URBAN PANACEA
n. a solution or remedy for all difficulties or diseases
Bellerive 2024 Issue 25
Cover Art: faceted by Zoë Schultz
Pierre Laclede Honors College University of Missouri–St. Louis
Staff Acknowledgments
ART
Maddie Bewig, Brianna Carlton, Jordin Stern*
EDITING
Aliena Abernathy, Hasset Asfaw, Irina Biedenstein*, Noah
Malott, Madeline Parr, Reese Rich, Eleanor Woods, Noor Yousaf
LAYOUT
Addison Drace, Mae Keeley*, Anna Tisdale
PUBLIC RELATIONS
Clay Butler, Kavion Norman, Remy Xa*
FACULTY ADVISOR
Audri Adams
*Denotes Committee Chair
Current and past copies of Bellerive issues are available to purchase through the Pierre Laclede Honors College. To purchase, contact Audri Adams at (314) 516-4890 or via email at adamsaud@umsl.edu. Please note that limited copies are available for each issue, and once they have all been sold, no further copies will be produced.
All University of Missouri–St. Louis students, faculty, staff, and alumni are invited to submit original creative works that have not been previously published. Submissions are accepted from January 1 through October 1. We invite eligible individuals to submit up to 5 poems, up to 2 prose pieces (each at 4,000 words or less), 2 academic essays (up to 4,000 words or less), up to 5 digital images of photography/art, and up to 2 original music works (as audio files).
To learn more about submitting to Bellerive, email bellerivesubmit@umsystem.edu.
Submissions review is a blind process. Submitters’ names are not disclosed during review. The new issue of Bellerive is launched at a reception in Provincial House each February.
Offered every fall, the Bellerive Workshop course is open to Pierre Laclede Honors College students interested in all aspects of producing Bellerive. The class focuses on all steps of publishing: reading and selecting works to be included, copy editing, communicating with submitters, designing layout, digital image editing, and marketing and selling of the publication. Individuals in the class choose which areas of contribution best suit their interests and talents.
/bellerivepublication @umslbellerive @umslbellerive
Table of Contents
Poetry
An Epitaph on a Worn Grave ...................................
Haunting Recollections .............................................................. a dance with the devil in the arctic. .....................................
Leper in Gethsemane .................................................................
Hey Bhaiya/Hey Big Bubba ...........................................................
Muse’s Melody .................................................................
The Robin ............................................................................
Feel Something ............................................................ travelingbackwards ...............................................................
Minority ........................................................................................
We, the Women ...................................................................................
Paper Dreams ....................................................................... the art of failure. ..................................................................
The Flowers Speak Sermons .........................................
Ode to my Bed .......................................................................
Inability .........................................................................
March of the Snowman ......................................
All Quiet in the Ville .........................................................
What About Her? ...............................................................
Layers of Compulsion ...................................................................
My world or yours? ............................................................ blindfolded moguls. .............................................................
In the Middle of the Frozen Foods Aisle ........................
Prose & Academic Essays
Orange Chicken ................................................................................
The Doorkeeper ..............................................................
Meet Me in Hop Alley ...................................................................
Red Skeletons in the Closet .................................................
Queer ..........................................................................................
We Will Miss His Smile ......................................................
Pierson
Pashia
Melting ..........................................................................................
The Raging Wave ............................................................................
Missing Mass ................................................................................
Angel Sketch .........................................................................
Strawberry Eyes ........................................................................
Self-harm Doesn’t Lead to Self Improvement ...................
Smoke Now or Forever Hold Your Piece .............................
e n o u g h .....................................................................................
To Be a Woman is to Perform ...............................................
Weathered ...............................................................................
Charlie in the Chapel .................................................................
The Gondola Man ......................................................................
Introduction
It is with great pleasure that I introduce the twenty-fifth installment of Bellerive, the Honors College’s annual literary publication, aptly titled Urban Panacea. Its pages feature a collection of previously unpublished poetry, prose, academic essays, art, photography, and music from the UMSL community. Our special anniversary edition – celebrating twenty-five years of the arts – displays an array of creative selections that are vibrant, inspirational, and indisputably authentic. Each selection, while clearly unique, works together to highlight personal experiences, identities, histories, and countless struggles and triumphs that are experienced along the way.
Over the course of the fall 2024 semester, the Bellerive staff had the privilege to consume and reflect on 251 total submissions that were sent in for review. The final manuscript features thirty-eight different writers, artists, and musicians, demonstrating the many talents of UMSL’s students, staff, faculty, and alumni.
Bellerive has touched the lives of so many over its lengthy tenure—not only the published creators, but also the talented students who tirelessly work to create this publication, including the issue you now hold in your hands. A huge thank you to the submitters who trust us with their creations year after year; our current staff of seventeen students spanning many majors; the Honors College’s administration; and finally, you, the reader.
It is our greatest hope that you connect with the assortment of creative expressions featured in this issue as much as we did during its creation. We hope you find the following pages inspiring and that the words and images thoughtfully woven together offer a remedy for an assortment of difficulties while simultaneously paving a path toward acceptance, growth, and healing through art. Enjoy!
Audri Adams Bellerive Faculty Advisor
An Epitaph on a Worn Grave
Brryan “Brry”Jackson
On top of a hill next to a rotten willow tree, There is a worn tombstone that reads, “Once you stop chasing the things that have passed, you can finally be free.”
Breanna Keck
Haunting Recollections
Sydne Sewald
Unknowing child
Unblemished by deep sorrows
Lose, not something known
Guided by light-hearted joy
Fingers woven evermore
Death came in silence
Hands stealing away safety
When will he come back?
A numbness taking over
When will he come back to me?
Confusion surrounds
This nightmare does not feel real
Time passes slowly
Wooden boxes are not beds
Why can’t he wake up once more?
Grief ensnares me whole
My name spoken by strangers
Bronze cross in my hand
He told so many stories
About me and no one else
Memories flood back
At random times, through the years
I took for granted
My limited time with you
Why can I never go back?
The Raging Wave
Brent Moss
Acrylic Paint
a dance with the devil in the arctic.
Kavion Norman
To dance.
To waltz toward eternity as if nothing else existed. As if the ballroom’s capacity was set to two, A joyous occasion it would be.
For the burning embers to meet the chilling reservoir would send ripples through space time, And all that it encompasses. It is human nature to wonder what might take place when the two collide. A beautiful combination of hell and paradise, For fire and ice has never looked so desirable, So contagious.
They are the perfect harmony of the Sun and the Moon. For the stars that make Uranus can shine down with sublime intent. However, intentions are temporary.
Instead, passion is the most beautiful and direct, For when his hand directs her to the hall, A simple waltz suffices.
There are no vices present, Just them two.
The fire burning from within him doesn’t harm her, But merely warms her soul, She’s never experienced such fire, such blaze. The desire is unbearable, So much so that she wishes to be.. in.. his.. skin, forever.
eternally,
D.J.F ❀
Missing Mass
Drew Ryherd
Photography
Leper in Gethsemane
Aron Berhanu
It was under the swell of moon The black veil of night, encrusted Sparkling as Solomon Ethereal.
There hobbled on a meek figure Their visage naked, twisted Anathema of Man Smiling.
It was under the shade of an olive tree Its branches wringing out, pleading Rain over Jerusalem Pouring.
There the Leper lay Their tongue stretching out, thirsty Shadow of Life Dying.
The Leper began to sing: “I thank thee, I thank thee, Oh merciful tree, For loving me still when my flesh is weak. I thank thee, I thank thee, Oh night sky aglow, Thou hast quenched my thirst, My cup discarded long ago. From the dregs of my Soul I call to thee, Love I only wish to know, is this suffering enough? Gently, gently, gently I beseech For this sorrow to pass away from me?” It was with gathering wind, slow That the Leper’s Shadow slipped Swirling up and up To Alway.
Urban Panacea | 7
Hey Bhaiya (Hindi)
K.C.Terra
Ab bhi teri kadam ki chaap sunayi deti hai,
Chandni raat mein jhukti zameen par, halki si raah banati,
Jaise khuli khidkiyon se guzarta ek narm, anjaana jhonka—
Chhod gaya tu ek khamoshi, jo chamakti hai, par saaf nahi lagti.
Duniya bhaari thi tere liye, na Bhaiya?
Jaise sitaaron se bhara aasman apne seene mein dhoya tha,
Unke noke chubhte rahe, itna gehra dard main kabhi samajh nahi paayi,
Par tu muskuraata raha, jaise kuch nahi, mujhe joote baandhna sikhaate hue, Hawa ka samna karne ka rasta dikhate hue, jabki tu khud aur lad nahi paaya.
Yaad hai kaise tu toofan mein ek shaandaar ped ki tarah khada tha,
Shaakhein hil rahi thi, par jadon mein koi garmaahat thi—
Ya shayad yeh bas meri soch thi, meri tasalli thi.
Tu mujhe sambhaalta, jab mere ghutne chhil jaate,
Par jab zakham andar ke the, tujhe sambhalne waala koi nahi tha.
Hey Bhaiya, kya tu ab aasmanon mein hai?
Wahan sitaaron ko nayi kahaaniyan sunaata?
Teri hasi ke bina yeh raaten kitni thandi lagti hain,
Par main tujhe ab bhi apne dil mein sambhaalti hoon,
Ek adhoori kitaab ki tarah—jiska anjaam kabhi samajh nahi paayi.
Agar main tera dil khol kar dekh pati,
Kya wahan suraj ke kuch tukde chhupae mile hote?
Kya main un dino ki dhool hata paati jo tujhe daba rahi thi?
Par tu kabhi apni darar dikhne nahi diya, hai na?
Hamesha rakshak tha tu, jabki tujhe khud bachne ki zarurat thi.
Hey Bhaiya, log kehte hain tu ab chain mein hai,
Par main sochti hoon, kya wahan ke aasman samajhte hain
Woh jung jo tere mann mein kabhi khatam nahi hui.
Tu ek fauji tha bina dhaal ke, lad raha tha woh ladayi jo koi nahi dekh paaya, Jab tak woh bojh tujhe poora samet nahi gaya.
Aur ab, main iss dharti par khadi hoon jo ab pehle jaisi nahi lagti.
Jahan tere kadam padte the, wahan main phool ugati hoon, Umeed karti hoon ki unki jad tujhe kahin neeche tak chhoo paaye— Ki kisi tarah tu jaan jaaye, main ab bhi teri yaad apni saanson mein basaye rakhti hoon, Aur har ek saans ek dheema “Hey Bhaiya” hai, jo maut se bhi narm hai.
Hey Big Bubba (English Translation)
K.C.Terra
I still hear your footsteps on the moonlit floor, Echoes of laughter chasing shadows through the door, Like the breeze that hums through open windows—soft, unseen— You’ve left behind a silence that glows like it’s not quite clean.
The world was heavy for you, wasn’t it, Big Bubba?
Like carrying a sky full of broken stars in your chest, Their sharp edges cut deeper than I ever knew, But you smiled anyway, teaching me how to tie my shoes, Showing me how to face the wind, even if you couldn’t anymore.
I remember how you stood tall, a tree in the storm, Branches shaking but roots holding onto something warm— Or maybe that’s just what I wanted to believe. You held me when my knees scraped, But no one held you when the scars ran deeper than flesh.
Hey Big Bubba, are you up there now?
Painting constellations with the light you lost down here? The nights are cold without your starlight smile, But I carry you still, like a book unfinished— A story I’ll never know the ending to. If I could’ve cracked open your heart, Would I have found pieces of the sun hidden beneath your storm clouds?
Would I have swept away the dust of the years that weighed you down? But you never let me see the cracks, did you? You were always the protector, even when you needed saving.
Hey Big Bubba, they say you’re at peace now, But I wonder if the skies where you are understand The war that never stopped raging in your mind. You were a soldier without armor, fighting battles no one could see, Until the weight of it all swallowed you whole.
And now, I stand on the earth that no longer feels the same. I stamp words where your footsteps used to fall, Hoping their meaning will reach you, somewhere beneath all the tears— That somehow, you’ll know I still carry your name in my breath, And every sob is a whispered “Hey Big Bubba,” as soft as death.
Angel Sketch
Irina Biedenstein
| Bellerive
Graphite and Pencil
Muse’s Melody
Nix Osorio-Balam
Wherein words by tongue fail so fluently, I look at you in your beauty, I ask you oh great muse please have mercy unto me
Why do you cry, sweet doe, why do you cry? For the spring’s here tomorrow and in the green meadows you’ll lie, you’ll lie
And your voice gives such honeyed certainty, in a world on fire with such solemn melody, I grasp for you and your fine words that comfort me
Your eyes do all of the dancing to us, for they are works of art, a delicacy woven with fine silk of hazel that brings shivers when you’re glancing at me
A siren’s song you sing as you draw me closer, with lips like a cherry red, and the closer I lean, I lean, I lean, but it were a crime so now my legs they swing, they swing, they swing
Like unto Sappho you are to me, my muse, for you I’d jump to the rocky sea, for you’re like the siren that calls into the breeze, and I’ll see you again, after the winter’s freeze
Orange Chicken
Remy Xa
America’s highways may have killed the forum and the town plaza, but the spirit of commerce and conviviality lives on in the United States’ most popular and glamorous of social stomping grounds: the shopping mall.
My Aunt May worked in the food court of a mall for the better part of a decade at Sarku Japan. May never minded the irony of being a Chinese-Vietnamese immigrant working at a Japanese-style fast-casual restaurant. Each day she went to work, prepared to feed the masses alongside a crew of her fellow immigrants. When my aunt came home after a long day behind the sweltering teppanyaki grill, her smile was easy. Though her matte foundation would be clinging on for dear life, her expression defied any suggestion that she had just spent the last twelve hours sweating and toiling. In her arms would come a black plastic bag with that day’s goods from the food court, gathered for the pickings. What would be tomorrow’s breakfast? Would it be Auntie Anne’s Pretzels, a knot of sweet almond crunch with that rich caramel dipping sauce? Or, maybe a greasy spinach roll from Sbarro, a tender babe bedighted with sesame seeds and extra cheese? I quickly learned that the food court was a place you could take home, and, whenever I could, I jumped at the opportunity to visit.
Imagine the squeaky size 6 Sketchers on my feet, neon yellowframed Puma glasses over my dewy eyes, and a pack stuffed with homework on my back to keep me steady. Between my house and the bus to Northeast Middle, my world was never all that big, but it got bigger each time I stepped through the sliding glass doors into West County Center.
The mall was more brilliant than any other place I knew. It was a glittering labyrinth for the curious mouse to explore and make their own, and I couldn’t help but be enraptured by every shiny new thing there was to behold. Just a few paces away were curated showcases of everything that the world had to offer, conveniently segmented into shops, stalls, and glitzy department stores. Golden pillars of light fell through 14 | Bellerive
the windows scanning the third floor, illuminating the families, the mall walkers, and the gaggles of roaming teenagers with gleaming approval. The air was abuzz with the sound of laughter and joyful commotion, while the synth-y pop beats of Rihanna’s Only Girl (In theWorld) hovered above and kept the rivers of people flowing. Just being here could make you feel cool.
Scampering down the linoleum-tiled streets, I’d see the new chrome-plated smartphone, one I’d only heard tales of online, seated behind inch-thick reinforced glass. A gallery of pastel-colored sweets would line the walls of a brightly lit candy shoppe, with metal scoops ready to fill a bag with chocolates and gummy bears galore. I’d evade the sickly saccharine scent of a kiosk hawker’s uninvited perfume, then quickly get distracted by a storeroom stocking only the comfiest, coziest couches for the restless tween. Once you learned how to navigate the snares of wily salesfolk and knew the tricks behind navigating the maze, you could find just about anything at West County Center. Sometimes I wondered if, between all the couches and technology and food, I could survive a night alone at the mall, staying up ‘til dawn bouncing between stores and trying everything new I hadn’t before.
Just beyond the escalator leading up from the bottom level was the food court, a marketplace of eateries featuring bold new flavors my grandmother’s kitchen could never approximate. Each time I shuffled down the aisle in front of a new restaurant, an employee in an apron would offer me a sample on a toothpick. Whether it was a tiny bite of grilled cheesesteak from Charley’s or a morsel of Mongolian beef from Asian Express, I was eager to accept. Boiled bitter melon and fermented quail eggs may have raised me strong, but it was sweet soy-glazed teriyaki chicken over fried rice, the crunchy and greasy delight of honey cashew shrimp, and thick chocolate banana smoothies which gave me life. Orange chicken is not my grandmother’s heritage, but my Chinese American guilty delight. How could a child fed steamed bok choy each night deny juicy tender bits of chicken stir-fried in syrupy citrus sauce?
The most charming sight was the bustle of grey-haired grannies, the “Ladies Who Lunch,” who would claim a table for their weekly bridge game after a morning of making the rounds mall-walking. Together at rest, they would lay a hand-stitched Cardinals quilt over a
Panacea | 15
table just a few walker scoots away from the restrooms. Lounging in plain view of the rest of the food court, the ladies shuffled their extralarge font playing cards and steel poker chips over sweet tea and gossip. Their giggles and snickers over which Little Miss was going to take home the prize today kept the court electric. Even the high schoolers in their hoodies and the jewelry salesfolk in their blazers couldn’t help but stop and be delighted, even enamored by this gathering of queens. Every so often, you’d hear a roar of cheers and sailor-lipped curses drown out the chatter of forks and food frying, and the folks on the paths giving out food samples would cheer back. In the end, when one girl won, every girl won, and their joy spread like lightning across the rest of the room.
On a few occasions, another family member would take me up to the mall and I would see my Aunt May work from up close. Gazing from over the black faux-marble countertop, I saw how much backbreaking labor she did each day while I was away at school. Even while in the wake of recovering from a previous workplace injury, May labored. My aunt cleaned, cooked, and tended the register for a horde of hungry and irascible adults, all in a loud cafeteria and while communicating in an entirely different language than her mother’s. Even still, she was one of dozens of immigrant workers working at the food court with the same story, whose daily efforts keeping mouths fed at work became a job of homemaking and child rearing by night. Before long, May learned “kitchen Spanish” from the Mexican immigrants she worked alongside, though only just enough to wish a nervous kid like me “buena suerte” on an upcoming exam. In a crew of cleaners and cooks and register tenders over forty strong across ten restaurants, she was never truly alone.
Mall workers understood other mall workers. At the end of the day, beyond the scrutiny of corporate oversight, vendors traded goods eagerly. What was a plate of shrimp lo mein with extra crab rangoon for a tower of fresh-glazed cinnamon buns a half-dozen high? A regional manager may have scoffed at the loss of goods and the diminution of
economic value, and yet, all the food that would have gone to waste instead went back to feed the families which made them. In this world, we each have plenty to spare, and sharing that plenty—whether that is food, laughter, or company—is joyous.
The mall was a place that was open, free, and always vibrant. Unlike the open fishbowl of my bedroom, where I only saw the world move around me from behind a monitor, here at the mall, I could be amidst it all. Often I wondered… wouldn’t it be a silly thing if I enjoyed myself, and if I allowed myself to be among others being so joyous? There at the mall, surrounded by life and laughter, it was easy to believe that one day I could learn to live like that.
18 | Bellerive
Acrylic Paint Pens
Strawberry Eyes
Sami Brennan
The Robin
Dana R. Pierson
the robin sat still on the sidewalk. no, he didn’t flinch or hop from toe to pointed toe, his silent stance paved no tune. his deep, amber belly swelled against the cracked concrete, flakes of sand and debris exfoliated his freshly fanned feathers. and he gazed at on-goers, not at the sky, clouds cracking its shell of baby blue, him born for flight. now he begs for some canine’s foamy, meaty jaws or an adolescent with a buz-buz-buzzing pellet gun to take him out of this St. Louis heat. the robin perched on the sidewalk, took homage for the flies and the fleas landing on his wing, them
keeping a lookout for any signs of Death nearby, whispering secrets into the hollow canal of his ear, but never ruffling any emotions: his glossed eyes lost light.
the robin sat still on the sidewalk waiting.
Self-harm Doesn’t Lead to Self Improvement
Emma Moore
Clip Studio Paint on Huion Tablet
Feel Something
Andrew Jacob Pashia
I want to feel sad.
I want to feel the earthquake in my chest, Trembling so hard my ribs crack.
I want to feel the burn of tears in my throat Begging to explode and scream “Please don’t go!”
I want to feel glad. I want to feel the heat on my skin From the sky melting my heart. I want to feel like a diamond that you hold to the sun
To see the glittering reflection, I want to feel my worth
I want to feel mad.
I want to feel claws at my stomach, A monster waiting to emerge.
I want to feel the fight, not flight Because I haven’t bloodied my knuckles in a while.
I want to feel joy, I want to feel elation, I want to feel shame, My shoes scuffed from the floor of a club Having forgotten at 2 am when the neon lights shined brightest That I have AA in the morning.
I want to feel disgusted, I want to feel pain, I want to feel something but this nothingness, I don’t want to feel this hole inside my chestI want to fill it,
I want to feel the soil spill into my veins so they can plant seeds and fertilize, I want to feel leaves sprout from my cuticles And vines spill down from my scalp
Because all I am is a weed
And I want to feel alive.
Smoke Now or Forever Hold Your Piece
Drew Ryherd
travelingbackwards
(conversations we have in the dark)
Kavion Norman
Do I matter?
Does my blood spill the same way that yours did?
Does the river of red encapsulate the sincerity of my heart?
Will my art flow through my pen?
Your eyes can deceive you, don’t trust them.
Better to change the landscapes they intake rather than the color, For the color is mere beauty,
Whilst lacking intelligence and sorrow.
Will I become a martyr for tomorrow?
Will the streets be filled with parades of people celebrating the man they once knew as their own?
Or will there be riots?
The kind that insinuates the harsh truth that I was taken away too soon. The bloom that is Spring will soon approach and I won’t be there.
Will the man who took my life even care to come to my funeral?
Will I be dressed in all black to match the assembly that’ll congregate in grief?
Or will I be dressed in white? To show that I was a “saint of a pure heart?”
Will my children fall victim to a fatherless childhood? It wasn’t my fault, I tried, I really did try to be there..
But his finger pulled the trigger faster than I could evade the prophecy that was inevitable.
eternally,
D.J.F ❀
e n o u g h
Zoë Schultz
Graphite
Minority
Jordin Stern
Are you a minority?
Because the things that “they” get away with you could never
Are you a minority?
Because your skin is darker and your hair defies gravity
Are you a minority?
Your skin is a little light but I look at your hair and it doesn’t look like mine
Are you a minority?
Why are you mad? Calm down! You are so angry
Are you a minority?
Look my skin is almost darker than yours and you are black
Are you a minority?
Is your dad still in your life?
Are you a minority?
Can I touch your hair?
Are you a minority?
Maybe they are staring because you look exotic
Are you a minority?
Wow your braids are so “trendy” let me try
Are you a minority?
Get down on the ground you are under arrest, you are resisting *pow*
Are you a minority?
To Be a Woman is to Perform
Emma Moore
Clip Studio Paint on Huion Tablet
We, the Women
Ellie N.
We, the women of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish a cry for help. We, the women of the United States, fight endlessly for freedom. We, the women of the United States, ask: if all men are created equal in the eyes of God, what happened to us? Created merely from the rib of a man, forever inferior, forever existing merely to complement the superior Y chromosome, to serve Him, to explain His behavior and clean His messes.
We, the women of the United States, are tired. We are tired of the empty space we long to take up without fear of judgment or harm, tired of having to be constantly conscientious for fear of making Him uncomfortable, God forbid. We, the women of the United States, face persecution for the avoidance of motherhood, even if we have not been mothered long ourselves. We face persecution for pursuing motherhood, the magical status that determines our success as women, if we seek it on our own terms, using our own methods.
We, the women of the United States, die every day, lying alone on hard, cold operating tables at the hands of fellow females, rusty, dirty tools in their untrained hands. We die every day in between soft hospital sheets, sepsis spreading while doctors debate if they have reached the line of legality, but they are too late. We die every day at the hands of the very man whose ribcage we supposedly originated from, victims of horrid crimes that strip us of our dignity and our lives, all in the name of His control.
We, the women of the United States, pray that we may be blessed with sons, for the pain of being a woman in this country is generational. We are terrified that one day we may have to watch our daughters experience our pain twofold.
We, the women of the United States, beg the ones we love to fight for our freedom, our autonomy, and our future.
So that one day we may pray for daughters, whether for ourselves or the women around us.
So that we may regain control over our own bodies after we have been violated, victims of our great democracy.
So that we may one day be taken seriously.
We, the women of the United States do ordain and establish this cry for help for the women of the United States of America.
Bellerive
Weathered
Dr. KateVotaw
Oil Pastel
The Doorkeeper
Makenzie Strickler
Everyone is given a key the day they are born. With this key, at any time they choose, they can come visit me – the Doorkeeper. There is only one door I keep; its lock will fit any key. Any key ever crafted will unlock this door, but every key will open the door to a different place in Epore.
I have been a Doorkeeper for many years. I cannot say how many, for I have lost count. I have met many people in my time. Some stick out for a while, then they fade like the others. When they come to unlock this door they are faced with a choice. They can choose to go through the door, thus choosing a new life; a second chance perhaps. Or they could choose to lock the door again and go on their way. However, if they choose the latter, they must surrender their key to me. The decision is permanent. The key is then melted down, destined to become part of another’s key one day.
I run a tight ship here at the door. I let people into the chamber, take their key if they so choose, and well… I keep the door. My job as a Doorkeeper is very sacred, and thus there are many rules I must follow. The number one rule: do not interfere. I am a bystander. I am a witness to the choice. I am to never give my input or opinion to a person who comes to the door. Many have asked, but I simply say it is up to them. No one has ever made the wrong choice. Most people know what they will choose the minute they unlock the door, while some sit and contemplate for hours.
There is one person who crossed my path that I will never forget. They were the only person I ever broke the rule for in my time as Doorkeeper.
It was late, and I was about to lock up for the night. As I reached to turn the deadbolt on the front door, the handle turned, and the door opened. “Hello?” I did not see anyone standing outside.
“Hi, uh, I’m down here.” I looked down and saw a small fungus standing there with their hands politely clasped in front of them. “My name is Moss. I know it’s late, but I need to unlock the door. Please.” I
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do not think I had ever seen a fungus so small. Their body was barely visible underneath their crown.
“I am sorry, but you will have to come back tomorrow.” I started to close the door, but they scrambled to place themselves in the way.
“Wait, please! I just need to see what’s there.” They grabbed onto something hanging around their neck, their key, I assumed. “I can’t go through. I’ll give you my key. I just want to know what’s behind it. I won’t be longer than five minutes, I promise.”
I should have told them no. Every law, rule, regulation and code that I had been fed my whole life told me to say no. So why did every bone in my body want to say yes? Something about them – I had so many questions. Maybe that is why I stepped aside to let them in.
They bolted straight to the door and stopped dead, staring at it with such awe I had never before seen in a person. I could not tell you what they found so remarkable about it. It was just an oak door. I had a bronze knocker with the lock and key emblem of the Doorkeepers. The knob was also bronze though more tarnished from being opened and closed all day, every day. The lock itself was unremarkable. It was just a keyhole in a door. But Moss just stared. Finally, they lifted the chain off their neck and their key swung from it.
It was one of the most beautiful keys I had seen. The candles in the room reflected off the shiny silver. The handle had a circle with an intricately carved tree in the center. The leaves on the tree were tiny emeralds set into the metal, also reflecting the candles. The other end of the key curved to make the center of a five-petaled flower painted baby blue.
“What a pretty key.” The sound of my voice made them jump like they had forgotten I was there. “Sorry, I did not mean to scare you. Go ahead,” I urged them, “unlock it.” Moss stuck the key into the lock and turned it. The heavy lock clicked, and they reached up toward the handle but stopped to look back at me. I nodded that it was okay.
Standing on tiptoes, they turned the handle and pulled the door open. A breeze of fresh air blew through the room, carrying a few flower petals with it. It nearly snuffed out half the candles, too. Moss stared into the doorway with their head tilted sideways in contemplation. “What is that place?” I moved closer to get a better look through the door, and what I saw was the most welcoming sight.
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“Florae, my home world.” I had not seen someone open the door to Florae in many, many years, and it had been many more since I had visited. The door opened right into the front gardens of the castle. There it was, rising above the gardens in all its shining glory. It must have been mid-afternoon there; the sun was high in the sky. Two of our four moons were visible faintly in the perfect blue. The familiar sights, smells, and sounds started to overwhelm my senses. Florae is full of plant and animal life; just standing here and looking at this small part of it, you could see that. Gardenias, orchids, marigolds, coleus, ferns, snapdragons, pansies, and rosebushes in any color one could imagine. Butterflies flapped lazily about the flowers, bees buzzed, birds chirped. A couple of digmoles ran past. The trees were the most vibrant greens, blues and pinks. I could even hear the distant sounds of nymphs playing in the pond down the hill. Home.
“It’s so beautiful,” Moss turned to me, “you lived there?”
“Yes,” still staring, “that is where I was born, and where I grew up. Before I took up the respectable task of Doorkeeper. It was so long ago…” I tore my gaze away from my home to look at Moss. “You have a choice to make. Will you go to Florae? Or will you stay here?”
Their laugh held no joy, and they turned to stare through the door once more. “I wish that I had a choice. I was never going to get one.” They took a deep breath, “I can’t leave. There are people here who have decided that for me. It was always planned that I would be the one to stay. A responsibility laid upon me before I could walk. That key,” they turned and pointed to the lock, “was just a decoration that I got to carry my whole life. I was never supposed to come here. I was never supposed to see what was behind this door. But now that I have…” they trailed off.
That feeling from before arose in me. The one that told me to let them in. And once more, every part of me that knew the rules, that knew the code I was supposed to follow, was screaming out, telling me to stop. I was not supposed to interfere. I should have let them lock the door again and leave. I could not do it.
“I do not know what your life is like outside of this room. But I do know that you want to go. You would go in a heartbeat, but something, or someone is stopping you. I can tell that you are a selfless person, Moss. But tonight… I think that you should choose for yourself.”
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“I know I should choose for myself. But what if I make the wrong choice?” They looked at me earnestly.
I wanted to help them so badly. There would be terrible consequences if anyone ever found out. I could lose my job and my place with the Doorkeepers. I could even be banished! Sent to the depths of the dimension, never to be heard from again. But would anyone find out? How could anyone find out? We were alone in this room with the door. I had already said too much, but I had the chance to change their life. I could make a real difference if I just…
“How about this?” I got down to their level. “I am not supposed to do this. The code tells us we cannot interfere. You are supposed to choose on your own. But what if I sent you through with a letter to Queen Marion? She rules over Florae, and she could help you with your choice. Leave the key, and if you still feel like you have a responsibility here, come back tomorrow at exactly this time. I will unlock the door and let you back through. How does that sound?”
They lit up, “That sounds wonderful! Would you really?”
I stood and went to find some paper and a pen. I wrote a letter to my old friend explaining the situation, and I prayed she was still the person I knew so long ago. I sealed it and handed it to Moss. “Here, if you follow that path right there, you will walk straight up to the front stairs of the castle. If they ask, tell them Fallon the Doorkeeper sent you to Queen Marion.”
They took the letter and stepped over the threshold into Florae. I watched them all the way up the path until I could not see them anymore. I stood in the doorway, watching my home world for a few more moments before I shut and locked the door.
The next night, exactly when I said I would, I unlocked the door. But when I opened it, Moss was not waiting for me. Queen Marion was. I hurried to bow for her, “Your Highness.” I looked up and flashed a smile at her, “Long time no see.”
“Too long, old friend. Now stand up. We are equals here. I come with a message from Moss… but also, as a friend. They wanted to say thank you, and so do I, for helping them figure out their way. They also want you to keep the key, in case you want to come visit. I must say, Fallon, I would appreciate seeing my old best friend more often.” She crossed her arms and pouted at me.
Urban Panacea | 35
“I missed you, Mair.” I stepped over the threshold of the door to hug her.
“I missed you too, Fal.” She squeezed me tightly.
After a moment, I let go. “I promise to visit by the next Festival of the Rose, oh sovereign Queen Marion of Florae,” I bowed deeply.
“You had better, most respectable Fallon, Keeper of the Door.” She curtsied in return to my bow. We laughed, and we both lingered. Neither of us wanted to be the first to say goodbye.
“Well,” I took in my surroundings one more time, “I really should be going. I will see you at the Festival of the Rose, or before. And that is a promise.” Marion and I kept eye contact until the door was shut, and I locked it again. Goodbye. Again. But this time, it would not be forever.
Three Pieces About Why I Love You
Evan Lewis
Orchestral Composition
Charlie in the Chapel
Bel Dethrow
Meet Me in Hop Alley:
The St. Louis Chinese and the 1904 World’s Fair
Remy Xa
After centuries of isolationism, China took its place at an international exposition for the first time at the extravagant Louisiana Purchase Exposition (Yin, 1989). Known also as the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair, the Chinese delegation regarded its first diplomatic exhibition on the world stage seriously, ushering Crown Prince of China Pulun to the United States as China’s commissioner in chief for the fair (Arendt, 2013). With him, Prince Pulun carried troves of treasures to showcase several ancient dynasties of Chinese culture. The delegation brought trade products, such as embroidered silks, carved ivories, precious stones, and teas; two thousand tons of cultural exhibits, including maps, stamps, scrolls, and temple models; and over six thousand handcarved pieces of wood brightly enameled with figures from Chinese mythology (Ling, 2002). These wood carvings were to be erected by Chinese artisans at the entrance of the Chinese Pavilion to form a grand pagoda: a replica of one of Pulun’s own palatial homes (World Expo Museum, 2019).
Meanwhile, just beyond the gaze of the fairgrounds’ massive international audience, Chinese laborers were dehumanized and disregarded, both by the American immigration authorities and their own Chinese envoys. In the months prior to the exposition, Chinese workers were detained for days or weeks at a time in dark, gruesome conditions, separated from their families and without communication (Yin, 1989). These immigrant laborers were registered, photographed, and then compelled to report to the American immigration officers every forty-eight hours, or else face deportation as a fugitive (Ling, 2002). The nearby inhabitants of Hop Alley, the small Chinese American immigrant community known as St. Louis’s own Chinatown, faced similar institutional violence when on August 25, 1897, all 314 Chinese in the city of St. Louis were rounded up by St. Louis law enforcement as part of a crackdown against illegal immigration. Thirteen Chinese men in St. Louis were arrested and detained awaiting deportation. These immigration
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raids on Hop Alley persisted from the 1890s to the 1910s and onward, one part of a greater trend of Sinophobia abroad.
While the glamorous Chinese exhibition at the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair introduced China to the world at large, the pavilion—built upon the sacrifices of poor Chinese laborers, who suffered discrimination and dehumanizing conditions alongside the St. Louis Chinese of Hop Alley—failed to represent the Chinese experience at large.
When Imperial Vice-Commissioner Wong Kai Kah first moved to St. Louis to oversee the construction of the Chinese Pavilion in July 1903, Sino-American relations were volatile (Arendt, 2013). The Emperor and the Empress Dowager of China had agreed to sign a treaty, the Boxer Protocol, which forced the Qing dynasty to pay a $333 million USD indemnity over the next thirty-nine years for their role in supporting the Boxer Rebellion. China itself gained a “reputation for barbarism” (Ardent, 2013, p. 23) due to the actions of the Boxer rebels, who killed 200 Western Christian missionaries and as many as 32,000 Chinese Christians in their opposition to foreign imperialism (Hammond Atlas of the 20th Century, 1996). Consequently, the Empress Dowager conceded to reforms within China which would change its government to more closely resemble Western and Japanese political systems. In the aftermath of China’s debt, Vice-Commissioner Wong and his wife were tasked with establishing diplomatic relations with the United States and other Western countries, which were largely mystified by, distrustful of, and hostile toward the historically isolationist China.
Vice-Commissioner and Mrs. Wong’s entry into the U.S. occurred during the rise in anti-Chinese violence following the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, which was passed by the U. S. Congress as a response to these economic anxieties and prevented all Chinese immigration into the U. S. for a period of ten years (Long, 2002). The Chinese Exclusion Act was renewed twice, once with 1892’s Geary Act and then again indefinitely in 1902. Prior to this, most Chinese entering the United States were poor laborers from the Chinese countryside who had come across the Pacific Ocean after hearing tales of gold being mined in California (Long, 2007). The laborers sought a better life outside the economic instability of China, caused in part by the Boxer Protocol, and were recruited by the Central Pacific Railroad to build the foundation for the American gold rush. However, when gold became scarce, so 40 | Bellerive
too did opportunities for work. In retaliation, White labor unions and politicians turned against Chinese immigrant workers, whose presence they believed hurt their economic opportunities (Long, 2002). Commissioner Wong knew that China’s showing at the Louisiana Purchase Exposition would not only determine its place and standing on the world stage; it would be the first, and greatest, display of China’s traditional culture to the world at large (Arendt, 2013).
On April 1st, 1904, Prince Pulun arrived in San Francisco with his fleet of fineries and received full courtesies of the port befitting his royal status (Yin, 1989). Prince Pulun was the nephew of Emperor Kuang Hsu, the ruling, and last, emperor of China, and his presence communicated the significant importance of the World’s Fair to the Chinese delegation (Cortinovis, 1977). When the Prince arrived in St. Louis on April 30th, the opening day of the World’s Fair, he was received by a crowd of nearly 5,000 people, including David Francis, President of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, and 100 St. Louis Chinese. Even Adolphus Busch, the wealthy brewer, provided Prince Pulun a carriage drawn by four horses for the duration of his stay. Prince Pulun was received by many official dedications and dinners, offering a grand reception of his own for 1,700 St. Louisans before leaving the fair two weeks later.
In stark contrast to the prince’s royal reception, both Chinese workers from abroad and the St. Louis Chinese of Hop Alley were subject to humiliating treatment by U. S. immigration authorities. Sociologist Mary Roberts Coolidge observed in 1909 that Chinese laborers headed for the Louisiana Purchase Exposition from San Francisco would be detained in sheds “lacking every facility for cleanliness and decency” (Cortinovis, 1977, p. 66). These detainments, in addition to the raid of Hop Alley in August 1897, were only the precursor for institutionalized violence against Chinese in the United States. Ling writes that, unlike the New York’s Ellis Island, which was a way station for immigrants from Europe and is often considered the archetype of the hopeful American immigration experience, San Francisco’s Angel Island served as a detention facility for Asian immigrants from 1910 to 1940 in the years following the World Fair’s opening (2007). Here, detainees were separated from their families and imprisoned for weeks, often months, at a time. Detained Chinese immigrant women, separated from Urban Panacea | 41
their husbands and sons, became ill, and many died by suicide in the bathrooms, unable to cope with the stress. As a response to the despairing prisoners, the immigration station on Angel Island locked offending inmates in windowless, nine square foot “isolation rooms” until they cooperated with their detainment.
Despite China’s reputation of barbarism, an Orientalist idea held by many European powers at the time, Vice-Commissioner Wong sought to communicate to the western world the rich breadth of cultural history of his motherland. To this end, he erected a Chinese village within the Chinese Pavilion, consisting of a large bazaar selling Chinese silks, teas, and ivories; a theater; a temple; and an ornate tea house (Arendt, 2013). The pavilion itself was made in the image of Prince Pulun’s residence: a mosaic of over six thousand hand-crafted wood carvings, which were disassembled, shipped to America, and re-assembled in St. Louis (World Expo Museum, 2019). Many Chinese treasures were displayed, including a lamp of glass from Guangdong, silk bamboo lanterns from Shanghai, and artisanal wooden furniture from Ningbo. Throughout the day, Chinese actors, musicians, and acrobats— many of whom were detained and required the direct intervention of China’s minister to secure their entry, as they would be unable to afford the required $500 in gold bond—would perform traditional plays, musical compositions, and displays of impressive martial prowess to a crowd of enthusiastic visitors (Arendt, 2013). By day, about a dozen young and little children of Chinese workmen would wander about the festival grounds dressed in traditional Chinese garb inviting visitors to visit the Chinese Pavilion, while thousands of Chinese lanterns hummed with electricity and illuminated the village at night (Yin, 1989).
While the site of the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition was an architectural marvel, the disadvantaged socioeconomic conditions of the St. Louis Chinese living just beyond the fair pavilion undermined the exposition’s presentation of a clean, orderly state. The Chinese American immigrants of St. Louis, who lived in Hop Alley, held no such institution as a temple or theater of their own and faced discrimination from law enforcement from both St. Louis and the federal government. Many of the original Chinese who first arrived in St. Louis were workers displaced from the East and West coasts by the Chinese
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Exclusion Act, including Alla Lee, a merchant who arrived at the United States by San Francisco (Ling, 2002). Ling reports that Lee was the first Chinese immigrant to St. Louis, and by the end of the nineteenth century, nearly three hundred Chinese lived in St. Louis (2002).
Rather than offer precious treasures like ivory, jade, and handcrafted woodwork, Hop Alley was the home to hand laundries, grocery stores, restaurants, and dim sum tea shops which served the diverse ethnic neighborhoods of St. Louis. Despite the invention and prevalence of the washing machine in the nineteenth century, Chinese-operated hand laundries were reputed for being extremely inexpensive and high quality, and received extensive patronage as a result (Ling, 2002). These hand laundries existed in African American neighborhoods as well, where the cost of each shirt being laundered was ten cents—a contrast to the fifteen or twenty cents per shirt expected elsewhere. Different ethnic communities of St. Louis, such as the Chinese Americans of Hop Alley and their African American neighbors of Chestnut Valley beside them on Market Street, found allyship and shared resources among one another when the city failed to support them. Ling reports, “50 percent of the businesses owned by African Americans in Chestnut Valley borrowed money from Chinese money lenders, as banks owned by Whites refused to lend money to African Americans” (2002, p. 202).
While the Chinese delegation to the World’s Fair would promote the idea of China’s culture being mystifying and exotic to better export its goods, the St. Louis Chinese in Hop Alley worked hard to be recognized as Americans. Even in the face of Sinophobic violence, the Chinese who lived in St. Louis connected with the culture of the city and its people, and they would come to marry other St. Louis Americans. In 1858, Alla Lee, the first recorded Chinese immigrant to St. Louis, married Sarah Graham, a woman from the neighboring Irish community, at the Second Presbyterian Church (Ling, 2002). The Scots-Irish community accepted and celebrated this marriage at the time despite anti-miscegenation legislation, the two unified by their connection to the church.
However, about a decade later, when more Chinese would begin arriving in St. Louis from the West Coast seeking work in local factories, public opinion from White law enforcement and newspapers had
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soured. On August 21, 1910, the St. Louis Republic reported that a Chinese chop suey restaurant was raided, resulting in the arrest of four: two European women, divorced Sadie Walden and her younger stepsister Marguerite Helm, and the two Chinese men they loved, including one man named Leon Ling (Yin, 1989). A year earlier in New York City, Leon Ling was the subject of a nation-wide manhunt in suspicion of the unsolved murder of nineteen-year-old Elsie Sigel, leading to reports of Asian and Asian American men across the United States, who did not at all resemble Ling, being apprehended and interrogated (Tietjen, 2014). Dr. Huping Ling, a professor and researcher of Asian American studies at Truman State University, regards the tone of St Louis Republic’s report as having “obvious disapproval” of the interracial relationship (2002). She notes both the incident and the way in which it was reported as reflecting national antagonism toward interracial relationships with Chinese Americans at the time, who were believed to be culturally exotic and thus unassimilable.
The difference in priorities between the Chinese delegation to the World’s Fair, which sought to engender cultural endearment with the diplomatic world, and the working-class St. Louis Chinese of Hop Alley, who struggled to live the American Dream, is best illustrated when reflecting upon what each group celebrated. Vice-Commissioner Wong held frequent, generous, and extravagant dinners for the many European elite who attended the fair (Yin, 1989). Wong’s parties were reputed to be indulgent in both food and entertainment, and among the objects on display were the four hundred silk gowns Mrs. Wong brought with her stateside.
The people of Hop Alley, on the other hand, worked throughout the duration of the year-long exposition. They reveled only for Lunar New Year, and only in the modest ways the working-class poor of St. Louis could afford: food and dance with family and friends (Ling, 2007). Yet, despite this culture of frugality, decades later, on December 23rd, 1947, the people of Hop Alley made headlines in the St. Louis Globe-Democrat after it was reported that every limousine available in the city of St. Louis was hired for the funeral procession of Joe Lin, the president of Hop Alley’s On Leong Merchant’s Association and the unofficial “Mayor of Chinatown” (Yin, 1989). Lin, who presided over the
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Merchant’s Association for over a decade before his death, was a fixture of the community, whose efforts in Hop Alley afforded translation services to arriving immigrants interfacing with the rest of St. Louis and advocated for Chinese integration in the city. His procession was followed by a thirty-piece brass band which played along the way and at his gravesite, and over five hundred community members attended a Christian service rendered in Chinese by Reverend Julius Wong of the St. Louis Gospel Charter.
Institutionalized discrimination affected Chinese living both domestically and abroad, but despite the antagonism they faced at the world stage, Chinese laborers persisted in a land of new opportunity with great resilience and desire to assimilate with America they inhabited. While the Chinese Pavilion at the World’s Fair did not accurately represent, and in some ways crudely overshadowed, the unfair treatment of the working Chinese in the United States, China’s display achieved its own goal by reintroducing a more cultured image of China to a world which otherwise regarded the country as violent brigands. Meanwhile, businesses in Hop Alley were considered essential to St. Louis’ many ethnic communities, and the work of Chinese laborers were considered indispensable to the city’s industrial machine. In the coming years, the St. Louis Chinese of Hop Alley would be revisited by many local newspapers intrigued by the exotic lore which extended beyond the small immigrant community. Hop Alley would remain a cultural gemstone of America’s Gateway to the West until its final demolition in 1966 for the construction of Busch Memorial Stadium (Andino, 2023; O’Neil, 2022).
References
Andino, M. (2023, May 12). Hop Alley: The legacy of St. Louis’ Chi natown. Feast.
https://www.feastmagazine.com/restaurants/hop-alley-thelegacy-of-st-louis-chinatown/article_fb580c50-ef4d-11edb9f6-5f5298c0fe38.html
Arendt, B. B. (2013). China’s participation in the Louisiana Purchase Exposition. Confluence (2150-2633), 21–29.
Cortinovis, I. E. (1977, October). China at the St. Louis World's Fair. Missouri Historical Review, 72(1), 59-66.
https://digital.shsmo.org/digital/collection/mhr/id/37593
Hammond Atlas of the 20th Century. (1996). Hammond World Atlas Corporation.
Ling, H. (2002). “Hop Alley”: Myth and reality of the St. Louis Chi natown, 1860s-1930s. Journal of Urban History, 28(2), 184. https://doi.org/10.1177/0096144202028002003
Ling, H. (2007). Chinese in St. Louis, 1857-2007. Arcadia Pub.
O’Neil, T. (2022, August 3). A look back at Hop Alley, St. Louis’ small but busy Chinatown. STLToday.
https://www.stltoday.com/news/archives/a-look-back-at-hopalley-st-louis-small-but-busy-chinatown/article_14ce3e423f01-56ce-98a1-64fbe20026f1.html
Tietjen, L. (2014, May 27). “Where Miss Sigel Met Her Slayer.”Tene ment Museum.
https://www.tenement.org/blog/where-miss-sigel-met-her-s layer/
[The Chinese Community in the St. Louis Area by Liangwu Yin, 1989; Box 1; f. 10] St. LouisVertical File Collection (S0814); The State Historical Society of Missouri Research Center – St. Louis. The Chinese Pavilion is actually the prince's bedroom from forbidden palace? (2019, October 8). World Expo Museum. http://www.expo-mu seum.org/sbbwg/n281/n337/n406/u1ai25825.html
The Gondola Man
Carli Knopf
Photography
Paper Dreams
Irina Biedenstein
We put all our dreams
Onto little paper boats
And set them free in the river
faceted
Zoë Schultz
Watercolor, Mixed Media
the art of failure.
Kavion Norman
My shoulder can’t hold you like I promised.. I reek of tears..
The tears on my heart outweigh my passion for the art of poetry.. Monotony best describes my autonomy..
Human anatomy is surface level information..
The inspiration to spark conversation of healthy and broken hearts has a thin line between sublime condition..
I’m reminiscing now aren’t I?..
Why can’t I make words sound good together?
To tether them in sequence is no secret to philosophers..
It’s hard to sound wise when your thoughts have filled the minds of the ones before you..
Plato and Socrates brought new meaning and gave us reason for believing..
Believing in hope? That life could somehow be fulfilled with mere questions?
Nope, doesn’t sound logical..
Instead they dissected our very existence..
Surgical.. to a T.. now you and me are left to ponder what could’ve been without them..
Ponds aren’t meant for swimming.. and rivers have harsh conditions..
Success is nothing short of failure cloaked in valor..
To have the power to shift time with words that rhyme is a god given gift taken for granted..
Granting wishes is impossible for the masses..
The truth is the mass of the world would crush you because you could lift it..
The time it took for you to feel gifted.. you would’ve sifted through the sand with no hand to hold..
We’re too old to teach you success.. for this is the art of failure..
It’s been tailored.. for you.
eternally, D.J.F ❀
Guard Fish
Sunny Peterson
Monotype Color Print, Sharpie Markers
The Flowers Speak Sermons
Nix Osorio-Balam
You listen for the voice of Allah in the worst, strangest of wrong places
For He is not on the tongues of the rich, nor the politicians
He is not in your possessions
He is not in your skyscrapers, nor worship halls of gold,
He is in what He created
For the flowers, they speak sermons of beauty outmatching Solomon’s splendor, and Narcissus’ elegance
For the trees, they tell of times passed in generations untold, tall and magnificent in the forests they uphold
For the scorching sun provides warmth even when it burns, to porcelain, rosy, bronze, and brown skin it shall be the same, to give life and to harm it, to bloom and to wilt
For the silky waters of oceans and lakes tell of depths profound and unknown, yet to have been touched by humans, waves of glory and beauty untold lapping upon the stones, unmoving on the shore
For the boulders and stones speak of strength and solidarity, steadfastness
For even in the greatest of typhoons, being slowly weathered away as with the entropy of all things in the cycles of this universe, they remain
For the loftiest of mountain grandeur speaks of His power and majesty, thunderous applause from the Earth to gain upon its plates that create such beauty from His power, His voice
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For the critters of land, sea, and air speak volumes of words unknown to us, like how the moth buzzes with excitement at the brightest of suns
Like how the bees dance to talk with one another
Like how the whales sing their songs, sounding of sorrow in oceans’ depths
Like how dogs show love with the gentleness and excitement of their play
For your soul, it speaks of your beauty untold in gilded flesh, trapped by what you are told is right
For your love, untethered and free, with dancing and singing together, tells of creation itself, and evolution unbound to sing these songs and dance upon your legs and feet
Allah is speaking, but you do not listen
For the flowers, they speak sermons
Ode to my Bed
Addison Drace
In the lap of luxury, aching bones and muscles go from upright to parallel. They start to sink into the thickness of the mattress, no longer active. The soft blanket surrounds me, protecting me. The pillow supports my head, an embrace of a nonexistent lover. Brain melts like butter. I close my eyes, and suddenly, I am not in the world anymore, I am floating in the stars, and for the first time today, I can take the deepest breath, ease my stress.
Nineteen years of my crashing, you always accept my weight and pain. Not once did you complain.
It’s affluent; not everyone has this. We take the smallest things for granted. Their bodies are never gently carried by the plush, leaving their dreams cold.
I can be anywhere and close my eyes and picture it, my childhood quilt and big blanket tucked into the corner of my sorrowed, stained room. Sheets falling off the edges from my big body twisting and turning. The Pop Tart crumbs on the pillow, the nail polish stain on the quilt, the menstrual blood on the sheets, It forgives, but I never apologized for the mess.
I hold back my tears until I find it.
Shaking sighs while I dress into my sweats and tee, and when I finally tuck myself in snugly, the water comes out like a never-ending storm.
The pillow right below my head catches the salty drops. In these moments, when the stillness leaves me to my thoughts, the disasters cycle in my mind. Not just from the day, or just me, I weep atop my twin-sized cloud for everything that has ever happened, to me and every woman.
Hoping that my rain reaches them on their cloud below, knowing they are not alone.
Realizing my experiences are, alas, yet with a sense of relief, unoriginal.
This thinking causes me to make such coarse noises, and sometimes, after the fact, I imagine what I look like. How could anyone love someone who cries this ugly?
The answer is easy: it is not a person, it is my greatest supporter. This is a ballad to my bed.
When I am scrunched up into my ball on the edge, the image creeps into my head and engulfs my body. The image of someone I don’t know yet, a dark shadow of someone who isn’t my family or friends, opens the door to my bedroom and sees me. Without a word, they crawl into the bed with me and start to hold me, lightly kiss me.
I breathe out and relax; they tell me it’s okay. I open my eyes and realize it is not true. Your lifelong caress has tricked me once again. So, my heart and the mattress grow arms and squeeze me, hugged from inside and out. Urban Panacea | 55
All those lonely nights, just me, the stirring buzz from under my sheets, but the lack of touch of another, because I am too scared of possible regrets. That would only leave my pillow wetter and me dryer.
The scary accuracy of which I understand the elderly not wanting to go to hospice on their deathbed. Staying in their favorite spot in their last moments. The jealousy that I have, the desire to fall asleep there and never wake up. Still, I wake up every morning and leave you. And someday, I will leave this room, too. The room in which I first spoke. I wonder if I will ever move on, and if you will stay here when I am gone, or if you will come along?
To all those times I play pretend, think and dread. This is an ode to my bed.
Baby, you’re the smoke in my lungs
Drew Ryherd
Inability
Andrew Jacob Pashia
I don’t know how to fall in love.
Because I would rather burn myself alive than have someone love me to death, Because I’d rather be alone than at the mercy of another. I’ve become so good at being by myself, That I don’t know how to have company that isn’t my own. I can’t lie in bed with someone because I toss and turn and steal all the sheets, Even in my sleep I am greedy with my peace.
I am afraid to fall in love.
Photography
Rocky Valley Howie Parkes
March of the Snowman
Danniella StacyWyndem
Driving flakes flung at the ground. Their trajectory angular like their geometry. Everyone looks uniform but like cells they make up my body, and are unique.
Like a symphonic cacophony
I am composed by forces greater than myself and from elements smaller than my final form. Small Cloth Hands round my base with rhythmic taps and giggles. A sphere for my belly firmly set on top with a twist my head smallest of all set by upstretched hands.
Sticks thin and brown are jabbed in my middle and face so I can smell and feel the breeze.
No hat for me, I won’t get cold, I am assured with more giggles.
The Sun rises again, several times since my construction. The breeze, warm, warmer than last year? My base made of taps and flakes begins to slowly march in all directions but mostly down.
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Red Skeletons in the Closet
Lillian Maynor
As one travels through the city of St. Louis, whether its streets are as familiar as the creases in a well-worn map or as uncharted as a path found only by the guidance of GPS, the intersection of Highway 44 and Highway 70 is a notable one. As the road curves alongside the Mississippi River, a traveler catches glimpses of the Gateway Arch gleaming in the sunlight, casting her majestic reflection over St. Louis. On a windy day, one might even be fortunate enough to see the Arch sway ever so slightly, a mother peering over the skyscrapers to her children beneath. Alternatively, one may simply continue listening to 106.5 FM, emerging from the shadows of overpasses into the brightness of day. Yet, amid this daily routine, few would think of veering off the beaten path at Exit 293.
If one takes Exit 293—likely by accident or out of some peculiar curiosity—the sudden environmental shift is jarring. St. Louis, famously known as the Gateway to the West, might leave a driver bewildered as the once-proud silhouette of the Arch shrinks in the rearview mirror, ashamed of the skeletons in her closet. The upbeat 80’s song bouncing through the speakers fades into a sharp advertisement, pleading for donations to St. Louis Public Schools—a sobering reminder of the city’s complexities.
At the intersection of 11th Street and Madison, the marvel of the Arches preceding glory has faded, replaced by an atmosphere heavy with neglect. Instead of the sky claimed by a monumental landmark, the air is now weighed down by a bleak desolation. The faint curl of gun smoke seeps through the car’s air conditioning, the shouts of a street fight blend with the urgent tone of the FM ad, and the pungent smell of cannabis lingers, stinging the nostrils. The vibrant riverfront, littered with gulls and joyous energy, is a distant memory—replaced by an empty lot littered with cigarette butts and spent shell casings. Feeling the urge to escape, a driver might pause at the stop sign, hastily pulling out their phone to reroute to more familiar, less foreboding, territory.
An old weathered green sign bearing the name “Webster School” marks the entrance to the empty lot. Once a place that rang
with the laughter and shouts of children, the now deserted lot feels eerily quiet, haunted by the memory of students who filled its grounds with life until the school’s closure. Broken glass and bottles riddle the yard, alluding to years of trespassers drunkenly stumbling where students once played. But the sight of the empty lot piques the driver’s curiosity, prompting a quick glance for oncoming traffic before the car veers onto 11th Street, their phone tossed carelessly to the passenger seat, Siri forgotten as it slides between the cushions with a dull thud.
Advertisements fade from 106.5 and another pop song begins to play through the lone driver’s car speakers, filling the air with a sense of manufactured hope. The wastelands of 11th and St. Louis Avenue outside contrast sharply with the upbeat harmonies of ABBA inside the car, creating an unsettling atmosphere. “I have a dream, a song to sing. To help me cope with anything....” A swift smack to the power button silences the music, freeing the mind of dissonance. The few remaining trees cry out from the depths of their barren pits, coveting the lifelessness of Webster School. As the tires grind over the loose pavement, their monotonous moans seem more fitting to the surroundings than the blaring pop tunes. Confused and curious, the steering wheel turns down Monroe Street with a slight pang of guilt. With eyes darting from side to side, the heart beats faster, hungry for any sign of life, searching for a reason not to proceed to the original route.
The car meanders toward Crown Square, and the stories of a once-thriving community begin to unfold. Where architectural beauty meets cobblestone streets, echoes from the past reverberate, pleading for redemption. Despite the scars of time a sense of resilience lingers in the air, wafting through the neighborhood: a palpable atmosphere of Optimism leading to a lush community garden. This feeling intensifies as the journey continues, leading to a rusted street sign swinging by its corner, bearing the name “Monroe Street.” Drawn by the whispers of history, this newfound companion, Optimism, beckons down the marred pavement of Monroe Street, where the echoes of the past mingle with the hopes of the future. The potential for revitalization is strong, offering a glimmer of hope in the face of decay.
Nervous anticipation gives way to relief at the sight of a young family waiting outside an old diner. The diner, proudly bearing the
name “Crown Candy,” stands like a lone flower emerging from the weeds. The mind wonders how long this place has existed, how long these streets bore pedestrians, and how long St Louis Avenue was the spine of a community. The contrast between the cheap, plastic facades of government housing and the crumbling architectural feats of Crown Square only adds to the oddity of this place. The familiar sight of St. Louis red brick inspires a loyalty that was once reserved for the Arch, who stands tall between two distant buildings, allowing her to peek through. The harsh realities of population loss, violence, and neglect clash with the undeniable resilience of one of St. Louis’ firstborn villages—a community that continues to rebel against the forces of decay more than two centuries after its annexation.
Surprised by their ignorance and ashamed of their initial fear, the driver dials the volume back up, allowing the tires to follow the shadow of Optimism. ABBA pours back into the car, and a once-manufactured hope now rings truthfully down 14th Street. The windows roll down, letting in the mingled scents of cigarettes and ice cream as the streets bathe in blaring music. The driver sings along, “I believe in angels, something good in everything I see....” Catching a glimpse of the time, the driver resurrects Siri, guiding the car back to the watchful eyes of the Arch. The steering wheel confidently turns down 14th, 11th, and finally, Madison Street. The crumbling homes appear different from this angle—suddenly, the ivy is hugging the brick, and the sun is chasing shadows through bullet holes, hinting at the light that could one day fill these streets. Suddenly, it isn't so scary anymore. “Something good in everything I see...”
It is in this delicate balance between honoring the past and embracing the future that the true potential of Old North lies. The lone driver now understands that community holds the capacity to transform. Where drunken trespassers once stumbled, beauty can still erupt, silencing the cries of the cobblestone streets—for now. The car’s path, guided by curiosity and a growing sense of Optimism, mirrors the trajectory of the neighborhood itself—a place scarred by time but not beyond redemption.
Tires giddy from the roller coaster of unpaved streets, the fresh pavement of Highway 70 comforts the driver as a small apology almost
escapes the lips—eager to bury the hatchet with the unoffended Webster School passing by. A few local women have gathered in the formerly lonely lot, and a poster reading “Plant Sale” is taped over the post marking the school. The resilient trees grow proudly in their homes, foreshadowing the revitalization to come. Sunglasses on, you wave a shy “hello again” to the Arch, who chuckles proudly from above.
The Arch is satisfied with her work, for she taught a valuable lesson. Through the past that whispers through every crumbling brick and the future that hangs just out of reach, her first born may hide in plain sight; it refuses to fade into obscurity. The juxtaposition of destruction and persistence tells the story of a neighborhood at a crossroads, where history and hope converge. The potential is not merely in preserving what once was, the Arch whispers to her travelers below, but in what could be; beneath the layers of history, the seeds of revitalization lay ready to bloom.
Café Vibes - 21C Museum Hotel - St. Louis, MO
Isaac Baker
Photography
All Quiet in the Ville
Grace Desjardins
In the heart of the Ville, the Fourth of July dawns with a muted sun, casting long shadows over cracked pavements and leaning porches. From my bedroom window, I survey the familiar panorama—rows of weathered houses, the stoic gaze of the old church spire, and the skeletal remains of forgotten dreams etched into every brick and boarded window. It is all quiet in the Ville.
Tonight, the sky will remain unadorned by the dazzling blossoms of fireworks. The Ville knows no such luxury. Instead, we are serenaded by a symphony of survival—the low hum of refrigerators too empty to whisper promise, the distant wail of police sirens that blend into the fabric of our dreams, stitching our nights with threads of unease. It is all quiet in the Ville.
Further west and south, the air will crackle with festivity. I can almost hear the bursts and pops, see the vibrant hues illuminating neighborhoods where joy is not a borrowed commodity but a birthright. Those areas glow with a different kind of life, one we observe from afar, like spectators pressed against the glass of a world just out of reach. It is all quiet in the Ville.
Here in the Ville, the sounds are raw, unrefined. The clang of a trash can lid, the murmur of voices that rise and fall with the day's heat, the rustle of newspaper pages turning like the years—each sound tells a story. The most known of these is the silence, heavy and tangible, punctuated only by the occasional sharp cry of a child or the muffled thud of a ball against concrete. It is all quiet in the Ville.
I step out onto the porch, where the evening begins to drape the neighborhood in shades of twilight. The street lights flicker to life, casting pale halos on the ground. A breeze stirs, carrying with it the scent of gunpowder from firecrackers lit by those who managed to scrape to-
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gether enough for a fleeting burst of color. It is all quiet in the Ville. I watch as my neighbors move through the dusk, shadows in a choreographed dance of resilience. A woman calls her children inside, her voice weary yet unyielding. An old man settles into his chair, the creak of its legs a testament to years of bearing weight. It is all quiet in the Ville.
The inhabitants of the Ville, navigate a landscape marred by neglect and indifference. Their lives, marked by a stark contrast to the illuminated celebrations just a few miles away, seem suspended in a perpetual twilight. It is all quiet in the Ville.
As the night deepens, the sounds of the Ville intensify—a scream of life teetering on the edge. The sirens that never sleep, the whispers of dreams deferred. The absence of fireworks is a silent testament to a community striving against the currents of inequality, a reminder of the gaps that persist. It is all quiet in the Ville.
In the distance, the booming fireworks of wealthier neighborhoods echo mockingly, their colors invisible to us but their presence felt, a stark reminder of the chasm that divides us. The Ville is left in the dark. It is all quiet in the Ville.
As the night deepens, a profound sadness settles over me, the weight of the reality that is inescapable. The Ville may endure, but it does so in the shadows, its spirit dimmed by a world that has long turned its back. The silence tonight is not just the absence of fireworks; it is the quiet acceptance of a community forgotten, left to find light in a world that offers none.
It is all quiet in the Ville.
GO 4 GOLD (ft. Marlow)
NTSTAKEOVA
(Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to be where you wanna be)
I did this here since I was 5 years old (Alright)
Time can tell if I was really chose (Alright)
He said my foot would never hit a stone (Foot would never hit a stone)
And if you feel me y’all just let me know (Feel me y’all just let me know)
Got plenty memories to take me on (Alright)
When I get it, imma send it home (Alright)
I pray to god until he take me home (Alright)
I told my mama imma go for gold (Alright)
I check my pockets, they on overload (Alright)
I can’t stop until my records sold (I can’t stop until my records sold)
Sometimes it feel like life is oh so cold (Feel like life is oh so cold)
If you feel me y’all just let me know (Alright)
I’m living better than what I was showed (Alright)
My top, knocked off look like some dominos (Alright, like some dominos)
And if you feel me y’all just let me know (Alright)
I told my mama imma go for gold
(I told my mama imma go for gold)
I did this here since I was 5 years old (Alright)
Time can tell if I was really chose (Alright)
He said my foot would never hit a stone (Foot would never hit a stone)
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If you feel me y’all just let me know (Feel me y’all just let me know)
Got plenty memories to take me on (Alright)
When I get it, imma send it home (Alright)
I pray to god until he take me home (Alright)
I told my mama imma go for gold (Alright)
I check my pockets, they on overload (Alright)
I can’t stop until my records sold (I can’t stop until my records sold)
Sometimes it feel like life is oh so cold (Feel like life is oh so cold)
If you feel me y’all just let me know (Alright)
I’m living better than what I was showed (Alright)
My top, knocked off look like some dominos (Alright, like some dominos)
And if you feel me y’all just let me know (Alright)
I told my mama imma go for gold (Alright)
I be kept like the tribe of Benjamin been jammin’
There’ve been times of poverty
Been eating through wild famine
Could never be left back
Bein’ humble is where I’m strengthened
Patience to wait on god
So the blessing remain lengthened
(Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to be where you wanna be)
What About Her?
Valonda Roberts
What about her?
Her, she, yes she
She is valuable too
She deserved to live too
Breonna Taylor
Sandra Bland
Mya Hall
Alexia Christian #sayhername
I cry for my brothers my Black brothers walk daily with targets on their backs they’re shown as criminals instead of leaders they’re shown as predators when they are often preyed upon they’re seen as villains when they try to be advocates
Our Black men are often wrongfully accused of crimes they didn’t commit and given obscene amounts of time to serve for petty crimes that would have been swept under the rug if it were someone else.
But again, I ask, what about her?
Is her story not valid because it was simply a she and not a he she also suffered she was also gunned down she was also arrested or is it because it is more likely to happen to him than her that she got lost in the shadows that she didn’t have a name that she didn’t even get mentioned.
Rosa Parks
Audre Lorde
Dorothy Height
Angela Davis
Respect Her Name
Black culture represents love, expression, freedom, art, but it also has so much pain, neglect, abuse, I hate you. I’m asking you don’t neglect her, don’t attack her, don’t accuse her, don’t abuse her.
When she is beaten down even by her own culture, how can she be strong? Sometimes she plays victim instead of Victor because that’s all you showed her. You didn’t acknowledge that she was beautiful, you didn’t acknowledge that she was talented, you didn’t acknowledge that you took her innocence.
What about her?
Even in the Bible, most cases you neglected to give her a name but she was your strength, she was your support, she was your rock. Instead you treated her like she was a possession, like she was your slave, like she was nothing.
Lot’s wife
Potiphar’s wife
The woman at the well
The Samaritan woman
What’s her name?
Is she not the reason you exist? Is she not the reason you leveled up? Is she not the reason you feel like a man? Give her some respect.
Say her name.
Layers of Compulsion
K.C.Terra
In the quiet ritual of evening light, My sister, adorned in hues, begins her fight. Brush strokes dance upon a bare canvas, A makeup mask, a shield to wear.
Powders and pigments, a palette arrayed, Concealing battles within, shadows portrayed. In the mirror’s reflection, she seeks solidation, A heavenly thought, yet OCD deceives.
Compulsive whispers echo in her mind, Anxiety’s grip, relentless and unkind. Each dab and stroke, all a meticulous mask, As she grapples with thoughts, an endless burden.
Foundation layers, like armor she wears, Veiling the vulnerabilities, the unspoken snares. Eyes that flutter, an uncertain gaze, Behind the eyeliner, a tumultuous fear.
Mascara’s brush extends a delicate plea, To hide the turmoil, her mind’s stormy sea. In the silence of struggle, a quiet grace, My sister has battles within, unseen and displaced.
Lipstick, a bold defiance against the storm, Yet, shadows linger, a persistent swarm. The mirror reflects a face that’s composed, Yet, within, a torrent of thoughts shears her brain.
Cosmetic rituals, a coping charade, My sister’s strength, in makeup displayed. Yet, the silent battle rages deep, Her biggest secret is OCD’s grip.
In the artistry of makeup, a refuge sought, A momentary respite, battles fought. Behind the mask, a warrior stands, Coping with OCD, my sister will be free.
Dream Catcher
Breanna Keck
My world or yours?
Irina Biedenstein
Am I the ballerina in a music box
A doodle in a cartoon
Or am I the teddy
Strung up with the balloons
Better yet–
I could be the doe-eyed
Damsel in distress
For you to save
Whether you’re mother, knight, or knave
Wait, No–
I’m the puppet –
The doll tied up in strings
A still-life portrait
Watching your canary sing
Let me go–
You have no key
I hold it on the chain around my neck
You have empty strings
I cut them with my scissors, knives, and teeth
It’s foolish–
I am not able to be contained
No box, no leash, no cage –
Your world isn’t big enough to hold me
My world is full of endless possibility
Queer
Drew Pinkley
“I am queer.”
Is a sentence that struggles free from gender. The “he/him/his” sitting uncomfortably in my signature block Signals to others it is appropriate to categorize me
And put me in a box with all others who are so-called “masculine” in this language game.
I am fine with that. I conform to all sorts of rules I didn’t agree to when engaging through language.
No one asked my opinion on why I can say “I am queer,” but not “I queer am.”
And so it is with grammatical gender: It’s a tool my mother gave me to exploit the world around me so that it would be
Helpful to hear my mother speak and decipher simply whether she referred to my father or my sister.
But masculine as a language’s classification for nouns and pronouns is not the same as masculine as a cultural norm or social ideal.
And the unfortunate reality is that these two masculines affect one another, such that:
A tension emerges between the sentences: “I am queer.”
And “He is queer.”
The “he” in “he is queer” acknowledges a transgression of a particular type and trope:
Behind “He is queer” is a story of a little boy turning hyper-introspective and obsessively critical of Every flick of his queer wrist, Every placement of his queer tongue,
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Every step of his queer gait, Every tone of his queer voice, Every question into his queer interests, Every witness to his queer creativity, Every judgment upon his queer transgression of the masculine that exists when no one speaks.
Authenticity, for me, has meant acknowledging that the masculine that exists in silence is not a meaningful aspiration for me.
I engage in the rules of the language game, but will not engage in the rules of the social game.
Not because I think that the silent masculine contains no intrinsic value to society—I don’t think that.
But for me, the rules of the social game reach too far, demand too much… and for too little reward.
I refuse to redact what I bring into a room in exchange for a mask for masculinity.
These queer wrists whirl
This queer tongue lisps loquacious
This queer gait glides
This queer voice sings:
Question and witness this queerness transgress and exploit Every rigid masculine commandment in my way.
“I am queer.” is a declaration. “He is queer.” is a confrontation—a challenge I did not ask for, but embrace.
Skew
Robbin Karter
Oil Pastel
We Will Miss His Smile
Cullen Landolt
The sign in the parking lot at Our Lady of Perpetual Solicitation read, “A plague o_ locust upon th_ sin_ers,” the remaining letters caked with years of dust and nicotine. The front door of the chapel had a still-warm piece of copy paper taped to it that read “Lin Memorial → Rectory. Chapel closed for fumigation.”
Following eleven other pieces of paper on a labyrinthine path, the citizens of Morley were funneled into an arthritic building, down an aggressively European staircase, and into a sprawling basement containing an impossible number of metal folding chairs, or enough chairs to suggest the room may well have been bigger on the inside than it was on the out. Everyone took their seats and brushed stale donut crumbs from their laps while insisting to one another that it wasn’t the heat; it was the humidity.
Mei sat up front with Louie. She white-knuckled a legal pad, generating enough energy to power a small city by bouncing her left leg. Louie put a hand on her shoulder, which brought the bouncing to an abrupt halt.
“You can do this,” he said.
She turned to him. Her leg had stopped shaking, but her eyes and lips had not.
“McLeod, I don’t—”
“No you need to turn!” came a voice from the stairwell.
Half the room spun around.
“I can’t. You need to move up,” suggested another voice.
“Wait, what?”
“That’s it, just a little—”
“Uh, guys. I can’t hold it much longer.”
“Look, just a little more to the left and we can—”
“No no, my left. You need to take the right corner and—”
“Uh oh.”
A plywood casket thundered down the staircase and stuck a vertical landing at the base, entering the room with Olympian poise. This made Bob Lin the last to arrive at his own funeral. Urban Panacea |
Five young pallbearers descended and tried to hide their tomato faces. Then what appeared to be an old sea captain emerged at the front of the group. He peered at the double-wide, ground-level emergency exit doors in the back of the room, grunted, then returned his focus to the crowd.
“Where you want ‘im, Vic?” he asked, thumb jabbing at the casket.
Another man stood up from the front row of chairs. His clothes suggested saint; his hair suggested sinner. The truth was probably somewhere in between.
“Up front,” Father Vic replied, “with the flowers. Thank you, Lester.”
Les and the boys put the casket up front with the flowers. Then they took seats in the back, and Les began picking through his beard for the day’s batch of hidden treasures.
In the third row RJ sat left of Tommy Holmes, a boy of eight who had just asked his mother if Bob was in a better place.
“Oh, Thomas,” RJ said to the boy. “Robert is not in a better place.”
Tommy blinked.
“In fact,” RJ continued, “there is no ‘better place.’ Robert is right there in that box, but not for long, anyway. As we speak a ton of microscopic organisms are stealing little pieces of him and hauling them off to who knows where. Not that those pieces will make it either—in a few million years you and everything you have ever loved or cared about will get sucked into a black hole, a colossal void from which nothing escapes, not even light. But I guess that is a better place, depending on how your day is going.”
Tommy blinked again. Then he turned to his right, facing a woman with grey hair.
“Mom,” he said. “Can we get MacDoogal’s on the way home?”
Mrs. Holmes couldn’t respond because she was mentally computing the cost of the decades of therapy her son would now require. Wait, she thought. Problem solved: I’ll send RJ the bill.
Father Vic approached a decrepit podium to the left of the casket, the din of the audience dying as he did so.
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“Good morning,” Vic said, the podium whimpering as he put his weight on it. “Before we begin, I would like to distribute the collection plate. This month’s charity is UPYERS, the organization dedicated to helping underdeveloped countries launch ballistic missiles at overdeveloped countries. Please give only what you can.”
The Reverend floated a wicker basket out into the sea of parishioners. Excluding what the altar boy skimmed from the top, the basket garnered 16 dollars, 11 cents, 7 Manny Mozzarella tokens, an expired voucher for a discounted car wash at Gary’s, and an egg. That last contribution came from Les, who had just discovered an entire family of bluejays nesting in his beard.
“Thank you, brothers and sisters,” Vic said. “The Lord smiles upon us, as do the good folks at UPYERS…And now, on to the grim business at hand. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to join this—er, um. Wait a minute.”
Vic thumbed through a book on the podium, forward ten pages, back five, forward three.
“Ah yes,” he said. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of brother Bob Lin. Now, I need not recount the tragedy that befell us this week. We all loved him deeply, and today is truly a time for celebration, a time to reflect on the wonderful gifts brother Bob has given us. Now, to begin that celebration, please welcome Mayor Malcolm Rhodes, who has graciously agreed to say a few words on behalf of the departed.”
Organ music sounded, a solemn piece in C sharp minor—particularly strange given that there was not an organ in the room. Then a man with printer ink in his hair stood up from a chair in the back and downed an entire handful of various pills. He hobbled up to the podium and took the microphone from Father Vic.
“Good morning, everyone,” Rhodes said with a smile. “Now, let’s see here. A child of God, uh—”
Rhodes opened his left palm and squinted at it.
“Bob,” he said, “was a devoted husband, father and friend. He was a lover, not a fighter, and on Sundays Bob enjoyed taking long walks in the park and catching up on house chores. He never, ever missed an
episode of Wheel of Wealth.”
Rhodes coughed. “I’ll never forget the day he opened the um, the restaurant. The Jade Wok. I drove out to the building and asked if he needed a hand. He smiled and said: ‘No.’ What a wonderful man. We will miss his smile, and his kung pao chicken.”
The room erupted. Sorrows were trumpeted into tissues, sleeves, crumpled receipts. RJ stifled a laugh, and meanwhile Mayor Rhodes held an orange pill bottle up to the light, looking up it with his good eye to ensure it was empty. Mei showed no visible reaction, having retreated entirely inward.
“Well,” Rhodes said. “That’s all I have to say on the matter. Do remember to vote in the primaries next month. Now I’ll turn things over to the erm, let’s see…”
He glanced at his palm again.
“The daughter. Mei Lin, everyone.”
The phantom organ played him off the stage. Mei remained comatose in her chair, and Louie put a hand on her shoulder again.
“Mei,” he whispered.
It brought her back. For the first time being truly present in the room, she glanced around, dusted off her dress, and took her legal pad up to the podium as the music faded.
Mei looked at her father lying there; cold, still. She thought of how the proverbial apple does not fall from the tree. But also, she thought, sometimes there’s a proverbial river next to the proverbial tree, and the proverbial river carries the proverbial apple all the way across proverbial state lines.
Goodness. What happened here?
“Hello,” Mei said. “I…”
She paused, pinned by the mob of blinking faces. There were just too many, and Harrison was out there with his sculpted jawline, which certainly wasn’t helping.
“First, I just wanted to—to thank you all. For coming. And really for everything this week that you, that you…”
Mei looked at her legal pad and saw that it had changed. What were once the English sentences of a beautiful eulogy had somehow transformed into an impossible mix of Latin words, highly advanced
mathematical equations, and soup recipes. She was flying solo. Louie caught her eye and did that magic trick with his thumb. Mei smiled, took a breath.
“Everything you did for me this week,” she said. “I’m truly grateful for the unbelievable support I’ve received from every one of you. Thank you so much.”
She straightened her back, breathed in again.
“Unfortunately, I won’t be very helpful today, because I’m here to tell you what you already know: my dad was incredible. He worked himself to the bone trying to make the world a better place, his entire life being a testament to his generosity and compassion. You all know what I mean. It was the way he dropped everything when you needed him. It was the way he smiled at you, and somehow you knew just by looking at him that everything was going to be alright. I think in light of this, we can all forgive his terrible sense of humor.”
Scattered laughs from the audience. A few used the chance to adjust their posture.
“Remember that time when the snowstorm hit? When he kept the Jade Wok open all night? Those natives from Alaska got stuck when their bus was passing through, and Dad whipped up more fried rice than I’ve seen in my entire life. And when the jukebox finally gave up the ghost, we all sang the Morley High fight song. Les broke his leg dancing on that table.”
A few more laughs, the loudest coming from Les himself. Mei gave a tearful smile at her father, half expecting him to laugh along.
She froze again. A feeling of dread began to creep up on her. Oh God, what is it, she thought. Is it something about him? I mean, sure. He’s dead. But pretty normal otherwise. Hair in that combover. Wearing his favorite suit, the funky tie that grandma gave him. There’s the birthmark on his neck and the burn on his right hand. Wait, hang on. That’s the burn on his…his right hand?
“This is not my father!” she said. “My father is alive!”
Confused murmurs covered the room in waves, and a lot happened all at once. RJ whipped out a bowl of popcorn. Rhodes snored, having apparently fallen asleep. Les yelled something about zombies, took his bluejays and sprinted back up the stairs. Finally, Louie looked
over to Green and Pops and saw that they were staring down at their shoes. He scribbled something into a notebook.
“Look,” Mei said. “I don’t know what’s going on here. I can’t—I can’t prove it, but the fact remains that my father is out there somewhere. One of you is playing a horrible trick on—”
Louie caught her eye again. He turned his notebook toward Mei Don’t
Too late. Rhodes was fully awake now, and he shot a glance at Sergeant Green. She nodded, and the rest of the police squad stood up silently. Pops covered the stairwell. Jules and Bernard made their way towards the emergency exit. They stood by the double-wide doors with their backs straight, arms crossed, and more or less followed every step in their police handbook’s Intimidation for Dummies section.
“I mean, uh,” Mei started. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over—”
Just then, the emergency exit doors exploded open, and Jules and Bernard shot off into space like bowling pins at a league game.
First, a thick haze of tobacco and marijuana smoke rolled in. Then the invisible organ played something avant-garde that sounded as if the player had slumped over and died on the keys. Finally, wearing a dog collar and not much else, a 48-year-old woman sauntered into the room with arms around both of her boyfriends. She was tall, fast, and drop dead gorgeous.
The woman smoked an entire cigarette in a single drag as she scanned the congregation.
“Hi everyone,” the woman said. “Miss me?” Crickets.
“Out!” Mei said.
“Pardon?” the woman replied, turning back to Mei.
“I said out. You don’t belong here.”
“Well now. Where did you get those manners? Is that any way to talk to your own mother?”
Murmurs again, significantly louder this time. RJ started handing out popcorn bags at five dollars each. Louie nearly chipped a tooth on a pen he was chewing.
“Charlotte Lin,” the woman said, seemingly to Harrison. “At
your service.”
Then a wink, definitely at Harrison. Charlotte snapped her fingers and ordered her arm candy to sit, whose names might have been Chris and Eli. These two had long since forgotten their own names and simply responded to whatever Charlotte felt like calling them at the time.
Mei’s eyes were daggers.
“Charlotte,” Mei said. “I won’t say it again. Get out of here. Now.”
“Come on now, honey. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“We have nothing to say to each other.”
“That a fact?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte devoured another cigarette, and studied her daughter’s face. Then, in one swift motion, she approached the casket, black heels echoing as she walked, and she stuck a safety pin into her late husband’s arm. He—or rather ‘it’—deflated.
Silence, heavy and complete. Mei stared at the pile of steaming rubber that used to be her father. Charlotte took a bow. She ran a finger down her daughter’s cheek and said, “No need to be embarrassed, honey. The synthetics are getting pretty good these days.”
Charlotte snapped her fingers again, and Chris (or was it Eli?) stood and brought a black briefcase to the front of the room, then quickly returned to his seat. She opened the case, propped it up on the podium, and spun it around to display the contents: some brown cylinders, complicated electrical wiring and a green digital clock set to five minutes. The clock began counting backwards.
“ALRIGHT,” she screamed. “NOBODY MOVE. WE’RE GOING TO PLAY A LITTLE GAME OF CHARLOTTE SAYS.”
Some were afraid; most were confused. And having now missed lunch, everyone was hungry.
“The rules are simple: You do what Charlotte says. Otherwise, this baby goes off, and they’ll find our teeth four blocks up on Montgomery Street. Capisce?”
Now most were afraid and no one was hungry. The audience anxiously awaited the awful tasks they were about to be assigned.
“First things first. You, handsome,” she said, tossing a cell phone to Harrison. “Charlotte says to put your number in the phone, then throw it back.”
Harrison obeyed.
“Good. Next up, the pigs. Charlotte says discard your weapons.”
The pigs obeyed. Pops and Green threw their tasers into the dusty corner where Jules and Bernard were still lying unconscious. Charlotte raised an eyebrow at Green. Without another word, Sergeant Green took a revolver out from her left sock and added it to the pile.
“Green,” Charlotte said, tapping the briefcase. “We don’t have all day.”
Sergeant Green removed a knife from her bra and threw it.
“That’s more like it. Now, which one of you is McLeod?”
Louie raised a hand.
“Moron,” Mei muttered to herself.
“Perfect,” Charlotte said. “Come on up here, honey.”
Louie obeyed. As he joined Mei and Charlotte at the podium, Chris and Eli rose from their chairs. They assumed the same positions by the emergency exit doors that Jules and Bernard had occupied a couple minutes prior.
“Charlotte says that Mei and Louie are coming with me. Charlotte also says that if there are any heroes out there—anyone thinking of getting out of their chair and putting a stop to all this—they will be the first to witness the white-hot fires of oblivion, and their blood will spill over every inch of this beautiful building. So sit tight, yeah?”
The group exited the stage. The organ music did not play them off, deeming the situation to be tonally inappropriate. Charlotte paused halfway down the aisle to point at Mrs. Holmes.
“You,” she said. “How’s my hair?”
Holmes shook, her eyes like fish looking to escape the bowl. The clock was literally ticking. She needed an answer.
“Perfect, Char.”
Charlotte threw her head back and let out a witch’s cackle.
“You’re a fantastic liar, Holmes. Consider yourself banned from poker night.”
They made it to the back with Chris and Eli, and the group of five stood together. Charlotte passed the case off to Eli, probably.
“Oh, and one more thing” she said, scooping up Sergeant Green’s revolver. “Don’t try to follow us. I see anything in the rear mirror I don’t like—anything at all—and Mei gets it. If you think I’m bluffing, go ahead and try me. See how this town does without your precious stir fry.”
With that, they were gone. The entire room started gasping for air, as even the most courageous among them had not been breathing since Charlotte Lin entered the room. Jules and Bernard woke up, scratched their heads, then decided to catch a few more Z’s on the church floor.
Outside, the group piled into a driverless limo. Charlotte kicked a leg up, arms once again draped around her boys. Mei mirrored her mother with an arm around Louie, who hoped she would not notice his heart rate accelerating.
“I hope I didn’t scare you, honey,” Charlotte said. Mei grinned, eyes landing on her mother’s briefcase. “Not at all,” she replied. “I’d recognize that old thing from a mile away.”
The green clock on the briefcase hit zero. A bell dinged, and from a false bottom the case spat out a molten pepperoni Port-a-Pie. Charlotte took a bite as the limo sped off.
blindfolded moguls.
Kavion Norman
In my past life I was Langston Hughes, Storytelling, with a view, that points to peace and prosperity, I’m Martin Luther King, Shaking minds in the center ring, I’m centering my wealth on growing mine and shifting tides where the river doesn’t flow.
I’m flowing water like I’m wade, Floating like a butterfly and stinging just like Clay, Catch us by the picket fences, All I pray is that Muhammad doesn’t flip the world when they don’t play like they promised.
..At least I was honest.. right?
I’m silver plated like iron Mike, My gloves are red so you can’t see the blood when they bleed, I lead my people through the grandest canyons and seas you could never fathom.
A living legend in the making,
I’m off the wall like the king and when I sing you gotta tell jack to tell his son..
I’m a one of one.. you see..?
Malcolm is eXistential, he still lives in me, For violence isn’t ruthless but knowledge, is the fruit of the youth, You teach them wrong and we’re doomed, They’ll never bloom to full potential,
It’s thug life like pac said, though he too would question life and if our lives had meaning.
The reaping will commence and when it does, Will you repent?
Will you light a fire to kill the beast? For no defeat is forever,
I’m a nighttime dweller, 88 | Bellerive
like Harriet, My eyes work differently, an inheritance from my legacy, We must be freed from our chains and take off the mask that masks the present.
My sweet Nefertiti is waiting in paradise, release me from this paradox and the box they hold us captive in.., May our sins be forgotten.
eternally, D.J.F
❀
Unfinished Journeys
Hannah Edomwonyi
Oil Paint on Canvas
In the Middle of the Frozen Foods Aisle
Anna Connoley
After “In The Middle of the Road” by
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
I am in the frozen foods aisle when suddenly
The light comes from the fluorescents in a new way
And makes the slight condensation on the fridge door
Glisten like the sun does hitting freshly-fallen snow
I look inside at the packaged chicken breasts
And think about the smell while they fry on the stove
The adding of spices and the paired potatoes
Eating it while looking out the kitchen window
That just so happens to face the sunset down the hill
The fading light glints off the semi trucks and gas pumps
And I think for a moment that it looks like a painting
I blink, and I am standing back in the frozen foods aisle
Staring down at the raw packages of frozen chicken
God, I love being alive.
Toast Cat
Danniella StacyWyndem
Monotype
Excellence in Writing 2023-2024
Congratulations to the winners of the Excellence in Writing Contest!
Thank you to all who submitted. There were several great essays in the running, and everyone should be proud of their work.
Our official contest winners are...
1000-level winner: Eliana Fitzhugh
“The Pain in the Educated”
Submitted in Spring 2024 for Cultural Traditions II with Dr. Lesley Sieger-Walls
3000-level winner: Sarah Boslaugh
“The East German ‘Sports Miracle’: How Did it Happen, and Why?”
Submitted in Fall 2023 for Europe from 1945 to Today with Dr. Christoph Schiessl
4000-level winner: Emily Beauto
“Beneath the Crust: Unveiling the Secrets of the Hollow Earth”
Submitted in Spring 2024 for Independent Study with Dr. Rob Wilson
The Pain in the Educated
Eliana Fitzhugh
Throughout my first year in honors, many experiences and pieces of literature have helped me grow, but I have frequently wished myself ignorant. I have taken several courses that have given me knowledge of diverse cultures and perspectives, and I use this knowledge as I conduct myself now as a liberally educated individual. However, upon initial contact with some information in my first two semesters, I found myself overwhelmed with grief, guilt, and, most frequently, shock.
Early in my second semester, I found myself in a dark theater watching an old Russian propaganda film, Battleship Potemkin, with a film professor fascinated by the lighting used to capture the deaths of dozens. I felt so heavy with grief that week as we returned to the scene on the steps of Odessa repeatedly, a victim to the film’s ethos. As I continued with the class, I found that this feeling would come back to haunt me as we continued to screen films with mass mortalities. The film projector in a small room with ten college students seemed to capture grief and suffering in a beautiful atrocity. We screened films from vastly different ways and times of life, yet the people all cried out in terror in the same haunting way, a cruel way to capture the reality of humanity. I often left the class grappling with the meaning of showing such films; after all, the class was silent once the film was through, for no one was brave enough to start a discussion.
While processing the exposure to bloodshed of the past, I returned home to news of immense loss in the present. The media I used to unwind after a busy day now turned to videos of the horror that faced innocent lives. While I was so far from the genocide, I felt so connected and found myself consumed by the thought of loss. It was disheartening to be so involved and passionate about the topic and come to classes that seemed to be oblivious. I felt isolated and struggled to find passion in other coursework from the toll. Only when my Honors Intercultural Communications professor invited UMSL’s Middle Eastern Student Association to present in class did I feel I could openly discuss and critically think about what I had seen and learned. My
exposure to such terrible loss only seemed to have meaning as I was able to discuss and involve myself with my peers.
My exposure to such immense human loss this past semester led me to resonate with Frederick Douglass and his journey with education. Douglass’s Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave heavily discusses his emancipation through education as he recites his master, saying, “If you teach that nigger how to read, there would be no keeping him. It would forever unfit him to be a slave” (Douglass, Chapter 6). Douglass comes to agree with his master, citing that his freedom only came when he began to read and educate himself. Indeed, education is powerful and freeing for the mind, but it comes at a price. Douglass returns to his master’s words, writing, “That very discontentment which Master Hugh had predicted would follow my learning to read had already come, to torment and sting my soul to unutterable anguish. As I writhed under it, I would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without the remedy. It opened my eyes to the horrible pit, but to no ladder upon which to get out. In moments of agony, I envied my fellow-slaves for their stupidity” (Douglass, Chapter 7). While I was ever so grateful for my awareness and education of the terrors that have faced humanity past and present, I resented the anguish it brought. I envied my peers who seemed unaffected, questioning their sense of humanity and my own. Learning about Douglass’s resentment of his education made me realize that I was not isolated in my thoughts; education was a cruel kind of intellectual freedom. While the information and human experiences I learned of pained me, I realized I must make use of my anguish, just as Douglass had nearly two centuries prior, by publishing his narrative.
On my path to finding meaning in my learning, I read what would become of me if I continued to harbor resentment toward education. Another assignment was to analyze Tadeusz Borowski’s works which detail his experience during the Holocaust. Borowski was a writer who was captured for being educated and made to work in a labor camp as an orderly. Being Polish gave him a little more privilege than the other prisoners, something that would be heavily criticized as his works were published. Most harshly critiqued was his frequent disregard for the
deaths of his fellow prisoners, with him at one point saying, “Between two throw-ins in a soccer game, right behind my back, three thousand people had been put to death” (Borowski 84). Even harsher is his admission to having a role in the deaths of his fellow prisoners: “We said that there is no crime that a man will not commit in order to save himself” (Borowski 168). The public’s reaction to Borowski’s works on the Holocaust was rather cruel at first, isolating him with his own experiences. Borowski committed suicide six years after getting out of the concentration camps, leaving behind a wife and newborn daughter. I believe Borowski resented himself after returning home for the choices he made while inside the camp and for feeling isolated in his experiences. Years after his death, the public would come to understand his stories and the choices he was forced to make inside the camps—an overdue show of support that might have just saved his life. I fear that Borowski’s last days were painted with guilt and a replay of the horrors he witnessed inside the camp when they were meant to be filled with the joy of his daughter’s arrival. If I were to resent my own education for the horrors of humanity rather than be an advocate for change, then I would be plagued with as much guilt as Tadeusz Borowski. While I resonate with both Douglass and Borowski’s experiences with education and resentment, I believe Douglass took the right path. Following the publication of his narrative, Douglass became a strong abolitionist and helped the movement, along with freeing slaves directly. He previously held resentment for his education, which brought him an awareness of the slave condition. However, his bravery in doing something about his exposure is what I hope I will obtain through my liberal education. I have realized that I would rather be human and struggle to process the information I am exposed to than bluntly ignore human suffering. For I hope I never become as cruelly ignorant as Lloyd Garrison writes of his peers, “So profoundly ignorant of the nature of slavery are many persons that they are stubbornly incredulous whenever they read or listen to any recital of the cruelties which are daily inflicted on its victims'' (Douglass, Preface). Thus, I am learning to be aware and take action against the sorrow my education brings to my life. For ignorance is bliss, but bliss is insincere.
Cited
Borowski, Tadeusz. “A Day at Harmenz.” ThisWay for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. 1959. New York, Penguin Books, 1976, pp. 50-81.
Borowski, Tadeusz. “The People Who Walked On.” ThisWay for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. 1959. New York, Penguin Books, 1976, pp. 82-97.
Douglass, Frederick. “Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave.” The Project Gutenberg eBook of Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, by Frederick Douglass, 12 Jan. 2006, www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/23/pg23-images.html.
Art Gallery
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Author Biographies
Isaac Baker is an alum of UMSL and the Honors College. He was previously published in and worked as Layout Chair for Bellerive Issue 23 - Addressing the Self. He also digitally archived the entire back catalog of Bellerive during his internship in Spring ‘23. Nowadays, Isaac works in a marketing role and hopes to continue exploring new creative outlets and flavors of ice cream.
Aron Berhanu is a Communications major, former club leader, and notorious geek. Poetry, alongside amatuer piano playing, has been a long time form of expression for him. He hopes to one day have an audience of readers to share his work with reguarly, as few things fill him with joy as much as sharing his writing.
Irina Biedenstein is an Army Veteran in the Honors College. She is a junior seeking a bachelor’s degree in Business Administration with an emphasis in Management.
Sami Brennan is a graphic design major with a love for illustration and animation. She hopes one day after completing her bachelor’s degree that she’ll earn a master’s degree in Illustration.
Anna Connoley thought they got away from UMSL with graduation, but now they’re back and working at the campus library. It turns out there is no escape. So as long as she’s stuck here, she figures she might as well publish some more work in this literary magazine she has very fond memories of. They hope you enjoy what they’ve presented here.
Grace Desjardins is a political science senior at the Honors College. She is driven to drive change in the St. Louis community by uplifting community stories and creating new dialogue about the diverse nature of the city. Grace will be furthering her education at UMSL to receive a master’s degree in Public Policy and Administration. She plans on becoming a leader in the non-profit sector.
Bel Dethrow is a self-taught watercolor portrait artist who is originally from Belleville, Illinois, and is getting her Graduate Certificate in Museums, Heritage, and Public History. In the future, she aspires to pursue a PhD to specialize in Modern British Art history. Her academic pursuits are greatly inspired by her British family history, which is intertwined with the early 20th century Great Bardfield Artists movement. The art gene runs on both sides of her family, with both parents being painters in their own right, and her great-grandfather being involved with the Great Bardfield Movement in the 1940s50s. She takes after her father and great-grandfather’s respective mediums, specializing in watercolor portrait painting, mainly of musicians. She never wants to stop creating art while analyzing works that inspire her love for art history and her own artistic vision. One of her goals is to become a curator and pay homage to her family’s hometown of Great Bardfield, developing exhibits to include her great-grandfather’s own works.
Urban Panacea | 99
Addison Drace is a sociology major, Honors College student, and a member of the sorority ZTA. She likes to dance, listen to music, and continue to learn as much as possible in her free time.
Hannah Edomwonyi is a computer science major and Honors College student. Originally from The Bahamas, she began sketching before she could write. She hopes to attain a career in software engineering.
Eliana Fitzhugh is in their second year at UMSL. She is a student in the Pierre Laclede Honors College and the College of Education. She is majoring in elementary education with an emphasis in special education. While she has always had a passion for helping all students learn, she is still learning the value of education for herself. She has found that the best educators are those who are passionate about learning and exploring new perspectives. On the road to growing her education and developing professionally as an educator, she constructed this piece to share the insight she has gathered.
Brr yan “Brr y” Jackson is a double major in organizational leadership with an emphasis in accessible design and communication. He is also pursuing a minor in sociology. As co-president of the Able-Disable Partnership and a clothing designer for Hopeisvital, Brry is committed to advocating for inclusion and accessibility. Through his internship, he is working with faculty on developing the course “Communication, Diversity, and Disability” here at UMSL, focusing on disability culture and advocacy. Outside of academics, Brry enjoys spending time with his wife, playing board games, and watching movies.
Robbin Kar ter is a freshman psychological sciences major in the Honors College. Their passion for learning and creativity underlies a diverse array of interests: drawing/painting, fiber arts (knitting, lace tatting, crochet, bracelet weaving), the mind, Eastern philosophies/metaphysics, theoretical physics, poetry, and gardening.
Breanna Keck is a graphic design major who hopes to eventually receive her master’s degree. Despite being her major, Breanna enjoys all forms of art, including pastels and sculpture. She hopes to one day be her own boss creating editorial work and custom art.
Carli Knopf is an business administration major at UMSL with an emphasis in international business and a member of the Honors College. She enjoys photography and took many pictures during her time studying abroad in Tokyo, Japan in 2023-24. She hopes readers will appreciate the beauty of the Japanese cherry blossom through her eyes.
Cullen Landolt is an English TA and a candidate for UMSL’s Creative Writing MFA.
Evan Lewis is a music education major with a love for composing. They love making and creating art of any kind, and being able to share it with people is a big part of that! They hope to teach and write music for movies one day.
Lillian Maynor is a Pierre Laclede Honors College junior and a St. Louis native. She studies communication and Spanish and hopes to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing. Her goal is to provide readers with a fresh perspective. In her free time, she enjoys traveling, reading, and walking around the city.
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Emma Moore is a proud alumna of the University of Missouri-St. Louis and its Honors College, where she earned her degree in Graphic Design. Currently she works as a parttime designer and freelance illustrator. With an interest for all things spooky, video games, and crafting meaningful designs, Emma brings a unique blend of creativity and enthusiasm to every project she undertakes.
Brent Moss is a Bahamian sophomore attending UMSL. His major is accounting, and he will use the knowledge gained from his studies for employment and to pursue artistic business endeavors. At 18 years old, Brent is a published, award-winning artist, and his work was featured in an exhibition in the Bahamas. Acrylic paints are his primary medium of choice to explore vibrancy and color, and he is grateful to God for his gift and achievements.
Ellie N. is a first-year student at UMSL, recently receiving degrees from Pacific High School and St. Louis Community College. She is double majoring in psychology and social work, and is an active member of PLHCSA, serving as the freshman/transfer representative. In her free time, she loves spending time with her family, friends, pets, and her “partner in crime,” Peyton. After she completes her undergraduate degree, Ellie hopes to become an Occupational Therapist.
Kavion Nor man is a computer science major and an ROTC cadet at SLU. After graduating he hopes to commission into the Space Force as a Space Force officer. He loves writing and is passionate about poetry because of how one is able to tell a story. To understand their story fully you would of course have to become them but it’s nice to be able to step into their lives for a page or two whilst reading.
NTSTAKEOVA is located in St. Louis, Missouri, as a majority owner of a lucrative trucking firm with plans to build commercially in 2025. He believes “You’ve got to have the shoulders needed to carry all of that weight. If we can’t captivate the minds of our audience, we’re serving ourselves … we came to serve people.”
Howie Parkes is a philosophy major and Honors College student. Photography is not a particular skill, but he owns an iPhone and knows how to frame a shot and just wants to share the beauty of the world (Psalm 19:1).
Nix Osorio-Balam is a Latine student of Yucatec Maya descent and a pre-med biology major at UMSL seeking to publish their writing and begin their career as a poet. The poetry they create highlights the effects of imperialism and capitalism while also highlighting the beauties and tragedies of love, life, and death. They plan on eventually becoming a pastor.
Andrew Jacob Pashia is an English education major with a passion for creative writing. He’s been cultivating his skills for the past 14 years and is consistently looking for opportunities to challenge himself with new creative works.
Dana R. Pierson is an English major, thrifter, vinyl-record enthusiast, cat mom, and active creative. She enjoys exploring St. Louis and craves sushi weekly. Well, almost.
Drew Pinkley is a US Air Force veteran and UMSL MBA student who utilizes creative writing as a means of self-care and therapy.
Ms. Valonda Rober ts is the Student Success and Retention Coordinator for the College of Nursing. Valonda loves the visual and performing arts. She has been writing poetry since 3rd grade. Ms. Roberts is currently a student as well seeking a doctoral degree in Educational Practice. She loves to learn and wants success for all of her students.
Drew Ryherd is lucky all the time.
Zoë Schultz is an art education major who hopes to teach future generations the impact art can have on one’s life.
Sydne Sewald is a graduate student earning her MBA with an emphasis in marketing. In her free time, she still loves to get the thoughts out of her head and onto paper. Sydne hopes that no matter her future career, she can continue to express her creativity.
Jordin Stern is a sophomore in Honors College and her major is graphic design. She loves her three fur babies. In her free times you can see her creating and listening to music.
Makenzie Strickler is a sophomore psychology major in the Honors College. They enjoy observing and writing about the world around them. She also loves Dungeons & Dragons, and she loves being a storyteller.
K C Terra, known to staff and students as Noor Yousaf, is a senior biochemistry/biotechnology major who strives to help the St. Louis general public with their oral health as a dentist. Since middle school, she’s gained a love for writing in honor of a late family member who introduced it to her. She finds writing to be a healthy coping mechanism, and she wishes to spread hope and awareness to touch the hearts of readers who can relate to her pieces.
Dr. Kate Votaw is a proud UMSL, Honors College, and BELLERIVE alumna! She currently teaches psychology classes for the UMSL Honors College full-time and is always trying to squeeze in a bit more art “just for fun” in-between work, pet-momming, and the thousand other hobbies she is working on at any given time.
Danniella Stac y Wyndem is a junior with a studio arts major focus in printmaking and painting. She graduates in winter 2026.
Remy Xa is an American Chinese dish of fried chicken in a syrupy-sweet orange-flavored chili sauce glaze. Yes, they count as a dessert, but that doesn’t mean they don’t go great with fried rice and an ice cold Sprite on a Tuesday afternoon.
Staff Notes
ART
Art Committee would first and foremost like to thank Audri Adams for a wonderful semester and her sweet, helpful attitude as we navigated this course. We appreciate the opportunity to be a part of this publication and all the hard work you have poured into this class. Blessings and besitos to you Audri.
Second of all, we would like to thank our class for their honesty and help putting this issue together.
Third, we hope you appreciate the blood, sweat, and tears we’ve put into the book.
And finally, live, laugh, love, Art Committee.
EDITING
When a student is tasked with editing over thirty creative and academic works over the course of a semester, their assumed reaction would be dread at the sheer workload. We can tell you, however, that this editing committee had no such feelings come the end of our semester working with these submitters’ pieces.
We dove into the pages, arguing over commas, negotiating with em dashes, and debating the existential value of stray periods, all in the name of perfection. So, believe us when we tell you these are some of the most thought-provoking, funny, insightful, and down-right well written works that editors could ever ask to work on (not to mention they made our jobs pretty easy). Through it all, we’ve embraced our roles as meticulous overthinkers, ensuring each word shines brighter than our computer screens at midnight, because each submission deserved it. And so, we present to you Bellerive 25 in all of its (hopefully) grammatically correct glory.
LAYOUT
Tisdale, Mae, and Addie loved hanging out this semester and are excited for their field trip to Cementland. Special thanks are extended to Kenny for helping them learn the annoying yet exciting intricacies of Quark. As a layout committee they love pretty lines, invisible stars, magic rectangles, and word magnet poetry. Like Pluto, they are under-appreciated in their own time. They would like to thank Remy :). Bellerive in Yourself. Ka-chow!
PUBLIC RELATIONS
For Issue 25, Bellerive’s PR Committee reached out to over 30 campus departments and student organizations to seek their members’ work for consideration. Our goal was to showcase art from all members of UMSL’s diverse learning community: our students, staff, faculty, and alumni.
In Urban Panacea, Bellerive received a record-breaking 251 submissions, including: 99 Poems; 25 Prose; 15 Academic Essays; 105 Art/Photography; and 7 Music.
Bellerive’s power to inspire, provoke, heal, and connect our community motivated PR’s charge this year. Thank you, everyone, for helping build a more warm, welcoming, and rich world for our tomorrow.
Love,
The Unforgettable Forgettables, Clay, Kavion, and Remy
Four th Row (L to R):
Madeline Parr, Aliena Abernathy, Kavion Norman, Reese Rich, Clay Butler, Noah Malott
T hird Row (L to R):
Audri Adams, Remy Xa, Noor Yousaf, Addison Drace
Second Row (L to R):
Brianna Carlton, Mae Keeley, Eleanor Woods, Anna Tisdale
First Row (L to R):
Jordin Stern, Irina Biedenstein, Maddie Bewig, Hasset Asfaw
Special Thanks
To our alumni:
Though you have moved on from UMSL, you remain a valued part of Bellerive. You’ve been published by us, and sometimes you’ve also been Bellerive staff members. You complete the cycle of writers at all stages of development. You inspire with your continued pursuit of creative endeavors and your willingness to share your creative works.
To our readers:
Your purchase of this volume signifies an investment in the future of Bellerive and supports the Honors College’s goal of promoting excellence in the arts. We hope you enjoyed this issue and continue to be a patron of ours. We can’t operate without the continued support of readers like you, and we hope that you will enjoy Bellerive for years to come.
To our future submitters:
We look forward to and welcome your creative works. If you’d like to submit your previously unpublished poetry, prose, academic essays, art, and music to the upcoming issue of Bellerive, you can find our submission form through this link: bit.ly/3PKvHf2 . Our submission window is from January 1 through October 1.
To our current and future contributers:
We can’t thank you enough for your financial support of Bellerive. Your helping hand literally publishes our book. If you’d like to be a part of benefitting Bellerive, please donate to “The Bellerive Fund” here: bit.ly/3PKvHf2.
Thank you!