Ripon College Parallax 2020

Parallax 2020

PAR ALLAX

Parallax Mission Statement

Par·al·lax noun

The purpose of Parallax is to provide Ripon College students with an open forum for creativity in the form of a professional publication, and to expose the journal’s editorial staff to the rewards and challenges of the editorial and publication process.

The effect whereby the position or direction of an object appears to differ when viewed from different positions, e.g. through a viewfinder and the lens of a camera.

Front Cover Image: Bloom

by Mary Marchlewski 2

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Letter from the Editor-in-Chief Parallax is an important tradition on this campus and still stands today as the primary way for Ripon College students in the fine arts to share their talent with the broader campus community. In our present circumstances which have physically separated us from one another, I hope that this publication, even in digital form, will serve as a way to bring us together.

Parallax Staff Ethan Brannen Alanis Harris Rachel Joas Grace Larson Payton Rahn Kaitlyn Von Behren Aliena Walls

To the artists, photographers, and writers, I sincerely thank you for sharing your work with us. After all, this publication could not exist without your contributions.

I wish you luck on your future creative endeavors and hope you continue to share them with Parallax.

To the Parallax editorial staff, I am grateful for your dedication to the group and for the many hours you have put in to make sure our publication is the best it can be.

Thank you for allowing me to lead you. I have enjoyed getting to know all of you.

Above all else, our meetings were my favorite part of being editor-in-chief. I know that the publication will flourish under your care in the years to come.

To both the editors and contributors, though you cannot hold the book in your hands, you should still feel incredibly proud of yourself and your work. I hope you enjoy the magazine that we have put together for you this year.

All the best, Grace Larson

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Table of Contents Title Under the Pines The King of the Toads Down the Hall Temptation Formation Stephandsom Queen Anne's Lace UV Blue Saturday Nights Slugman of Santa Fe Falling Hero Fragments Muzzle of Bees Cluster Escaping the Rain Individuality in Common Suicidal Shake Mt. Arenal Lost in Translation Like Clockwork I’m Listening, I Promise Static Walk Away The Alley DD S.A.D. Am I Pretty Yet? Ode to the Bathroom Scale 6

Author Ethan Hansen Hannah Buback Bailey Zanck Allison Klancnik Sarah Nakis Lauren VanDen Heuvel Vanessa Huck Allison Klancnik Bren Davis Vanessa Huck Bailey Zanck Ethan Brannen Mary Marchlewski Ethan Hansen Grace Larson Alanis Harris Bailey Zanck Hannah Buback Bailey Zanck Maythe Salcedo Sarah Nakis Lauren VanDen Heuvel Mary Marchlewski Ethan Hansen Haley Stowell Bailey Zanck Grace Larson Allison Klancnik Allison Klancnik

Table of Contents Page 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 23 24 25 26 30 31 32 33 35 36 37 38 39 42 43 44 45

Title Honey Pancakes Upside Self Hurried Quintessence A Worthy Life Christmas Craze On Graveyard Hill Winter Mournings Neon Demon A two-manned mission for my girlfriend and me Four pm Home Shards of Spring Daisies Hoping for Longer Highways Untitled 2 The Tree Before Us Ode to October I SHOT ANDY WARHOL AND THE ONLY REGRET I HAVE IS THAT I DIDN’T KILL HIM. Street Spirit (Fade Out) EXP-0001851-08-025-WI Breathe In, Breathe Out Brightest Days Ephemeral (Pt. 1) Moirai

Author Molly Potter Hannah Buback Bailey Zanck Samuel Audisho Mary Marchlewski Alanis Harris Mary Marchlewski Ethan Hansen Sarah Nakis Mary Marchlewski Hannah Buback

Page 46 47 50 51 52 53 57 58 59 60 61

Laurn VanDen Heuvel Morgan Gorecki Lauren VanDen Heuvel Hannah Buback Alanis Harris Allison Klancnik Ethan Brannen Lauren VanDen Heuvel Sarah Nakis

62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70

Ethan Hansen Samara Kusztyb Karyssa Castillo-Kinney Ethan Brannen Molly Potter Allison Klancnik

71 72 74 75 76 77 7

The King of the Toads

by Hannah Buback

Long live the king of the toads.

His castle crafted in sand. Cloudy Tupperware sky-lights revealed his royal proceedings. As we, his late summer, sun-kissed court— my brothers and the deacon’s boys, Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John—watched from above. Despite his horribly homely, wart-ridden face, we dutifully preserved his grainy kingdom. Until one morning when we found him foot-flattened, a pancake in the blood-stained blades of grass. His entrails strewn like forgotten green army men, the casualties of growing up. His leathery skin was glazed with the dew of the new day. Face bruised, and bulging from their sockets golden eyes gazed up into ours. Quick! Run! Go! Through the yard and overgrown garden and sliding glass door I ran to get my mom, the best surgeon I know. Hurry, please, you have to save him! For surely I thought, a veterinarian can. Kneeling, she analyzed damaged anatomy as hushed voices whispered desperate prayers over her shoulders.

Innocence—thick like the fog that hung low

Under the Pines

by Ethan Hansen

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over the marsh where we marched in search of a toad worthy of the throne—kept us faithful.

A question followed me home from his funeral: But if God is good.. then why do we die?

My parents talked to me about Heaven that night. They sat at the end of my bed and explained what happens to the dead.

Heaven is the place where your Papa lives, 9

a man I once met but never knew. I imagined Heaven would feel like running through a field of dandelions, yellow and white puffs of fluff.

Like wading through shallow waters warmed by the slow-bake of afternoon sun. But death— I feared—was much more brutal. I remembered the previous winter, when thin ice gave way.

To this day the burn of freezing water that seared flesh stays with me, as Caleb did, while Timmy ran for help. My little brother was by my side so, if I died, in my final moments I wouldn’t be alone. I decided that’s what mattered. Although shattered by the emptiness of his throne, in all his glory our royal friend came to his gory end surrounded by loyal men.

Down the Hall

by Bailey Zanck Charcoal

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Formation

Temptation.

By Sarah Nakis

by Allison Klancnik His legs slither, seaweed around my own, parting the cellulite sea in my thighs the pull and rise of bliss that rages in the recesses of my chest, his hands sun-stained skin dragging through my flecked sandpit flesh, they travel tenderly through my course, pubic garden, and reach desperately for these love handles, drip the candle wax into this crevice, this valley of orgasmic gold.

In my first dream the world appeared The salt, the bitter, the forbidden, the sweet In my second I descended I was human.

—Louise Glück.

A modern-day praetor, altruistic man of God succumbs to sickly sin like his fellow transgressors.

His sculpted hands, carved from the image of our

most Divine Father, are bathed in the clearest of penance.

At the sound of swords clashing and the cries of his legion, his blood bleeds burgundy—the color of repentance.

With the intense aroma of saccharine pomegranate, Pluto’s forbidden fruit explodes in his veins and floods the battlefield.

But when the blood is washed from the deep, damp earth

and the screams have ceased, he is cleansed.

There are nights when the stench of guilt is stronger, leaving the earliest of mourn wrathful and unforgiving.

The hour is not meant for him.

Such catastrophic devastation must be put to rest under the dust.

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Does he not know that even Vesuvius finds peaceful slumber?

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Queen Anne’s Lace

By Vanessa Huck

Slender fingers gloved in lace, palms open. These hands find rest in the melodic push and pull of a needle, awoken only by the unsuspected bite of an out of line pin.

The unforeseen sting of a prick sits in the center, a dark mole, a single drenched blossom.

The secret softness of a drop of scarlet soaks through royal flesh and fabric and petals curl around the wound.

Fingers twist in torment, a futile attempt to soothe as life crawls out of each finger tip to reveal faded lace and brown crusted bones.

Old hands let out one last cry for life, one last cry for blood.

Stephansdom

by Lauren VanDen Heuvel

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Saturday Nights

by Bren Davis

Open thighs, clouded eyes, night surprises covered in Grey Goose feathers. Gripping gusts smelling of sailors sliding down my back, caress my neck slap my ass and oh!

The song has changed.

New bumps by bass; it bumps.

New faces to touch, to taste, to tease, turn towards me. One kiss on the cheek.

Warm wine poured from a bag missed my mouth. Must get more.

Cold clutches comb my skin, “Where have you been?”

I shrug. Someone snags my arm and drags me on. Heels dig in sand.

Voices grasp like hands.

“Try again tomorrow.”

Sleep slips in before back hits bed.

I feel dead. And I am happy.

UV Blue

by Allison Klancnik

Graphite, Charcoal, Ink

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Slugman of Santa Fe

by Vanessa Huck

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I stand in the crevice between bush and window, nose pressed to splintered paint and wood, watching the way she lets silk slip over every curve.

The grace of a woman is tenfold when she thinks no one is watching.

This is not the first time I have reveled in moments like this.

I wait for the lights to go out and the world to come to a hush.

I am beckoned by the slow turn of an unlocked doorknob, a voiceless invitation.

I step from doorway to kitchen.

The bag tugs at my hand, it is the heaviest it will ever be before I set it on the counter.

I begin my moonlit ritual, removing the sacred lid and let the goo submit to the warmth of my handvaseline spreads over each slope and bend of my body.

I become an incandescent darkness, letting my feet feel the brisk coolness of tile.

It flows into the rest of me, I let my body slide onto it.

My thighs and chest rub against the porous slate as I wriggle, inch by inch, closer to her.

I let my body squirm with elation as I find myself under her bed.

I find solace here and I let myself swell with the slow rise of her chest.

She breathes out and I am just a vessel of ectoplasm, left behind.

A reminder that she is never alone.

My body shrivels as morning comes, I slink away before the dry burn of the salt ring of sunrise.

Falling

by Bailey Zanck

Colored Pencil, Marker

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Hero

by Ethan Brannen

He stumbled into the glade, sweat and blood mixing across his back. A stream stretched out before him, eventually rising into a waterfall. Impenetrable forest surrounded the glade and the moon streamed in through a few large gaps in the canopy. The sword reflected the light from behind the crystal clear waterfall as he approached. Stepping through the scree strewn, knee high water, he approached the blade through the creek. The ice cold water stung his ankles, but despite the pain he pressed onward. Suddenly, the world began to rumble around him. He fell to one knee to support himself, bracing against the ground. A Voice surrounded him, all encompassing and omnipresent, gently brushing the wind with the strokes of a master painter.

“The test before will challenge every aspect of a hero. Hold your ground, strengthen your conviction, and you will claim this famed blade and a place among legend.” The Voice faded, and the world again grew still.

He glanced around, searching for the source of the voice, but he saw nothing and no one. A calm breeze shook his torn shirt, and he shivered in the cold night air. A moon beam struck upon the sword and reflected the glow back into his eyes, reclaiming his attention. He began calmly and cautiously approaching the waterfall again. He came within arm's length of the sword when a solid wall of air blew him back several feet onto his backside. The water soaked into his trousers and his head swam.

He spit to the side, ruffled, and pulled himself up again. He stepped once, then twice, then a third. On the third step the wind once again caught him by surprise and he clapped against the shallow water once more. He stood, repeating his motions until the second step, but on the third he jumped forward, spreading his legs and bracing for the wind. The wind struck him, but he stood stolid in its strength, rooting himself in the ground like a tree. The wind blew for almost a minute before it waned.

He took the opportunity to force forward a step, and when his foot connected with the ground, the wind relented into oblivion. He doubled over to recover, breathing heavily. After several minutes he stood again, feeling as though his stamina was improved, as though he could run for hours unending.

Having passed his test, he strode confidently to the sword.

Within three feet of the weapon, the water simultaneously froze and rose into the air, throwing him back to the start of his path once again. He landed and felt his many sores and bruises flare again.

He stood growling, annoyed to be stopped again. Determined not to be stopped so easily, so he ran headlong towards the sword. His attempt to outrun the trap failed initially, and again the ice threw him back.

He stood, but instead of annoyance, calm focus tunneled his vision. He crouched down, one knee touching the water. He took off in blinding speed, flying over the water, pumping his arms and legs as hard as humanly possible. He slid across the ice as it froze, but his back foot remained too long on the square. The ice shot up and back, like clockwork. He tumbled forward but felt something move within him and he saw the ground approach as though time had slowed. He landed lightly on his feet, absorbing any shock gracefully. He glanced over his shoulder in disbelief. He felt faster and more agile than a panther. Not to be caught off guard yet again, he stepped strong, quick, and aware to the legend lying in wait before him.

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He caught a large object falling from above in his peripheral vision and split stepped backward.

A gargantuan boulder crashed in front of the waterfall, utterly blocking every path to the blade. He rapped his knuckles against the rock; a solid thud rang out. The surface was smooth, except for two handholds, shoulder-width apart. Understanding dawned in his mind. This, the third obstacle, was one of strength.

He gripped the holds, which were towards the base of the rock, and settled into a ready position.

He heaved once, causing the boulder to shift. He heaved once more, grunting with effort. He growled like an animal and let loose a fearsome cry. His muscles and joints ached and popped like corn in a kettle, until he broke an unseen barrier to his potential. The obstacle rose from the ground, and he lofted it above his head, turned, and dropped it to the ground, shaking the earth. He too fell from the enormity of the deed, barely able to breath, his vision blurred. He thought the effort had killed him, until vigor returned to his limbs and he stood, swaying. Finally, he mustered the strength to press forward. The sword lie within his grasp now.

Emmaculate glass alone could match the clarity of the waterfall, and he could see the blade in every excruciating detail.

The pommel end pointed skyward, and the pommel itself was the base of an intricately carved antler. The hilt was a dark, nearly black wood with a spiral carving. The crossguard and quillons were the first metal portions of the weapon, but no smith could have matched their curvature. They swerved in an elongated S shaped pattern. The blade was long, straight, and narrow. Instead of a wide fuller running the length of the blade, a green glow imitated the shape of a wide fuller.

He recomposed himself in front of the awe inspiring sight. Squaring his frame, he reached forward with his left hand, and gripped the hilt. The waterfall did not part around his hand, but simply allowed it to pass through; it conformed perfectly to the shape of his hand and arm. He tried to pull the sword, but when he did the water stopped flowing completely, slowly coming to a stop and holding its place. He tried to move, but could only move his head and face.

With a gasp he realized all time had stopped. The surface of the waterfall began to ripple and shift. The facade gained a mirror finish and he looked upon his own image. Until he realized it was not truly him. The mockery appeared as a version of his reflection, but lacking any blemish, asymmetry, or other imperfection. The eerie reflection’s gaze bored into his eyes, forcing him to catch his breath.

Thoughts raced through his head. Visions of doubt, questions of worth, and memories of failure all assaulted his mind. The weight of his every blight crippled him until tears freely flowed down his rosy cheeks. The reflection laughed at him mercilessly. Then a voice spoke in his mind. A calm, female voice shattered his black thoughts, forcing a memory to the forefront. The world faded and he heard his own voice, but much younger.

“But all the other kids will mock me for it.”

“Mock you?” The female voice replied. “Why, I myself am jealous of your scar.”

“What? Why?” he said, confused.

“Because, it shows you aren’t perfect, but that you are strong enough to overcome your fear and your weaknesses.” She paused in thought. “It puts your courage on your sleeve. Those who do not have scars are liars and cheats; they lack honesty and heart.”

The memory faded. Determination and pride filled his soul. He could not make himself perfect.

He did not need to. He locked against the reflection’s gaze, and it melted before the Hero’s might. The 21

Hero tore the sword from the illusion and it shined brighter than ever before. Compelled, he pointed the sword skyward, and the world rumbled once more.

“Hero,” the rumble again spoke, “You take your place among legend. Now claim your place among the stars.” A Dragon soared across the open sky, green flame ebbing from his maw.

Fragments

by Mary Marchlewski Oil Paint

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Cluster

by Grace Larson Riding on a September breeze, savoring the remnants of August’s heat.

Fleeting humidity breeds humility— I know it’s summer’s end.

The clouds overlap and never end Sun beams restrained by their defense I’m undefined in this grey sky,

It all reminds me I am small.

The color that guides me is dying, the cicadas crying for it as well.

But when the cold creeps in,

I’ll get to go home— a dome of honeycomb with wet glossed wallpaper ready to crumple and crunch at any poised predator’s will.

My individuality will cease as the hive begins to freeze.

Shivering months away until we feel a warmth as kind as the one I’ve felt today.

Or until mankind

takes our home away.

Muzzle of Bees

by Ethan Hansen

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Escaping the Rain

by Alanis Harris

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The only sounds in Orchid’s town square that dim afternoon were the drone of the gathered crowd and the hollow thunk thunk thunk of James’s boots as he was dragged up the wooden stairs of the gallows. He refused to walk, forcing the two burly men at his side to drag his long legs. They didn’t bother to be particularly careful about it, either, Catherine noticed, finding herself bothered that James could resist wincing every time his shins hit the sharp edges of the stairs. She tried to take a deep breath to steady her hands, but the fog made it hard to fill her lungs. When she breathed in, Catherine could feel the mist filling her chest and touching all of her insides. The day was wet and hot, and the crowd was a mass of sticky black clothing and uncomfortable shifting weight. Quiet babbling filled the square, some about the gray weather, some the subpar tomatoes at the market this season, and a select few who mumbled about the man with his hands tied behind his back about to be strangled in front of the whole town.

Catherine forced herself to lock her eyes on James, even though what she really wanted to do was turn and run from the town entirely. Although his legs were limp, Catherine knew it was only for the sake of stubbornness. She felt the need to tell everyone that he wasn’t defeated, that he hadn’t given up. In fact, even in this moment, his scruffy, unshaven chin was raised high in defiance. Some part of her still hoped that everyone could see it, but she knew that no one in this town could.

James’s eyes were hard and challenging behind his wet tendrils of brown hair, dripping either from the misty weather or from sweat. The fog made it hard to see anything beyond the gallows and James, meaning that all the focus had to be on him. Catherine wanted to tell him that it looked like he was standing in a spotlight from her viewpoint. She was sure that this was exactly how he would have wanted it, at the center of the tiny universe created in the fog. The wetness of the air and the closeness of the crowd was giving Catherine a vaguely claustrophobic feeling, which didn’t help her already unsteady breathing. The sky felt roofed, pressing down on her, closing her in. Catherine wondered when the rain would come.

The murmuring faded slowly as the men holding James upright forced his feet under him so that he had to hold his own weight, standing in the center of the stage. A chill breeze broke through the humidity to blow over the crowd, and a silence abruptly settled. The people in the square worked to slow their breathing, not wanting themselves to be heard in the sudden quiet. The silence lasted tediously long, and James used those endless moments to look down upon the people of the town he’d grown up in. Everyone felt as if his dark gaze caught theirs individually, but in truth, he was only hunting for one face.

Catherine knew he could only have cared enough for one face in the crowd. There was only one person he still had enough power to hurt. His eyes passed over men wiping their shiny heads with white hankies, children burying their wet faces in the skirts of their mothers, and an old woman blowing her nose somewhere in the front of the crowd. With everyone here, Catherine thought that it would take him a long time to find her in the mass of bodies. It seemed as if the whole town had shown up to watch James die, to cheer on his fall. It was no longer required to watch executions, but everyone was here for their very own, homegrown legend. His story was already being woven into bedtime tales of warning for children, surely. Who would miss the death of Orchid’s soon to be infamous murderer?

Catherine felt an itch against her own neck as they slipped a thick, stiff noose over James’s head.

The rain finally began to trickle, starting the slow progress of soaking everyone through. James stood stony, but he blinked twice, quickly, the only indication that he was feeling anything in this moment.

One of the men on stage tightened the noose around James’s neck, and his eyes finally found Catherine’s. His lips split into a lopsided smile full of jarring confidence.

Catherine’s breath hitched and then quickened as his eyes tore into her, and she felt the blood drain from her face. She wiped a dark, soggy curl off her forehead, and then wished she hadn’t moved, feeling like she had given herself away. She felt she was fighting against two different versions of herself.

A large part of her wanted to avoid his gaze, to watch him from shadow and not face him ever again. A larger part of her, though, longed for his eyes burning through her again, one last time.

James stared into her pale face with his frightening grin still firmly planted, taking in her wide eyes and red-stained lips. She used to think that red lips were only for sold women and the collars of the men who crawled out of brothels under the disguise of night. Ever since James, however, she hardly ever went without it. He wouldn’t let her. Her parents hated it, and they let her know their opinions plainly, thinking that she had become one of those nasty women who sold their bodies. They didn’t know how close to the truth they were.

While debating with herself that morning, arguing whether or not she was going to attend James’s hanging (which, of course she was, she couldn’t have kept herself away if they had taken him ten towns over), she hadn’t intended to stain her lips for him. However, when she dressed herself and caught her own eyes in the mirror as she made to leave the house, she had found herself spinning open the tin of waxy, rosy balm. She did her best to avoid her reflection’s eyes as she used her pinky to swipe the stain across her lips, then pocket the tin and leave her house. Even though such a level-headed, rational part of her wanted to hide from James and this day, she hadn’t been able to disobey his wishes.

She had told herself that it had nothing to do with him, but she knew that he was the only reason to wear it. It was her beacon for him. His lighthouse in the dark, she’d like to believe. She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to him, even in this little way, even after everything he had done to her, and they had done together.

Catherine forced herself to stare back into James’s eyes, her lips pressed into a thin red line. She had told herself that she’d stay cold, emotionless, but now, with that rope around his neck, all of her willpower was gone. Now, she wanted him to see the fight in her face, the stubbornness that he had chosen her for. She wanted him to see that she had no part in his demise, that she had stayed loyal until the end. She had promised him that she wouldn’t give herself up for him, and she had kept that promise. The promise felt soft and dreamy, like she wouldn’t have to come through on it because this wasn’t really happening. Seeing James’s eyes again put her feet so starkly back on the ground that she couldn’t help but panic at the fact that it was over. It was when one of the men stepped toward a lever on the side of the stage that she abruptly realized there was no more time to play the sick game that they had created together. They were no longer sharing dark secrets and burying stolen valuables in the backyard, no longer stealing sweaty gropes in dark alleys or admiring eulogies written because of their hands. The creaking stage and the fraying rope and the light drizzle soaking through her black skirts were all very, very real.

Someone, Catherine couldn’t say who, was wailing now, a desperate sob, an echo of what should have been in James’s eyes. But there was no fear there, only a chill and a confident calmness. Empty of 27

regret or contemplation, he kept his eyes on Catherine, challenging her, looking straight through the back of her skull. She did not look away. She wanted to. The howling grew louder, sounding as if it was wrenched from an old, dry throat by force. Catherine felt as if the past year and a half of her life had been wrestled from her in a similar way, because of James and his sickly sweet allure.

James walked into Catherine’s library on the brightest June day Catherine could remember, and she couldn’t escape him ever again.

He had changed Catherine from a bored and tepid girl with a job in a library to something dark, poised, dangerous, and powerful. Someone she only recognized with red lips. Catherine hadn’t known how to lure a man away from a wife so James could fit a knife between his ribs. She hadn’t known how to wrap her slender fingers around a woman’s neck until her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her cheeks turned blue. She hadn’t known how to fire a gun into the center of a man’s chest while his mouth was poised over her neck. She hadn’t known how to push a 240 pound man with a hole through his heart off of her body when he was bleeding out into her underclothes. When she met James, he taught her how to do all of those things, and other ghastly skills that she hadn’t known she was capable of possessing— hadn’t known she wanted to possess.

One of the executioners produced a folder of papers that looked like they had seen better filing, and he began to shuffle through it. James’s smile suddenly grew into something less handsome, more grotesque, something dark that made those in front shrink away. Something touched his eyes finally, and Catherine felt her stomach fill with cold stones. She had felt that dirty, hungry look upon her skin many times. It was one of the first things he had used to taint her, that look. It was one of the first things he had used to make her fall in love with him and his sin, and one of the first things that had made her lose compassion for herself.

When one of the men at James’s sides finally spoke, it seemed to break some kind of hard seal, and Catherine felt herself and the rest of the crowd suddenly breathe again.

“James Kroll, you have been accused and found guilty of three counts of murder,” he rumbled.

There were more. They hadn’t found them yet, maybe wouldn’t.

“The murders of Christine H. Anne, Charity P. McCarthy, and Henry L. Johnson are laid upon your head. Do you understand your crimes?” James did not honor them with a reply, and so the man continued, addressing the crowd. “On this day, James Kroll will face death for the crimes he has committed. May this town be forever cleansed as his soul is sent back to the Hell it came from.” The crowd rumbled with approval at this awful, theatrical line, their breathy whispers rolling past Catherine’s ears.

The speaker exchanged a look with his compatriot stationed at the lever on the edge of the stage, and they nodded at each other. Catherine felt the man’s hands around her neck as he wrapped them around the lever. She expected her heart to skip or slow, her breath to run short, her nails to dig into her palms, but all she felt was a disentanglement from herself. She felt whatever was left of her old self float away from the town of Orchid, and she was left with a sense of emptiness, staring at James’s grin that was turning putrid. She wished that she was the one with a rope around her neck, that James was here on the ground, yearning for her life over his. She had the horrible thought that if she was the one up there, he mightn’t be here at all.

She tried to fight her way back to her body so that she could be here for this moment, but all she achieved were the hot tears rolling down her expressionless, pale face. She let the tears fall, knowing that he would enjoy them, knowing that if she wiped them away, he would love it even more. She did 28

reach up to smear off her lip balm with one thick, wet sleeve, feeling satisfied when his smile faltered.

If there was anything that James loved, it was control, and Catherine felt one last great wave of bravery that made her desperate to be out of his hands for his last moment. She had worn it so he’d find her, and now that he had, she wanted to be rid of it.

When she lowered her sleeve again, James’s smile fell too. He pressed his lips together, and still his eyes were empty of fear. Instead, there was only that queer light left with a little anger, a light that only Catherine and the dead had been able to see up close. Catherine felt her knees tremble under her skirt.

James opened his mouth, and at first Catherine thought he was going to address the crowd, but instead, he just mouthed something silently, still staring into her. Confused, she concentrated hard, trying to translate what he was saying. She gasped when she finally caught on, and suddenly her conscience flooded back into her, hard, knocking out her breath.

“I love you,” he mouthed, over and over again. Catherine sobbed loudly, her knees giving out beneath her and splashing in the forming mud.

The man grunted when he jerked the lever, and Catherine screamed. She imagined the quick fall allowing James to escape the raindrops for a split second, imagined him choke. She remembered all of the anger and the lust and the fear and the angry, lustful fear she had felt over the past year and a half, and she felt so cheated by all the universe that she was sure her heart would stop beating in that moment. She wished it would. As the gallows groaned under James’s dead weight, she screamed into the dirt, wishing he was alive and stealing her away from her family in the dead of the night, using his bloodlust and his violence to trap her so magnificently. She wished he was kissing her and threatening both their lives again, wished he was still taking away everything she had ever known about herself and her life. Never once did she wish that she hadn’t met him, never once did she wish that none of this had ever happened. She only wished he hadn’t been caught, wished they could have run away from everything they’d done together, wished that she was hanging beside him.

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Suicidal Shake

by Hannah Buback The empty orange bottle lay discarded on the floor Mom I think I need to go to the ER, she said Her parents smother her with concern, still she feels alone On a scale from 1 to 10.. I should have died, she thought I’m sorry Mom, I need to go to the ER, she said The activated charcoal shake inched down her throat On a scale from 1 to 10.. I wish I had died, she thought Socked feet slide across the linoleum, no shoelaces allowed Like the activated charcoal shake that inched down her throat, Here you take what you’re given, wash it down with water Socked feet slide across the linoleum, no shoelaces allowed She goes home on Saturday, back to school by Monday Here you take what you’re given, wash it down with water Monthly visits keep her “safe” as we try to forget that night She goes home on Saturday, back to school by Monday It’s important to keep up appearances, Smile, it’s Christmas!

Monthly visits keep her “safe” as we try to forget that night When the empty orange bottle lay discarded on the floor It’s important to keep up appearances, Smile, it’s Easter!

Her parents suffocate her with concern, still she is so alone.

Individuality in Common

by Bailey Zanck

Charcoal, Colored Pencil 30

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Lost in Translation

by Maythe Salcedo

When I walk into a work interview, when they see me the first thing they ask is: “How’s your Spanish?”

I reply: Hablo el espanol muy bien.

When in reality I want to let them know how my Spanish is.

If you ask me I will tell you My Spanish has been tortured by people who “Have been trained in the language” My Spanish is hungrier than it was before.

My Spanish reaches for words at the top of a shelf without a stepping stool and it gets hit in the head with all of the old words that have been hiding up there My Spanish wonders if it has an expiration date?

My Spanish wonders how bad it is to eat something that’s expired...

My Spanish wonders why you compare me to food.. hot, exotic, smokin’ My Spanish tells you there’s more to me than that.. but I do not really believe it anymore.

If you ask me if I am fluent in Spanish I will tell you that my mami spent the first three years of my life for me to be able to communicate with her and with my family. Her teaching will not be in vain My Spanish is beaten and malnourished exactly how I feel when they say “You’re in America speak english” with an image of Uncle Sam I wish I could say “Uncle Sam knew that the United States was founded by immigrants, he was intelligent, unlike you.” But all I manage to say is “Perdon” “Mommy, how do you say ‘I’m embarrassed’ in Spanish?”

All she says is “you should know that//deberias de saber” But my Spanish doesn’t know. My Spanish is tired of too many trumpets trying to make a note through my throat. My Spanish wants to sing the words of my culture, but I’m embarrassed because I don’t know my Spanish well enough.

Mt. Arenal

by Bailey Zanck

Similar to my culture, I don’t know, my mom didn’t have enough time to teach me what my quinceanera meant, my abuelita wasn’t able to give me the recipe for el pozole, my papi couldn’t teach me how to dance a zapateado, he never told me to listen to Vicente Fernandez.

Yet I had a sweet sixteen, one of the best parties ever, my boyfriend even went to my party. Mr. Jeffers showed me how to make a killer BLT with the perfect amount of Mayo and Bacon. My friend Ivy showed me how to dance the electric slide and when we are not dancing we sing Don’t Stop Believing

by Journey.

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My English is fluent My grammar is perfect.

Like Clockwork

I guess what happened was that my Spanish was lost in translation.

No My identity was lost in assimilation

Mama sits at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to fall asleep.

The yellow gleam of my lamp casts her silhouette on the wall— familiarity in the nighttime. Sleep comes easy when she’s there.

by Sarah Nakis

But she leaves and her footsteps are a fading echo in the warm glow, growing farther and farther away.

The worn floorboards creak as the house breathes.

Mama? I croak, shielding my face from the unfriendlies romping up and down the walls, keeping me awake.

Monsters lurk in every rift of darkness, that’s where they watch me, their hooded eyes and twisted smirks mocking my every attempt at rest. But Mama knows a thing or two about the blue devils and the screaming-meemies— She fights her own. She fights mine too.

They’re still here, Mama, I say and she’s there, standing guard. Can she see herself in me?

Can I sleep in your room? I ask, and she nods, tucking a loose curl of hair behind my ear.

Don’t forget your blanket, Mama whispers.

It is safe when I am with her. The monsters of the night cannot stand her warmth when all they know is a bitter, blue cold.

She shuts the lights off. And maybe the darkness isn’t so bad when I’m with her.

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35

I’m Listening, I Promise...

by Lauren VanDen Heuvel whispered words lull me along, and I swear my eyelids weren’t this heavy a minute ago I float in the fickle fog between reality and dream grasping at fading glimpses of figments, fleeting thoughts flitting of confusing staircases, mediocre pizza, that sea that goes on and on and on and on and on What do I think? mmmmmm...book.

Definitely. and can an entity ever be entirely empty, and do you mind if my mind wanders I wonder, this fantasy fascinates me, I revel in revery, I slip into sleep and slide back— What?

Did I catch that?

Sorry, could you start again?

Static

by Mary Marchlewski Oil Paint

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37

The Alley

by Haley Stowell

Walk Away

by Ethan Hansen

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“You idiot! They’re gonna catch us,” Maddie whispered, looking down at the mess her sister had just made.

Jessica quickly scooped up the candy bars she had knocked from the shelf and shoved them in her pockets. “I don’t get why we can’t just buy the bars. Mom gave me twenty bucks for shoveling last week, you know, after that big snowstorm that shut down all the roads.”

“It’s not about buying things, okay? It’s a form of protest,” she said as she stuffed another candy bar into her pocket. “Every dollar we spend is like a vote, and I’m not giving those greedy, capitalist pigs any of my votes.” Maddie looked over her shoulder briefly before pocketing two more bars.

“Wouldn’t it be better to give your votes to companies you believe in? Do some research, find local businesses that—”

“That’s not how it works. Now go back to lookout,” she said, rolling her eyes.

The situation the young sisters were in was nothing new to either of them. Maddie, the older of the two, had recently entered high school and was eager to test the limits of her parents’ control. Just the week before, she was suspended for punching a boy in her class. He said she was crazy. She said he had it coming. The young Jessica had a sweeter disposition and a much different attitude towards misbehaving than her sister. However, Maddie was cool, cunning even.

Jessica peeked around the corner at the store clerk, who was arguing with a woman over the price of cigarettes. She grabbed a bag of trail mix that Maddie was about to stuff in her sock. “No one is coming. Can we just go? You have enough candy.”

“Jessica, I told you, it’s not about the candy. It’s about the meaning behind the candy.”

“Which is?”

Maddie let out a heavy sigh and grabbed Jessica’s shoulders. “Listen, nothing in this world is ever gonna be given to you. In fact, the world is gonna take a hell of a lot more than it will ever give to anyone. And if at any time you think the world has given you something, it’s bullshit. Nothing is guaranteed.”

“You don’t really believe that— do you?”

Maddie sighed. “If you want anything in life, you have to take it.”

“Really?” The girls whipped their heads around towards the source of the question. The store clerk, whose engagement with the woman had ended, stood over her. Jessica stood, paralyzed at the sight in front of her. Immediately, Maddie turned back to Jessica, panic in her eyes.

“Run!” she yelled as she sprinted past her sister, grabbing her arm and yanking her around the corner of the candy display case. Jessica’s feet finally caught up to her brain as they exited the store and took a sharp right. They could hear the store clerk behind them, yelling profanities as they ran farther and farther away.

“Slow down, Maddie.” Jessica struggled, with her sister’s hand still grasping her arm. “You know I can’t run as fast as you.” Maddie looked back at Jessica, briefly, then took another sharp right into an alleyway.

“Okay, it’ll be dark in about twenty minutes. Until then, we wait and hide behind the dumpster in case the store clerk called the cops. Then we head home and tell no one what happened. Under39

stood?”

Jessica bent over and tried to catch her breath. “Why did you have to take the candy in the first place? Now we can’t ever go back to that store and—”

“Just shut up, Jessica. It’s gonna be fine. Just sit down, and be quiet.”

Jessica looked at her sister for a few moments, attempting to subdue her anger. Taking another deep breath, she sat down against the dumpster and took in her surroundings. They were sandwiched between two brick buildings, one with a sign that read “Scooters” in a neon rainbow glow. Garbage cans littered both sides of the alley. The sun was beginning to lower behind the buildings, and the street lights flickered on. The younger sister looked back at Maddie. “So because of you, I am now sitting in a pile of garbage, waiting, and hoping that we don’t get arrested?”

“You still don’t get it. What I did is greater than this. Yeah, we might get in trouble now, but if you look at the bigger picture—”

“No! Enough of your dumb philosophies! You don’t even believe in half of the things you spit out. All you care about is yourself and how you can twist around ideas until they benefit you. You take things because you want them, not because you’re fighting against anything.”

Maddie looked at her little sister, her face flushing with anger. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak a loud crash came from behind them. Before Jessica could react, Maddie quickly pulled her to the other side of the dumpster, obscuring them from the source of the crash. Two large men in business suits wandered into the alley. Clearly drunk, one of the men bent over and tried to clean up the garbage can he had knocked over upon entering the space.

“Just leave it, man, I gotta get you home or your wife’s gonna kill me,” said the other man, pulling up the first man by the collar of his suit.

The first man stood up and confusedly looked at his surroundings. He eyed the neon sign. “Hey, ain’t Scooters that queer bar?”

The second man laughed, “I think you’re right.” He rubbed his chin, thinking for a moment, his face hardening. “Fucking disgusting, that’s what it is. Who do they think they are, flaunting their gay shit for everyone?”

“It’s the parents. You raise your son with all that new-age parenting crap and they end up strutting around in a dress, spending their nights dancing in a fucking gay bar.”

Jessica looked over at Maddie, whose eyes were staring intently at the two men. “We should go,” Jessica whispered.

“Shh, I wanna hear what they’re saying.”

The first man pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “You know that squinty little I.T. guy that works on the third floor? I think he’s one of them,” he said, gesturing towards the bar.

“You think so?”

“Hell yeah. You ever seen him with a woman? And the way he fucking dresses—”

The side door of the bar opened, and out stepped a thin man in a blue scarf. “See you guys later!” he exclaimed as he shut the door, wrapping his scarf around his neck. He turned around, and jumped, clearly startled at the sight of the two men. They looked back at him with stone faces. Giving them a quick and nervous nod, the man in the scarf turned to exit the alley.

The first man, stepping in front of him, crossed his arms. “You have a good night?”

The man in the scarf looked up, his eyes wide with fear. “Um, yeah it was okay. Just saw some 40

friends.”

“Friends, eh?” said the second man, moving closer to the man with the scarf. “Is that what you call those fucking perverts inside?”

The man with the scarf eyed the situation nervously. He held his head down, averting his gaze.

“Excuse me, I need to get through.”

“I don’t think so,” said the first man as he shoved the scarfed man backward. Jessica jumped on instinct, but Maddie held her down.

“Don’t,” she whispered, as tears welled in her eyes. The man in the scarf hit the ground hard, his head smashing against the gravel alley floor. His left hand raised to the back of his head, and as he did so the second man kicked him in the ribs.

“You fucking degener’ate,” he hiccuped, kicking him again. “You people are what’s wrong with this fucking country.”

The first man laughed, “He’s not even fighting back. Like I said, new-age parenting shit.” The man in the scarf lay on the ground, curled into a ball. Finally, the two men, satisfied with their work, turned back to the street and walked off.

Jessica looked at Maddie, her eyes still locked on the scene before them. She was staring at the man on the ground, groaning in pain as he tried to get up. She then stood up, slowly, and walked over to him. Jessica stayed behind, watching as she approached the man.

“Are you okay?” she asked, hesitantly.

He looked up at her, surprised, then gave her a small nod. Maddie looked around nervously, uncertain for a moment, then rummaged through her pocket, pulling out a candy bar. She held it out to the man. He looked up at her, puzzled at the gesture. He held out his hand hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he said, grabbing the bar.

He looked up at her, a sadness in his eyes. It was one not of pity, but of knowing, of seeing himself in the young girl standing before him.

After another moment, he stood and brushed off his jeans.“It won’t always be this way. I promise.”

Maddie nodded again, then turned back towards Jessica. She took her sister’s arm and began their walk home, leaving the man with the scarf far behind them.

They were silent for several minutes, contemplating all they had witnessed. The street lights gleamed off of Maddie’s cheeks, highlighting the tears that continued to roll down her face. Jessica studied her expression, trying to decipher all that she was feeling. They walked for a few blocks before either gained the courage to speak.

“I don’t believe what you said earlier,” Jessica said, kicking a small rock into the road.

Maddie looked up at her for a moment, confused. “About what?”

“About how the world doesn’t give you anything. I think, if you give the world something, it’ll give something back to you someday. And if you take something from the world, the world will take something from you.”

She paused for a moment, looking back at the direction from which they came. “I hope you’re right, Jessica. I really do.”

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S.A.D.

by Grace Larson Winter is expansive, though I’m desperate to be told I’m wrong.

Tell me that it isn’t a black canvas stretched miles wide on your left, right ahead and behind. Above and below.

Stretched so tight you could bounce yourself off of what isn’t there.

The air that leaves you in puffs lingers just long enough to remind you that you are alive, even though you can’t feel anything inside of you. Winter is generous, numbness extern— internalized.

Tell me that I’m not just speck of darkness, unrecognizable from above or below At least I get to be included in the emptiness, melting over the edges of the world, parts of myself lost in drips to somewhere somehow more distant than here.

Tell me, even though I won’t believe you, even if I know this moonless wasteland won’t last through April, maybe May but I need to be reminded that this sadness might thaw someday.

DD

by Bailey Zanck

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Markers, Colored Pencil, Graphite

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Ode to the Bathroom Scale

by Allison Klancnik

I met you in my mother’s bathroom, where I rushed her in to show her how much I had grown. We watched the numbers tick up, celebrating each new pound. Years later, our toxic love matured into a codependent lust for change, after years of being tormented because I was a pig, fat, and unloveable. I ran to you for reassurance but your digital chatter crowded my thoughts and made me wish that I could chisel down my curves and cleave the fat from my bones. I looked hungrily at my friends, whose ribs poked out like a shadow from behind taut skin.

I blame you for the spit-up food stashed in a plastic bag under my bed and for the two fingers down my throat, as I dry-heave over this throne, a failure because I just can’t throw it up.

Am I Pretty Yet?

by Allison Klancnik

Embroidered Photography 44

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Pancakes

by Hannah Buback

The warm aroma of pancakes wafted from the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall, and into his bedroom. A smell of apology for the sins of last night, a smell I recognized all too well.

I prefer women now. With their soft hands and gentle nature, they can easily compensate for the lack between their legs. It feels ignorant to say he made me gay, but since my ex-boyfriend I prefer to have girlfriends.

I crawled out from under the sheets. Strewn haphazardly across the cool, dark wood of his bedroom floor lay discarded and empty bottles—Jack, Bacardi, Bailey’s, and of course the Captain—our friends still lingering in the headaches of morning. Careful not to trip over them, I glided on bare feet to his closet. A shiver climbed my naked body that left goosebumps in its wake. Distracted, I grabbed the first shirt on the rack—an old Rock n’ Roll tee promoting a band that lost its relevance long before the colorful graphics began to fade—its fibers stretched as I pulled it from its hanger. As I made my way over to the open window I slipped his shirt over my head, my thin arms barely filled each massive sleeve as the remainder of the cotton fabric fell down my body where it stopped just above my knees.

Honey

by Molly Potter

Model: Elly Klawitter 46

He introduced me to women, or rather, being with women. At the time I had been less than willing to participate in his little game—having been “scared straight” through years of being called dyke as a result of my pixie-cut hairstyle—which was nothing a few pills and a shot or two couldn’t fix. With him everything was a game, but this was always his favorite: the bed was his board, the rules were his orders, and there was always a 3 player minimum.

I hesitated for a moment, looking over the city still shrouded by the darkness of night, speckled with the yellow glow of streetlights and the occasional illuminated window of an early riser. That’s when I heard the soft padding of bare feet coming down the hallway, getting louder and more distinctive as he neared the doorway. I quickly closed the window and spun around to face him.

Jason. The name Jason originates in Greek, it means “healer” or “cure”, and did he have the cure alright. Only 19 years old back then and already he was earning a name for himself on the streets—my boyfriend, “J” the drug dealer. You name it, he sold it: coke, crack, meth, and heroin were always his best sellers.

His tall, wiry frame filled the doorway where he stood, watching me. Nervously I rubbed the smooth, red raw flesh of my wrists, as I avoided meeting his gaze.

“Pancakes are ready, you can come eat once you’re finished cleaning up,” he said.

“Thank you”.

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“I’ll be outside,” he said as he turned and left.

Hurridley I began gathering up the bottles and placing them on the dresser directly across from the bed—their exteriors clinking against one another as I lined them up like pins at a bowling alley.

Next I moved around the left side of the bed to his nightstand and slid open the second drawer. Carefully I reached over to his pillow, pulling out from underneath it his gun—a matte black pistol—like the ones you see in the hands of T.V. feds. But this gun was in my hands, heavy and cold. I laid it down in the drawer next to his needles and pipe then slowly slid it closed.

My therapist tells me I did what any other 16 year old would’ve done in my situation. I did what I was told and I kept my mouth shut.

My stomach began to growl and gurgle as my experienced fingers untied the knots of rope around each post of the headboard, my restraints. I took one last look around after I pulled up and straightened out the sheets and comforter, convinced he would be satisfied as I headed out of the room. Down the hall to the left, around a corner on the right, and I entered the kitchen—a short stack of pancakes on the counter waited for me. Steam still visibly snaked upwards off them in the chill of early morning.

“Babe? Is that you?” his voice came in through the living room window.

“Yeah, be there in a second,” I yelled back.

A second was all it took for Jason to change my life. We met in the summer after my freshman year of high school at a party I wasn’t supposed to go to with people I wasn’t supposed to talk to, and “fun” I wasn’t supposed to have. I should have known nothing good could come from a romance born in cliché. I first saw him across the crowded room, it was his 19th birthday and he and his friends were celebrating. I looked away for a second to check the reason for the vibration of my phone and when I looked back our eyes met, and in that moment I knew exactly what he was thinking. I knew he wanted me—and I was his.

I grabbed a few pancakes—so light, fluffy and warm in my hand—and made my way over to the open window of the living room. The thick fibers of the carpeting wriggled their way in between my toes as I walked. I sat down on the sill, lifted up my legs and swung them over the edge as I stepped down onto the rusted, coarse frame of the fire escape. He was sitting on the equally rusted stairs—recently painted over with a hideous greenish-brown paint that was already beginning to flake— getting high.

“You should put something on that,” he said, as he gestured towards the gash above my elbow along the inside of my arm. The gash that he gave me the previous night, a result of an intoxicated rage and a liquor bottle hurled through the air. “Don’t want it to get infected.”

I hadn’t yet gotten kicked off the soccer team my sophomore year so I had no problem coming up with excuses. The shove that resulted in a tumble down the stairs was easily covered 48

by a collision on the field, the gash on my arm by a cleat when I slid for the ball in practice.

“She’s a real scrapper,” my parents would say, “Not afraid to take a beating.”

He drove me home in silence that morning. 30 minutes, 7 red lights, and 3 stop signs later we pulled into my neighborhood. As we drove down each road named after flowers—Aster, then Iris, and Lilac—I couldn’t help but gawk at the perfect homes, each with a perfect little family sleeping soundly inside. I wondered if their children would be forced to grow up too fast, if their sons would turn into abusers and rapists, or if their daughters would turn into sluts and whores who asked for it. Each perfect lawn that passed, cut and weeded ever so neatly, looked just like the one belonging to my family. If the dandelions of the world, the beautiful weeds of society—the Jasons—could find their way into my home, how long did these perfect families have left?

This sadistic man found himself a lost girl.

He lured me in with LSD and left me with BPD.

When we arrived at my house I was relieved to see that none of the lights were yet on. He pulled over along the curb to the right of my driveway and turned off the engine.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said.

“Okay. I love you.”

“I gotta go make a run.”

I climbed out of the car and quietly closed the door behind me, careful not to wake my skittish dogs I knew would be asleep on my parents’ bedroom floor. I crept around the back to our stone patio, slid open the sliding glass door, and slipped inside without making a noise. An expert at scaling the stairs without a creak or a crack, I made it into my bedroom and climbed into bed. I pulled the comforter over me, all the way up to my nose and watched as the first light of morning began creeping in through the window.

He stalked me for months after I ended our relationship. Most nights I would look out my bedroom window to see his car, parked down the street, hiding in the shadows of my poorly lit neighborhood. Then one night he was gone. I can only speculate as to where he is now. Maybe he is incarcerated somewhere—patiently waiting behind bars—or perhaps, more fittingly, he is nothing more than another unidentified body rotting away in a morgue.

“Up, up, buttercup!” my mom’s cheerful voice woke me from sleep. “It’s time to start your day.” I groaned and rolled over as I attempted to shield my eyes from the blinding light. She stood in the doorway of my bedroom dressed in her signature Christmas-colored bathrobe and brown slippers. Her shoulder-length hair was down and still slightly disheveled from its nightly encounter with her pillow, and on her face her circular framed glasses rested atop her nose. She gave me a warm smile.

“I made pancakes!”

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Hurried

by Samuel Audisho Imagine if you would, the small specks of light from every window and the microscopic foliage that litters the blank spaces in between.

Imagine if you could, translucent, surreal waves warping the lights and litter. Painting thousands of a second masterpieces.

Collaging color, keeping coordinates coded amongst vast unprecedented castles.

Flashing the finest of forgotten cinders, creating an emulation of the end to the precious embrace of energetic entropy.

Hold this moment still, as the vitriolic vibrations threaten the vision with vigor.

Look closer, and relish in the minutia of men and women always rushing to get nowhere.

I’ve always wondered what it is like to fit into the stand-still, sterile statistics of these busy normal people.

Does it hurt to always hurry between the hundredth point A and point B? Maybe next time, relax on the rush, just relish, don’t dash, just dilly-dally, stop sprinting, just saunter! and maybe when you slow down a tad, you can lavish in the lights and litter you’re so quick to turn away from.

Upside Self

by Bailey Zanck Markers, Acrylic

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A Worthy Life

by Alanis Harris

Quintessence

by Mary Marchlewski Watercolor

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Throughout most of my childhood, I regarded religion as something you were born with. Before I ever had access to the endless internet or point of views that weren’t those of my parents, faith to me was just something that occurred to people naturally. My lack of understanding of religion came mostly from my parents, both of which were walking the thin tightrope between atheist and agnostic. They were both raised in strictly religious, no-alternative households, and because of that, they were adamant about me forming my own opinions. They even offered, on several occasions, to take me to church if I wanted, even though they would not be joining me. I never took them up on that offer, mostly because I was too scared to experience it alone, but it made me feel like I had a choice. It made me feel like I could trust myself with what I decided to believe in.

Religion was a concept that I never really had the materials to understand until later, as my parents never had a Bible in the house. All I knew was that it was a part of people’s lives, people I knew well. It didn’t belong to me, and at first, that was fine. It was when I reached middle school and began to notice how surrounded by Christianity I was that I started to feel the isolation of a house without a god.

It seemed like every person in my community was at church at least once a week, and some more often than that. God was always brought up in school, despite whatever the rules said about it, and we got asked by every teacher since first grade what religion we followed. To this, I never knew what to say, because I didn’t know what to call nothing. When a teacher asked, “What religions are in the room?” I didn’t understand what they meant by that. Didn’t everyone just believe in God? I thought I had the gist of it. I didn’t realize there were so many names for what I regarded as the same thing.

Whenever my teachers got no answer out of me, they told me I was “probably Catholic.” Since I didn’t know what that meant, and they were adults, I ended up agreeing with them.

In a town that ran on camouflage, Busch, and a Christian God, I grew up feeling like an outsider. Sometimes, living in a college dorm a state away, I still do. I did not grow up with this thing that everyone else had, and it shows. God disconnected me from everyone so effectively that I started to feel isolated and judged, even though I’m now sure that no one would have known I wasn’t religious if I hadn’t been asked. It just seemed as if everyone had this familial experience that church brought to them that I wasn’t in on.

This was only a small part of the isolation I felt as a young kid, but at the time, it felt monumental. It was like there was a clear glass wall between me and everyone else. I could see them and they could see me, but we couldn’t ever connect. I was separated from my friends and teachers, and I didn’t want to be. Besides them, my extended family was also mostly religious, and especially my grandparents on my mom’s side. During the two or three week-long visits that I would take to their house downstate on the holidays, they would take me to Sunday church. When everyone bowed their heads to pray together, I felt even more alone. I bowed my head and tried to speak to someone, but I didn’t know who to reach out to, and I felt like a liar.

Not only did I lack the ability to communicate in terms of religion, I also found myself feeling empty of the goodness and the purity that I had projected onto the churchgoers I knew. To me, a kid with a now bountifully flowering sense of morality, that goodness was tantalizing. I was a seventh grader learning about sex and hormones and the dirtiness of the human condition. I was also feeling 53

the heavy and sometimes violent stabs of a mental illness that was being aggravated by puberty. I was desperate for a way to feel clean and guiltless again. Something was telling me that I had been corrupted along the way to teenagerhood, and God seemed like the perfect way for me to become “good” again— and to stay that way. I latched onto the concept of purity so completely that I could think of nothing else for weeks, and I finally decided that I had to take measures toward satisfying my craving for virtue.

Asking my parents about religion didn’t seem right, and I found myself resenting them for not feeling the pressure of morality in the way I was at the time. Since my grandma had already been trying to convert me for as long as I could remember, I figured that’d be a good resource to start with. No one was more happy about my new interest in religion than my grandmother. When we weren’t in church, we were talking about church. In truth, I was intimidated and overwhelmed, but this is what I had wanted. I let myself fall under her wing, but it sort of felt like I was drowning.

Going to church felt like something I could do under my own jurisdiction, an experience I could keep within myself. It was something completely separate from my life at home, something I didn’t have to share with my parents. Church seemed like a magical, almost out of body kind of experience for me, and it remains one of my most (and maybe only) positive religious experiences. Going to church made me feel like I was a part of something vital. There was something about stained glass, creaky wooden pews, and the statues of a bleeding Jesus that made me feel watched over and protected. My favorite part of my grandma’s church was the giant wooden cross suspended on wire, floating behind the pastor.

It was such a powerful symbol, and the wood looked so heavy that I felt it could keep even my imagination grounded. The whole building seemed to be filled with magic, although I don’t think my grandparents would have approved of that description. Sometimes, maybe even often, I still miss feeling safe under the rafters of a church.

One day, my grandma brought home a student Bible from her Sunday school classes, and she gave it to me. Putting my hands on that Bible for the first time was invigorating, and then immediately terrifying. It was so big, there was just so much of it, and I was overwhelmed. I felt like my body could never hold all of this information at once, and I didn’t understand how other people could. Did people really carry these words around with them all day, wherever they went? I was suddenly so sure that I wasn’t ready for this that I almost put the book on grandmother’s shelf without ever seeing a page inside. Instead, I buried it beneath the clothes I had packed, and I didn’t lay eyes on it for the rest of the week.

When I got back home, I dumped my luggage in the middle of my bedroom and sat down on the floor in front of it, staring at the duffel bag I had shoved the Bible into. At some point, I pulled the book out of my bag, straightened it in front of me, and then sat back again in resolved preparation. The cover was plastered with stock photos of smiling teenagers with little gold cross necklaces between their collarbones and Bibles spread in the grass around their feet. It was blue and yellow, hard cover, smooth and shiny. It looked too good for me.

I spent at least ten minutes sitting there on the floor, long enough to lose the feeling in my legs, just staring. Opening it felt like a commitment that I wasn’t ready for. It felt like it took too much time and too many deep breaths, but I finally pulled open the cover, listening to the crisp crackles of a brand new spine. I ran my hands down the glossy, magazine-like pages, my fingertips shaking. Opening my first Bible for the first time, I think I felt closer to God than I ever did for the rest of my life.

That first time, I read feverishly, tearing through the student Bible without absorbing very much 54

of it. After that, I went back again, reading passages slowly, over and over until I felt like my brain could understand the cryptic words and the old language. Since it was a student Bible, it had explanations for certain passages, as well as discussion questions for a classroom. I would mull over these for hours in my head, alone on my floor or under my sheets in the dark.

Honestly, I really did love it. The Bible’s stories were strange and exciting, and hunting for deeper meaning among the words was something I enjoyed. When God flooded the world and began anew, I cried for what He had lost. When Jesus was crucified, I cried for His innocence, and I cried for all the guilt of the world He had saved. When He rose again, I cried for how lucky the world had been.

I fell and rose with the stories, and finishing it felt exactly like finishing any other good book. This was exactly the unsettling problem. I tried to remind myself that this wasn’t just any other book, and I read my Bible again, this time pointedly searching for literal meanings in the metaphors. It was hard for me to remember that they weren’t just stories, but accounts of what God’s world had been like.

It took me three months to finish the Bible for the first time. The second time took about four.

Over the course of two years, I read it again, and after that a fourth time. When I visited my grandma and was able to go to church, I felt good. I felt like I was special for being a part of the church now, and I felt like I had done a fine job at being studious. I didn’t just feel good, but I felt good, the moral type of good that really mattered. Except, a problem arose: even though I felt like I had been fulfilling my moral measuring cup, the Bible and the sermons told me that we were all born into sin. Ephesians told me I was a child of wrath, and Genesis said the intent of my heart was evil from my youth. I was so sure that I had been good, but now I doubted myself — every second thought and accidental anger felt like another stone in the guilty side of the scale. I was told that everything that wasn’t done for God was something done away from faith, and anything done away from faith was a sin.

Ever since I can remember, I have felt like guilt was an inherent aspect of my existence. Every time someone around me was in a dragging mood, I sought out reasons that it could have been my fault. I felt responsibility for the financial turmoil of my family, and I felt like it was my fault when I found out that my mom didn’t love my dad as much as she used to. As I began to fixate on how good my good was, everything that was good about religion for me started to change. I felt a pressure to uphold this task I had taken up, of being a good Christian. It had seemed so simple in theory, but every time I forgot to brush my teeth or didn’t have the strength to face my sins and pray about before bed, I woke up feeling guilty. I fixated on tiny, ridiculous details that didn’t deserve a second thought. Everything I did for myself felt selfish.

If it wasn’t for God, it was a sin, so was everything I did a sin? I didn’t draw for God, and I didn’t write stories for God. I liked books about lore and vampires and ghosts, and reading those things definitely wasn’t for God. Was I really sinning, just by living life as I always had? I was supposed to be good now, I wasn’t supposed to make mistakes anymore. I thought about all the repenting I had to do at the base of my bed every night, and I thought about kneeling there for the rest of my life, and I was exhausted. I was scared. I was guilty.

There were nights when I felt too much shame to read my Bible, like putting my hands on the book would cause it to crumble in my hands. Other nights, I felt so guilty that opening the book was the only thing that I could do to find peace for sleep. I didn’t sleep very much, as that time was occupied with worrying about what I had forgotten to ask forgiveness for. I never was asleep in time to get enough rest, and I had to apologize for that too. No matter how long my showers were, I never felt 55

clean. I started self-harming, thinking that cutting the sin out was one of the only options I had left to get clean.

Every time I finished the last page of the Revelation, I felt like I was supposed to be getting better, becoming a cleaner person, but I wasn’t. I didn’t feel any better. In fact, I felt like a fake and a liar.

Who was I, trying to claim this holy, pure, good thing? I was just trying to make myself holy, pure, and good, and it didn’t feel right. It felt dirty, like cheating. I didn’t belong in a church with all of those good people, and I didn’t deserve the holy book I had been slaving over, either. I was an outsider trying to weasel into a community where I didn’t belong, and it wasn’t possible for me to live that way any longer.

This went on for about a year. Every day was bleaker, and the religion that was supposed to be bringing me to the light was the cause of a darkness that had started to feel inescapable. I felt as if I had failed my grandma, my friends, and most of all, God. How weak was I, that I couldn’t even stay devoted to this joyful, pure, good life? This idea steadily consumed me as the tired, sleepless nights trudged on, and I finally began to entertain the idea of giving up. I had a thought one night, and it was “I’m not studious enough for a Christian life.” That sentence hit me at three in the morning like I had free fallen into a sheet of ice. I had lost my original desire for the joy of religion, and it had become a horrible job that was, frankly, making me want to die. I didn’t understand how something that brought joy to millions of people was making a junior high kid feel like they weren’t worthy of a life.

I didn’t blame religion right away, because this wasn’t what it was meant to do. Was it me? Was I doing something wrong? I was sure of that, that it must have been my fault, so I tried again. I tried even harder, and the guilt pressed back just as firmly. I stopped again and sat down to really think about where my life was standing. I thought about the fear I felt about walking into a church again, and it hurt, way deep down to my core. Church had been my favorite place to be, and this guilt had ruined the magical feeling church had brought me. This guilt had ruined everything for me, all the things that I enjoyed, and I knew that if I wanted to stay alive, it had to change.

I apologized to God for many months after I put my Bible away for the last time. I told myself that if I was still a good person, if I still tried every single day to be someone who people could respect, trust, and look up to, I could still make Him proud. Even if I didn’t talk to Him every night, I thought that simply being a good person would be enough to file me under His grace. That was the philosophy that I decided to adhere to, and since then I have strayed further and further away from the importance of God’s approval. Eventually, I started to do good things because they were the right things to do, and not as an attempt to save my soul. I stopped remembering to do things to please God, and I started doing them to please myself, and to please those around me. Soon, I realized that deciding to be a good person simply to be a good person made me feel holier than my apologies ever did.

I think that religion was not meant for me. There are other people out there that I think are not meant for religion. There are people that I think are. In a way, I stand by what I used to think: religion is something you’re born with. I believe that there are people with a better capacity for a “godly” life than others. Coming upon the idea that I was not one of those people was one of the first steps on my teenage path of self realization, and I’m glad that I went through everything I did to reach it. The darkest part of my life may have come from one of the brightest sources of light in this world, and I think that’s okay. I think I earned a personal lesson from God, and I think that if He exists, He would still forgive me. I think I would have earned His love.

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Christmas Craze

by Mary Marchlewski

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Winter Mournings

by Sarah Nakis

In the bleak mid-winter, Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.

—Christina Rossetti In the winter morning, the world is white.

Irish men work and drink in chilling sun, clenching the icy metal of their guns— breath smelling of whiskey and their dark plight.

Snow on snow, and crimson red on men’s skin, the crunch of shovels against hardened ground with men’s bodies askew, limbs thrown around— air filled with the sickly promise of sin.

The living discard dead into the earth, where they may decompose from exposure.

Curtains of snow draped heavily over, thickened cruor adorned on button-up shirts.

An avalanche down the mountainside seals the grave, living trapped—suffocated squeals.

On Graveyard Hill

by Ethan Hansen

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A two-manned mission for my girlfriend and me

by Hannah Buback

from the aluminum three, i take two lab tabs drop one with me maybe.. you’ll see together we start to feel the flower’s powers wait, this lasts how many hours? the melt begins below the belt our vision goes screwy as we get gooey hey crack, our roommates are back! my smile miles long that seems wrong after laughter i tell them, well.. i’m high it’s my birthday see, this is my present to me their twitching faces switching places to the bathroom we go oh no my copilot forgot how to pee hehe back in bed we turn to lead animal planet granite on the t.v. you have to take a trip to sightsee

Neon Demon

by Mary Marchlewski

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Home

by Morgan Gorecki The first time I saw her, a drunken smile was plastered on her face and I couldn’t help but smile back.

I reeked of sobriety, yet quickly became inebriated by the scent of her perfume a pumpkin spice scent I now know and recognize at the close of each year But this wasn’t the first glance I stole of her— I stole so many I’m not sure which was the first.

Alluring eyes and shy smiles quickly turned this uncouth college town into a place I never wanted to leave.

Uncanny courage pours from her mouth as we make our way out of that hot and sticky lounge when she asks me on a coffee date.

The next morning I await anxiously with the hope she remembered just this one part.

Now a tangled mess of silky legs and forehead kisses is now all I know— Home

Four pm

by Lauren VanDen Heuvel

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Daisies

by Hannah Buback She loves me— a thought so tonic it gave my days ease.

A yellow center surrounded by white, like an egg over easy garnished with greens. Leaves probed like the serrated blade with which I slice my pale flesh.

Red trickles down my thigh, as a tear swells in my eye —she loves me not.

Dazed, I down a bottle of Fleurs de Prairie to christen the moments of our perennial love.

In the meadow, we once sat, her thick auburn curls danced with the wind while wildflowers swayed. I gazed at the daisies.

Their slender white rays, reminders of the delicate nature of doubt.

—she loves me?

Shards of Spring

by Lauren VanDen Heuvel 64

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Hoping for Longer Highways

by Alanis Harris

I lose the stars to headlights and fall asleep in the backseat of a world where night never ends.

I watch shapes pass through misted windows and hope that the wet, black highway never ends.

The pews that I try to settle myself into and the sermons I try to adhere to do not belong to me.

I study sunlight past painted glass and march to my damnation down an aisle that never ends.

The front porch turns orange and red as the sun reaches through the evergreens and over my toes.

I breathe fog and frost into my lungs and hope that keeping it cold there means winter never ends.

I think about fogged breath while sitting on top of a dryer in a laundromat with only two windows.

We have no power during this Michigan winter, and Mom talks about how bad luck never ends.

I lay awake on my worn mattress at 5am after the voices in my head and under my skin have left.

Wet, red tissues litter the floor, daylight mocks me, and I pray to no one that the pain never ends.

The sun is down, and from the back seat I hear you talk to her about things you don’t say to me.

I listen to you and the playlists we made in summer. I think maybe my loneliness will never end.

I stare at my naked body in a dirty mirror and I wonder when my soul fell into the body that I use.

I whisper “Alanis� to the scars in my flesh and I wonder if the road to self forgiveness ever ends.

Untitled 2

by Allison Klancnik

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The Tree Before Us

by Ethan Brannen

In Memory of my grandmother Hong S. Brannen A seed is planted The seed feels the Earth The Earth fuels the seed The seed drinks and is born The seed grows to sapling The sapling feels the Wind The Wind strengthens the sapling The sapling breathes and is reborn The sapling grows to tree The tree sees the Sun The Sun sees the tree The tree bears new fruit The world grows dark The Gloom surrounds the tree The tree feels the Earth and Wind, sees the Sun The tree feels no more on Earth The seed remembers its tree The seed laughs The seed cries The seed...is planted From the fruit of that seed to you Look around you...We are the fruit of the tree Remember, laugh, cry The tree

Ode to October

by Lauren VanDen Heuvel 68

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I SHOT ANDY WARHOL AND THE ONLY REGRET I HAVE IS THAT I DIDN’T KILL HIM.

by Sarah Nakis

—Third time’s a charm.

A .32 Beretta popped your lungs, stomach, liver, and spleen.

It wasn’t enough, and it never will be. I’ve dedicated my life to the elimination of every man from this Earth and man, I should’ve dedicated time to target practice too. It’s been gratifying, nonetheless, seeing a living corpse in place of the person you once were. You rot alongside me and I writhe in pleasure at the scent. While I’m unable to get off on the miraculousness of your recovery, the intense heat of the spotlight surrounding my assault with intent to harm arouses me unlike any hot passion with a woman.

We will always share a connection. People hear your name and mine follows. People see you and they don’t ask about Campbell cans or Marilyn shots or an overpriced painting of a Coca-Cola bottle—they ask about my attempt on your life.

No one can resist curiosity, it’s part of the human condition.

They wonder about the scars, how your body was my canvas and your blood was my maquillage— not to mention how I wouldn’t let you control my life anymore. Men, with their unquenchable desire for women to keep their pretty little mouths shut. I’m opening mine and I say you can shove that Up Your Ass.

Street Spirit (Fade Out)

by Ethan Hansen

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EXP-0001851-08-025-WI

by Samara Kusztyb

The First Day of the New Cycle, Year 2

Everyone came back today, taking the moving metal devices slowly through the glass. From the time we can see the powder blue from above us to the point of our cycles when the large poles with the halted tops gain power, prompting us to go back to our designated buildings for the night. Soon after the power is gifted, the blue of the world above is quickly replaced with an almost black blanket, pierced with small holes. On this blanket facing us is a large off-white object. From my time outside the barrier, I believe it was called a moon. I’ve always liked the moon, but sometimes I wish I was able to see it more often. I’ve also wanted to try to take a photo of it with my cell phone, but it never shows up correctly. Sitting from my room, I watch as the light beyond the darkness reveals itself, peering through the holes in the blanket, creating small white marks in the sky. After starting my time here, these marks have always reminded me of my time before the experiment. Often I would make maps of the stars, as I knew them, drawing lines between them and creating constellations. Sometimes they create images such as lions or centaurs with bows, drawing them into the sky. Now I’m behind an inescapable glass case, cut off from the life I used to know.

Life was pretty great on the outside. Now I spend my days listening to older subjects telling us about their professions outside of here. At least we get a choice as to what we get to listen to. I like stuff about science and language, but some of the others here like to listen to things about history and how people outside the barrier live. During my first year here, it felt very monotonous, going from one session to the next. Every few personal cycles, we get a break from our sessions. I sometimes use this time to take my metal device outside the barrier to get a taste of the outside world for a little bit of a break.

Whenever I leave, I remember, and sometimes, reconsider why I joined the experiment. Now I just feel cut off from the outside world sometimes, yet so at home in the experiment. Yet again, this is a place that you just make a place for yourself.

Back to the topic of my usual sessions, per se. Once in a while, people who are considering becoming future subjects come and examine us, sometimes sitting in on a session to determine if they want to participate in future cycles, but they’re only really here for a few different reasons. One of them is to replace those who are reaching the end of their time in the experiment. From what I’ve researched on the outside, after a subject has completed about 4 full cycles, they receive a document that represents the sessions that they have completed as well as the time and support during the experiment. While I’ve never been to their departure day, I know that, while the rest of us come back for another cycle, these people don’t. These days hurt the most, remembering what time was like while they were there, but we’re forced to move on without them, trusting that things are better. Oh well, at least we all made a good show.

Now I sit here in my room, writing in my journal to you, a random person on the outside of the barrier, looking out my window at the stone path I walk every morning. While it may seem nice, at the moment, I wish I weren’t here. Now I just dread most of my days until the times I get to leave the barrier, seeing how my speakers are doing outside of lecturing to us subjects every day. I can’t wait to be able to finish here in another two years and join my fellow subjects beyond the barrier with the experiences that I gained during my time here. However, two years is too long to wait. Also, if you’re reading this, 72

you should know: You’re already part of the newest class of students here at EXP-0001851-08-025-WI. Fides Christi Scientia

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Brightest Days

by Ethan Brannen Though the road seems rough And your travel hard That the world continues to spin Even though yours has stopped Though your heart ablaze And your mind enthralled That you feel you see But you know only the dark Though the future unstable And the past frightful That this moment endless Keeps the cloak of night around you Look to the sun To the cycle of night and day Though darkest of nights Remember the brightest of days For My Loving Sister I love you and am here as a steadying source of bright days

Breathe In, Breathe Out

by Karyssa Castillo-Kinney

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Moirai

by Allison Klancnik Clotho — spinning string from staff to spindle — leathered hands weaving life into each thread, heroes birthed with shaking fingers nimble, laying out their lives before a word is said.

Lachesis — always clothed in white — precise in measurements of heroes’ lives — mighty eyes with complete control, this is her vice, for she decides mortal’s destiny tonight.

Atropos — the eldest of three — seizes a pair of scissors in needlepoint fingers — bringer of death, it is the end she sees, causation she breeds — a snip, the trigger.

Goddesses of fate — not individual — one woman bending heroes to her will.

Ephemeral (Pt. 1)

by Molly Potter

Model: Elly Klawitter 76

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Back Cover Image: Seasons (Waiting on You)

by Ethan Hansen