Weaving

Carmen Delgado Harrington

27

I Had Begged My Dad for a Hamster

Hilary Nekvinda

28

Growing Space

Natalie Deister

29

Meaning of Words

Doriann Whitlock

30

Fleeting Thoughts

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

31

I Shouldn’t Have

Bailey Rickels

35

Fingerprint

Abby Herb

37

There’s No Place Like Home

Char Jacobson

38

Collide

Dahlia Porter

42

Syria: 2015

Dahlia Porter

43

Split Personality

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

45

Stranger

Kelsey Bills

46

965

Alyssa Vicente

47

Mason

Mason Evans

48

The Journey

Molly Metz

49

Funny Little People

Mariah Kidd

50

Different Dementions

Leslie Hoffmann

51

Artichoke

Adrienne Mione

52

Memories

Brianna Paup

53

No Man is an Island

Abbey Konzen

54

Untitled Vase

Brandi Burnell

55

Thrift

Billie Barker

56

Get Down Tonight

Billie Barker

57

Lover’s Dance

Cassie Green

59

Chapel of Love

Billie Barker

60

The Same Moon

Courtney Snodgrass

62

Narrow Aisles

Matt Howell

63

Fifteen

Alyssa Vicente

65

Memories

Zach Salow

66

For An Old Lover

Bailey Rickels

67

That Night

Nakola Nyambe

69

Perceptions

Todd Cross

73

3 A.M. Thoughts

Bailey Rickels

74

Dreamlust

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

75

Serpent Song

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

76

Lust

Alyssa Vicente

79

Edgar’s Nevermore

Zachery Hooper

81

The Observer

Abby Herb

83

Eyes

Alyssa Vicente

85

Gemini

Drew Disterhoft

88

Last Word

Bianca Kesselring

90

High School Creative Writing Contest Winners Obsessive in Scarlet

Contributors

91 Allison Chen, High School Contest Winner

92

94

Book

Cassie Green The spine, the headband, the hinge; unraveled seams, pages spread to the center of a signature reveal frayed white stitching, today just bound in some factory by a man and a machine.

But long ago Indians indigenous to this custom of bookbinding— Chattering over Chai and Chaat during their lunch hour— Would craft these magnificent leather-bound creatures out of palm leaves Leaving a beautiful stain of words behind: The sewer. The comber.

The gluer. The stapler. The leather, the Unibind, the artist’s scalpel. The yellowed pages. The censorship. The inferno that lingered in the Library of Alexandria in 391 A.D. Forty thousand books cremated by the flames, no throats, no tongues to carry the cries of these caged creatures.

A witness walking along the street watched as a wounded memory, burning, flew into the air; almost with new life, before fluttering helplessly to the ground.

And then another. Each piece of parchment black as the souls who set fire to this place of public knowledge.

9

Writing

Matt Howell The stark whiteness, blinding and hungry, begs for serifs and script.

I scour my skull, harvest the best, and avoid the bricks of the Block.

My fingers flutter and fumble.

“Keep up!” I tell them. “Keep up!”

10

the thing about loving someone with multiple personality disorder Courtney Snodgrass

the thing about loving someone with borderline personality disorder is we don’t always get along— me and your five selves, we’re all just roommates attempting to live in the same frat house. some of you only want to fuck me. there are moments and even days that me, you, and all your personalities cannot all reside in your mind at one time. we cannot all coexist in the same abandoned home that you call your body. you have all your friends to live with you, some i’ve yet to meet and you all love the darkness that you exist in but there’s no room left for me and i’ve always needed a nightlight. i fall asleep with one of you and wake up with someone different lying next to me. i’ve cheated on you more times than i’ll ever be able to count. i love you and him and him and him and i can’t help that you’re all one person and that i’m in love with all of you. there are days that all i can do is lie on the other side of the bed and wish to hold you in my arms, but this you doesn’t like to be held.

11

there are days when it seems the alcohol will never run out because that you loves the warm whiskey more than it loves me. there are days when i want to leave you, but which ‘you’ am i leaving behind? i can’t pick you apart to know which one of you i want the most. i can’t walk inside your empty home. because i’m a little afraid of what’s lurking inside. so i think i’ll stay, but i’ll wait outside.

12

Things I’ve Broken

Hilary Nekvinda

My porcelain doll when she fell off the couch while I was sleeping; she was my prized possession. A bowl while I was washing it in the sink; I was thinking about how mad I was at my friend. The rim of my tire when I drove off the road because I wasn’t paying attention; I lied and told my parents I was avoiding another car. The garbage disposal, when I put a whole lemon down because it smelled rotten; I was trying to impress my husband.

A mailbox, three pitchforks, two wheelbarrows, three buckets, and a hose at equestrian school.

My left arm when I was six, during my first trail ride. My pony stretched her head down to eat some grass and pulled me off her back. I should have taken it as a sign.

My left femur when I was 20, on a cold day in West Virginia. The horse I was riding bolted and I bailed. It was my first time in an ambulance. My left fifth metacarpal, nine months after I broke my femur. The horse I was riding bucked me off and I did a somersault. I drove myself to Urgent Care, they said my bone was shattered, the doctor told me I couldn’t ride for eight weeks. I rode the next day.

My right patellar when I was 23; a mare kicked me because I wouldn’t let her through the gate. My mom had to drive me to the emergency room; I would have driven myself if it was my left knee. It was the only time I cried when they told me my diagnosis; I don’t know why. My identity when I was 27; I decided to leave my career as a horse trainer and instructor.

My friendship with Natalie, the day after she broke into her parents’ liquor and porn collection and had a party with all our friends. I sat in her room—alone; we were 13. My friendship with Allison, when people started calling

13

us lesbians because we were inseparable; we were 14. My friendship with Mary, after she had a pregnancy scare; we were 15. My friendship with Sara, after she slept with a friend’s boyfriend; we were 16.

My dream that I would marry Charlie and we would have little football and wrestling babies. He was my high school sweetheart; we were the quintessential couple—he was a football captain and I was a star cheerleader. I gave him my attention, my time, my future; he was the first person I loved. My heart, when I realized that I had become an afterthought and broke up with him; we were 19.

Girl Code. First when I kissed my friend’s boyfriend in the front seat of my car, in a dark parking lot. They got married; I wasn’t invited to the wedding. Second when I started dating my roommate’s ex-boyfriend, the one she thought she’d marry. I moved out shortly after and married him four years later.

My parents’ trust when I was 12 and snuck out of the house. I was only 5 houses away, sitting on a trampoline with my best friend after his girlfriend dumped him.

We talked all night and I walked home when the sun peeked over the horizon. My parents were waiting for me. It was the first and last time I snuck out. My husband’s trust when I neglected to tell him about my credit card debt before we got married. I remember when he confronted me about it, it was raining outside—I thought it was a bad omen. It was our first major fight and now we’ve been married almost eight years.

A spatula, four cookie sheets, and an electric mixer, during my many attempts to make cookies from scratch.

My riding boots after wearing them every day for two years.

A halter when I tried to tie Charley to the wall. A whip, on Charley’s hip, after he tried to run me over. A million brushes while combing his mane and tail, brushing away the tangles and years of abuse. I sang “You Are My Sunshine” as I brushed the dirt from his coat. It’s easy to brush off the dirt; it’s not easy to brush away the past. Born an unwanted foal on a PMU farm in Canada, he was adopted to a woman in Kentucky and abused, then sent to Meredith

14

Manor International Equestrian Center in West Virginia, where several students were unable to ride him. When he was assigned to me, I spent every free moment I had in his stall, gaining his trust, until he allowed me to ride him. The school rules, when I contacted his owner and arranged to buy him.

The school rules again, when my friend and I loaded him into a trailer early one morning and drove him from West Virginia to Iowa. Fifteen blades of grass that were warmed by the sun, I held them in my flat hand so Charley can easily eat them. He is honest, unemotional, and nonjudgmental; he became my constant and my trust. My cycle of depression, when I buried my face in his mane and cried each time I felt like I failed as a horse trainer, a wife, a daughter, and a friend. I rarely find myself in those moments of deep sadness anymore, but when I do, he waits for me in a pasture and quietly chews the grass while his mane soaks up my sadness.

My water, three days past my due date, sitting on my couch watching So You Think You Can Dance. Fifteen hours later my first daughter was born. My sewing machine while I crafted small dresses and silk blankets for her. The ground in the spring as we sat together in the garden and plant Petunias, Daisies, Impatiens, and Zinnias. My husband’s plan, when I begged for another child a year later. He finally gave in a year after that. Cookies in half, so each daughter gets one. My back, from giving piggyback rides. Rubber bands, as I pulled blonde strands back off chubby faces. My idea of love when I look in their eyes.

The bank, when I decided to go back to college to be a special education teacher. My plans, when I decided to be an English major, too. My bedtime, every time I stayed up late to get homework done. My self-doubt, the first time I stood in front of a high school classroom. My composure, on my last day of student teaching when I had to hug my students goodbye.

The sense that I’m not good enough, when I realize I’m doing exactly what I should be.

15

Fidget

Billie Barker Electric rant eggs hatch in one elbow, crawl through my spine, creep through the marrow.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Neon rats nip the bottom of my back, blazing in the bones, a sneak attack.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Silver fishes flashing swim through the limbs, poking knees and femurs with radioactive fins.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

I can’t stand still and I can’t talk nice and I can’t pay attention to save my life.

Bzzt.

16

An Honest Poem Molly Hahn

My mom wore a mask to church on Sundays.

My sister concealed herself in crowds.

Girls at school masked their imperfections as they gathered in hordes in the bathroom.

My neighbor used to mask the death of her son with her garden.

I hid behind the mask I wore outside.

My frantic emotions are often disguised as indifference.

Many people mask their pain with a shrug.

My mom masks her disappointment with downcast eyes and silence.

My friends can no longer see the fine line between my mask and my face.

People laugh and joke as they try on masks; they seldom remember to take them off.

17

Dad

Matt Howell I remember being afraid of him.

I remember his red, barreled chest, his droopy eyes, his sweet, pungent stench hungover from his binge.

I remember anxious whispers, me and my brother and my sister, trying with all our might not to awaken his rage.

I remember being afraid of him.

I remember starting and not being able to stop.

I remember the nights I don’t remember.

I remember my red chest, engulfed in flames from the endless chain of cigarettes.

I remember mornings—awakening in a rage, panicked and confused from my binge.

I remember being afraid of becoming him.

18

Purified

Hilary Nekvinda The warm droplets entangle as they trickle down my body sliding down my face that is more like my father than my mother splash against my burdened shoulders coat my breasts that sag with pride—they gave life to two children

and a marriage slip past my stretched-skin stomach pass my protruding hips that I wish were plumper detour around my deformed skin—scars from accidents former till they reach my calloused feet then exit down

the

drain leaving

me

purified.

19

Good (Grey) Hair Char Jacobson

I want smooth, shiny hair. I have coarse, curly hair. Good hair is what most women don’t naturally have, regardless of our age, race, nationality or economic status.

I have fake hair. Well, not fake hair exactly, but fake hair color. I liked my original color. Then my kids became teenagers, and the color drained away quickly. This fact is probably not a secret to most people, as I am too poor/lazy/ busy to get the “regrowth” colored often. My bathroom cupboard is full of hair products: products that smooth, that shine, that control the humidity-induced frizz or that curl it or straighten it. I think my husband only uses the toothpaste. Women are judged by other women on the basis of whether they have good hair. Entire movies have been made on the subject: Tangled, Legally Blonde, Good Hair, and Dear White People. God knows the number of hairs on my head. Presumably, that means He planned the shifting ratio of black to silver. If I color my hair, I can lie to myself for a while—I’m not middle aged, and I’m not closer to death than to birth. If I don’t dye, I’m free. I’ll save money and time. But I define myself by my hair, so I dye. Maybe I should be like the ancient Egyptians, or like Oprah, and wear wigs. It would not be in our national economic interest to be content with what we have been given. Entire industries would collapse, perhaps the entire economy, were we to practice contentment. I don’t wear cosmetics because I hate how they feel on my face, but I wear hair dye, and that is a cosmetic for my hair. The number of hairs on one’s head is a metaphor for infinity. When I was poor one year, I didn’t get my hair cut, didn’t buy any clothes or shoes. I felt like crap.

The latest style in hair coloring is to color the ends. This is called Ombre. It is cheap, since you don’t have to keep

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covering up the roots. It is also for cowards who are afraid to commit. I remember the 1970 Barbie with the retractable pony tail. I wish I could pull all the gray hair back in and never need a haircut. Long hair is supposed to be a glorious thing, the Bible tells us; grey hair, a crown of splendor. I am not feeling the splendor. I don’t want to look like Grandma Barbie of the Happy Family Collection. Especially because Grandpa Ken looks like Mitt Romney! I will, however, settle for Grad School Barbie. She even talks: “I wish somebody would drop a bomb on the school so that I’d have an excuse to stop working on my degree that’s sucking every last drop of life force out of my withered and degraded excuse for a soul...” Once, when I was still coloring my hair at home, I asked my daughter, who is a nurse, for help. A little while later she called out, “Mom, are you ready for me to help you dye?” Of course, what I heard was, “Mom, are you ready for me to help you die?” We laughed hard. It could be worse. I could be bald. I would write more, but I have to go now. I have a hair appointment.

Zgoda, K., (2013). Graduate Student Barbie. Retrieved from http://www.huffingtonpost.com/karen-zgoda/graduate-studentbarbie_b_4184482.html

21

Amanda’s Autumn Courtney Snodgrass

We danced like two leaves spinning and twirling around each other in the wind.

Our own waltz, as we fell from the branches in the beginning of October.

We bickered and touched each other in ways we did not mean.

Our memories glaze my thoughts as the foliage along the side of a road grows deeper shades of red.

We argued and we yelled and we placed our hands on each other so much that I found love in the way your fists kissed my cheeks, more than your lips ever did.

You yelled at me the way thunder rumbles after lightning breaks across the sky in the middle of the night.

We were a thunderstorm that lit up the bedroom each time our skin touched the other’s but we weren’t making love.

We were a string of thunderstorms in the spring—a flood of tears fell from my eyes night after night after you used me to reach a climax all by yourself.

In the beginning of summer, our tempers rose like the temperature in the heat.

22

Kids who lived in the other units of our apartment building played outside with sweat dripping from their foreheads, their hair wet, their faces red from the sun.

They laughed with each other while we argued and we yelled at each other.

I held our daughter in my womb and felt her kick me after you had just done the same thing.

One day, our daughter would be laughing outside, her face would be red, and sweat would be dripping from her forehead.

But she would not ever experience you arguing with me and you yelling at me, you hitting me.

She would know the peace in silence, because she would know that I left you.

I left your abuse.

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Momentos

Carmen Delgado Harrington En momentos de miseria Durante el dolor Tiempos de tristeza Soledad incerteza O vergüenza Momentos misericordiosos Días de alegría Tiempos de ternura Compañerismo Amor Dios es mi amparo Consuelo Luz

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Moments

Carmen Delgado Harrington Moments of misery Slashes of pain Times of trouble Loneliness uncertainty Or Shame Merciful moments Joyous Seasons Times of tenderness Togetherness Love God is my shelter Solace Light

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My Baby

Alyson Oberdries She wants to be independent.

I want to help her as long as I can— Be her momma like I did years ago.

Hold her hand, wash her hair, feed her, Kiss her goodnight.

She’s growing to be her own person.

I see myself—young and ambitious.

I let her blossom, but I’m never too far To catch her when she falls.

I know how the cruel our world can be.

She digs to find her own flaws.

I look at her and see the beautiful miracle I created.

Not knowing I would nurture my best friend, I see her beautiful blue eyes that stared at me On the nineteenth of August.

She fights every day to be the best.

I picture my baby rolling over for the first time.

She has always been a fast learner, an overachiever.

Failure has come and will again But she’s my girl, and she is just like me.

She desires approval and to make me proud.

I have never been more proud Of the young woman she is, Of the decisions she has made, Of the mother she will one day be.

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Waking and Weaving Carmen Delgado Harrington I rise in the morning and force my mind to return to the waking world and to leave my dreams woven with memories behind and return to the living where my daddy is dead and I am the parent and to see my daddy in my son’s sandy brown triple cowlicks and summer sun bronzed skin and my daddy’s smile in my son’s milk chocolate eyes and dimples yet seeing my daddy in the waking world roaming the halls patting his tummy and making silly noises or whistling a merry tune while my children’s laughter bubbles over as we weave his dream—of a college degree—into reality—and my daddy looks on proudly— that’s what I long for.

27

I Had Begged My Dad for a Hamster Hilary Nekvinda

When I woke I found my hamster stiff on her wheel her frozen feet forever in motion black eyes glossed over I have never held anything so cold and hard I didn’t understand how someone could feel so warm alive when my family was asked if we were ready to turn off the machines that kept my father breathing.

28

Growing Space Natalie Diester

Sometimes I wish I could grow like a supernova Exploding all at once in dazzling colors Lighting up everything unknown inside myself, Fading out in an instant But no.

We grow like trees— Slowly, in a few directions at a time Limbs branching off more limbs sprouting leaves, Expanding, powerless to stop the gradual stretching of ourselves Across time, yet fighting for every millimeter we gain As if we have something to prove, as if we are unsure if the passing of time really changes us.

But it does.

A friend once told me: “Trees do not have to bear fruit to show that they’re growing.”

For trees are only supernovas in slow, slow motion.

In the quiet, the in-between, the spaces that feel unoccupied but for our forgotten breaths and wayward thoughts— This is where we unfold.

29

Meaning of Words Doriann Whitlock

Sound is life. Life is surrounded by sound.

A baby’s laugh reminds us of childish innocence.

Singers sing to bring joy to other people.

Water flows, bringing tranquility to all it serves.

The Earth moves to an inner, silent rhythm.

Air dances to the colors of the wind.

Fire crackles and spits

like a breathing person.

A spirit has its own unique, powerful sound.

Sound is part of all our worlds.

30

Fleeting Thoughts

Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg I remember being a kid lying in a field of flowers in a meadow near my grandparents’ cabin. I loved being surrounded by the sweet fragrance that intoxicated the air.

It was the middle of summer: my favorite time of year, with wildflowers in full bloom. Each time I visited that meadow, my eyes became hypnotized by the vibrant colors: purples, pinks and yellows.

The yellow ones were my favorite—they reminded me of butter. Butter that melted all over the top of my grandmother’s famous pancakes. She made them for me every morning while we were on vacation. I swear I could never get sick of those silver dollar pancakes.

My grandfather gave me my first silver dollar at the age of eight. It was my lucky coin and I took it everywhere. I was heartbroken when I watched it slowly sink to the bottom of the lake. I had been lying on the dock, sun tanning, when I clumsily let it slip through my fingers. It rolled right off the edge and into the dim water: never to be seen.

Everything in this world is made of water: two hydrogen and one oxygen. About seventy-one percent of the earth is water. This liquid is part of a self-recycling system: the water cycle. Rain cascades from the heavens, makes its way to the ground, only to be sent back up through the process of evaporation. It’s fate: the clouds.

I have always loved clouds, the way they float effortlessly above us all: not a care in the world. They appear to be playing a game of charades, changing from this shape to

31

that. Imagining what they are trying to be has always been my favorite pastime. Then again my mother did always say I had my head in the clouds when she caught me daydreaming.

Daydreams are a funny thing: you’re awake, but you dream as though you’re sleeping. Imaginations act up to help people through even the most mundane situations.

Most girls dream about their wedding day: not me. I drift towards one subject: art.

Art is my life. I live, breathe and sleep art. Without it, my mind would go crazy. I need that outlet for my creativity.

Creativity that has so many layers due to my ADD: an affliction I use to my advantage. So long as I’m quick to write down the fleeting images that pop into my head, I will never run out of ideas for my next piece. ADD, creativity, and positivity: things I luckily inherited from my grandmother.

Sharon Ardell Oldenburg, my grandmother: the pancake queen herself. She is one of the most inspiring women I have ever met, teaching me so much over the years. Mostly to follow my dreams, regardless of what others say. When I think of her I think of lily­of ­the ­valley. She always had a flock of them growing behind her house, and I love how they smelled: a smell that to this day reminds me of home.

Home: where my happy place is, not my actual residence.

Home, where we gather for the holidays. Home, the place I long to be: Wisconsin. Everything is better at home with my family. Family is home, and I miss them every day.

Family: a six-letter word that means something different to each person. Some families are enormous in numbers, while others have only a few members. My family is on the larger side, yet we are very close-knit, even the extended branches. The older I get, the more I realize how important the word family is.

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Together we work well, and we work well together. I started working for the family business when I was five-yearsold. Back then it was working on crafts in my grandma’s basement, which we would then sell at craft shows. Now it’s evolved to two craft stores thriving all year round. Even though business is booming, we still gather in that cool basement to work on our merchandise. That basement is where it all began, where I made my first dollar. We all secretly long to be in that basement: we have jokingly nicknamed it the dungeon.

Dungeons and Dragons: a game my brother is infatuated with and that I have a hard time understanding. Although, from an artist’s point of view, it is interesting to see how video games have evolved over time. The graphics now-a-days have become so realistic it’s almost scary.

My dad has always loved scaring people, especially my mom.

Growing up, we became accustomed to her screams from his scare tactics. My favorite time was when my mother was in the bathroom cleaning: all Dad had to do was say the word mouse. Terrified of mice, she jumped up on the toilet and wet her pants.

I never thought pants would be a good hiding place, but that didn’t stop a chipmunk from running up my dad’s pant leg. He had fallen asleep in his recliner when he was suddenly awoken by the pitter-patter of tiny paws against his leg. He jumped so fast out of that chair and proceeded to do a dance I had never seen before. When he stopped, out ran the chipmunk, and my mom shooed it out the door.

That was the first and the last time we had a chipmunk house call.

Sunday mornings meant one thing: Alvin and the Chipmunks.

It was always a rush to get to the car after church, as not to miss my favorite cartoon. Patiently sitting through the entire service, I wondered if God watched cartoons. What

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did he think of their funny voices? I bet he didn’t have to wait to watch them: he probably watched at whatever time he wanted.

Time: like my thoughts, it’s fleeting. The hands on the clock are constantly moving, just as my brain is continuously thinking. If you don’t catch each second and each thought, they disappear for eternity. This is why I find it hard to sleep at night: what if I miss something important; what if I have another nightmare? I try counting sheep, but it doesn’t work. Insomnia at its best. I focus on the slow, shallow breathing of my partner next to me. How is it so easy for him to sleep? The clock says it’s two in the morning, and I try to snuggle into comfort.

Comfort: something that eases my mind after my troublesome past. Mikel, my boyfriend, is that comfort.

With him, I am safe. He is the first man I have trusted in a long time, and he knows how to soothe me. I snuggle up next to him, and he wakes up and scratches my head.

I focus on the rhythm of his nails against my scalp and slowly fade.

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I Shouldn’t Have Bailey Rickels

They said everyone at my high school drank. I might have been the one exception until the night before graduation day.

I kept accepting drinks, leaving a lasting impression on those who only knew me as the class salutatorian.

I shouldn’t have ignored the burning in my lungs from one too many tequila shots.

I was the virgin trying to outdo the rest.

The police rang my mother at midnight.

I crossed the median, driving too fast, colliding with a second-shift man.

The car burst into flames, charring my lifeless body.

Dead on impact.

No pain, but no peace.

How is it that I can score a thirty-four on the ACT, be in National Honor Society, and quit drinking when Emily says I’ve had too many,

35

but I wasn’t smart enough to give her my keys, and she wasn’t smart enough to take them away from me?

36

Fingerprint Abby Herb

A finger pressed Against white paper Cannot tell If it is a black Or white man pressing All it knows Is the black smudge Dirtying the white.

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There’s No Place Like Home Char Jacobson

“Will you now stand and take the Pledge of Allegiance?”

Shades of brown, black, and white splashed the faces of the crowd at the naturalization ceremony. Amira stood dark and petite among the 24 others. A wave of joy and a piercing sorrow she did not expect almost overwhelmed her.

After a moment to compose herself, she added her voice to the musical accents from many nations and proudly recited, “I pledge allegiance to the flag…”

When they finished, the judge smiled and concluded the ceremony: “Congratulations—you are now citizens of the United States of America, with all its rights and privileges.” Cheering applause erupted from family, friends and new citizens alike.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Amira returned the hug from her foster sister, Stephanie, who had raced down from the audience. “I’m so excited! Now you can stay here forever!” Amira’s foster parents, Mark and Trish Wellman, followed with their congratulations and hugs.

Her dream had come true. But with the dream came a strange sense of loss.

The Victorian mansion that was the Wellman’s home was festooned with banners and balloons for the surprise party. There was cake, Adele’s latest hit blaring from the speakers, a trove of friends, and her extended foster family.

Amira’s elderly foster grandmother, who always dressed in Chanel suits complete with pearls and rose perfume, hugged her and said she was so proud.

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Amira’s college friends kept up an excited chatter, tossing hair and glances in the direction of the few young males in attendance. Her courtly foster grandfather patted her shoulder as she walked out to the verandah, while bragging to the mayor, “My granddaughter is the smartest and prettiest girl this side of the Atlantic…” The mayor took another bite of cake and nodded. Amira blushed, but smiled her thanks to the old gentleman who had warmly welcomed her into his family ten years before.

“Welcome to America, Amira,” a tall blond young man said. Troy, the neighbor boy not quite comfortable with his newly acquired height, spoke nervously. “I mean, congratulations. I guess now you never have to go back to Iraq.” Amira cringed inwardly at his pronunciation of Iraq as “eye-rack,” but thanked him with a faint smile, and moved to greet other late arrivals. His eyes followed her across the room.

Later, after the last guest had left, the house had been restored to its typical order, and the rest of the family was in bed, Amira had time to think. As she made her way up the stairs, she thought about how nice it was to be fussed over. She felt she didn’t deserve any of it. But it was nice. At the second landing, other feelings percolated to the surface. Relief she was no longer the center of attention.

Amira supposed that came from being a refugee.

The different one. The special one. The one who couldn’t speak English. Who didn’t have the right clothes. Whose ideas about modesty were strange. It had taken years of intense observation and practice to change the way she dressed and acted, to learn English, think in English, lose her accent and try to forget she ever knew Arabic. She hadn’t succeeded. All those years of feeling like she didn’t belong boiled up, threatening to steal the joy of the day.

And the fact that people couldn’t pronounce the name of her country was so annoying! As she lay in bed under the canopy, the darkness allowed her space to give free reign to her conflicting emotions. She wept for her lost family in Iraq, for the school friends she would never see again,

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for the flavors she might never taste again. She was an American now—wanted to be an American–but wanted to be Iraqi too. She wanted to fit in and be different at the same time. The tug of war between sorrow and hope was killing her emotionally. Exhausted by intensity, she slept. ***

In the morning on her first full day as an American, Amira decided to take the dog for a run before breakfast.

“Stephanie, do you want to come?”

“Sure. Hang on a sec,” Stephanie said over her shoulder as she went in search of her running shoes.

Twenty minutes and two miles later, they were cooling down and walking slowly with the panting dog. “I saw Troy talking to you at the party. Pretty hot, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” she admitted. “I think it’s supposed to be much hotter later. Glad we went out now.”

“I wasn’t talking about the weather, Amira!”

Stephanie laughed.

Amira smiled at her eager sister, and wiped more sweat off her face. “I don’t think he’s my type.”

“You’ve got to admit he’s nice, and he’s been sweet on you for years.” She poked Amira with an elbow. “Why won’t you go out with him?”

Amira continued walking without answering, wanting to change the topic. Stephanie continued, “You’re so pretty! It’s such a waste. I wish he’d ask me out.” What Stephanie couldn’t understand is that she didn’t want to make so many ties here that she couldn’t go home if someday some of her family was located. “Okay, I get it,” Stephanie said. “Subject closed. Want to go to a movie tonight? Some of us are going to see Mockingjay.”

Again, Amira felt conflicted. Different. Stephanie just couldn’t understand why she hadn’t enjoyed movies like The Hunger Games even though she’d read the books like all the other girls in the seventh grade. Reading descriptions of violence was one thing. Watching it was quite another.

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Amira just couldn’t stomach the watching. “No thanks, Stephanie. I ‘m pretty tired after yesterday.” What she wanted to say was that war was not entertainment to her.

Stephanie chattered on about the latest high school gossip as they walked. Amira tried to remember what her house in Baghdad had been like, but images of broken concrete and dust, and the taste of smoke still blocked it out. She remembered her family: her mother, father, grandmother, sisters and brother, aunts and uncles, cousins. They had all lived in one big house, not separately, like here in America. She didn’t know if she looked like her sisters or her mother; she didn’t even have a picture to remind her of them. She didn’t know if they had survived the bombings and the fighting. Ten years of not knowing sometimes overwhelmed her and pulled her into a black hole for days. In the confusion of the war’s aftermath she’d been moved from one place to another, and finally come to the Wellman’s home,where they’d virtually adopted her.

“…and then she said—Amira, are you listening? I don’t think you’ve heard a word I said!”

Amira had stopped to stare at the spray-painted scrawl on their garage door. It said Terrorist go home, and she knew there was no place to belong.

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Collide

Dahlia Porter Millions of years ago land masses collided against each other.

The world collided.

Two adolescent bucks fight for dominance and horns collide.

They keep colliding.

The ground collides with the light post.

And the light post collides with the van.

Now all three are collided.

My mom and I have colliding views on who deserves the last piece of lasagna.

After a long debate, that lasagna collides with my mouth.

Opinions collide constantly in the real world.

Violence often follows colliding opinions.

Death and anger was a consequence from the collision between two airplanes and downtown New York on that September morning.

Will the world ever stop colliding?

Young admirers meet on the street and their eyes collide.

Then their hearts collide.

Soon enough their names, too.

And for a moment, just maybe, does their world stop colliding.

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Syria: 2015 Dahlia Porter

I see him.

He is yelling, yelling for help we both know will never come.

Something is always happening.

Civilians tortured and buildings burned and most of our people fleeing or being forced out of our homes with nowhere to go.

I witness these horrors daily.

I want to go to them.

I want to help her, yet I cannot even help myself.

So I watch, watch as he runs through the broken street carrying her weightless body.

Something has happened.

Maybe she was beaten, maybe it was rape,

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or maybe she was buried under her blown-up home.

Whatever the case, he is yelling, yelling for help we both know will never come.

(AFP) Sim, David. "Pictures of the Week: Best Photos of Past Seven Days." International Business Times RSS. IBTimes Co., 6 June 2014.

Web. 15 Sept. 2015.

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Depression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepressioin DepressioinDepression DepressionDepression Depression

Self SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing Loathing

Depression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepressioin DepressioinDepression DepressionDepression Depression

Anxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety Anxiety

Self SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing Loathing

Anxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety Anxiety

Depression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepressioin DepressioinDepression DepressionDepression Depression

Self SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing Loathing

Anxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety AnxietyAnxiety Anxiety

Depression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepressioin DepressioinDepression DepressionDepression Depression

Self SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing LoathingSelf SelfLoathing Loathing

Depression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepression DepressionDepressioin DepressioinDepression DepressionDepression Depression

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Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg

Split Personality, digital print

Kelsey Bills

Stranger, ink on paper

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47

Alyssa Vicente

965, black and white photograph

Mason Evans

Mason, egg tempera, ink, and watercolor on canvas board

Molly Metz

The Journey, ceramics

Adrienne Mione

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Artichoke, graphite and colored pencil on paper

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Leslie Hoffmann

Different Dementions, mixed media on paper

Mariah Kidd

Funny Little People, needle felting

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Brianna Paup

Memories, walnut ink on paper

Abbey Konzen

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“No Man is an Island,� tempera and ink on paper

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Brandi Burnell

Untitled vase, ceramics

Billie Barker

Thrift, digital photograph

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Get Down Tonight Billie Barker

See, I would go to the shelter like Melanie thinks I do if the shoes could walk and dance by themselves, but they can’t, so when Melanie says, “lock up and head out,” I lock up, but instead of heading out when she says, “go home and rest some honey, I worry about you,” I make the back door click like I’m leaving and then slip real quiet behind the big Saint Vincent de Paul statue and don’t breathe till I’ve counted every bead on its cement rosary, and I hear her go out the front door and see the headlights disappear from 8th Street, and then I eat stale donuts donated by Hy-Vee and make some coffee, and sometimes I steal someone’s yogurt or sandwich from the refrigerator in the back room, and the next day when they say, “hey, who took my yogurt?” I say, “that’s weird, it was there when I left last night,” and they’re still mad but not at me, and then I go past the flowered sofas and incomplete boxes of china and coats and dresses and walk down the sixteen steps of the narrow stairwell holding onto the railing in the pitch black and into the basement where I turn on a lamp instead of the fluorescent lights because I don’t want anyone to see me from the street, and I walk past the glasses and coffee cups to the two racks of shoes—one for gentlemen and one for ladies—and the bins of shoes for kids, and while they’re not quite nice shoes, they’re not all the way worn out either, and they still have things they want to do, and it wouldn’t be right to give up on them just because they’re not perfectly new or have fallen on hard times, and they all look so pretty and happy to see me in the almost dark, plus I know the pink Socialite pumps with the kitten heels and opaline clips like to stand all lady-like about three feet away from the black Bostonian wingtips and kind of gradually shift closer until Bostonian finally gets up the nerve to ask Socialite to dance, and then they tap around

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on the floor by the ironing boards and are so happy because next the Buster Brown saddle shoes and Stride Rite lightup sneakers jump over to dance with them, and they’re like a real family until Bostonian is injured when the Carhartt work boots remodeling the guest room on the shelf just above accidentally push an iron off the shelf and on top of Bostonian, and the Doc Martins have to clomp over and take Bostonian to lie down on some bedspreads and listen to his labored breathing and slowing heartbeat until Doc announces “time of death, 10:43,” and then I help Socialite and Buster and Stride Rite make funeral arrangements, and we all say how very life-like Bostonian looks wreathed in burgundy-red tissue paper and plastic daisies in his box, and then after an appropriate time of mourning, Socialite invites some friends—plaid Keds sneakers and Bandolino spectator sling-backs—over for tea, and then we all go for a walk to survey housewares, and I feel so small because I only have two hands and one night and can’t help them ALL go walking and dancing and living, and then I hear a bird and see sun through the crack in the board that covers the basement window facing the parking lot, and so I put the lady shoes on their rack and the gentleman shoes on their rack and the kid shoes in their bin and turn off the lamp and walk up the sixteen steps of the stairwell that is still dark though I can see the edges of the steps now and onto the first floor, where I change into a sweatshirt from one rack and some stretch pants from another and smooth my hair and bury the clothes I was wearing the day and night before into the bottom of the donation bin and eat some more donuts that are now even more stale and unlock the door and wait for Melanie to come back and say, “honey, you look terrible,” and then make some coffee and drink some coffee together while we wait for our first customer, and I nod off sometimes because I am very tired and would take the bus to the shelter tonight and get some sleep, but I still have so much to do before young Chuck Taylor moves into his dorm—he’s the first from the neighborhood to start college, and we’re just all so darned proud.

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Lover’s Dance Cassie Green

Lovers are partners in the never-ending dance of Life and through all of the ups and downs and jumps and turns let us take the time to Tango to the tempo of late nights and stolen kisses and ice cream at Dairy Queen and double dates and why don’t we Waltz to the wine of forgotten anniversaries and surprise gifts and five missed calls from you and forgetting to turn my phone on vibrate and embarrassing stories and silly arguments and when we have energy we can Cha-Cha to the chatter of the “I love yous” and the “I hate yous” and the happy tears and the sad tears and Burger King instead of Olive Garden and texting on the phone and late nights alone and let’s not forget the times we’ve had to Samba to the sad sound of me leaving you for three months and the “I swear I don’t talk to him anymores” and that dreaded lie that almost ended us for good and the “I swear she means nothing to mes” and tears and tears and tears and tears but I’d rather Rumba to the rhythm of your embrace and laughter and cuddling in bed and soft words that are said and to the toilet seat left up in the dark and although we might Macarena to the melody of mishaps and regretful words and another five missed calls from you and forgetting to turn my phone on vibrate again and forgotten birthdays and food spilled on your shirt while out for Valentine’s Day dinner and more tears we will Jive to the jazzy tune of playing Mexican Train with your family and Taco Bell for breakfast and running out of gas on our way back from Adventureland and falling asleep to another episode of Breaking Bad and let us dance and dance and dance until we know each movement each flip and spin and jump like trained ballerinas moving gracefully through this organized chaos called Life.

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Chapel of Love Billie Barker

Remember that one time on I-95 outside of Vegas? When we had to wave semi-trucks away from the guy lying in the middle of the fast lane because his new wife left him when his money was gone?

It was just him and his Winnebago.

He’d told her his love was like a red red rose and used his winnings to buy the ring from the hotel lobby jeweler. It cost him more than four months’ pay sweeping the floor— he said that ring shone brighter than the desert sun and hotter than her white-yellow hair.

He wondered. Is it still on her hand?

They’d whispered I do while Elvis sang blue, and danced drunk by styrofoam pyramids.

The driver pulled ‘round in a honeymoon mobile home stocked with champagne and Twizzlers; he’d paid with installments for his lady, his life—he called her his wife.

She didn’t even look back.

The “just married” sign scribbled in Sharpie flew ragged in the wind on the back of the Winnebago by the side of I-95 while frantic young missionaries waved eighteen wheels of permanent relief away from his crying carcass and its empty pockets.

He just wonders why love went.

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The wilted red rose spilled its spent petals into the trash.

Remember?

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The Same Moon Courtney Snodgrass

Three weeks after two men in dress blues knocked on our door, I drove your truck to the edge of town to be alone.

I put your pillow and our sheets in the bed where I looked up at the empty sky, absence of stars but the presence of a white moon and wondered how many times we’d stared at the same dark ceiling, always apart, hardly ever together.

An ocean away and I couldn’t swim fast enough to save you.

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Narrow Aisles Matt Howell

Lisa and Brad wandered the narrow, labyrinthine aisles of the small neighborhood grocery store. Lisa didn’t like it. The aisles were claustrophobic, and the selection was awful. She missed the stores in her hometown. They were monoliths of consumerism with aisles as large as canyons and row after row of any food her heart desired.

Of course, this town had those stores, too, but they didn’t shop there. Brad liked this small “mom and pop” store— that’s what he called it. Lisa liked the idea of helping out the “mom and pop” owners, but why did they have to have such tiny aisles? She felt like she was spelunking, not shopping. She wished just once they could go someplace else, but Brad wouldn’t have it. He hadn’t been the same since they moved, and he started grad school. She kept reminding herself that grad school is hard, and he was under a lot of stress—things will get better when he graduates. Then it will be like it used to be.

Brad had swept her off her feet. He had been charming and interesting. And romantic! To celebrate their sixmonth anniversary, he had dug through his mom’s attic and found some old Christmas lights. That night when Lisa walked into his tiny apartment, she was met by hundreds of twinkling white lights. “Tonight, we dine in Paris,” he had proclaimed. The dinner, Cornish game hen, was burnt, but Lisa didn’t care—to this day it was the best dinner of her life. She had realized she loved him that night, but now it seemed from another lifetime.

“Do you really think you need those Oreos?” Brad’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

Lisa looked down. She had been so lost in thought she hadn’t realized she’d picked up a package of Double Stuff Oreos. She looked at Brad, but he was looking past her. Lisa turned and wasn’t surprised to see a young blonde

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undergrad in yoga pants stooping over the organic crackers.

“Are you really checking out her ass?” Lisa shot back. She whirled her head back towards Brad. He had been looking at other women more often lately. At first it didn’t bother Lisa. She figured it was just a normal thing for a guy to do. But she noticed it more and more—or maybe it just bothered her more. She wasn’t sure.

“I’m not checking out her ass,” Brad said. His voice dripped with smugness, as if he was somehow above that kind of thing.

“Then what are you looking at?”

“I’m not looking at anything,” he said, finally meeting Lisa’s gaze.

“That’s what you say every time,” Lisa said. “I’m not stupid, you know. I notice.” Her eyes narrowed.

“You imagine things,” Brad said.

Outside, the spring sun was shining. A warm breeze blew through the bustling city street. But inside the store was dark, filled with the hum and unnatural glow of the fluorescent lights hanging from the low, pale white drop ceiling.

Lisa stared at Brad for a long time, then down at the package of Oreos in her hand. Without saying a word, she threw the Oreos into her basket and began to walk. Brad grabbed Lisa’s arm, forcing her to a stop, and in one motion took the cookies from her basket and slammed them back onto the shelf.

“I told you,” Brad hissed, “you don’t need those!”

He pulled Lisa close enough to his face for her to smell the stale coffee he’d had for breakfast.

She stared into his eyes. She could not believe the rage that lived behind them. Had it always been there? This was not the first time he’d done this, but had he always been so angry? And why had she put up with it for so long?

Without saying anything, she pulled her arm from Brad’s grasp, took the Oreos off the shelf and stepped past him.

As she walked down the narrow aisle, it widened and widened.

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Fifteen

Alyssa Vicente

I am not quite certain how I got here; therapists are for quitters. Every week I am suffocated by the same sickly green walls; I should have hid my ribcage better. It is hard to see a future beyond the end of each day. In the light of day, I am fearless, but in the shadows of the night, I fear for my life. Insomnia speaks sweetly into my pleading ears “come play with me.” My bones grind together as I curl into fetal position; I will have bruises in the morning. My first boyfriend hit me; my mother would be so disappointed. I did nothing. I stayed with him, but now I flinch at even the subtlest movements of his hand. He took my virginity even though I said I wasn’t ready; I felt nothing but shame.

This is not love. Why am I so ignorant? I used to be the “good one,” but somewhere along the way I fucked that up too. I am very particular; I hate a lot of things, most things.

However, there is nothing I dread more than the yellow M&M’s, and labels. Labels are for conformist bastards, but I guess we can’t all be free-thinking intellectuals. Shit.

They labeled me: Anorexia Nervosa. It could be worse. I could be depressed. I went to homecoming by myself. I laid in bed watching Nightmare Before Christmas. My dress was a daydream. I fell asleep and watched my life. Fifteen is eternal, I cannot seem to escape. The teenage dream is actually a night terror: wake me when I am twenty.

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Memories Zach Salow

Years go by and time always seems to fly but memories are everlasting.

Everlasting feels like forever when it’s a fight to the end.

The relentless fighting day by day, but don’t worry you’ll make it through; that’s what they always say.

You try and try, only to recognize you cry and cry.

The crying persists but I realize you’re as harsh as nails so I have to do the unthinkable: Throw away our memories.

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For An Old Lover Bailey Rickels

I used to love you long ago but now I’ve got nothing to show for it except my 2012 Skype history and memories that creep up on me inconveniently.

I still think about you some days when I hear songs play that remind me of you.

Sometimes I hit skip.

Sometimes I listen.

Mostly I listen.

I should break all of those mixed CD’s that I made for us so those butterflies can’t remind me that I might still love you and I shouldn’t.

I know you still think of me when I read a message that says, “Why can I still be civil with my cheating ex but you won’t even talk to me?”

What do you want from either of us when you’ve got a new girlfriend with a ring?

Guess I could ask myself the same thing.

No more dropping subtle hints on Tumblr that we miss one another.

We need to let our hearts be.

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Let go.

Please.

I need to finally let you slip away from me.

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That Night Nakola Nyambe

This is not a sad love story.

And it most definitely is not a pathetic attempt at trying to face my demons.

Okay, scratch that, the first part at least. It’s not that I intend on making this a sad love story, because people have had enough of those to last a lifetime. Still, regardless how much I say it isn’t, it really is a sad love story.

So let me begin with this declaration: I, Samantha Bradley West, will try to avoid the cliché teenage drama every eighteen-year-old girl faces: the “he won’t commit,” “my parents don’t get it,” “his parents don’t get it,” and the all-too-typical “everyone hates me.”

Life is not a fairytale. One sentence, five words, and the reality I came to understand the day I let my best friend and her boyfriend drag me to a college party.

“Dorit,” I said, “I really don’t wanna do this.”

“Okay, what do you think...black or white?” Dorit responded, her figure filling the wide-set mirror in the bathroom we shared.

“The black ones...D, I’m just gonna grab a book and have a quiet night.”

“The black ones...really?” I rolled my eyes as Dorit tossed the black high tops into the hallway and stepped into the white ones.

“I don’t know why I even bother,” I muttered. “D, stop fussing. You look perfect.” I got up to leave and nearly ran into the wall, cursing under my breath after tripping over Dorit’s tossed shoes. Dorit turned to look at me,. The noise had caught her attention.

“Sam, you’re not going dressed like that, are you?”

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That gained another eye roll from me.

“D, did you not hear me say I’M NOT GOING?”

Dorit marched past me into my room and straight to my closet where she pulled out first a blue halter top, and then some sparkly earrings. Next she walked into her room and came back with a little black leather skirt.

“There, cute and trendy. Now get dressed. James will be here in a bit.”

“Dorit…”

“Shut up, you’re going. It’s time you get over your ex and out of this house...and those sad clothes. I swear you enjoy being such a party pooper. It’s always ‘No, D, I got homework D, I’m sick D…’”

“Alright, fine. I’ll go if that will stop you from nagging me...jeez, I thought I left my mom in Portland.”

I switched the little skirt for black skinny jeans and the halter top for a white Fall Out Boy concert tee.

“That’s not what I picked out.”

“No, it’s not.” I smiled. Just as Dorit began to protest, James peeked through our front door and called for us to hurry. We walked out with Dorit screaming shotgun.

“Babe, you know Henry,” James said to Dorit. “Sam, Henry. Henry, Sam.” “Hey.”

“Hey.” That was all Henry and I said to each other.

We were off to Veronica’s house. She was popular, James’ friend and Henry’s ex-girlfriend.

Five, six or seven hours later, I woke to Henry leaning against the couch I had passed out on and whispering my name.

“Hey, Sam, we’re all heading to bed. We’ll go home tomorrow. Do you want me to walk you to one of the empty rooms?”

“No, I’m okay right here.”

“Okay.” Henry covered me with a nearby blanket, then just sat there for a moment. I sat up and thanked

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him for the covers and the fun night. He leaned forward, picked a little cotton spec off my face, kissed my cheek and hugged me. Henry held me in his arms, creating an eternal frenzy in every fiber of my being. I had to remind myself to breathe. Truth be told, this was the first time I had ever been drawn to someone so hard and so fast that all I thought about was him. When he let me go the feelings intensified.

Honestly, I was tipsy and couldn’t tell what was real from what wasn’t. It would suck if this wasn’t really happening…if my hazy image of Henry was spurred by the shots and tobacco circulating through my veins. I was floating on a white fluffy cloud and wasn’t about to give it up. Still I was definitely sure that Henry—I wish I at least knew what his last name was—liked me.

“Sleep well, okay?” Henry said, and he leaned in to kiss my forehead before slowly helping me lie back down.

“Mm hmm.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Mm hmm.”

He chuckled as he walked back up the stairs, and as a smile formed on my face, I knew that for this one night my life was perfect; it was complete.

Even this realization could not protect me from the burning knowledge within my heart that Henry, perfect Henry, was right now making his way up the stairs towards his ex-girlfriend’s room.

I had no right to be jealous. I mean…of course Henry was sleeping in Veronica’s bed, and yeah…we had just shared an unforgettable moment. But like every other love or like story goes, Henry was never mine to begin with. The reminder is a sharp blow to my gut. We had just met that day after all. I had barely noticed him, and I’m pretty sure the feeling was mutual. Even so, there was an irrefutable charm about him. We had an undeniable chemistry—it was like a loud scream. I don’t know if anyone else at the party noticed it, but I sure did.

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Or maybe the chemistry wasn’t so obvious.

Everyone was having a glorious time, trying to keep it light and casual and fun. And I had just been thrown into a den of lions. The last thing on my mind was what Henry thought about me.

But as I sat up on the couch the next afternoon, reminiscing, it was still clear to me the chemistry had been there…simmering, unspoken, but vivid. Everyone else must have been too drunk or uninterested to notice. Then again, maybe they didn’t see it because there was no way a girl like me would have been even the least bit expected to hit it off with Henry—we were total and complete opposites. Me, the definition of safe…Henry, everything else.

Everything was such a blur. I couldn’t pinpoint the moment it all happened. One minute we were partying. The next, Henry and I were laughing about nothing, him giving me credit for winning a game of cards I sucked at—he made us win. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have had the best time ever. I would have never met Henry had I insisted on staying home.

When I saw Henry that day it was awkward. I didn’t know how to act. We all drove together on our way back home, same as before. Dorit and I in the back, James and Henry in the front.

“I see you looking at me,” I said to Henry as he watched me through the rear mirror.

“Yeah.” He laughed it off, and that was it till we left him at his house.

Goodbye Henry, until next time. If there ever will be a next time.

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Perceptions Todd Cross

The reason I am nice is because I genuinely care, has to do with my beliefs, is for my good karma, is not for you to take advantage.

You cannot take me seriously because I am not mean, since I am a positive person— which has more to do with you than me because you are too jaded.

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3 A.M. Thoughts Bailey Rickels

The alarm sounds but there is no time for snooze.

3 A.M. has come too soon.

Still I lie, as you kiss my cheek, careful not to wake me.

But I am awake, at least one eye.

I can see you pull on your work pants, stained and tattered after countless days on your knees and trips through the wash.

I can see you pour milk into the bowl of stale Lucky Charms that I left out for you the night before, and I can see you trim your beard in front of the dusty mirror, still sleepy from yesterday’s work.

I never appreciate our tiny apartment as much as I do at 3 A.M.

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Dreamlust

Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg Hair the color of coal Deceivingly velveteen The sun blows its cover.

I hate the way It gleams.

Piercingly blue eyes, That melt The gaze of those who dare.

Melting all that’s in their way He searches for those Who stare.

His perfectly tan skin, Irritatingly golden Contours every muscle.

He knows just how to Hold them.

His body emitting passion Leaves all will in the dust, Once I became his lover.

He’s no stranger to my lust.

My mind is stuck In a whirlwind Now left alone to recover.

I hate how much I hate him I hate that I still dream About that freezing color blue And all those memories I once loved.

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Serpent Song

Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg His words are sly,

dripping from his tongue

as he cunningly says

everything she wants to hear.

She hates that

she willingly listens

to every bit

of the deceiving

words that slither

out of the very

orifice of which she

once loved to kiss,

getting lost in the

passion they once shared

and flowed effortlessly

between their lips.

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But that passion is

long gone now,

thrown away

and she finds it

hard to move on

because of how he slides,

in between

every thought she has;

because of how he

strings her along,

giving her false hope

because he looks at her with

those glamorous eyes

that glisten their vibrant blue;

because they are her weakness

and he knows it.

Melting her through long lashes

because he keeps drawing her back in,

she is hypnotized

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all over again.

“Why does he do this?”

she asks, “why do I

let him do this?”

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Lust

Alyssa Vicente In the world, there is order and chaos. in the white of the fresh canvas— I thrive in order. in the pale of her skin— She thrives in chaos. flawless.

At one time, I was infatuated. with gentle hands, colors are mixedShe grew untamable— colors only she can produce, exhausting.

My world grew dull in the order. more rich and vibrant than the sun itself— Her presencethe world, annoying. a grayscale in comparison.

A fiery creaturethe feelingcatches the corner of my eye.

Electric.

An entrance that demands to be acknowledged— As she lays the paint upon the emptiness, Electric. her whole body is the painting.

Her entire being screams my name.

I lose myself—

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my eyes fixed upon movement— in her Siren song. my stomach burns in flame— I am hypnotized.

My mind travels— She consumes me— with crimson reds, I journey through passion, her wild, sends me to places I have never been before. with indigo, I journey through serenity and satisfaction.

I want for nothing more— I am a silent passenger. no longer am I dead.

I whisper under my breath— She will— “make me come— make me Feel— Alive.”

Alive.

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Edgar’s Nevermore Zachery Hooper

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’”

I sat there in silence, feeling sleepy While I pondered weak and weary Looking at the line I had written For the raven of the days of yore.

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’”

Yet thinking clearly, how it escaped me!

I felt my hands go cold and queerly Feeling like the raven was speaking To me as if I never knew him before.

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’”

There he sat in my mind so clearly, Tearing my soul ‘till midnight creeped me To the fire I had started In the pit, oh how it roared!

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’”

The warmth was calm and made me sleepy While the wind blew with great eerie.

Why does this raven haunt me Like the nightmares at my core?

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’”

Perhaps, just perhaps,

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The line is perfect, just so perfect For the poem and its lore, Of the man within his study, And the raven who is sitting, simply sitting Just above his chamber door.

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’”

I feel much more charmed and cheery But the darkness creeps in ever dearly In the space around the table Where my work sits on the floor.

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’”

Though I worry it may scare me And raise ghosts from where they snore, I return to my masterpiece With great confidence and more.

“Quoth the raven ‘Nevermore.’”

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The Observer Abby Herb

As I sit on the curb of a bridge, unseen I watch as people go by wondering why—what makes them their own?

I watch as the white girl drives by with her expensive car— something her daddy probably bought— listening to music that spoke of money problems and the

drug game.

How could she ever relate other than to think it makes her popular, cool to live the thug life without ever understanding what it means to watch a friend die— Shot with a bullet through the head— the pain that the very lyrics of the song depict, but are never recognized.

I watch as a child in worn out shoes, holes in the soul old hand me down jeans with a faded out t-shirt sits on the street and I wonder who are his parents left him forgotten on the curb while they ran into the court house awaiting their older child’s murder trial.

Will this be the last time they see their eldest son’s face without the bars marring the image— what kind of pain has he seen, This child?

I watch as a man and woman

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walk by hand in hand her smile reaching her eyes, her skirt flowing around her

mid thigh hoping while he looks down at her face seeing through her only thinking about the rise and fall of her breath and uneven steps on the streets growing dark by each tic of the clock ticking away the minutes till he gets what he wants and leaves her without even saying good-bye when a few months later she has a kid who will never know a father As I sit on an unforeseen corner, observing as the light fades onto the water I wonder—does anybody see me like I see them?

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Eyes

Alyssa Vicente

One by one they harvested Charlie’s organs. He was too young. The car was too fast. Charlie and his mother were on their way to the grocery store to buy milk, eggs, butter, sugar, flour, and cigarettes. His mother, Doris, needed these things to make a cake for his nineteenth birthday. The cigarettes helped to calm her nerves. It was a rainy birthday afternoon. Charlie loved the rain, but the tires and traffic did not. Doris and the sugar were the only survivors.

They started with his heart. He was alive just an hour ago and he was already being sold and distributed like a prime slaughtered animal. Charlie was an organ donor against Doris’ wishes. She found it barbaric, but Charlie was always so giving. He checked the “Y” for organ donor when he got his license so he could become the beat of life for someone else.

They took his lungs next. Charlie hated that his mother smoked. On his eighteenth birthday, she offered him his first cigarette. Disgusted, Charlie took the pack from her hand and crushed it right before her eyes. He was always so afraid that his mother would die of lung cancer.

He always went to the doctor with her so he could make sure she was being honest and was being properly cared for.

They successfully took his kidneys, liver, pancreas, bone marrow, and skin. All of which already had new owners before they were even removed from Charlie’s body.

While she knew it was the right thing to do, Doris could not help but feel violated. The boy they were chopping up into pieces was her sweet baby boy. The organs they were removing and passing out to strangers were the same ones

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that developed in her womb. The same organs that not even two hours ago made up her lively, humble, beautiful son. A nurse came out to speak with Doris. She informed Doris of all the organs they were able to harvest and all of the lives that Charlie had saved. Spiraling with emotion, Doris was not sure how to feel about anything. She half expected her son to walk out behind the nurse, dressed and ready to go celebrate his birthday.

“We are to harvest his eyes as well,” the nurse said.

“No,” whispered Doris “not his eyes.”

“If we harvest his eyes, we would be able to give sight to two blind individuals,” explained the nurse.

“I said no,” Doris said through a clenched jaw, “not his eyes.”

“We have up to eight hours after death to harvest the eyes if you want to see them one last time.” The nurse gently rubbed Doris’ back and gave a sympathetic smile.

“The eyes?” Doris snapped, “You mean CHARLIE’S eyes. MY Charlie’s eyes.”

“Ma’am, calm down I did not mean to offe….”

Before she could finish, Doris continued, “Do you have a child?”

“Yes. Ma’am, but this is not about me. I….”

“Do you look into your child’s eyes and marvel at the beauty that came from your womb?” Doris cried. “Do you look into their eyes and wonder how the hell you were blessed with something so good, when you yourself are a walking mistake?!”

“There are four hours remaining, but ultimately being an organ donor, it was Charlie’s decision. Because he was not a minor, we did not even have to mention it to you,” explained the nurse.

“He is just a kid! He doesn’t know what he is doing!” cried Doris, and to her he was. By this time, Doris was outraged. How dare they threaten to take her baby’s eyes! How dare they send out this bitch to talk to her? She has the bedside manner of a toad! Doris made a run for it.

She didn’t know exactly where they were holding her baby but she was determined to find him and stop that doctor.

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“CHARLIE!” she screamed. “CHARLIE!” The nurse called security and began to run after her.

“Doris, there is nothing you can do. Charlie is gone.”

“MA’AM!” yelled the security guard. “MA’AM!” STOP!” With the guard and nurse fast behind her, she caught a glimpse of a doctor and a team of nurses and organ transporters through a small window in a gray, metal door. She was able to scream, “STOP!” and bang on the door before she was tackled to the floor. “Ma’am, it is too late,” the nurse explained. “It looks as though they have completed the organ harvest. The procedure is over.” The last organ transport box was sealed and ready to go: Eyes.

With Doris sobbing, the security guards held her by the wrists, escorted her to the main lobby and called her a cab.

“Go home,” said a guard. “Go pray and be with your loved ones.” But Charlie was her loved one—her only loved one.

“He saved many lives,” the guard said, “you should be proud.” Doris got in the cab and silently sobbed.

For weeks she stayed in her room. How could she live while her own son was dead? He helped so many people, she should feel proud. Instead, she could not help feeling resentful. For months, she talked to nobody. She had brought Charlie into this world, and though it was the other car that killed him, she too was responsible for his exit. My Charlie is gone, I deserve to suffer, her thoughts tormented her. For a year, she made no eye contact. When she did look at someone, she saw Charlie—Charlie’s eyes.

Haunted by those ever-changing hazel pools of wonder, Doris grew more and more secluded in her house of guilt and fear. Every minute of her existence was spent listening to the hallucinated voices that invaded her mind.

On the second anniversary of his death, a friend stopped by her house for a visit. Seven phone calls, twenty knocks on the door and an awful smell coming from the basement window later, the police and her friend found her body. Wearing her son’s favorite baseball hat and a dirty Black Sabbath hoodie, she had starved herself. Minutes later, the paramedics arrived. Scooping up her body, they noticed something strange on the floor beside her: her eyes.

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Gemini

Drew Disterhoft Fall, my life begins to change.

The leaves turn orange and red, while the wind brings brisk autumn rain.

Scared and lost with nowhere to turn, in need of a friend, a bridge I will not burn.

Stars give me guidance, plot out this vast plain.

A Lewis to my Clark to battle a land untamed.

At last, could it be, yet another human being?

Hi, hello, what’s your name?

What’s your sign?

I’ve been out here on my own for what seems a very long time.

Gemini you say?

Our stars aligned.

No longer do we wear our old school colors— I say Clippers, you say Bears—

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to us it doesn’t really matter.

What matters?

Well you’re here.

You and I Gemini Bound by fate.

We are chameleons holding our ground against a brisk autumn wind.

Even though we may both have brothers, I will only have one twin.

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Last Word

Bianca Kesselring This pen is running out of ink, but I must tell you something.

I’ll write quickly and choose my words carefully.

I think do you can we GOOD-BYE

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Creative Writing Contest Winners Mount Mercy University congratulates Allison Chen from Queen Creek, Arizona for winning our sixth annual Creative Writing Contest for High School Juniors.

Mount Mercy would also like to recognize the following writers: Second Place: Savanna Johnson (Dexter, Iowa) Third Place: Moira Green (Cedar Rapids, Iowa) Honorable Mentions: Nick Battles (Indianola, Iowa) Morgan Bruns (North English, Iowa) Peyton McGuire (Hiawatha, Iowa) To read the second- and third-place writings, please visit http://www.mtmercy.edu/cwc This year’s contest was judged by Professors Carol Tyx and Mary Vermillion and the following upper-level creative writing students: Billie Barker, Anna Bohr, Amber Downs, Abby Herb, Zachery Hooper, Abbey Konzen, and Nicole Pochay.

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Obsessive in Scarlet Allison Chen

I sit, polished to perfection, in front of the porcelain mirror. This dark, smoky room is rich and velvety, supposedly evoking ethereal glamour. Whenever people visit, they always marvel at the flawlessness of the setting.

What can I say? I’m a perfectionist; I want my surroundings and myself to be beautiful—the pinup doll that is so popular with the men. So I don my pearl necklace, put on my red dress every night, and take a deep, long smoke from my Lucky Strike. You know what they say: “Reach for a Lucky instead of a sweet!” Perhaps that is why my figure stays trim and impeccable.

I am perfect. I am beautiful. I am desirable.

But why does nobody want me? Is it because of the bloodstained gloves that cover my raw hands? They are only raw because I want my hands to be perfectly clean.

Bathroom sink. Hands warm. Hands pink. Hands red, cracked and bloody.

It’s hard being perfect.

I reach for a tube of red lipstick and uncap it neatly. The red glides on smoothly like a painted smile.

Wait, wrong. Let’s wipe it off and do it again.

The red smears onto my white skin like blood streaking from a wound.

Careful, careful. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The tissues pile up, pink water-color balls of avantgarde red blotted in the delicate linen. And my hands shake as I apply it again, but the room taunts at me. No longer is it pretty in here; it is terrifying. The portraits hang wrong, and the chilly air pricks the back of my neck. Someone is pulling my arm to put on the lipstick again, but I no longer want to. The curtains close in on me like a cage, telling me

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I can never leave this room if I can’t put it on perfectly.

Again, again, again. But each time the lipstick runs out of the lines of my lips.

And the wallpaper screams at me and my demons shake me because I can’t control myself. I am horrid to look at with a rough and zigzagged splash of red smeared across my face.

I’ve lost count and the clock has already fallen off the wall, from the endless ticking.

By the time I look at the mirror again, red has already curled over my eyelids and across my nose and lips.

I smile a demon’s smile.

I can no longer tell what is lipstick and what is blood.

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Contributors Billie Barker is an English major with minors in Communications and Creative Writing who will graduate in May. She lives in Cedar Rapids, Iowa with her husband and son. Billie was once a street mime.

Kelsey Bills is an Art major who has lived in Cedar Rapids, Iowa all of her life. She is not quite sure what her plans are for the future, but she does know that it will be something involving art. Her favorite things to do are draw and paint.

Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg is a junior majoring in Fine Arts with minors in Spanish and English. She hopes to one day become an art professor. She enjoys photography, painting, and poetry. Her hobbies include crafting, reading, watching movies and spending as much time as she can with her dogs.

Lauren Brunson is a Graphic Design major with a Philosophy minor. She is from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and hopes to someday be a freelance artist or well-known designer. She likes to explore art as a communicative medium.

Brandi Burnell is an Art Education major with a minor in Math. She is from Marion, Iowa and plans to graduate in December 2016. She plans to substitute teach shortly after graduation, and then teach full-time. Fun fact: Brandi is a first-generation college student, attends classes fulltime and works full-time.

Allison Chen, from Quinn Creek, Arizona, is this year’s winner of Mount Mercy’s Creative Writing Contest for high school juniors.

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Todd Cross is a senior, seeking English and Secondary Education degrees and an endorsement in Journalism. Todd works as campus editor for the Mount Mercy Times and serves officer positions in the English club and SISEA. He aspires to teach high school English and Humanities courses. Todd adores spending time with family, friends, Oscar the cat, and his pack of basset hounds. He also enjoys his workstudy position at Erskine Elementary and volunteering with his husband, Casey, at Theatre Cedar Rapids.

Natalie Deister is a senior English major and Psychology minor. She lives in Marion, Iowa but is originally from Kansas. Before attending Mount Mercy, she attended a small women’s college (350 students) for two years in Missouri before attending Mount Mercy.

Drew Disterhoft is Communications major. His most recent work can be found in the Mount Mercy Times archives between 2014-2015 as well as on his portfolio located at this website: http://ddisterhoft1093.wix.com/drewdisterhoft.

Drew lives in Iowa City, Iowa where he loves to volunteer coaching basketball and hang out with his best friends.

Mason Evans is a Fine Arts and Graphic Design major from Des Moines, Iowa. He would love to continue creating art in whatever career he chooses to pursue. A big dream of his is owning his own gallery so he can showcase and represent not only his own work, but also artwork of other artists.

Mason bowls at Mount Mercy University and can ride a unicycle, but sadly cannot do both simultaneously.

Molly Hahn is a freshman majoring in Biology. She is from Dyersville, Iowa, and has been writing short stories and poetry for the past six years. Her hobbies include writing, reading, and watching movies.

Carmen Delgado Harrington is an East Los Angeles, California Mestiza and an MMU Alumni of the Class of

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2015. She is employed as a Spanish Interpreter by the Grant Wood Area Education Association, and the Iowa City, LinnMar, and College Community School Districts. She is a Navy Veteran, retired Navy officer’s wife, mother of two, and grandmother of three. Two of her previous entries to The Paha Review have won the first place award for poetry.

Abby Herb is studying English while playing basketball on the Mount Mercy women’s team. She aspires to travel around the world to help improve peoples’ lives and give them aid. She hopes to write about her experiences during her travels to help raise awareness about different peoples’ life conditions.

Leslie Hoffmann is a junior Graphic Design major with a minor in Business. She is from Manchester, Iowa and her dream job would be owning her own design business where she consults with and/or designs for other businesses or organizations. Leslie went to Belize this past January (2016) where she did many “firsts”—including her first time seeing and being in the ocean, riding a horse, exploring the jungle, and travelling outside of the country.

Zachery Hooper is a senior English major and Creative Writing minor from North English, Iowa. In his free time, he takes part in the Kirkwood Community Concert Band.

His interests include music and video games, which have helped inspire his writing. He hopes to one day share his ideas and stories with the world.

Matt Howell is a senior English and Political Science major and Pre-Law minor from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Matt plans to attend law school after graduation, and is the president of the Political Science Club.

Cassie Green is a junior from Anamosa, Iowa. She is majoring in English and Secondary Education with a minor in Creative Writing. She is a part of the Mount Mercy Dance

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Team, the Mount Mercy Improv Troupe, and is currently working on getting her first book of poetry published.

Char Jacobson is a second-degree student in Elementary Education, and hopes to graduate in December 2016. She is married, has two grown daughters, and a rescue dog.

Bianca Kesselring is a junior Human Resource Management major from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She is involved in a variety of activities on campus including SIHRM, Student Ambassadors, Honor’s Club, Campus Ministry, and University Choir. She is also an Orientation Leader and a columnist for the campus newspaper. In her free time, she can be found reading, spending time with friends and family, watching Netflix, and volunteering.

Mariah Kidd is a junior Graphic Design major from Hiawatha, Iowa. She would love to support herself with art in one form or another.

Abbey Konzen is a junior Fine Arts/Graphic Design major and Creative Writing minor. She has lived in Marion, Iowa all her life but likes to visit her friend’s animal farm in Pennsylvania when she has the chance. Her dream is to be an artist on the farm and live a fun, creative life.

Molly Metz is a Graphic Design major from Riverside, Iowa.

Adrienne Mione is a Fine Arts major from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She hopes to one day be a user-funded or freelance animator based in Seoul, South Korea.

Hilary Nekvinda is a 2015 graduate with a double major in Secondary Education and English. She is the mother of two and the wife of one. She resides in Cedar Rapids, where she finds time to garden and enjoy her horses.

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Nakola Nyambe is an international student from Zambia.

She is a junior majoring in Biology and looking forward to officially minoring in Creative Writing. She intends to pursue a career in medicine with a pediatric specialty. She enjoys writing, and is currently working on poetic exposure and writing a novel. She loves the outdoors, nature, taking walks and exploring. Travelling, music, the arts, cooking and baking are some of her other passions.

Alyson Oberdries is a senior Nursing major and Creative Writing minor. “My Baby” is a piece she wrote for Mother’s Day this year. Her mother has helped her through everything, and is always supporting her dreams, and this poem is an ode to her.

Brianna Paup is a freshman from Mechanicsville, Iowa. She is studying to be a Graphic Design major. She’s not quite sure in what direction she wants to take her design studies, but is having fun exploring different options.

Dahlia Porter is a junior English major from Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

Bailey Rickels is a sophomore Criminal Justice major and Creative Writing minor from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She enjoys baking, spending too much time on Pinterest, watching Netflix, and hanging out with friends, family and her boyfriend. After graduating, she plans to go to graduate school.

Zach Salow is a freshman majoring in Biology. After graduating from Mount Mercy University, he plans to attend Palmer College to become a chiropractor.

Courtney Snodgrass is a junior double majoring in English and Psychology from the Cedar Rapids/Marion area. As the author of two already-published poetry collections, she’s absolutely in love with the power of words. She spends

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her time writing poetry and short stories and is working towards her spot on the New York Times Bestseller List.

Alyssa Vicente is a senior Fine Arts major, and a mother of an amazing toddler. Currently, she interns at the Marion Times and runs her own photography business. (All made possible by copious amounts of caffeine.) While she is sad to graduate and leave her Mount Mercy family, she is looking forward to pursuing graduate school and furthering her skills as an artist.

Doriann Whitlock (Dori) is a freshman English major. She has lived in Iowa all her live and enjoys being outdoors. She has written for the Mount Mercy Times this year and plans to continue being part of the Times team. Her goal by the end of senior year is to join an editing firm in the Midwest that deals with all aspects of the written word. She wants to be a part of the process of creating books that will make people of all ages laugh, cry, and find themselves among the words.

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

80 lb. Sinar Glass and 80 lb. White Sinar Glass Cover.

The printer was Welu Printing Company.

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