2026
Editorial board
2025 – 2026 Editorial Board
Editor-in-Chief: Baileigh Rosenthal
Art Director: Cassandra Scott
Managing Editor: Victoria Clarington
Designer: Cassandra Scott & Bri Cantor
Promotions Manager: Belynnda King
Event Coordinator: Belynnda King
Budget Manager: Thomas Sanchez
Editors: Bri Cantor, Brianna Briggs, Molly
Thamrong, Jamie Hetzel, and Santiago Valencia
Faculty Moderator: Kristen Park Wedlock, MFA
letter from Editor
Dear Readers,
When we talk about a literary magazine, we often call it a collection of work. But sitting with these pieces over the past months, I’ve come to think of this issue as something closer to a conversation.
Every poem, story, and image you’ll find here began in someone’s private world. A dorm room at midnight. A walk across campus. A memory that kept resurfacing. What moves me most is the leap each contributor made from solitude into community — the decision to let the rest of us in.
As an English major, I spend a lot of time thinking about how voices travel. How they cross time, genre, and difference. Reading submissions for this issue, I was struck by the way our writers and artists speak to one another even when they seem to be talking about entirely different things. You’ll notice echoes of longing and restlessness, questions about identity and belonging, moments of humor breaking through heaviness, and again and again, a search for connection. Together, these works form a portrait of who we are right now — complicated, curious, and trying.
letter from Editor
This magazine would not exist without the generosity of the people behind it. Thank you to our editors and staff who read with patience and care, who debated passionately, and who believed deeply in the power of student voices and, thank you to our faculty advisor Professor Wedlock who believed endlessly in our ability to achieve. And thank you to our contributors, for your bravery and trust. It is a gift to witness your creativity.
To our readers, I hope you find something in these pages that stays with you after you close the cover. Maybe it’s a sentence you underline, a character you recognize, or simply the comfort of knowing someone else has felt what you’re feeling.
It has been an honor to help bring this conversation into the world.
With gratitude,
Baileigh Rosenthal Editor in Chief Fountain Spray 2026
Table of contents
1.Birthday Reflections ..............By Brandon Downey
2.A Piece ........................................By Madison Margaret
3.Hand Me Down .........................By Belynnda King
4.Labyrinth ..................................By Ava Ott
5.My Holy Prayer ........................By Baileigh Rosenthal
6.Swan ...........................................By Amanda Pantoja
7.Eros Station ..............................By Brenna Sullivan
8.Vegas ...........................................By Ava Ott
9.Panick (Excerpts) .....................By Matt Wedlock
10.Sonder ........................................By Ava Ott
11.Commute ....................................By Kristen Park
12.Snapdragons .............................By Pamela Dong
13.The Bench ..................................By Belynnda King
14.Moonlit Lies: Freya ..................By Cait Burlett
15.The Pole ......................................By Jonathan Kim-Reuter
16.To win? .......................................By Anne Tabor-Morris
17.La Luna ......................................By Avery Masters
18.The Confession .........................By Baileigh Rosenthal
19.Quiet Storm ...............................By Avery Masters
20.Windswept .................................By Alyssa Bonilla
21.Pig Skin ......................................By Cassandra Scott
22.It Was Better Back Then .......By Belynnda King
23.The Girl Who Told You So ......By Belynnda King
24.Asbury ........................................By Jonathan Kim-Reuter
25.1973 .............................................By Baileigh Rosenthal
26.Snowfall .....................................By Sarah Woodworth
27.Last Cross Country ..................By Brenna Sullivan
28.Blossom Forth ...........................By Sarah Woodworth
29.When Pigs Swim ........................By Cassandra Scott
30.Coral Blue Dress ........................By Belynnda King
31.To my Worst Enemy .................By Thomas Sanchez
Table of contents - Continued
32.Loved by Many .............................By Cassandra Scott
33.Moths and Flames .......................By Anne Tabor-Morris
34.Persecution of Animals ...............By Alyssa Bonilla
35.Despereaux ......................................By Ava Ott
36.Majestic Giants .............................By Alexandra Marretta
37.GCU Lion ........................................By Brielle Pleva
38.How to poetry ...............................By Thomas Sanchez
39.No Thoughts ..................................By Sarah Woodworth
40.Boxes ................................................By Pamela Dong
41.GCU ..................................................By Jonathan Kim-Reuter
42.the only way is through (again)By Christine Marie Stevenson
43.A Piece .............................................By Madison Margaret
44.Inside, My Love .............................By Brenna Sullivan
45.Flash Piece .....................................By Cassandra Scott
46.Growing Pains ...............................By Baileigh Rosenthal
47.Manhattan ...................................By Jonathan Kim-Reuter
48.Pyre .................................................By Alyssa Bonilla
49.Ain’t You Tired, Too? ...................By Naima Towns
50.Chatter ...........................................By Emily Becker
51.The Angel .......................................By Alyssa Bonilla
52.A Piece..............................................By Emily Becker
53.A swift response ............................By Alyssa Bonilla
54.Green Balloon ................................By Emily Becker
55.What’s in a Name? .......................By Naima Towns
56.A Piece .............................................By Madison Margaret
57.The Death of ..................................By Avery Masters
Dedication: Sister Mary Bilderback Thank You Page
1.
birthday Reflections
By Brandon Downey
There are many things that are now clear to me as another birthday looms.
Life has begun to shrink, oddly enough. With a new one forming, Changes inevitably have come over time. I added whiskers where once were dreams and from them came a new home.
Love is shown everyday in the best of ways. Blossoming flowers in a makeshift vase is just as appreciated as the making of a bed and struggles are no longer solitary.
Happiness that once seemed mundane has become the life we are building, the love that we share, and the promise to support each other Always.
Together, we are who we are meant to be, which anyone can see.
A piece by madison margaret 2.
3.
hand me down
By Belynnda King
My mother gave me this sweater before she left me. As I hold the sweater in my hands, I think back to my mom saying that it’s been passed down from generation to generation.
My grandmother loved to bake, even had her own shop for a while, before the great depression. I can still smell the handmade cookie dough and flour imbedded in the seams. My mother on the other hand, loved to garden. She would wear this sweater every year right before Thanksgiving to plant mums in our garden. The dark brown soil stains are still there, even though she washed the sweater with extra baking soda. The sweater is very soft and fluffy with the smell of handmade cookies mixed with earth.
The sweater has now been passed on to me along with its memories. Maybe I’ll make some new ones. I still bake my grandma’s cookies on Christmas day and plant mums around my house before Thanksgiving. This sweater is now mine to keep and even though it feels soft most of the time, I can feel it starting to itch. The memories are fading with the sweater, and I can only keep it together for so long. Soon it will be nothing but dirty, fluffy, worn-out string. When the string finally gives out, I will give it a new life, a new meaning with both old and new memories intertwined together with the eternal love of the generations that wore it before you.
But you’re gone too and now I'm stuck with a fluffy, itchy, flour and soil infested sweater that’s eventually going to turn into a dirty pile of yarn. There’s blood on the sweater now too. It’s now just as embedded in the seams as the smell of dirt and freshly baked cookies. But this memory is one that I would rather forget. Your blood in the sweater is muddying up my memories. You were supposed to be one of the happiest memories of my life, but instead I'm left with the memories that were and could have been.
hand me down - continued
This sweater has been passed down in my family from generation to generation. As I see you for the last time, I cut a patch from the fraying sweater and lay it beside you.
This sweater was your Great Grandma’s, your grandma’s, your mom’s and now, my love, you have a piece of all of us for you to take with you into eternity.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I hope you can smell the homemade cookies that your great grandma made in her shop, I hope you can smell the sweet soil and mums that your grandma planted every year before thanksgiving, and I hope you can smell the tears that I cried for you knowing that you weren’t meant for this world. Within that heart-shaped patch, I hope you feel all the love that went into this sweater, keeping you warm and giving you memories of us that you will never be able to visualize.
labyrinth - Ava ott
5.
my holy prayer baileigh rosenthal
God had me by the throat
The moon had my heart, and the sun always hit my back . I never fell to my knees once until I learned you weren’t coming back. I was never one for religion; I had my morals and good conscience, and I was never convinced that the angel or devil sat on either shoulder. Sin never slipped my lips just lies and greed that drooled from my mouth like some Pavlov dog. I don’t confess for I have done no wrong, and I can’t be convinced how a god could exist and have interest in taking you from me. But if god is real and there is a Heaven that’s where I hope you ended up I will spend the rest of my days praying you end up there and if there was only room for one more I pray your place there over mine.
Swans - Amanda pantoja
Eros Station
Brenna Sullivan 7.
The subway car groans as it hurtles through the labyrinth of underground tracks. Overhead, a speaker crackles with a garbled announcement, too distorted to decipher. The harsh fluorescent lights paint everything in an unflattering pallor, turning golden hair to brass and marble skin to wax. Aphrodite sits slouched in the corner seat, her arms crossed tight, gaze locked on the grimy floor.
The goddess of love, reduced to a lone figure on a midnight train.
Across from her, Hades reclines with practiced ease, one arm stretched along the back of the seat. His dark eyes flick toward her every so often, sharp beneath the brim of his charcoal-gray cap. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it, eyes fixed on the goddess across from him.
APHRODITE: (breaking the silence) :You ever wonder if love is just... illusion? Like smoke. The more you reach, the more it slips away. HADES: (arching a brow) Love? Or the chase?
APHRODITE: (lets out a bitter laugh): Gods, you sound like Hera. “It’s not the wanting that matters, child, it’s the staying.”
HADES: (shrugs) She’s not wrong.
The train rattles through a curve. Outside the windows, graffitisplashed walls blur past: crowns, hearts, and the word “LOVE” scrawled in crimson. A TikTok notification pings on Aphrodite’s phone, but she swipes it away without reading it.
APHRODITE: (eyes narrowing at the graffiti) People act like love is a prize. Like it’s something you can win if you play the game right. But it’s never been a game to me. It’s survival.
When you're built for love, made to be desired... you start to think that desire is love. (voice softens)
Eros Station - continued
And that if no one wants you... you might just disappear.
HADES: (sitting forward) :You won’t disappear. You could walk through this city in rags and they’d still feel you. Love doesn’t fade when it’s real.
APHRODITE: (scoffs) : Easy for you to say. Persephone loves you for who you are. (gesturing to herself) Me? I’m a face, a body, a trophy on some man's shelf.
The train jerks violently, the lights flickering overhead. Hades catches the metal pole beside him, steady as a shadow. Aphrodite grips the edge of her seat, heart pounding. The train plunges into darkness for a moment, then lurches back to life. The overhead screen flashes erratically before settling on: Next stop: Eros Station.
HADES: Maybe stop looking for love in a crowd. Look for it where it lingers, not where it flashes bright and burns out. The train slows. The station beyond the window is deserted except for a single wilted rose abandoned on the bench. Aphrodite stares at it, her reflection superimposed over the petals.
APHRODITE: I don't know how to do that. (a pause) I don't know how to be still enough to find it.
HADES: (standing as the doors hiss open) Then start here. Stop running. Stop chasing. Let it find you.
He steps onto the platform without looking back. Aphrodite remains frozen for a heartbeat longer. The train gives a warning chime.
APHRODITE: (whispers to herself) Stop chasing. (She stands abruptly and follows him onto the platform as the doors slide shut behind her.)
Eros Station -
The train howls away into the dark, leaving them both bathed in the cold, flickering light of the empty station.
The rose on the bench trembles in the breeze, untouched.
APHRODITE: (looking around) Where are we?
HADES: (gesturing to a glowing sign) Eros Station. Fitting, don’t you think? The god of desire's old haunt.
APHRODITE: (smiling faintly) He always did love the spotlight.
HADES: (nodding toward a bench) Sit with me. They sit side-by-side on the cold metal bench. A street musician plays a melancholy tune on a violin near the entrance. The music drifts through the empty station, soft and haunting.
Suddenly, the ground trembles. The station lights flicker again, casting long shadows. Aphrodite glances toward the tunnel. The darkness there feels heavier, almost alive, as if the shadows themselves are breathing.
APHRODITE: (tense) Did you feel that?
HADES: (calmly) The city shifts. It senses you.
The shadows along the tunnel walls ripple and twist. Aphrodite rises, heart pounding. The darkness seeps out onto the platform, curling around the edges of the light.
APHRODITE: What is this?
HADES: Your fear. Your doubt. The part of you that believes love is only what others give you.
The shadows lunge, swirling around Aphrodite's ankles, trying to drag her back toward the tracks. She stumbles, panic rising.
Eros Station - continued
HADES: (firmly) Don’t fight it. Face it. Aphrodite squeezes her eyes shut, breath ragged. The darkness coils tighter.
APHRODITE: (whispers) I don’t want to disappear. She opens her eyes—and sees it. In the reflection of a nearby glass panel, Hades is gone. The bench beside her is empty. Only her reflection remains, trembling but whole. She turns back toward the shadows—and steps forward.
APHRODITE:
I see you. And I see me. And I am still here.
The darkness recoils. It slinks away, not banished, but acknowledged. The station falls still. The violin plays again. Softer now. She moves to the bench and sits, alone.
APHRODITE: (to herself) He was never real. Just the part of me that remembered what love could be… when it wasn’t just lust or longing. When it was mine, too.
She reaches for the wilted rose. It’s dried at the edges, but still intact. Her fingers close gently around it.
She lifts her gaze to the glowing sign above: Eros Station. The letters flicker once… then stabilize.
Another train approaches in the distance. She hears it before she sees it. But this time, she doesn’t stand.
She leans back. Breathes. And smiles.
The train slows to a stop. Its doors open with a soft hiss—but she doesn’t move. Inside, the seats are empty. No gods. No ghosts. Just space.
Eros Station -
She looks at her reflection in the darkened window once more. No filters. No glow. Just her. And it’s enough.
She whispers, not to anyone else—but to herself, I’m still here. And maybe… that’s the beginning.
The train chimes, the doors close. It pulls away, vanishing into the dark. The rose rests gently in her lap.
And for once, the goddess of love doesn’t feel like she has to be anything else.
vegas - ava ott
panick (excerpts) Matt Wedlock 9.
A cashier, head bowed slides can after can of red kidney beans in steady tones of beep beep beep
this one is a master meditator— forty hours a week of steady stillness
the customers know this, they relent are almost in awe, and the assholes, entitled reminders of what this really is, this space, go to bully the initiate, fresh to the practice, on register number 2.
I document myself in nudes the closer the grave encroaches. I imagine this collection of my body from late summer 30’s into early fall 40’s as a red painting in the middle of a starry night lake.
each one a nothing. a black hole to another universe where, again, I wipe your child’s crushed banana from the mirror floor, unbothered.
I see you there, Pan, licking your lips between the tuna fish and the extra virgin olive oil—impatient for sacrifice, the first chrysanthemums of the season weaved into your hair.
later, legs over my shoulders, seed of a seed of a seed, a more urgent chorus of harvest makes fate grow clearer shoots from this lifetime to the next.
I’m not that tired the data is there daily sales, rising prices, lines between search engines divinatory— all of us parallel nostalgia. I want to divine your content stream. you hand me a book raw, rawest, dense, densest, muddy, muddiest, and leaden. you who does not often give, gives. why? liberation? this limit
panick -
continued this reminder an inter web neighbor locking hands numerically instantaneously is a metaphysical geography wrenching wretch of hope less nes s
the radio says nothing. the radio says everything. Pan is a radio. I am a radio. Loneliness is a radio transmitting between kidney beans and cosmic debris. listen. a word is a ghost. a ghost is a word. the milk curdles into language, into memory.
the grocery store is a poem of beeps, an audience of hidden structures I invented in puncture wounds; that—is what makes this so difficult.
who is listening? the deer. The hurricane. the cashier. Aldous in the margins. a book handed over. Raw. Rawest. Dense. Densest. The book is not a book. The book is a wound. The wound is a radio.
I paragraph myself. i radio myself. crush of can. Crush of memory. crush of desire. a seed of a seed spinning between what is spoken and what is heard. the microphone is always on. The microphone is always off—
Semaphore unremembered. syntax leaking quantum.
algorithmic prayer—fragmented, recursive.
commute -Kristen park 11.
County Line and Park Ave 8:43 AM
When the tracks are the shortest path, Hot metal whistles beneath leather shoes, we walk in freight, worn ways, dodging the collapse of mourning.
County Line & Clifton Ave: 5 (c)Sent(s) 9:11 AM
A babyless carriage Filled with empty cans And the rattle of recycle Like nickels in your pocket Whimpers across the street. All brakes squeal metal Against metal she pats the Clear plastic “there there” And the collection claps back Shimmering against the sun On son on recycling day That we may all Live to push another Through cross Or walk Or light.
commute -Kristen park
9th Ave and 9th St: A Proposal 9:23 AM
An orthodox man pivots on the corner of 9th and Madison
Waits out the light
Carving infinity into the sidewalk
Shoes unscuffed and leather tight
No laugh lines or furrows yet Beneath the heel gravel and glass
Begins to wear at the edges
Of not his nerves but nerve the Bouquet wrapped tight in plastic against the wind
Car woosh kicks up the brim of his Black wool hat and the chrysanthemum fingers
Wave white as Giselle against daisy and rose all a blush and he too letting prayer fall from his lips compose a proper crossing.
snapdragons Pamela dong 12.
The
King 13.
Bench -
Belynnda
Us two sitting there like stillness, a luxury we were used to.
We’ve been sitting on the opposite sides of the bench not having enough courage to face each other.
This is the bench we met each other on.
The bench where we shared our first kiss
The bench where we told each other secrets
The bench where it all fell apart
Now the two of us are sitting here still. The silence making more noise now than we ever have.
The two of us sit here in silence and in stillness. We were once a whole but now we are separate.
Sadly, this was a luxury we were used to.
moonlit lies - cait burlett 14.
Freya
I rest my forehead on the stone wall behind my father's desk. The room is spinning and the ringing in my ears grows louder. My vision is blurry, and the only thing I can focus on is that portrait of her hanging near the door.
My mother.
Dead because of my father.
Dead because of Odin.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the dizziness, but tears kept forcing themselves through the cracks. The stone column behind me is unforgiving, steady, indifferent. I wish I could be like that: hard, stable, unshaken.
Right now I was anything but.
Footsteps whispered against the floor, soft enough that I knew the person approaching wasn’t trying to be heard.
Loki.
Of course it was Loki.
He stopped a few feet away, giving her space—but I felt his presence like a shadow.
“I told you not to go in there alone,” he said quietly. His voice wasn’t scolding. It was something worse. Something worried. “Freya…”
I forced a breath. “Don’t. Not right now.”
But he didn’t leave.
Instead, he crouched in front of me, lowering himself until he was
moonlit lies - continued
eye-level with my trembling hands.
“Look at me.”
“I—I can’t,” I whispered.
“You can,” he said softly.
I finally lifted my gaze. Loki’s eyes were not the mocking, halfamused green I’d grown used to. Now they were sharp and steady, filled with something I had never seen there before. Something that made my chest tighten.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The words hit me deeper than I expected. Loki didn’t apologize easily. He barely apologized at all. Not because he was cruel, but because he rarely meant it.
This time, he did.
My chin trembled. “He killed her… because of me.”
“No.” Loki’s jaw tightened. “Because of who he is. Not because ofyou.”
“But she died protecting me.” My voice cracked, and I hated the weakness in it. “She died because I existed.”
Loki reached out slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. When I didn’t, he brushed a tear from my cheek with the back of his fingers.
His touch was warm.
Gentle. Unexpected.
“Your mother didn’t die because you existed,” Loki murmured. “She died because she loved you. There’s a difference.”
moonlit lies - continued
I looked away again, the grief twisting inside me. “I don’t even remember her.”
He caught my cheek and brought me back to those emerald green eyes. “That isn’t your fault either.”
I inhaled shakily, caught off guard by his soft touch, the feeling in my chest and stomach when he touched me. I shook my head, refocusing, tearing away from his gaze. “Everything is breaking. Everything I thought I knew-my name, my family, my past-it's all a lie. I don’t… I don’t know who I am.”
Loki’s hand slid from my cheek to my jaw, coaxing me to look at him again. The world went very still.
“You’re Freya,” he said. “You are fierce, stubborn, irritatingly brave, and far more powerful than you realize. And right now, you’re hurting. That doesn’t make you weak.”
He swallowed, voice lowering.
“It makes you real.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” I admitted in a whisper. “Not tonight.” The words leave my mouth before I can fight them. I hate feeling vulnerable, I hate feeling weak. Yet, around Loki, I all of a sudden feel…safe.
“You won’t be.” His voice softened further. “Not ever, if… if that’s what you want.”
I blinked. “Loki…”
He leaned in, slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter me again.
But he didn’t kiss me.
moonlit lies - continued
Instead, he pressed his forehead gently to mine.
The warmth of him seeped into me like sunlight through frost. His breath mingled with mine, his thumb brushing my cheek again, tracing where tears had fallen, lighting my skin on fire.
“I’m here,” he murmured. “As long as you want me to be.”
I closed my eyes, letting myself lean into him. MY fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. He didn’t tease me for it. Didn’t make a joke. He simply held me there, letting the silence speak for him.
And for the first time since I learned the truth about my mother, the hollow ache in my chest eased just a little.
Maybe broken things didn’t stay broken.
Maybe, with the right person beside me, I could piece myself back together.
When I finally spoke, my voice was barely audible.
“Stay.”
Loki’s breath hitched, just once.
“Always,” he said.
And in the moonlit corridor, surrounded by shadows and shattered truths, I let myself believe him.
The poleJonathan Kim-reuter 15.
to win?
- Anne Tabor-Morris
lighten-ing of lightning amore of armor thunder-ringing to end this storm between us must it be war?
all the words left unsaid are speechless now stand with their hands to their mouths
La luna - avery masters 17.
the confession - Baileigh rosenthal 18.
It’s mid-July, and the heat has been sweltering, never dropping below 85, always staying in constant humidity. There’s no recluse found on the outside. The only cool down you can get is in the pool where we’ve ended up. It’s taking months even to get this close, yet I still feel so far away. I’ve made plans and schemes and worked my way up to a moment where I can even be this close to you, my breathing staggering each time you pass by, but I’m here, and I have to take advantage of the moment. All I want is answers. All I’ve ever wanted is answers. I’ve tried so many times to get close enough to get these answers, and that each time anything towards the nature of the question I want to ask is brought forth, you go silent and freeze. We can be in the hottest weather as we are today, and the cold would still find its way into your bones, keeping you still keeping your eyes on me. What’s it gonna take to finally get an answer: weed, alcohol, some sort of deep song about unrequited love for you to finally make the revelation that I made months ago about how I feel about you? All I’ve ever wanted this entire time was a yes or no, and I can’t even get that. I get strung along like some old wooden toy, clapping when I get a little bit of attention. We met in September, finding a recluse in the rooms, mopping away other people's happiness. You are broke, and then the same way that you are now, and I have tried every way possible to be some sort of First Aid Kit, but you rip your wounds up deeper each week. I’ve seen the long glances and the blushing and the smiles. I’ve heard the things you said about me to other people but can never bring yourself to say to my face, but I’ve also felt the way that your hand let go of mine and how your expression drops if I bring up the subject I don’t know what you want from me, but I’ve to bend myself backward, folding myself over and torn up every little bit of me to make it easier for you to find the answer. And yet here we are; I told myself and you the last time we saw each other that I wouldn’t hang out with you again unless you made the first move. You scoffed at the statement, almost knowing that it wouldn’t be true because here I am at your house, basically inviting myself over just to get a taste for the pain I know too well. What’s next in this merry-go-round of what-ifs?
quiet storm - avery masters
20.
Windswept, wind-drunk, oh how the air holds our memories - alyssa bonilla
He thinks it's been months. Months of raged stones and a blazing sun, yet somehow still there is no warmth. He thinks it's only been months, he cannot count the rise and fall of the moon, or the differing colors in the trees when they are speared between life and death—soaked in red and plum. He cannot even count the visitors, for there are none. There are never any, it is only himself that he knows of. He does not quite understand it, but does he need to? This is all he knows, the calming blades of grass that he lays on, the stone is comfortable, he thinks. He has never had anything else to lay his head upon.
He thinks it's been months. But centuries have gone by, his mind has betrayed him. Time doesn’t exist here, or has it ever? His memories are muffled, truly he does not have any, what is there to remember? He roams, blending in with the fog, intertwining with the bark of the trees. He strays, as far as he can, but when the moon rises and the night falls, he is always there again. Behind the gate, locked to the stone, beyond the sunset.
A dizziness takes him, he looks down and does not see himself. He peers into nothingness, a chasm of amnesia and a nauseating headache. The ground opens beneath him, and he knows if he lets go, he will never roam again.
Roaming is all he can do, despite the years and the echoing humanity, all he desires is wander, to see, to hear.
A whistle of wind passes, and it speaks.
“O’ child of Man,” it murmurs, bell-like in the way it sweeps through the air. It rustles what he thinks was his hair, a shiver runs up what he used to call his spine.
“Do you not remember? The sound of water and the spray of earth. The mud clung to your body like the sludge of time. Do you not feel the need to reminisce?”
Windswept - continued
The wind never dies, but it moves on. The bells end, the leaves fall, and he is left to linger. He wonders for a moment why the words have stirred a pounding in what he remembers being his chest. For a moment, he remembers. The calm of life, a distant memory so far he can only see a glimpse before it falls through his fingers.
His fingers! He saw them for a moment, before the pit opened again. Pale and shaking, clad in a single ring, small then wrinkled. He heard a laugh, the twinkle of joy, the fair hair of love, the warmth of the sun. It's gone before he can connect it. He watches the memory from behind the gate and lets the chain pull him back to the stone.
It is not long before the wind returns, it can never stay gone for long. Like the mortals, it aches for secrets, hungry for the running mind, and it devours the second it can. “Poor thing,” it chimes. For the first time in centuries he sucks in a breath, letting the cool air drown his throat. What he thinks are his lungs fill with the wind, it slithers in, resting its voice for a moment. It pretends, it too, can die.
The trees bend to its will. “Still forgetting I see? You can only blame yourself. Do not fear the fall, young one, it will release you. Perhaps there is still time.” The whistles pick up, to him it sounds like laughter. “Time, time, time. Those who have it want to be rid of it. Those who run out beg for more. Are you begging?”
The air leaves him, he wishes he could breathe again.
Another memory. This time he feels the cold, but it is welcomed just this once. He shivers, and heat arrives quickly. He holds another's hand; twenty fingers share one warmth. He smiles, at least he thinks he does. Muscles awaken and like before the memories leave just as swiftly as they arrive. But he remembers the feeling, he closes what he believes are his eyes and takes in the darkness. He had a body, and
Windswept - continued
he had a life, and he wants so desperately to feel whole again.
The wind swirls back while his eyes are closed. If he stays like this, he thinks he can almost pretend he is elsewhere. That he has been freed of the stone, that he can roam farther than the gate, farther than the wind. In the darkness, he feels weightless, and he gasps and begs for anything but. Oh, how he wishes he could feel gravity, to be tethered to the earth and fall victim to the mortal despair of feeling.
“The memories do not come from begging, nor from want,” the wind says, he blinks, in the haze he can almost see its mouth. Hovering in the sky, eating and eating, and spitting out the words it does not want. He tries to speak, but it is he that does not have a mouth, not anymore.
The wind shushes him, as if it knows his mind. “Grit your imaginary teeth if you wish. Your time here is over if you desire such. Take the fall, poor one. Beg no one but yourself for mercy.”
He closes his eyes again. Let’s himself pretend he is alive once more. Focuses on the fleeting memories that leave him dangling like dead leaves, he tries to grasp the chimes that dwindle. The wind always leaves, even when his questions and himself cannot. He tries to breathe, to pull the air and fill his lungs. No air remains where the wind does not and he ends up gaping into the empty space.
The words remain potent in his mind. Beg no one but yourself. The trees surround him; the gate leans forward as if to hear his voice. He opens his eyes and rises from his knees—he can hardly believe they are truly there.
He glances back to the stone, the ground spasms, the pit waves him forward. This time he lets himself fall.
- Belynnda king 22.
it was better back then
Jazz in the morning, the smell of bacon in the air, coming downstairs to see mama in her apron, covered in flour, hovering over the stove while daddy hums along to the sounds of brass trumpets and clarinets, tapping his foot in sync to the music while he flips the Daily newspaper, in his Beige business suit. Sitting In my favorite chair at the cherry red wood dining table, waiting for mama to finish cookin. Daddy, still swinging his foot to the sound of sweet jazz, hands me the funnies. I read them as I eat and once I’m done, I grab my bag and head straight for the wall. Daddy always wrote my height on the wall every day. I had grown 3 inches! Daddy grabbed his keys and coat as we walked out of the house and toward his lime green Pontiac Firebird.
That was 60+ years ago. Now I live in a rundown nursing home with flat radios, radios that fit into your pocket, and everyone that works here has weird lookin cars. They don’t even like jazz.
Pig Skin - Cassandra Scott 21.
23.
The girl who told you so - Belynnda king
The girl who told you so is outside waiting.
Starring at the window of you dwelling
Studying your house like a puzzle missing its piece
Go out there and confront her, she’s waiting
She told you this would happen, but you just chose not to listen
Now she’s come to collect her dept
You haven’t left your house in weeks, maybe months, now that you think about it
Every day she stands in the same place
Looking in the same window
She can see you, you know
Sitting in your dark green recliner
The TV has been on the same station for so long that you now can recite all of the commercials by heart
She doesn't care, she wants what she came for Your eyes are open, looking at the never-ending cycle of adds She’s come closer now, toward your house
Just watching and waiting until she enters You can’t blame anyone but yourself You left the door wide open
She now stares at you from across the room
Everyday growing ever so close
She is now right in front of you
She extends her hand and at first, you’re reluctant
But you soon realize you have nowhere left to turn You grab her hand and your dept is now repaid
As you walk with her hand in hand
You can see caution tape around your house
And the minute you see it, it clicks
Your soul
Can finally move on
To better, happier things
Asbury - Jonathan Kim-reuter 24.
1973 - Baileigh Rosenthal 25.
I always think of my dad's stories, being out until the street lights go on. The time of innocence that is held by the sun.
What laughter the breeze carries and the pressure of feet on the concrete. We hold onto those memories the most, where we wish time had held on a little longer so the street lights wouldn’t turn on.
Snowfall - sarah Woodworth 26.
last
cross
- brenna sullivan 27.
country
The start was just like every fall before— the breath of morning waking in the grass, the huddle, strides, the waiting for the blast— yet something in my chest felt slightly sore.
Eight years of autumns gathered just once more, each race a thread now tightening at last. I ran, but time was running just as fast— and both of us knew what we headed for. Two miles remained. I whispered, stay a bit. One mile: the path grew tender, like a friend who knows you well enough to hear you break. Halfmile: I felt the ending in each step of it; I wanted the race to stop, yet not to end— a finish line I never dreamed I’d take.
28.
blossom forth - saraH woodworth
For days and months, the winter brought sorrow
Mountains and snow piled up in the days leading to tomorrow.
A cold chill in the air, impossible to beat
Surviving it all felt like a feat.
But as I awoke this morning, something caught a glimmer in my eye
The sun golden and bright, and the clear, blue sky.
The birds singing their song, in the tune of a dove A moment so special, lying beside my love.
The grass a bright green, and the air as calm as a cat No need for a coat and gloves, or even a hat.
As a huge smile formed around my face I wrapped my love in a long embrace.
“We did it!” I exclaimed, giving a kiss on his cheek with the chime of a ring, “We blossomed forth!”
blossomed forth into spring!
29.
when pigs swim
- Cassandra Scott
coral blue dressbelynnda king 30.
She looks so pretty in her
Coral Blue Dress
The silk made by the delicate hands of a seamstress. It was her favorite dress out of the millions she already owned. She wore it in the fall, in the spring and in the summer. I got it for her on our first date. She mentioned that she loved the sea and that if she could, she would transform into a mermaid. From that point on, I called her Arial, and she called me prince. My name was already Eric. I took her to beach as a Suprise for her 25th birthday. She loved it every minute of it. We walked on the boardwalk, fed some seagulls and collected seashells.
I sat on our towel as I watched her do cartwheels on the shore. She ran into the ocean ready to embrace the cold, wet waves. Her body looked at peace with the world as it bobbed up and down in the sea. Her wish had finally come true, Happy Birthday my Arial.
She looked so pretty in her
Coral
Blue Dress
to my worst enemy - Thomas sanchez 31.
To my worst enemy, I’ve known you my whole life and every single day I wanted to get you.
Someone might say that it is extreme, however, the more extreme part is actually writing a letter.
A letter I know you will never see, I’m only giving this to you because I know at this point, I’ve already gotten you right where I want you.
Every time you needed me, I always pretend that I was there.
Every time you thought I was there protecting you, I was doing the opposite talking about you behind your back.
But don’t worry, I won’t get you on the day that you expect, it won’t be today, it won’t be tomorrow, it will be the day that you least expect.
I have always dreamed of this moment, every time you thought that I was helping you I was really planning on getting you.
But you would already know that, as you know, I am your number one fan.
Sincerely and most uprightly yours
Your best friend.
Loved by many - Cassandra scott 32.
moths and flames - anne tabor-morris
To ragged browned moth
beguiled, fragile-ed, with now whisper-whipped wings, “hold on tight” to my finger’s own furrowed skin, but know,
I have nothing else for us, you or my own heartmoths after flamethrower.
34.
persecution of animalsalyssa bonilla
A dead-grass lawn, A burnt mountain, blazing
The snow tops were dripping already.
This life is fleeting enough.
A twilight so dark the night seems eternal,
The sun so hot it’s rays beam
Onto their backs and brand them:
Victims, survivors
The earth’s breaths are soon too slow
Her lungs collapse the highways,
The cradling craters of her surface.
We used to braid her hair,
Now we use it to keep the fire hot.
The fawns graze only so long
Our greenery turned yellow,
The moss burns as it goes down
And the river’s slickness eases
The pain.
despereaux - ava ott
majestic giants - alexandra marretta 36.
Beasts, big and small
Like gentle giants-Roam freely and wild.
Surrounded by flowers
Bright and vibrant-They play in the grass.
Beautiful in nature
Graceful and grand
Peaceful yet powerful -Majestic Elephants.
GCU Lion - Brielle Pleva
how to poetrythomas sanchez 38.
I think poetry is too hard to understand It has a lot of rules.
That’s not the case not even a little bit. People think there has to be tone, perspective, onomatopoeia, and even a whole bunch of nonsense that makes no sense.
Doesn’t it have to rhyme?
Sure, it can rhyme and it’s really fun when it does
As you can see now
The time is now changed, to taking a bow
The meaning is changed to have a now smile I kind of really like this style
Does this poem have repetition?
Of course it does otherwise you’ll have to be shunned OK, you’ve got to what about perspective I don’t know, but was the poem getting effective?
See this one is really fun
Makes me feel as bright as the sun
The rhythm is very smooth. That doesn’t even chop. Hey narrator? Yeah. Stop.
Then what kind of poem do you want? Oh… I know maybe it’s a dirty poem. One that has a dirty meeting maybe even Dickinson or Shakespeare.
Maybe you’re in a field, and you see something spreading it’s long smooth perfect… it’s bald eagle wings
how to poetry - thomas sanchez
But then on the other side, there’s a long thick slithering mass that’s just waiting to explore something maybe even a hole… You’re right it’s a snake.
No, no no I just want a poem. That’s fun and amusing. I’ve given you all the fun that I can hope for. What are you really confused about?
It’s all the rules of poetry after all, this is called how to poetry isn’t it?
You’re right it is how many styles did I do
Too many to count
Do you think this is a style almost like a conversation?
No, this isn’t poetry
You’re wrong it is, but it was fun just like a buzzing bee
no thoughts - sarah woodworth
boxes - pamela dong
Time to move
The countdown begins
There is time, so I think
Going through drawers
Finding photos of people
Who are these people?
I don’t remember
It’s been so long ago
Finding old projects
Never to be completed
Boxes everywhere
Closet filled with clothes
The smell of mothballs fills the air
Filling boxes of memories to keep
Filling another box of forgotten moments
Dusty books are too heavy to move
Vinyl records never to be listened to
4mm films never to be seen
More boxes filled with memories
Time to go
Goodbye old home
Filled with good and sad memories
…but mostly good memories
Never too old for a change
The last box is taped up
Time to move
GCU - Jonathan Kim-reuter
the only way is through (again) - Christine marie stevenson
I could write about childbirth and stitches but the poet eats her breakfast instead
Other mothers are out walking their dogs celebrating the quiet inside their heads while I pick the weeds in mine
The clock is a moon and it is all just phases but we pull and prod the hands to try to mold it
I stroll through the inner valley and nod to the mountains Say it with me, “you are safe.”
Within myself there is a spindle wheel twisting thoughts into light and even if I don’t shine tomorrow, I will return again
When was the last time you looked at the sky instead of the headlines
Noticed how heaven peeks through like a painting to remind us that it’s there
I try to remember that we are all the same All beating hearts sorting out the webs in our minds but I cannot reach inside and untangle yours I can only face my own mirror and exhale this shadow of darkness
Are you static nothingness, a half-forgotten farmhouse dream, or will you join me in unflinching faith?
I could write about childbirth and stitches but the poet drinks her tea instead
Other mothers are out walking their dogs contemplating the order inside their heads while I plant new seeds in mine
a piece by Madison margaret 43.
inside, my love - brenna sullivan 44.
Inside, my love, there is a constant battle between recovery and going backwards—anxiety vs. calm. I don’t tell you about the inside because then I will have to admit all this stuff to myself first. I am scared my mind is too much for you to handle. You have your demons, of course, but I know mine would make yours cower in fear. My mind is never quiet, but inside, my love is better when I am with you.
It’s strange how silence can be the loudest sound. On nights when the world around us quiets—no cars, no buzzing phones, just the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room—I hear my own thoughts like a crowd pressing against glass. My body sits next to you on the bed, but my mind is running in circles. This is the part I never wanted to tell you: sometimes I feel like I’m watching my life through a window, like one of those late-night diners you see but never go inside.
The first time I noticed this dissonance was years ago, sitting in a bathroom at two in the morning with the door locked. The tiles were cold against my knees, the air thick with the smell of lavender soap. I tried to breathe slowly, counting in fours, but my hands still trembled. Even then, some part of me knew that calm wasn’t a place I could stay for long. Recovery wasn’t a straight road. It was a loop—a track I kept running, sometimes sprinting, sometimes crawling, sometimes stopping to catch my breath before starting again.
And then you came along. Not like a savior or God—I don’t want to write you as a savior because that’s not fair to you—but like a lighthouse. Not the ship that rescues, but the one that shines. You didn’t stop the storm, but you gave me a point to orient myself toward. You sat with me when my words became heavy, when I scratched my skin until it bled to keep everything from spilling out. You rubbed my back. You asked if I wanted to talk. You never pressed when I shook my head.
There’s a kind of intimacy in not speaking. I remember the night we went driving with no destination, the windows cracked even though it was cold. The air stung my cheeks. The radio played a song I can’t remember now, something low and slow. We didn’t say much.
inside, my love - continued
You just drummed your fingers against my leg, and I traced circles on the steering wheel, trying to match your rhythm. For the first time in a long time, the noise in my head began to soften. It was like the track I’d been running finally straightened out for a moment—just long enough to see the light ahead.
That’s what I want to tell you here—what I can’t always say aloud. Being with you doesn’t erase the battle inside me. The anxiety still wakes me at three a.m. Recovery still feels like a house I’m trying to build without instructions. But when you’re near, it’s as if the walls hold steadier. The house doesn’t collapse. The floor doesn’t fall out from under me. The track becomes smoother; the light steadier.
Sometimes I imagine telling you everything—the bathroom nights, the lavender soap, the trembling hands. I imagine your face when you realize how much I’ve hidden. Will it be shock? Will it be pity? Or will you just nod, the way you do, and pour me another cup of tea? Maybe you’ll sit quietly for a while, like you’re holding space for both of us. Maybe you’ll reach out and tuck my hair behind my ear the way you always do when you don’t know what to say. You’ll tell me you’ve had dark nights too. You’ll tell me I’m not broken for feeling too much. You’ll tell me you’ve never loved someone more for fighting to stay.
And I think, in that moment, I would finally understand what stillness feels like—not silence, but peace.
Because when you brush your thumb over the back of my hand, the noise quiets. When you look at me—not through me—I can breathe again. And even though I am still learning how to stay, still fighting the instinct to run, there is a part of me that is already home. The light doesn’t blind me anymore. It just waits, steady, pulsing on the horizon, reminding me that I can always find my way back.
flash piece - cassandra Scott
growing pains - bailiegh
rosenthal
I want New jersey to be a distant memory. Something that makes me want to look out a window on a rainy day and sigh about . I feel too deep into it right now there is no longing for summer as I experience the extended "local summer" I don't miss the boardwalk its too crowded and I know not to spend $10 on a slice on pizza. Even Asbury has become too familiar to me a place I used to chase the crashing waves and bum a cigarette outside of Jmacs has become all too normal. I've outgrown the shore towns and the small towns and the hour long drive to Cape May because those stores always stay the same. I've lived in the same house, the same room on the same street my entire life. I know what time my mailman comes and where all the cops hide to catch you speeding. I've held jobs across town, by the beach , near the horse farms and I've heard stories from people who came from Brooklyn, Long Island and even Michigan. I've seen the memorial of the girl I went to high school with everyday when I turn off my street as she met her fate too soon. I know which spots to park in in Princeton so you don't have to pay. The good coffee shops and the bad coffee shops, no I don't like Rook. I've followed the trends and taken the day trips to New York and Philadelphia. I've seen the Devils play more times that I can count and even had my car breakdown on the Turnpike in Carteret. Bruce as the father, Tony Soprano the son and a Pork Roll Egg and Cheese is the holy spirit. I've been asked to prove how Italian I am, How much of a Springsteen fan I am and even how well I know New Jersey. I'm no Jersey Girl just a girl whose stuck in Jersey
pyre - alyssa bonilla
Sin-eater, soul-weaver, the call of smoke
Writhing through gaps in the trees, A humble servant, for the humble path
We all must walk.
A crest of roses, thorns
Linking the grass together
Until the wind bends them wholeA wave in the sea.
Children pray with every word
They speak, they do not even know How much of God is still in them. Even then, even then.
Come, friendless orphan, into Mortal drainage and casks
Of blood-sweet wine, into
The wind’s breath, just as sweet.
Where the twigs and logs
Are as soft as a bed,
The sheets threaded with silk And the pillow cradling you is
Marred by time which Man Feigns to have mastered. It is Only when he greys and grows That he sees the leash he holds Is but a chain.
Come, O’ kindly human
To stand among the moss, Listen to the frogs weep As the stone fills with light.
Gentle-smog, ivory-fog, This berth is shaded by a bower.
49.
ain't you tired too?
- Naima towns
I been feeling real low. Like ain’t nothing gonna work. Everything is going to shit, So many people getting hurt.
Government don’t give a damn If we live or if we die. All that matters is a buck, Cuz clipped wings don’t need to fly.
But something’s been on my mind For a long time now We’ve gotten pushed so far behind And I can’t understand how
It seem like we in agreement, Like we on the same page But why it feel like only I know what to do with my rage?
I see you posting on your socials Talking to bigots all slick. But when it comes down to the wire, Is you gon throw the first brick?
Revolution coming soon, It’s time to start the day anew. MY people been tired for centuries, Ain’t you tired too?
chatter - emily becker
angel with a mohawk outside a florida hilton - alyssa bonilla 51.
The
She stalks the grounds of the hotel green
Slithering with a sporked tongue
Because she is half evil, half good
One part Eve one part apple
Drowning and choking and enlightenment
All at once.
Have you taken the bread, my love?
Have you broken it upon your knee
Like the stick of a wounded dog, Anger and affliction and brutal love
All at once?
Have you taken the token of the table
And placed it in the cup of my palms
To soak up my blood
Instead of God’s?
I have questions only I can ask
You have answers only a slither could make,
A breath that is too quiet and too loud
A breath that is as close to my ear as sound itself,
Braiding my noose with the very air.
Have you heard my death?
Have you come to give it?
Are you you, me, and God
All at once?
A piece by emily becker
A swift response to my complicity in a slow sedentary society - alyssa bonilla
We danced before we could talk
Quick and swift, like clouds during a storm
Moving alongside purpose, blue-dark and
Heavy with potential.
Some nights I remember those dead. My wild
Limbs ache beneath the shell
I’ve placed them in. My sweat is dyed
The shade of memory, colored thicker with each word I speak.
Perhaps it is better to be silent, to let the body
Find its own visage in a movement like water,
To lament as the brook does, as the sea
Sings to its gulls, to those with fins, and gills, and endless ways forward.
I want to move as gracefully as a dancing child.
No words, my tongue simply speaks the song
And my body obeys.
green balloon - emily becker
55.
what's in a name?naima towns
The other day I had someone rename me.
Because the name my mama gave me didn’t fit. Didn’t fit their vocabulary, their language, their culture.
My name was too hard, too much.
Lots of syllables, not enough sense.
Too many letters, not enough logic.
Scrambled up in a way not legible to them.
My name hand crafted and blessed, awarded to me by my ancestors, was nothing more than a nuisance to them. It was too ghetto.
Too long. It was too Black.
Unimportant in the long run.
So instead, I become;
“I’ll just call you ___”
“I can’t say that.”
"Help me out here?"
“I’m not even gonna try with this one.”
“I’m definitely gonna forget that.”
“I’ll get it eventually.”
Or constantly giving me someone else’s name.
But names like Tchaikovsky, Hasselhoff, Schwarzenegger, Einstein, Saoirse, Buscemi,
Roll off the tongue as if they were the gospel. As if God placed the letters together beautifully to be read and comprehended by you.
what's in a name? - naima towns
It's almost too perfect that the Arabic language predicted what my temperament would be.
Tranquil, Serene, Benevolent.
Who wouldn't want to praise a name with meaning like that?
So, to keep it simple, you may address me as:
Naima
Olu
Muyiwa
Omo
Tayo Otherwise known as, The child that God has blessed my parents with, which is a sufficient cause for joy!
Or would you prefer to call me girl?
piece by Madison Margaret 56.
a
the death of - avery masters
One day I will die I will be killed
And when I die they will find the bones of a man
But when they read my diary they will read the thoughts of a woman
And when they hear my voice they will hear the voice of a woman
And when they see my friends they will hear the story of a woman
And when my death is reported about it will be the death of a woman
And when they visit my funeral they will see the mourners and the casket and the body and the burial of a woman
For the man people call me has been long dead
And now, only now, is the death of that woman.
dedication
We dedicate this issue of Fountain Spray Art & Literary Magazine to Sister Mary Bilderback. Whether she was lens deep in the organelles of cells beneath the microscope, waist deep in the tide observing jellyfish asway, brush deep in gold paint dancing across spidery silk, or lashes wide watching birds inhabit the Home Depot rafters, Sister Mary Bilderback used poetry and art to witness this shared life. This particular issue begins with a birthday wish and ends with the articulation of bones: breath, light, darkness, and planting. It is in this composing and composition that we leave this issue to Sister Mary in great thanks for all that she has shared with us.
In alchemy and love, the 2026 Fountain Spray Editorial Board
thank you
A Special Thank You
President Eugene Cornacchia
Provost Julie Furst-Bowe
Associate Provost Michael Gross
Dean Mary Chinery
Department of English
Art Department
Department of Communication, Graphic Design, & Multimedia
SMJC Library
Richey Center for Humanities and Creative Arts
Ethan Andersen of Princeton Strategic Communications
An extra special thank you to our advisor Kristen Wedlock, without your unwaivering optimism and support we would be lost.
Thank you everyone who has supported us and our art, we would not be able to do it without you.
