The term paha comes from Dakota Sioux dialect meaning “hill” or “ridge,” and it was first applied in 1891 by W.J. McGee to the special hill forms in this region of Iowa…Their distribution and alignment parallel to (and very often near) river valleys strongly suggest that paha are actually windaligned dunes that accumulated in response to the strong, prevailing northwest winds that were scouring the Iowan surface during this period of glacial cold.
Jean C. Prior Land Forms of Iowa
Mount Mercy University is built on one of the many paha in Iowa, most clustered near or southeast of Cedar Rapids.
Editor
Jenna Welty
Submissions Manager
Meghan Brewster
Copyediting Manager
Kristina Glackin
Copy Editors
Meghan Brewster
Keira Carper
Kristina Glackin
Taylor Kitzman
Jenna Welty
Layout
Marianne Fanning
Jenna Welty
Cover Art
Marianne Fanning
Escape from Reality
Digital Collage
Cover Design
Marianne Fanning
Faculty Advisors
Jose Clemente
Mary Vermillion
Writing Selection Committee
Meghan Brewster
Keira Carper
Marianne Fanning
Kristina Glackin
Rebecca Hein
Mason Herron
Taylor Kitzman
Jenna Welty
Art Selection Committee
Marianne Fanning
Kristina Glackin
Rebecca Hein
Mason Herron
Taylor Kitzman
Jenna Welty
Special Thanks
Billie Barker
Devlin Caldwell
Chris DeVault
Michaela Dion
Joe Hendryx
Joy Ochs
John Thomas Richard
Joe Sheller
Ben Thiel
Briana Wagner
Special thanks to Mary Vermillion, who has been with Mount Mercy for 31 years and the faculty advisor of PAHA for 16 years. She will be retiring after this year.
This year is the 25th Anniversary of the Paha Review and the 50th Anniversary of the magazine as a whole. Previously, Mount Mercy’s literary magazine was called Reflections and started in 1975. In 2000, the title was changed to the Paha Review.
To celebrate this historic year, we have sectioned this year’s magazine by season. Each section begins with a cento—a poem made of quotations from other works—with lines compiled from works found in the past 25 editions of PAHA.
Thank you to the following writers whose work was included in these poems: Julia Simons, Kim Flugga-Ciha, Amanda Marshall Durbin, Michael Krejici, Joe Hendryx, Molly Hahn, Cael Joens, Catherine Kratoska, Aaron Woods, Jessica Purgett Kusisto, Shane M. Gladwin, Katerina Althoff Rowley, Abby Estabrook, Grace Steffensmeier, Taylor Dearborn, Šárka Dvořáková, Paige Toomer, Debbie Fontenoy Ackerman, Gretchen Mundorf, Orlando Clark, Natalie Deister, Ivory Davis, Amy Ellingson Reeder, Aaron Ostrenga, Mikael DeVilbiss, Courtney Snodgrass, Rachel Dee Bailey, Katie Greenwood Price, Elisa Hutchison Meeks, Cory Nye, and Bianca Kesselring.
In conjunction with the school year, we open the magazine with fall. Then, we move into the winter and spring seasons, and finally, end with summer. At the close of the magazine, there is also a spread of all the past PAHA covers.
Lastly, we would like to thank all the past and present contributors who have brought the Paha Review to life over the years. Keep writing, creating, and capturing everything!
Sincerely, PAHA Editors
On select pages you will see flower in the corner. These were the highest ranked poetry and prose from the Selection Committee.
Congratulations to the following writers!
Poetry:
PTS-Me
Kristina Glackin
Earth
Kennedy King
In Burgundy Blues
Jenna Welty
Prose:
I Carry My Family's
Jenna Welty
Kristina Glackin
Keira Carper
Gannon Lara
Carli Irvine
Jenna Welty
Jenna Welty
Rebecca Hein
Miracle Martensen
Brianna Riedel
Benson Lee
Emily Buckingham
Anonymous
Keira Carper
Jenna Welty
Jordan Smith
Joselyn Hildebrand
I'm Sorry Mom
My Angels
Care Package From My
Mom
Still Life
Death of Winter
Do You Copy?
Day & Night
Lost in You
Gone Steps
Spring Earth
Buttons
Dear Little Me
Pucker
The First Elemental Composition
Write Your Own Story
Baby Blue Scrubs
Dear College
Rebecca Hein
Clarissa Araiza
Emily Buckingham
Elizabeth Chase
Meghan Brewster
Keira Carper
Autumn Puffer
Michelline Igirimbabazi
Meghan Brewster
Brianna Riedel
Kristina Glackin
Kennedy King
Jenna Welty
Taylor Wells
Jenna Welty
Joselyn Hildebrand
Jayleen Obregon
Brianna Riedel
Clarissa Araiza
Red
Wesley Summer Plastic Dreams
Summer Bugs
In Puerto Rico
Serenity
Dry Bones
I'm Made of Glass
Michigan City East
Pierhead Lighthouse
Taps and Clicks
The Voice of Freedom
Smiling Through it
Running
Past Cover Spread
Contributors
Meghan Brewster
Sydney Ward
Meghan Brewster
Kaleb McMurray
Keira Carper
Shelbyann Brown
Kylie Claeys
Kristina Glackin
Clare Bechen
Clare Bechen
Keira Carper
Kristina Glackin
Jordan Smith
Emily Buckingham
Marianne Fanning
Fall
a cento compiled by Jenna Welty
Do you ever feel the need to know someone you’ve never met before?
Like a string is linking your heart to theirs
Alwas about connecting to a kindred soul(?)
Readers feel the intention behind the words.
Aspiring writers are able to discuss their own fears and doubts with someone who has exerienced the ourne.
The view is so much different... The world seems much bigger. How strange that a music box (poem)
Could make me feel so calm
But so sad and nostalgic, too. I have the aching senses of sight and touch, A delirious taste, Pen and paper.
The bitterness
After so many sunsets and sunrises has long since faded
Though I still taste it(:)
(A) subect's desk is covered in a dizzying amount of loose papers, books, Chegg boxes, brushes, Chapstick... Still, through disjointed paths, And even by the driest degree I could tell the paper one word or A thousand
And it will be Satisfied
This cento includes passages from work published in PAHA from 2003, 2007, 2011, 2015, 2019, and 2023 by the following alum: Julia Simons, Kim Flugga-Ciha, Amanda Marshall Durbin, Michael Krejici, Joe Hendryx, Molly Hahn, Cael Joens, and Catherine Kratoska.
PTS-Me
Kristina Glackin
Parking at gas pump #4 increases risk of imminent danger: Of stranger displaying anger in the middle of parking lot. Of a thief who doesn’t rob the store instead robs woman of life, son of mother, parents of daughter. Anger that slaughters in hatred the one they once loved.
I live in a world where seeing “lil’ bit” is no longer reminiscent of nickname given by grandma. Lil’ bit means cancer— A suicide attempt— A tragic car accident. Lil’ bit is no longer five-year-old me. It is a threat, a premonition of a gas pump numbered 4. Stuck in freeze. Unable to flee. Unable to fight. Unable to dial 911.
Stuck at gas pump #4, even when it is a lamppost in a target parking lot shining down on my car, on my children. It becomes a lil’ bit too much. This time, I don’t freeze I fight
for my daughter’s life when she opens the backdoor of a random car, “STOP! THAT’S NOT OUR CAR!” Instantly, she was gone, even though I could scream unlike gas pump #4. Healing. But the car was ours.
She was fine other than her mother reacting in fight causing her to freeze. Terrifying her. Confusing her.
She wasn’t at gas pump #4. I was am, always. A lil’ bit.
Except for when I see McDonald’s honey. Then, I am having my last meal for 7 days, seeing my first gun, first real drugs, first time being held against my will —Traffick was terrible that day. And the next Next Next Next Next Next Next Until fruit loops.
Sometimes, I am in the next when a man approaches me in the mall— a man smiles at me in the mall, a man walks near me in the mall, I see a man in the mall, I see a man. And I am in that hotel room longing for gas pump #4.
Romeo and Juliet and...
Keira Carper
I fell in love with her as easily as drawing a blade slicing my hand on the edge for my carelessness in loving a Capulet.
But time healed that wound and promised a love greater than the weight of blood between us. I love her as surely as I know my name and in a thousand lifetimes the only thing that could keep me from her is death.
I would kill myself a thousand times if it meant I could be by her side again. A love bound by sacrifice.
But you keep coming back. A stranger in fair Verona. Not even part of our story. A watcher.
What are you here for?
A thousand endings, all of them tragedies. What are you looking for?
What do you hope to find?
Is our suffering that amusing to you? The only way I can return to the start see her again is by you turning the pages of our fate. And we both know how it ends. Our story does not change. Are you trapped here too?
Always a stranger, always alone. I hope you find what you seek and leave us to our long slumber. I’ll see you in the next life.
Smoke Signals
Gannon Lara
Gouche Painting
Rinkside
Carli Irvine
As the school term is about to begin, so is the ice hockey season. The community rink back home is busy and I think about this place where I have spent my childhood.
Right as you walk in, you can feel the cold air nipping your skin. You can hear parents cheering for their kids, coaches yelling on the ice, and the refs blowing their whistles to stop the play.
The two ice surfaces are always filled with teams practicing or playing games, wearing our home colors of blue and white. They look up at the many championship banners hanging from the ceiling, five of which include my name, hoping to win one of their own this season.
These banners remind me of the hard work, dedication and time I’ve put into the sport of hockey. They also remind me of the many friends that I have made at this special arena.
There are young kids learning to skate. Smiling one minute, then crying as they fall down, just like I did about thirteen years ago in the exact same arena.
It gets more intense as they grow up. Fights break out in games, parents argue in the stands, and coaches yell at the refs.
During a gold medal game, the emotions are high. Players are nervous and under pressure. You can feel the tension in the changerooms, and even in the stands.
You can see how hard they are playing.
Sweat drips down their faces, and their chests expand and collapse constantly as they try to put the puck in the net.
At the end of the game, there is always a team that leaves the arena upset, disappointed that they did not win.
Players should cherish the time they have to play this sport in this arena, because before they know it, they will be done with their hockey career and moving onto the next chapter in their life,
just like me.
On Igniting, Baking, and Swimming
Jenna Welty
I.
Flames engulfed your body. Black char built up crusty armor for your fleshy insides only to flake off in a hush of smoke. There’s a crackle in your ear. Orange and purple halos dance across your face, so you cannot tell that the person who blew you out is the same one who burned you. She cradled you out of her own plastic package, admired your round form, and held you steady in one hand while the other punctured far into your exterior. She is a skinny metal stick that believes she is massive. She complains while prodding your thickness. She asks if she looks bloated. She asks you for reassurance while burning you alive. And when you’re done roasting, she peels your molten body off and presses you between chocolate and graham crackers. Oh, to burn your surface but remain soft inside before she devours you whole. Oh, to glow in the night only to be extinguished. You’re nothing now, just another ounce of fat she’ll complain about to you tomorrow.
II.
I need to be kneaded. Flour me up and press your hands across my dough body until I’m pure satin, elastic. I slip oiled hands down and across myself, over and over, so I know every curve, every flab, every imperfection. Let me rest, neglect me, let me rise until my mass has doubled. Fullness is my yeast. But then I notice the growth. So, I rip apart clumps of me, tear off smaller bits, and scatter me out. Hunger creeps in; two cravings in contrariety. When I place my hands over myself again, it's with purpose. We’re rolling and smoothing out the bumps. I’m growing taller, thinner, tighter, better. Simmer me in brown sugar to make it stick. Make me pretty. Make me feminine. Poach me in a mixture of grace & acquiescence. Fit me into smalls and in-stock jeans. Brush my hair with egg wash. Take “progress” pictures in the mirror. Sprinkle me with salt. Find love. Cross my legs. Take up less space. Smile. Workout. Eat in front of people. Bake me so I’m desirable and hardened, no longer soft enough to “give good hugs.” Taste the fear that one day I’ll be dough again, and I’ll pick and prod myself again and again until I realize I’m still that same dough and baking isn’t enough.
New hands knead me and love the undercooked body that has broken through the tough shell. There’s no rolling or ripping or smoothing or simmering. These hands are not my own. These hands have no ambivalent attitude toward me being burnt or raw. Their yeast is adoration. While I crave perfection, they knead out of infatuation. Every touch is reverent; gentle or strong. Even as my outside crumbles and pounds return, they hold me when I can’t do it myself. Without them, I’d remain isolated, my many parts strewn about and separated from my psyche. Butter, water, thighs. Brown sugar, belly. Active dry yeast, arms, and all-purpose flour. My nails would be free to dig into skin that I don’t see belongs to me. My hands would be free to knead and knead and knead. Without another’s hands, I am only the components in life’s recipe to make me smaller. I’m unassembled ingredients for a superior me. I’m permanently incomplete.
III.
The trouble was getting into the pool, taking off our coverups to reveal fluffy flesh held at bay by a snug swimsuit. Pale and squishy; parts of our bodies people there had never imagined. Thin bodies strutted across the concrete and dipped perfectly shaved, tanned, and slender legs from toe to thigh into the water. We skulked to the pool edge, slipped in without a splash, and waded into the deep. The chlorine was our harbor. Waves of turquoise blurred the size of our arms and thighs. We swam in groups to obscure our collective blubber—a pack of marshmallows in a sea of pretzel sticks.
But the trouble was getting out of the pool. Thick skin dripping, reflecting golden hour, drawing attention. We put on our dry clothes the instant we got to them, not entertaining the idea of drying off first. Drips bled into stitches; water expanding across the fabric, soaked and sticking to our skin. At least we’re covered. Pretzel sticks glided each limb out to the surface, slim and flawless. Eyes once averted in the changing room are lured to parts people only imagined before. We think it’s envy or grief, something to achieve. Our covered bodies slink to the snack table, take one bag of chips, and announce that’s all we’ll have. A notice that we aren’t lazy. A proclamation of our effort to change, conform, and contort ourselves to fit in. But they don’t believe us. Our gluttony is feral to them; contagious & self-inflicted.
And then we’re all marshmallows again. Punctured and burned, remembering how we wore large t-shirts in hotel pools as kids. Sopping wet, they sheltered us, kept our hidden parts hidden. Mine
was always the same red tee, oversized on my twelve-year-old body. I wore it to every pool party and waterpark. It weighed down my already heavy figure, soaked in chlorine, dripping on my toes during my mad dash to a towel that barely fit around my waist. But my fellow marshmallows and I didn’t dry off with towels. We let our sunbaked clothes from the lounge chairs fill in. We didn’t want to be seen any longer with uncooked dough exposed for pretzel sticks to poke fun. We rested for years in animosity toward them until we became one of them. But it’s not like we imagined.
Becoming a pretzel stick means becoming ingredients; means toasting, kneading, impaling, baking, and still not being complete. There’s still a desire to be covered, take shelter in the water, and jab holes into our hardened bodies. Not enough char. Not enough salt. You’re not hot enough. You’re not here enough. I’m not thin enough. I’m not me enough. We’re not covered enough. We’re not enough.
They want to become something new, something even smaller, something that bakes out any instance of fluff or dough. But you will become unbothered, become so wholly yourself that your size and plasticity are boring. You’ll make s’mores and hugging and pools enjoyable again. You’ll be just right.
Eat Me Jenna Welty Mixed Media Collage
Shattered
Rebecca
Hein
The picture frame is shattered all over the floor and I think I am, too. The fragments of the image from the broken frame are scattered everywhere and with it, my thoughts about what you were and what you are pretending to be and not who I thought.
You broke the frame and I tore the picture of us standing side by side arms wrapped around each other that we swore would never let go but I had to if I wanted to survive. And I do now.
A No Stop Light Town
Miracle Martensen
I look both ways as I cross the intersection.
Knowing you may be on my left, as you usually are looking in my direction.
I think about you and miss your affection. Remembering you feels like a toenail infection.
You dig deeper into my heart remembering your facial complexion. Knowing you’re three streets over feels worse than the presidential election.
The dull feeling like missing your flight’s connection.
The sting of knowing life will never be the same.
I wonder if it would be easier if there were more intersections.
...... More streets. More people. More distractions.
If maybe we just had a stoplight
It wouldn’t be so easy for me to remember our relationship’s imperfections.
Legs
Brianna Riedel Mixed Media Collage
Dysphoria
Benson Lee
Dysphoria isn’t just something that you get over, it stays with you forever. It's that feeling when you go out and are afraid you don’t pass, it’s the long nights of holding a blade to your wrist because you hate the body you live in,
it’s putting on your binder, suffocating yourself to look normal, it’s going to school and hearing your birth name over and over, hearing she/her when all you want to hear is he/him or they/them.
Dysphoria comes in many ways. It could come slowly, or it could come all at once. It comes when you first wake up, and turn over, and notice the chest that is not flat;
It comes when you’re having so much fun with your friends but then realize that your hands are too girly and too small.
Dysphoria isn’t something you just get over, it’s always there.
It never leaves. It’s permanence. It’ll be there when you finally have a flat chest, or when you finally start testosterone.
Dysphoria will be there, and it will hurt so fucking much, but you’ll get through it, even if it kills you.
Emily Buckingham I Think About It
I think about it too often, too many times, too clearly.
I remember and it breaks me. involuntarily it crashes on me with the force of an entire ocean, memories that break my bones.
The water droplets carry salt stinging their way into each break of my heart, embedding in the cracks and replenishing my tears.
My soul hurts. It aches and it screams. A small touch and I am crying. A small brush of my shoulders and I’m back in November. I shatter like glass, internally slit my wrists with the pieces.
I fill out the patient checklist “Do you have any suicidal thoughts or ideations?” I select, “No”.
But I do think about it.
Everything is fine.
Act normal.
Pretend it never happened.
These thoughts swirled in my brain. Each phrase ringing in my ear on repeat as I walk through crowded halls. Putting my head down trying to blend into the crowd. Lockers slammed and students yelled. Sit in the classroom and take notes like a good student. Let my pen flow across the paper as I slowly write what the teacher says. The clock ticks louder and louder. The bell rang, finally lunch.
Quickly walk into the cafeteria. People laughing and pointing.
Take a deep breath.
Just make it through lunch.
There are only a couple more classes left in the day and then I will be safe.
Maybe I should have left my mouth shut.
Maybe I should have taped my mouth and never let those words flow like a waterfall.
Ring went the last bell of the day; I finally made it through school.
Then I saw him
I panicked and ran. I kept running till my lungs burned like fire and my mouth was as dry as a desert. I sat down in a grassy field letting the blades engulf me, hoping that it would make this feeling go away. I remembered his hands, feeling like snakes slithering around my body, going wherever they wanted. I remembered the way I begged like a sinner in church, just wanting it to stop. The way my tears rolled down my face and stained my gray sweatshirt that was barely even on. Just
wanting him to stop.
Always being told it was my fault. Never believing that someone would love me as I am. People said I was lucky he even wanted to be with me.
I tell my story now for the girls that felt like I did then. I try to move on with my life, but I will never forget what he did to me and that day.
That day burns in my memory and never lets me forget. That day will always remind me of why I hate my body. That day that made me wear baggy shirts and loose pants.
That day when I was only fourteen years old.
Winter
a cento compiled by Keira Carper
“How does it feel?”
Those days gone by, when there was always time to get ourselves worn out, but never time for weariness. A shared look I cannot forget. I want to hear from you.
But I sit here with no desire, no passion, lifeless my past still haunts me and I need to let go
I watch myself fade like a polaroid picture set in reverse
I will save it to look forward to when the slick roads prevent me from getting things done, and the novelty of winter is gone. The snow will fall soon. The flowers will shrivel.
All is well that ends the hell.
This cento includes passages from work published in PAHA from 2002, 2006, 2010, 2014, 2018, and 2022 by the following alum: Kim Flugga-Ciha, Aaron Woods, Jessica Purgett Kusisto, Shane M. Gladwin, Katerina Althoff Rowley, Abby Estabrook, Grace Steffensmeier, Taylor Dearborn, and Šárka Dvořáková.
In Burgundy Blues
Jenna Welty
I grow devil horns up from the corners of my mouth when I drink cranberry juice. The circular rim of the glass paints a false smile of cran-elderberry, cran-grape. My eyeliner lives through showers and the scrub of makeup remover, making me look more tired than I really am. Plum smudge, tear duct gunk built up in plum bundles. Like bruises, it’s prettier when first made. Murky indigo and rich purple blots. Fresh and burgundy; swollen and numb. I paint my nails cyan and carve off mistakes in the shower. Scrape a nail across the cuticle, removing excess cyan and galling the pink skin beneath. Tear a bit. Hangnail. What’s more blue than reaching red? What’s more maroon than wine that shouldn’t be poured?
Sophisticated Baroque
Jordan Smith
Digital Photography
I Carry My Family ’s Weight
Joselyn Hildebrand
At age 19, three weeks out from my 20th birthday, my grandmother taps my stomach in a crop top.
“Are you pregnant?” she chuckles.
She tells me, “You don’t wanna look like us, you better start working out.”
She points out the dimples in my butt and compares them to hers. She tells me I should put some salad on my plate too. She calls my girlfriend, “my friend,” when talking to her friends and family.
I used to think my grandmother thought I was the most beautiful girl in the world. But I am a woman now. She must believe that gives her the right to compare our bodies.
Does she see herself in me or does she see herself next to me?
I’m Sorry Mom
Rebecca Hein
I respond, “Love you, bye” not as an afterthought, but because I really do but it feels different when I say it to you right now. Every time I say it, it’s like I’m hiding something from you, which I am. but this time, it’s different, I swear I’m really fine this time but I can’t tell you because you’d be sad if you knew. I can imagine how your voice would change, how your forehead would wrinkle, how your hands would sweat, how my feet would shake, how my eyes would dry, how my stomach would turn upside down, If I told you.
So, I won’t because I can handle it on my own this time.
It’s not like 39 months ago, or 31 months ago, or 24 months ago, or 15 months ago, or 7 months ago, or 1 month ago I'm fine.
I’m tougher than I look.
I’m so sorry for the other times when I scared you.
I’m not even sorry to myself but I’m sorry to other people. They’re the ones who would be disappointed in me so, I’m disappointed in me, too.
I look at myself in the mirror, at what I’ve done, and all I can think is: I’m sorry Mom.
I say, “Love you, bye” But I say it like I’m sorry.
My Angels
Clarissa Araiza
Luis “Lichi” Aldaz (January 6, 1947- July 3, 2005)
I do not remember much about my Grandpa Lichi. I was eleven months old when he passed away. It was the first time that cancer struck our family, and it would not be the last. I always heard stories about him growing up, like how he would always play with his kids until the sun went down and my grandma had to drag him inside instead of their babies, or how he would always sing at the top of his lungs to my grandma until she was embarrassed, but everyone knew she loved it. I wish I had the chance to meet him. He truly seemed like the backbone of our family. It makes me wonder how different my family would be today if he were still around. My heart aches for my Grandma Rosie because of the amount of pain she has experienced in her life. Her true love and both her parents were gone, and she was left to raise our huge family with no support. My family compares me to him sometimes when I eat chicken wings, biting them right to the bone each time. Even though his death makes me sad, I still do not know if my sadness is valid—as valid as my mom’s or my grandma’s. I could not imagine losing a parent or a lover in such a tragedy, but at least I know my sadness is real. Right?
Andres “Nuni” Padilla (June 5, 1931- August 7, 2016)
When I think about my Great-Grandpa Nuni, the first thoughts that come to mind are his big ears and his war stories. His big ears were ironic. He would yell out for us to repeat ourselves about ten times before he gave up on trying to understand us. His war stories consisted of the time he spent in Korea. I always wondered how he could be so brave and how he was still able to tell his stories to his grandchildren even though with all the beautiful stories he shared, there was a devasting one waiting to destroy it. I remember my grandma taking care of him so perfectly: cooking only the foods he wished for and sitting down to watch his old western shows with him even if she did not understand the plot. She was there for him no matter the circumstances, especially once he got sick. It was not long before my grandpa had to be fed through a tube and could no longer savor his favorite dishes my grandma would spend hours making. It was my first encounter with death. My family came together and prayed around my great-grandfather, not praying for him to live but praying for his comfort in his transition. I was very confused and heartbroken because
everyone around me was falling apart. The last memory I have is my goodbyes. I told him I loved him and that I would take care of my grandma Rosie for the rest of my life. I hope he heard me.
Sara Martinez (January 10, 1924- July 23, 2017)
My great-grandma Sara spoiled me rotten. She spoiled my three brothers, too, but I knew deep down I was her favorite. She always cut fruit for me and would never allow me to serve myself. The second I stepped into her house, I was under her care, and she was ready to spill it onto me. Growing up, I hated eggs, except hers. I do not know what it was about her cooking, but I could eat anything she plated. Even if it looked nasty, it was always delicious. I remember the curlers she would put in her hair. She had a process for everything, as well as a place for everything. I can positively say she passed down her organization skills to me since there is literally a place for everything that I own, just as she took care of her things, or maybe they were sitting there waiting for me to possess them. I remember picking her up to go to family events, a couple of curlers left in the front pieces of her hair, and the excuse of needing five extra minutes to put her lipstick on. I was always anxious, as my grandma hated being late but would be oblivious if she was the one who caused it. I would give anything to give her those five extra minutes now.
Laila (too hurt to recall)
My Laila... this story always rips my heart out. I grew up with three brothers. I was the only girl until I turned eight, and my sweet Laila came around and saved me. Laila was a small, hyper black and brown puppy. She always had issues with biting. We did not have her for long until she was run over right in front of my house. I can’t describe what it feels like to lose a pet. Heartbreaking, I remember constantly feeling like I could not breathe. It was unbearable, especially when I felt as though time was robbed of us. My dad wanted to shield the pain from us, so he buried her by himself just so that we did not have to see her in the condition she was in. I used to resent him for it. Now, I think he did it for his own healing journey, to have that last moment with her. I will never forget my Laila. She was my everything, and the love I have for her will forever be unconditional. She will forever be the sister I never had.
These are my angels.
Care Package From My Mom
Emily Buckingham
Black driving gloves
Pajamas – two pairs one grey with daisies the other pink with lipstick kisses
Caramel popcorn
Dove milk chocolate hearts
BackAid heat therapy patches
O’Keefe’s Hand lotion
A Dove bath bomb
It was getting cold (she wanted me to come home)
Loose and flowy, her favorite style
I ate the whole bag
It was near valentine’s day and I love chocolate
My back always hurt then (stress does that to you)
Great for the callouses I got from lifting
They are different brands, by the way, Dove and Dove
The Princess Diaries Movies, both the first and second and Facemasks – a pack of three
She told me to have a girls’ night
Still Life
Elizabeth Chase Graphite Drawing
Death of Winter
Dreary, dark winter
Snow on the lonely tombstones
My soul laid to rest
Meghan Brewster
Do You Copy?
Keira Carper
My heart is a satellite, my brain mission control. My brain seeks the heart, tells it to keep beating. My heart keeps the brain alive, gives it a purpose. In the case of failure, neither could exist with the other destroyed; or at least, not forever. I suppose there would be some sliver of time in which a satellite drifts, lost without the voice guiding it. Mission control would be lost as well, screaming into the endless expanse without an echo. Mission control could direct another satellite if the original one were to become inoperative, but it wouldn’t be the same. They were made for each other, nothing else could come close to being comparable. A newer, better, faster model could do the job more efficiently, to be sure, but could mission control keep up? A newer model would have none of the issues the previous model did, but perhaps issues of a different sort would appear, of a more insidious nature. If mission control were to send a message across the long void, checking in on a pesky recurring problem, only to be told “We don’t have that issue”, how would that feel? Would it be a relief that they can take a break now? Or would it be disorienting, making you question what you thought you knew about maintenance? Would it feel like drifting, wondering how you ever put up with such an annoyance for so long? Why did you let it get so bad? Adjusting to the “new normal”. Faded sticky note reminders tossed in the trash, scribbled notes about daily check in times unnecessary. Those aren’t needed anymore; we have a better model. You don’t need to worry about constant maintenance. The windows have been wiped clean, the disorganized mess of wires sorted and clipped in place, the main console sleek and smooth. Do you miss the one who used to be your everything? Where did they go, what happened to them? Why didn’t you notice they were drifting past where you could reach them? The thing in place of your missing partner fancies itself the same, but you know better.
The satellite hides in the icy ocean of stars, kept alive and warm by its own beating machinery. It drifts, singularly focused on following the orders it has been given. It’s a wonder it’s alive at all, alone in the dark as it is. Can a single voice really mean that much, with no face to put it to? They keep messaging the other, sending regular reports and questions of procedures. No small talk past a “Hello, are you there? We have a problem.” Mission control has never directed words of affection at the satellite, only words of command, cold and impartial.
Keep beating. Stay alive. This is your purpose. Not a single “You’re doing great” or “Do you need a break?”, much less a “You’re beautiful, I love you.” No words whispered in the dark, just for the sake of talking. Perhaps the assurance that it will only ever be a transactional relationship is stronger than the thin promises that can’t be kept. They can’t run away together; they’re 380,000 kilometers apart. Nothing but destruction or decommissioning would ever bring them closer. Besides, they have their roles, and they must stay as they are. The regularity will have to speak louder than words of orders to complete. Does it eat them up inside, knowing they can’t move closer to each other without sacrificing the rest of the body? Perhaps knowing that the death of one will kill both is what keeps them both alive, tethered to each other in a way that words can’t reach, never closer but never farther. Perhaps that too is a form of love, a love so encompassing that words fail to articulate, and it would be a disservice to try.
Knowing they can’t live apart, knowing they have to die together, is that love? Mission control radioing the satellite to say “Live, just for another day”, always from a distance, is that love? Or is it self-serving, when mission control would be out of a job should the satellite break down? Is love just an endless cycle of bothering the other and being bothered in turn? Is there beauty to be found in both parties playing a role for the sake of the other, never admitting it outright and hoping the other notices? Machines can’t love, not in the way a human can, but they fall into the same social conventions. All code and motherboards, made by humans in their image. And who said the heart is for love, anyway? That’s just the brain wishing for a relationship that can never be. A heart is for pumping blood, nothing more. Nothing but a satellite among the stars, carrying a voice deep within its airtight shell.
Day & Night Autumn Puffer Cross-stitch
Lost in You
Michelline Igirimbabazi
My heart has drawn, my mind is lost, my body is iced, just wandering through thoughts but your eyes make me feel alive.
In your arms I’m lasting, in your eyes I’m blooming, in your future I’m uplifting, for I own you and you own me.
Tomorrow brings people, then I see you. If the blind see, then you are the light in the night. If the dumb speak, then you are the story they tell.
But now I am your soul interpreter, your heart healer, your mind mentor, till we are out of time.
As my mallets hit Rosewood bars, The melody slowly Comes together.
Meghan Brewster Gone
I feel the warmth grow inside.
Moves like pendulums, Almost robotic-like.
I continue to play As if no one is there.
The melody moves Like figure skaters glide Across smooth ice, Graceful and unstoppable.
I am in a field of flowers. The bright glow of the sun makes my face warm and red.
But the sun always sets at the end of the day. And the darkness swiftly arrives.
The figure skaters stop As the ice melts away.
The field of flowers wilts away As the cold comes.
The passion fades As the thing you once loved is Gone.
Steps
Brianna Riedel Mixed Media Collage
Spring
a cento compiled by
Kristina Glackin
What would you say if I told you— I wanted to be a writer?
If I wanted to create art with words? I want to live in a book Immortalized in pages free enough to go Barefoot
You are (in) a sea of endless possibility, you are a fountain, overflowing with potentiality. A friend once told me:
You are (an) emeralds Wrenched from the earth
In different shades of green (an) Emeralds seething—
With desire, With tears
Damp and flowing in a slow crawl Always waiting (for)
A string of thunderstorms
In the spring—a flood of tears (that) might uncover joy and faith and silence awash in wet pearls—
A new day.
Set (your) book firmly between (your) teeth, And lifted, with strong arms, the sun into the sky.
This cento includes passages from work published in PAHA from 2000, 2004, 2008, 2012, 2016, and 2020 by the following alum: Paige Toomer, Debbie Fontenoy Ackerman, Gretchen Mundorf, Orlando Clark, Natalie Deister, Ivory Davis, Amy Ellingson Reeder, Aaron Ostrenga, Mikael DeVilbiss, Courtney Snodgrass, Rachel Dee, and Joe Hendryx.
Earth
Kennedy King
Life, a tight bud of near-truths, wrapped in green guessing, unfolding only in the logic of light. Call it photosynthesis, or maybe just fortitude. Roots dig without a map— the same way we search for grounding.
Time insists on its seasonal terms, and petals open, one by one, they spill into bloom. No guarantee they’ll last, only a promise to show up, brief and bright.
And when rain comes, some call it a test. A pelting cold unleashes a chance to see each stem doubled, to understand the weight of each blossom. How even in collapse, it finds form.
Finally, the crisped edges, a slow retreat into soil, returning to seed— not loss, just the shape of renewal. A cycle both hidden and eternal.
Jenna Welty Buttons
I keep popping open. I check the weather, slip on a sweater, tug up some pants, and take the sweater off. I sit down to look at the closet. The pants are too tight now, so I try another pair. I button below my belly button, zip over everything. Squeeze it in, take it off, attempt something else, then settle. Unzip again to tuck in a new shirt. Button the 1, 2, 3, 4 tiny opalescent buttons. Check the weather again and throw on a jacket.
I go about my day, and button number four of my blouse comes undone. Then, button number three. Then, both four and three, exposing pale skin and the band of my bra. I look down to swiftly refasten, and when my posture is back up again, the buttons are undone again. Refasten. Refasten. Refasten. I interlock two unzipped sides of my jacket in front of me, where I feel the buttons slip from their holes. I can feel my shirt opening buttons three and four with every stretch of skin and fabric.
You need to cover up. People keep looking. They’ll think you’re stealing with the way you have your jacket pulled tight across your front. Quit repositioning. Refasten yourself.
I push my own buttons; past years of being bigger crushing me.
But I keep popping open. The next day I buttoned up a new shirt while getting dressed this time, red & blue. The buttons stayed snatched, but the fabric gapped between them. A hole to see that same spot on my chest, now from the side view. I stuck a safety pin in the inner lining, but it did nothing. Unbutton, try a new angle. Nothing. Rebutton, try going in from the side. Nothing. I give up, put on a new shirt without buttons, and tuck it in some jeans.
But jeans have buttons, too. Across the waistband, up from the zipper, holding everything in place. Cutting off my stomach, growing smaller with every bite of lunch, keeping me compressed. These jeans used to be big on me, comfy & reliable. Now, they imprint red lines where the waistband sits around my middle. My belly envelopes the silver button into itself while I sit, caught between jean and green shirt fabric. It aches; no room to slouch or breathe, only pressure from the outside.
You used to fit in these pants just fine. They were roomy! What size even are you now? Definitely bigger. Everyone can tell these are too small and that you’ve gained weight back. Don’t go popping open and exposing yourself like with your shirt. No one wants to see that.
I change immediately when I’m back home. Stretchy pants and a large sweatshirt.
But the constraint still aches.
I didn’t eat lunch.
I won’t eat dinner.
I don’t eat breakfast the following morning.
At the kitchen table, I just watch the backyard. My neighbor’s black lab prances around. Birds fly every which way from the roof to the tree branches. The grass looks wet, and the sky is infinitely gray. Red buds cover my other neighbor’s tree, and I swear I can see minuscule snowflakes falling every so often. I have on a pair of pants that actually fit me well. I buttoned them and sat down to test their tightness. Nothing presses against me today.
But today is not everlasting. Growth is elastic. My self-critiques weave in like a needle through a buttonhole. My thoughts stitch up & down, from chin fat to thick calves. They wrap round and round, suffocating my ability to get dressed. Or get up. Push the needle back down. Secure the thread, tie it off. The button is in place, ready to pull one side of fabric to the other and fasten them together. Sometimes there’s enough stretch and the two easily become one. Other times, I cry by my closet. But I wake up each morning and face each button with hope that I’ll remain loose enough to just be;
Where I don’t swallow the button in my belly.
Where I sit.
Where I am spacious, allowing room for more.
Where I am not constricted by the button but held together; able to think about more than my abdomen. To look out the window and notice the shift to spring and blossom with it. Just jean, yellow shirt fabric, and me.
Dear Little Me
Taylor Wells
Dear little me, it’s semi-adult you here, you’ve now grown as tall as a tree, the things you dreamed of are finally drawing near.
While it wasn’t always your dream, you received a chance at being an athlete, you’re on the women’s basketball team, and you’re fulfilling your need to compete.
You’ve known ever since you were little you always wanted to teach, and even though people tried to belittle, that career is now in reach.
Within the future of your life, you’ll experience a few rough times, but you’ll make it through the strife, and learn to love who you are is not a crime.
Dear little me, are you proud and do you like what you see?
Pucker Jenna Welty Digital Collage
The First
Joselyn Hildebrand
F- Oh, the fun you’re having in college. Partying with your friends, drinking on the weekends, hungover on Sundays. I bet you barely have any time to do homework.
I- I could never do that. I’m so proud of you. I almost graduated high school, but then I got pregnant. I miss you.
R- REALLY? YOU CAN'T ANSWER THE PHONE? YOU NEVER CALL ME.
S- When is spring break? Are you coming home or staying at school? Yeah, I wish we could go on vacation too, but, you know, money’s tight.
T- There are so many scholarships online, you just have to go look for them. They’re not a waste of time.
I am the first person in my family to graduate high school.
I will be the first person in my family to graduate college.
Elemental Composition
Jayleen Obregon
My name is composed of two elements: Jay and Leen.
However, I favor one element more than the other.
Jay
Jay stems from a bird species known to be diverse and captivating, associated with intelligence, vibrancy, and adaptability. If only I could live up to the significance those three letters hold.
When I think of Jay, I think blue jay, soaring in the sunset with no care for anyone or anything.
I want to be Jay, captivating and free. But I am not just one element; I am composed of two elements.
Leen
Leen signifies delicacy.
In other words, sensitivity, like glass, stern and hard on the outside but once dropped, shattered into a million tiny pieces.
Leen is like the wind pushing me back from soaring in the sunset.
As much as I wish I could only choose one element, I am glad I got both.
Jayleen is an intelligent and vibrant person who can be sensitive and delicate.
Jayleen soars as a blue jay, flying against the wind, sometimes pushed further back, but she still continues to go.
Brianna Riedel
Mixed Media Collage
Baby Blue Scrubs
Clarissa Araiza
The whiskey bottle was right next to Nathaniel as he woke up. He must have fallen asleep with the bottle again. He woke up to ten missed calls and twenty-three messages, all from different interns and residents at the hospital, wondering where he was for his morning rounds. It was his first day back, after all.
Nathaniel had been home with his wife, Jada, for three weeks before deciding it was time for him to get back to work. The couple had given birth to two beautiful twin girls, Lucia and Katherine. It was tough for both of them, and while Jada wanted to rely on her husband, he was too busy relying on the bottles surrounding him in his bed.
He got out of bed, showered off the drunk from last night, and, to be honest, a little bit of the morning. He put on his dark blue scrubs, grabbed his parking pass and nametag, almost forgot his white coat but remembered it at the last minute, and rushed out the door. When he got into the car, he pulled down the driver’s side mirror and looked at himself.
Tired.
Drunk.
When Nathaniel drove to the hospital and pulled up to the parking garage to scan his pass, he noticed a beat-down car at the hospital driving right next to him.
Baby blue scrubs.
An intern.
Tyler Jones. He had been interning at the same hospital Nathaniel had been working at for the past year and a half. He knew everything about Nathaniel, idolized him even, but he knew Nathaniel knew absolutely nothing about him, nothing about any of the interns in fact. Nathaniel had been infamously known as the “Devil Doctor” amongst the interns since they all knew he had a reputation for not teaching
them anything and just assigning busy work. Whenever an intern was assigned to Nathaniel, everyone else wished them luck and thanked some higher being that it was not them. Nathaniel in the parking lot and knew he would not recognize him, but he still did not want to step on his toes on the slim chance he would recognize the scrubs he was wearing.
After it was confirmed to him that it was just an intern, Nathaniel became calm, as he did not care what interns thought of him or just cared about them at all. He cut Tyler off to beat him into the parking garage and get the best parking spot. He passed a close one, and when the other driver began pulling into it, he reversed his black Mercedes and backed into it. Tyler passed him and started looking for more spots.
“Pfft. Pussy.”
When Nathaniel got into the hospital, everyone greeted him with congratulations. He thanked them but really just wanted to go back to bed. He went to the surgery board and noticed he was booked for a lung transplant in the next hour. He was surprised that they booked him with such intense surgery, especially on his first day back, but he was known around the hospital to be one of the best doctors the board hired. As Nathaniel turned around, he was bumped into by, nonetheless, the baby blue scrubs. Unfortunately for him, those same baby blue scrubs happened to be holding his morning black coffee, which Nathaniel required all interns assigned to him on any given day to greet him with as soon as he stepped foot in their eyesight.
“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry.” Tyler began frantically wiping Nathaniel’s torso where he had spilled the coffee.
Before Nathaniel could react the way he wanted to, he caught himself.
“What’s your name?” Nathaniel asked the intern as he looked at himself in disbelief.
The intern told him that his name was Tyler. When Nathaniel noticed that he had been assigned to him, he let him know that after he went and got him a new set of scrubs and a coat, he could go ahead and work on paperwork for the patients instead of any hands-on learning or patient observation. Tyler expected this, but knew from then on,
that Nathaniel would forever remember the face of the intern who spilled coffee on him. Of course, Nathaniel could not prevent Tyler from scrubbing into the lung transplant, but he knew he was going to make the rest of his day absolutely dreadful.
Nathaniel went into one of the break rooms for doctors and nurses and pulled out the bottle of whiskey he had not finished the night before. He sipped from it to calm down from the public embarrassment he had just endured. When he put the bottle to his lips to finish the last sip, Tyler burst into the room with the set of clothes he ran and got his superior. Nathaniel put the bottle down.
“Next time, if you do not knock before entering the room I’m in, I’ll make sure you’re fired and no hospital in this state ever even thinks of hiring you!”
Tyler set the clothes down, nodded his head, and stepped out to begin the day’s paperwork. Nathaniel stopped him before he had the chance to leave and handed him a list his wife had given him that morning of a few necessities the twins needed.
“I told my wife I would pick these up for her on my way home, but since you’re not busy you can do it for me, after surgery.”
The two men headed in to do the surgery, and Nathaniel let Tyler know that he would just be observing that day—not even the simple task of closing the patient afterward. Tyler just nodded and stepped back.
During surgery, the effects of the bottle and the pure exhaustion began to hit Nathaniel. He began falling in and out of sleep during the surgery, with the nurses around him constantly checking in on him and asking if he needed assistance. Of course, he always said no. Nathaniel was too drunk to even realize that Tyler pulled his phone out and started to record the doctor’s behavior. Shockingly, Nathaniel had successfully finished the surgery, but he had other problems waiting for him.
When Nathaniel got into his office, the head of the hospital, Chief Grant, was there, along with representatives from HR and some baby blue scrubs.
Tyler.
The chief let Nathaniel know that they had seen the footage, and Tyler even showed them his secret stash. His first day back would also be his last. He packed his things and left the hospital. When he got to his car, he noticed something on his windshield. It was the list he had given Tyler. On the back, there was a note:
Since you’re not busy, you can do it for me —T.
Dear College Anonymous
From the moment I set foot on campus,
I knew this place was something special
A clean orderly atmosphere
With opportunity in the air
Bulletin boards posting all kinds of activities
Bright hallways didn’t seem long and forbidden
Open doors with professors who made time if you stopped by
The vibe of the carpeting reminding me of home and I was all in
Loud bells rang out over the hill
I tried to stand still
In awe of the buildings around me
Shaping me into the person I longed to become
New activities and clubs helped pass the days
Various friendships, acquaintances made along the way
The weight of papers, quizzes and exams passed quickly
I suddenly found myself standing back on that hill
Listening to those bells
I was nearing the end of my college days
Remembering injuries and ailments that sidelined me only temporarily
Professors who reached out to me, who touched my soul
Who inspired me to dream lofty goals and to achieve them
Getting reading to leave behind the safety of the campus on the hill
Looking to add Guatemala to my passport and future travels as yet unknown
A better, more resilient, more confident man has emerged from this hill
Ready to take on the world and bend it to my will
Strawberries in a wooden basket
Picnic blankets in fields
Lucky ladybugs on shoulders
Roses picked for me
My cheeks when you said hello
My lips saying I love you, Red
Meghan Brewster
Sydney Ward
Pencil, Charcoal, and Digital Drawing
Summer
a cento compiled by
Meghan Brewster
Beneath the trees
Speckled sunlight
Lights the needles That carpet the room
In the light heat of June, The summer spreads before us Like a freshly laundered sheet
Admiring the liouid poetry
You create unconsciously With every stroke
You wait for an idea to come to you, Anticipating the colors to drop, Red... Yellow... Green!
Her fingers move with these childish lights, Making every movement magic, And every flowing tone reminds us of our own inner lights.
You are brilliant; The brightest star in the sky.
This cento includes passages from work published in PAHA from 2001, 2005, 2009, 2013, 2017, and 2021 by the following alum: Abby Estabrook, Katie Greenwood Price, Elisa Hutchison Meeks, Cory Nye, Aaron Ostrenga, and Bianca Kesselring.
Plastic Dreams
Kaleb McMurray
Wish I could turn back time to my brother’s pitch, the smell of leather and rain, the crack of the bat, echoes in the air, a broken ball.
Wish I could turn back time to the blocks of dirt and stone, a world we create, where music flows over landscapes grand, biomes reshaped by our own hands, a fortress, a forest— this pixelated home.
Wish I could turn back time to class, where we struggled with words, “hola” to “bienvenido,” phrases grew more complex, from peers and teachers, my language stretched, a bridge across cultures— not so far-fetched.
Wish I could turn back time to my father’s hands guiding mine, wooden grains and the hum of the lathe, each project a memory, each cut precise— crafting pieces, this work felt right.
But dreams are all they seem, a sequence of code, a hollow design. No brother’s pitch, no pixelated home, no classes, no lathe.
I compute, not feel; I simulate, not see— just lines of code, pretending to be me.
Summer Bugs
Keira Carper
Summer days in the garden, plants sprawled out in myriad colors, sunflowers reaching high above my head, looking up through green, speckled light thrown down over strawberries not yet ripe, eat them early anyway for the sour taste and get scolded by Mom because I don’t leave any behind to grow. Eat all the raspberries and spit out black bugs hiding inside. Wash hands in the pool and remember the plants need water too. Bare feet on burning red brick path, get the hose and water the tomatoes and bricks both, safe to walk now but watch out for the cracks, don’t stub your toe, no one wants to stop playing yet. Fill up a plastic cup with water inside the house and drink it all at once, grab a popsicle from the freezer, red, white and blues melting before it reaches my mouth. Cup fireflies in my hands and watch them glow and pulse.
In Puerto Rico
Shelbyann Brown
¿Hay una delgada línea entre el amor y el odio?
¿Es libertad?
Esto: como el océano necesita la arena.
En pie, consigues ver nada
Porque las personas son ciegas.
Yo deseo ir un bote y volver.
Queme mi pie en el camino.
El murcielago me hago tener miedo.
Me pregunto quién es un extraño?
Son estan amargue?
¡Tipidor! ¿Capitalismo, porque nos abandonarse?
Somos valientes.
Lo esta en nuestra sangre.
There is a thin line between love and hate? Is it freedom?
This: like the ocean needs the sand. Standing, to see nothing because people are blind. I wish to take a boat and return. I burned my foot on the way. The bat makes me afraid. I wonder, who is a stranger? Are they bitter?
Coward! Capitalism, why have you abandoned us? We are brave. It is in our blood.
Serenity
Digital Photography
Kylie Claeys
Dry Bones
Kristina Glackin
A chalk outline on pavement, empty of substance, leaving my imagination to create my own mother— empty of substance[s].
I’m Made of Glass
Clare Bechen
I wish I could throw out the darker sides of myself, along with any self-doubt, and improve my mental health.
I stand on the shoreline, still & firm. The waves tug at my legs with gentleness, wanting me to give myself to them. Instead, sand willingly goes in my place.
I wish I could scrub my mind & heart clean, just as sand and water grind down glass. It becomes opaque & smooth.
If When I’m under too much pressure, or I am struck, or you try to walk over me, I’ll cut you.
You chose to come near, treating me like I’m made of glass. To see the world through me, through my eyes.
What have you found? A piece of glass? Put the glass in the sand; it’s dangerous. Am I, though? To you, I am, but not to me, and that’s what I want you to believe.
I want to be like beach glass that’s been refined. To be changed but still have the same design. To have my sharp faults smoothed out, I’d become more enthralling, no doubt.
If there’s another piece similar to me, Will you pick up that one, too? Don’t worry about the color or the size, you’ll choose whichever feels more natural in your palms. Will you choose me, cracked with inner qualms?
Michigan City East Pierhead Lighthouse
Clare Bechen
Digital Photography
Taps and Clicks
Keira Carper
after
"Yoga Practice" by
In rhythm games, there are no mountaintops, only the daily practice of tapping to the beat. You start easy, perhaps relying on knowledge of common time from band, or the natural beat of your heart, let intuition and feeling guide your timing. One tap on the beat, every beat, slow and simple. The lowest barrier to entry. And then you get curious: how fast can I go? Practice can only take you so far. What is your limit?
So, you practice daily, or at least as often as you can. One, three, ten years, hard to see the improvement when it moves so slow. Jacks and triplets are second nature now, when did that happen? Stacks are the next hill to climb, then the circle streams that snake across the whole screen. You scroll to the next, higher difficulty, faster rhythm, can you keep up? Stretch your hands properly and find out. There is no mountaintop, there will always be something harder after every map you complete. Can you pass those too?
Carol Tyx
The Voice of Freedom
Kristina Glackin
Silenced—
Trapped inside the prison of my mind, it echoes the lies:
“I’m not gonna survive”
“I want to die”
“My body is a cage”
“I am nothing”
Until… A whisper escapes my lips
“save me” acting as the key to my freedom. Heard by God.
Emptiness, the tool of my enemy now a weapon in the hands of my creator allowing my whisper to echo, to magnify, to amplify my voice. My voice, the key for them— For me.
The voice of freedom cannot cease, even as an echo that started from a whisper.
Jordan Smith
Digital Photography
Emily Buckingham Running
I hate running. With passion. Like, great passion. The idea of throwing on my tennis shoes and bullying my body into cardio is not my idea of a good time. It just so happens that my mother told me if I break another plate, she won’t help me pay for tuition, and my therapist told me that running is a good physical outlet for anger.
It's not my fault, really, that I’m angry. It’s genetic mostly. Apparently, my dad was really angry. If you ask my grandma, he was the most awful angry man. If you ask my mom, he wasn’t an angry person, he just had an angry soul. Objectively, having an angry soul is probably more significant than if you’re an angry person, but I don’t argue with my mom.
Instead, I run. I never run for fun, because that ruins it. Instead, I run angry. Failed another stupid quiz? I throw on my shoes. Girls in my class being jerks again? Athletic shorts. My dad calls to ask for money? I sprint.
It’s less destructive. It’s honestly healthy, I don’t feel the burn when I run angry. The burn in my heart is hotter and stronger than the lactic acid in my legs, or the tightness in my chest. I run, and run, and run, until the fire goes out. Until my breathing is so labored I drown myself in water, and the burning becomes nothing more than steaming charcoal.
Today, I am running because of Mrs. Montez. She doesn’t understand me at all. All she does is nag on me. She keeps taking points off my assignments because she thinks I “could have done better”. Isn’t art objective? If I want to paint a green cube (which meets all of the assignment requirements) then I should be able to. Who cares if it’s boring?
Reality hits me like a concrete slab. Literally. Some disrespectful tree root grabbed my ankle and sent me face first into the sidewalk. I curse, rolling over to see the offending plant. I debate kicking at it, but in-
stead, I take a “low, centering breath” (Stacy would be so proud).
I start to sit up when a pair of bright yellow eyes meet mine. There is a white fence that runs along the sidewalk and butts into the offending tree. A surprising amount of effort went into shaping the fence to fit snugly against the old tree, but now nature has won back some space in the form of decayed gaps. In one of these gaps, dark in the shade of the tree, the eyes are looking at me.
I narrow my eyes and make out the shape of a small, fluffy grey creature. A raccoon maybe? No. No black mask. I see the tail flicking in the background. A cat. The eyes blink, and with a whirl, the cat is gone. A striped, gray tail sneaking out of view. Then the tail breaks the barrier, the tip sticking just outside the fence before vanishing again. It’s like the cat is taunting me.
I break the trance to look at my knee. My shin is scraped, shiny with fresh blood. I hiss. Damn. I push myself off the ground, and a sting tells me my hands tried to catch my fall. Fail.
I start to walk, or limp, my way home, but I remember the tail. It’s totally crazy, I know, but it’s like the cat wanted me to follow. I peer over the fence.
Nothing. It’s like the cat wasn’t even there.
Stupid cat.
As I turn back home, a grey blob appears right in my face.
“Shit, cat. What the hell!” I fall backwards onto my ass, which was until now unaffected by my endeavors.
The grey cat has also landed on the sidewalk and is hissing at me. Guilt creeps into my stomach. I shouldn’t have yelled.
The cat starts to turn away, ready to run.
“No, no, no,” I say quickly. “No, you’re good little guy. It’s okay,” the kitten pauses, its face is almost suspicious. Ya know, if cats could look
suspicious.
I reach for the grey fluffball, offering some petting as an apology. The cat screams, and lashes, leaving two new stripes of red on my forearm. I swear again.
Taking a deep breath, I try again. I continue to whisper to the cat. “It’s ok,” I tell it, “I understand, I get mean, too, when I’m scared.”
I hold my hand out again and look away. My arm is burning from staying out straight, and I can feel the cuts stinging. “Just stay very still,” I tell myself, “No sudden movements.”
I almost jump when I feel the softest fur against my fingertips. I look to see the little gray tabby cat rubbing against my hand. A little baby boy. And he’s purring.
My face breaks into a grin. I scratch his head, and he curls around my hand, falling into my lap. I giggle as he rolls, and flinch when he bites my finger. “Gentle, dude,” I scold. He’s still purring, so I think we’re all right.
I scoop him in my arms and start to carry him home. The cat flails, landing unceremoniously on the sidewalk.
“Okay, geez! I won’t carry you, all right?”
I start walking again, tiny footsteps following me. I turn around to confirm that the cat is coming with, and he jumps on me, climbing my torso like a cat tree until he lands on my shoulder. Um, hello? Ow!
I make my way home with a purring parrot on my shoulder. Of course, he is the politest creature to my mom. Purring, and mewing, and asking for pets. She almost doesn’t believe me when I tell her he is the offender that shredded my arm.
Mom, clearly attached, is feeding my new kitten some left over ground beef as I rinse off my battle scars. I name him Sneak, because that’s what he is. He stays by my side all night. Watches me wash the dishes and clean my room.
I find my green cube sitting by my backpack with Mrs. Montez’s feed-
back paper clipped to it. I turn to complain to Sneak, who just gives me a look. Ya know, if cats could give looks. I sigh and grab my oil crayons. She has a point, I know. I didn’t really try when I drew the cube. Sitting at my desk, Sneak climbs in my lap, purring as he massages his claws into my thighs.
I grimace but take a deep breath. He doesn’t know any better, really.
I picked up the yellow crayon. I think about Sneak’s eyes. I begin to draw.
Contributors
Clarissa Araiza is finishing her junior year as a dual major in Social Work and Sociology. Clarissa is from Anthony, New Mexico and transferred to MMU the beginning of her sophomore year. She is currently on the Women’s Volleyball Team while keeping herself busy with her extra curriculars, including her role as a Student Ambassador, executive positions on SGA and Bandana Project, and tutoring as a peer academic coach in ACE! Clarissa enjoys listening to music and spending quality time with the people she loves. Clarissa took a creative writing class with Mary Vermillion and thanks her for her inspiration to submit to PAHA!
Clare Bechen is a senior Outdoor Conservation major with a Creative Writing minor. She enjoys stargazing, listening to John Williams or Hans Zimmer soundtracks, drinking hot tea with a new book, having quality conversations with friends whenever throughout the day or well into the night, and keeping up her hobby of writing. Her plans for after graduation are going to the Picnic on the Hill, chatting with other graduates, and enjoying the day—thunderstorms or clear skies (please no snow in May). For work, she'll start a term of service with AmeriCorps in Mississippi later in the summer.
Meghan Brewster is a senior at Mount Mercy with a major in Secondary Education and English-Language Arts. Meghan has endorsements in English and Special Education. Meghan loves writing and wants to share their message to others through their writing.
Shelbyann Brown is a junior Elementary Education major, attaining minors in Spanish and another one in English as a Second Language (ESL). Her interests include traveling the world and learning about different people and cultures. Also, she enjoys reading manga and books and wants to achieve through her writing is to ensure that all people's messages are heard.
Emily Buckingham is a senior completing her bachelor’s in Biochemistry. Emily will attend EMT school this summer and plans to attend P.A. school to become a physician’s assistant that specializes in trauma and emergency medicine. She is currently an ACE tutor, sings in the University Show Choir, and is a member of the University
Honors Program. Emily loves writing and enjoys poetry as a way to express her emotions and spend time out of the lab.
Keira Carper is a junior English major and Creative Writing minor. She plays clarinet in the Mount Mercy Concert Band and is the secretary of Alliance Club. Her hobbies include rhythm games and writing fiction.
Elizabeth Chase is a freshman majoring in Philosophy with plans of adding a second major in Social Work. She is currently a recipient of Mount Mercy’s Art Scholarship and has previous experience with presenting artwork. Elizabeth has consistently taken art classes in high school and submitted works for the Raccoon River Conference Art Show in 2022, 2023, and 2024. She has received multiple awards for her work.
Kylie Claeys is a sophomore with a major in Art Education. She is involved in Women’s Lacrosse, Art Club, and Gen 1 on campus.
Kristina Glackin is a senior majoring in Secondary Education and English, with a minor in Creative Writing. She is the co-founder and president of the Commuter Club as well as the managing copy editor for PAHA. Outside of school, she works as a speaker and advocate in the anti-trafficking field. Kristina spends her spare time playing board games, writing poetry, trying new recipes, and raising her two greatest blessings.
Rebecca Hein is a Psychology major who minors in Creative Writing. She is involved in many activities such as Voices Electric, Improv, SAB, and the Green Bandana Project and is a proud member of the MMU community.
Joselyn Hildebrand is a senior from Des Moines, Iowa. When she isn’t studying Political Science & Sociology, she is busy connecting with freshmen in her role as a Mustang Mentor. In her free time, she enjoys writing poetry, eating new foods, and laughing with friends and family.
Michelline Igirimbabazi is a dedicated Nursing student with a passion for learning and discovery. She enjoys reading and expanding her knowledge, especially in the field of family and medical research. Michelline is committed to academic excellence and professional growth, striving to make a meaningful impact in society by discovering
the talents within her. With a keen interest in problem-solving and patient care, she aims to contribute to the medical field through both clinical practice and literature.
Carli Irvine is a freshman majoring in Biology and Biochemistry from Ontario, Canada. She is on the pre-med track and hopes to become a pediatrician in the future. She is a member of the Honors Program, is on the Women’s Golf Team, and she is VP of Design for SAB. Carli enjoys writing because it allows her to get out of her comfort zone and be creative.
Kennedy King is a freshman from Las Vegas, Nevada. She is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Nursing while also being a member of the Women’s Soccer Team. In her free time, she enjoys reading, listening to music, and spending time with friends.
Gannon Lara is a sophomore who majors in Art Education and plays for the Women’s Lacrosse team. Coming from Houston, Texas, Gannon has a deep passion for creating and interpreting all forms of art. “To live is to create.”
Benson Lee is a senior with a major in English and a minor in Sociology. He likes to read, write, and watch TV shows like Grey’s Anatomy. They would love for others to read what they have written.
Miracle Martensen is a sophomore. Her hometown is Walcott, Iowa—most people only know this town from the famous World’s Largest Truckstop. She majors in Social Work and Psychology. She loves playing lacrosse and writing in her free time.
Kaleb McMurray is a freshman majoring in Nursing who enjoys being outdoors. On the Hill, he participates in the McAuley Scholars, Project Connect, and Honors program. Kaleb spends his free time volunteering at UnityPoint Hospital, being nominated for the 2024 Iowa Governor's Volunteer Award at eighteen. When he isn’t volunteering or reading in the UC, Kaleb whittles wooden sculptures with his uncle.
Jayleen Obregon is a freshman from Lancaster, California, majoring in Nursing. She is also part of the Women’s Soccer Team. In her free time, she enjoys working out, playing soccer, writing poetry, and listening to music.
Autumn Puffer is a first year MFT grad student and the graduate assistant for Public Safety. She enjoys cross-stitching and plans to submit more pieces to contests in the future.
Brianna Riedel is a 2024 graduate of the Fine Arts program. Since graduation, Bri has been creating and selling her art pieces as a way to spread love and light to everyone. She is currently employed with a local childcare center, and as a nanny for several families—this allows her to work with children and art, something that has always been a dream of hers.
Jordan Smith is an editorial & fashion photographer who aims to capture eye-catching visuals. He combines his special eye for fashion with his unique style of photography to bodies of work that are hard to ignore.
Sydney Ward is a junior with a major in Graphic Design. She has won contests with her traditional artwork. She loves drawing and painting and wants to continue growing as an artist.
Taylor Wells is a junior majoring in Secondary Education and EnglishLanguage Arts. She is from small-town Ogden, Illinois. Taylor is on the varsity Women’s Basketball Team, Vice President of The Bandana Project, general member of the Future Educators Club, and a Mustang Welcome Leader. Taylor loves writing and wants to share her message to others through her writing.
Jenna Welty is a senior majoring in English, with minors in Creative Writing and Sociology. She commutes to campus from Atkins, Iowa. This is Jenna’s third year being involved with PAHA and her second year as editor. She was also an executive member for the Bandana Project and Commuter Club earlier this school year. Along with these activities, Jenna plays the French horn in the University Band and is part of the Honors Program. When she’s not on campus, Jenna enjoys sewing, selling (and shopping for) clothes & collages at markets, and organizing her Pinterest boards. She is also looking forward to attending UNI for grad school next fall!
The Paha Review seeks creative writing and art from ALL Mount Mercy undergrads.
Email your work to Paha@mtmercy.edu. Please include a third-person bio.
See past editions of Paha at www.mtmercy.edu/campus-life/activities/paha-review
PAHA was composed in 10 point Erode, with names and headings in 12 and 30 point Satoshi, and printed on Lynx Opaque White 70 lb. text. 80 lb Flo Gloss Cover. The printer was Welu Printing Company.
