Blackberry Winter Spring 2026 Digital Edition

Blackberry Winter

Journal of Literary and Visual Arts Spring 2026

© Rochester Christian University

The Final Entry Short Fiction Samantha Smith 75-77

In A Place Ethereal, Zephyr Stirs Poetry

and Emmy Cook 78-80

Melissa StPierre

Emmy Cook

I didn’t expect anything about this year. At all. The 2025-2026 Academic year has been a season like nothing I have ever experienced before. It has been a season full of a million, small mini-seasons, and it felt like every day brought something new. Up and down. Light and Dark. Large and small. And, the biggest realization in all of it

That’s what life is.

It’s constantly changing. Good is constantly mixed up with bad, and bad with good. Moments are fleeting, memories are eternal. We exist in a constant state of paradox, but continue, no matter what, to always move forward. The universe is a big place, but the world is also so, so incredibly small. To quote Melissa’s favorite quotation:

“wearevastandcontainmultitudes”

Seasons come and seasons go. And, in this season, so much has come into my world and brought some of the most unexpectedly good things. One of those things is getting to work on this edition of Blackberry Winter with Melissa StPierre.

I hope it brings you a bit of unexpected Goodness too. In it, I think you just might see the vastness that I hinted at above. There’s a whole spectrum of colors here, a whole cycle of seasons, all tied together by this one, sacred, thing:

We are all human beings, existing in this crazy, beautiful, broken, world together.

No matter what season you are in, I hope you can find a bit of comfort in some little nugget of creativity here. Maybe, like I did, you’ll even be inspired to explore some creativity of your own. Because I promise you, you have it. After all, we all are made from the same 118 elements as each other… and the rest of the universe too for that matter.

And for an ever-changing world, that’s a pretty constant thing.

Sending you love, hope, and happy reading,

~ Emmy Cook

Faculty Advisor Note

– Melissa StPierre

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it3

It is sunny, and I hear birds chirping into existence the songs of spring in Michigan. It could stand to be a little warmer but I’ll take what I can get. I’m waiting for the other snowshoe to drop. It can’t stay this nice. It’s too early and we must be destined for another significant cold snap. Better yet, here in Southeast Michigan, we are probably in for one more, Blackberry Winter.

Colloquially, a blackberry winter is a cold snap that occurs right after a spring warming trend. I suppose it reminds us that Mother Nature remains in charge at all times. Interestingly, it’s a term not used in Southeast Michigan, at least not popularly, but it is where the occurrence is predictable.

I am again honored to bring you the annual spring edition of Blackberry Winter from the campus of Rochester Christian University. My partner in creativity this year, Emmy Cook, is unparalleled.

This year, I’m particularly blessed because I am watching the class of 2026 walk across the graduation stage. They’re the first group of students I have been able to watch grow from freshmen to seniors here at RCU. The Coreys, Shawns, and Topangas, to my Mr. Feeney, respectively.

My pride in them is unyielding. I’m excited to continue watching their journey, this time as their friend. Since September 2025, I’ve said, “I wish we had more time”, Only now, I've come to realize: we do.

Creativity is a bond and friendship carries it forward. I will carry your hearts as you will mine.

As we were chatting about creative writing, as we often do, Emmy and I mentioned some of our favorite words. We offered each other a challenge, each of us will write a poem with two of our favorite words in them.

3 e.e. cummings

In a place ethereal, Zephyr stirs

“Come on girly pop…you know you’re too good at leaving” It taunts:

“You’re in love with an idea” “He can’t help you.” Flying away, I don’t belong in the ethereal. At least, not today. Shunning all other options, I take a Lyft. Saving the zephyr for something, Someone else, Corporeal.

This year’s edition of Blackberry Winter is both ethereal and corporeal. It is a zephyr. It is magic, and so are the people whose work it contains.

Forever Yours, Melissa StPierre Assist. Prof of English (Unabashedly, emo in the notes)

Thanks and Acknowledgements

-Dr. Zac Watson: English Department

Your confidence in, and support of, Blackberry Winter is valued beyond measure. We could not produce this journal without you, the backbone of our department.

-Dr. James Walters: Dean of Humanities

Thank you for your continuous support and encouragement of creative endeavors on our campus.

-Julayne Hughes: Office of Provost

Thank you for independently editing this year’s edition and for being an additional set of eyes.

-Allison Jimenez: Ham Library

Thank you for supporting Blackberry Winter and hosting the release events for us and providing a physically welcoming space for us to present our work to the World.

-RCU Admissions;

Thank you for supporting the physical existence of the publication of Blackberry Winter. Without your willingness to engage in collaboration, and share resources, the physical copies would not be possible.

-RCU Department of Theater

The ying to the yang of the Department of English. We exist together in a land of creativity and imagination to support and encourage each other while we bring stories to life. Thank you for your collaboration, but most importantly, your friendship. This edition of Blackberry Winter would not exist in physical form without you.

-RCU Student Body

Blackberry Winter would not exist without you. May your creative spirits continue to blossom and your endeavors grow braver and stronger.

Creativity, in any form, is a profound act of bravery.

Rochester Christian University Dept. of Theater and Music

Upcoming Performances

Please follow RCU’s Dept. of Theater and Music

Facebook: RCU Theater and Music

Instagram: @rcutheatermusic

A Blackberry Background:

The Sword 4is the name for the writing group at Rochester Christian University. It is a rebranding of the creative writing club Ex Libris.

Blackberry Winter originated as a product of this creative writing group and creative writing class. In 2022, the creative writing club rebranded and expanded Blackberry Winter to include the entire Rochester Christian University community, including staff and faculty. Additionally, students attending school in any of RCU’s early college partner high schools may submit.

Blackberry Winter publishes poetry, non-fiction, memoir, micro fiction, flash fiction, music compositions, one act plays, photography, and visual art.

If you are interested in participating with The Sword, please reach out to Melissa StPierre (mstpierre@rcu.edu).

The Sword currently has a monthly newsletter with writing prompts and additional publication opportunities. Regular meetings are currently not scheduled.

Please follow the RCU Dept. of English on Instagram: rochestercu_eng

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The updated logo for The Sword was designed by Rochester Christian University student: Nathan Fruendl.

Something In The Air -Anonymous

Maybe the absence of you wasn’t supposed to be a bad thing.

All of the heartache and thoughts that drowned me in despair.

Maybe it was to show me that there is so much more beauty in the world than just you. In other people, in the sky, in the scenery that I see every day.

So many sublime things in this world, and my eyes only focused on you and what we could do.

Maybe you were just supposed to be here for a moment. To show me that I don’t need to live my life constrained to anything. That I can have a multitude of relationships that change me for the better.

That I don’t need a partner to go through life.

That I can do this alone, without you.

Without anyone.

I idolized you, trying to make you a part of everything I do. I sometimes wish I hadn’t done that, but it made me realize that you weren’t everything I’ve ever wanted or needed. You were just someone doing the same thing I was.

Figuring out life.

What comes now? I have no idea, but I do know one thing.

You’re no longer a deciding factor in my story.

You are no longer the person I yearn for. I have endless possibilities you are no longer going to witness.

Goodbye.

I know that I will still think of you when certain things happen, but how can you not? That doesn’t mean I care for you.

It means we experienced life together.

Just for you to become a stranger.

Again.

Embers in the Sky

-Grace Conklin

So when does it get easier?

Desolation

-Nathan Freundl5

I’ll grow up, Stock my fridge with student loans, And watch as our race swallows itself whole.

Daily I borrow grief from the future

I imagine my friends

Dying

I imagine burying my parents

I see my little sister getting tortured

I see my uncle’s plane landing in flames I see mangled bodies.

I go to school with dead bodies. I study with them, and they grade my assignments. And I have asked, asked pleaded them, begged to know “Why shouldn’t I skip to the end?”

They can’t answer.

They yap. And yap and yap and yap yap yap yap yap

That things get better.

That it’s a straight line.

That it’s about the journey. That death gives life meaning.

5 Graduating Senior

I was told it was the Devil who introduced us to evil. But who introduced it to him?

What Good God permits kids to torture?

Then calls it a gift?

And then the kicker

We could not consent to entering this broken, uneven world, And yet, We might be damned for distrusting the one who put us here?

God owes us.

Even if I had a ticket to Heaven I would return it I do not yet know how to forgiveGod.

-Cora

Fox and August Rau

Thirty Going on Twelve

-Peyton Frederick6

The older I get the more I yearn for childhood.

The memories and purity of being a kid are like no other. Making friends wasn’t a struggle, school wasn’t something I had to pay for just to further my education, and relationships were holding hands on the swing set.

Children are innocently naive saying “I can't wait to get older” which is the stupidest thing anyone has ever said. We didn’t realize that the world is so complex and merciless.

We grow up with so many hopes and dreams that get crushed or diminished by others. Other times those dreams become reality, but for most your dreams get buried and start to decay.

Some of us spend years and thousands of dollars just to get a piece of paper. That doesn’t guarantee anything other than debt. You slave away trying as hard as possible to do everything right just to possibly never get the job or life you desired.

Your life becomes about surviving rather than living.

Slowly, we lose the part of ourselves that just wanted to go outside at recess. When nothing was superficial and everything felt real.

Living, not surviving.

6 Graduating Senior

A stationary word. Rooted to the ground; Clipping along. Marching along. Steady. Clock-like. Belonging to this world; nothing special.

Nothing more. Nothing less; With a shimmering quintessence–dust.

Shifting. Moving.

Blowing around in the wind.

Settling into corners, collecting on tables. Itching.

Eye watering. Stirring; Blanketing by the millions and millions; all at once Everywhere.

Ordinary

-Emmy Cook

Michigan Spring -Kate Dyer

I feel a gentle breeze through the window

It feels warm but is doesn’t feel like wind though

It’s spring in Michigan! Of course it is cold

The snow on the ground is getting old

I want to see the trees green and hear the birds sing

But that won’t happen in Michigan spring

It seems we always skip right to summer

Then it’s too hot to enjoy the sun what a bummer!

But I guess I’ll settle with the weather we have now

Just please don’t snow too much, I don’t want to plow

Northern Michigan –Maggie Russell

A nod to Anne Bradstreet in today’s times: –Emmy Cook7

O glorious end of days!

To gaze out my window and know the rumbling of stone, To watch dragons descend in a haze, To see that those who wrong have come

While I cling to the Earth with dying gasps And set my soul t’wards that which is Good–For in these days who knows what good will last, Or even if it should?

For beasts ‘round here rear their heads

Delivering promises in tongues both scalding and sweet, While this world Created, holy, winds up dead In slow neglect by their worldly deceit.

But in these days what Glory cheers my eye Are glimpses of Goodness giving new-birth to This World they said must die.

7 Student Editor

Protest

- Cora Fox

My existence

My outward expression of self

That is the purest form of protest I could possibly display

And How Much of Me Waits for You

- Sofia Ferneda-Souto

The stairs at the end of the world were so deep that, as Robin stared into them, he felt himself losing his grip on reality. They descended endlessly, step upon step, stair upon stair, vanishing into the void. From every place they began, stairs spiraled outward in all directions.

Everything was so empty, so silent. The yellow dust suspended in the air made the stairs look as if they were carved from sand, as ancient as time itself. Were they as old as time, or were they time? They simply were. And they always would be.

Robin’s head throbbed as he tried to contemplate the infinite and imagine what it would be like to have always existed. It was not wise to stand at their feet for long. There were countless stairs. They ascended and descended infinitely, stacked one on top of the other.

Robin knew his moment of lucidity was fading; it seemed today would not be the day he reached the very end. Somewhere below those stairs, Beatrice had disappeared. He tilted his head back and stared upward into the void. The stairs intersected and overlapped for so long that, if he weren't careful, he could swear he was looking down.

The man could climb to the fifth floor to go to work, but taking the elevator to the world's fifth floor was much safer. He had been at the doorway too long, staring too long. He lacked the strength to climb without being swept away by the madness of that place.

Robin would go up, only to end up descending... and descending... and descending until he lost himself in the end of the world—and the end of who he was. It was not yet time. The air in the stairwell was so dry that Robin felt pain when breathing for too long within that enclosed, yet infinite, environment. His head spun. His lungs felt dry, as though they were shrinking inside his chest. He felt the urge to press his hand against the wall to steady himself, but he didn't know if there were any walls around him; he was losing his mind.

He had been losing his mind and staring at the stairs for too many hours, too many days. He thought that, perhaps with time, he would grow resilient and endure as many hours as necessary to discover what he sought. But the stairs were more intelligent than Robin, and he was losing. The watch in his pocket told him it was time to leave, but he knew as much about the stairs as he always had: nothing.

The world’s fifth floor was the Hall of Records, where he spent all his days. As superintendent Robin Blackwood had much work to do that afternoon. His cramped library held piles upon piles of documents, arranged in careful rows in every corner. He was an organized man, but the fifth floor simply didn't have much space. A long red hall and so many small rooms that one could be deceived about the floor's actual size. Every room was lost in paper; in some, the doors could no longer be opened. Some men had lost themselves inside their libraries; some had decided never to show up again.

Despite the heaps of paper waiting for him, Robin could think of nothing but Beatrice. Of all the piles in his small library, ten were likely information he had collected about her: family, friends, work. Another ten were details he knew himself: her hobbies, her appearance, her personality, her ambitions, her fears, her past. Five contained reports from the day she stepped onto the stairs and never came back.

Robin hadn't seen Beatrice go down the stairs, but the image haunted his mind day after day after day. He could picture her so vividly descending without looking back that a sharp ache rose in his chest at the thought of her slipping into the infinite and being swallowed whole.

Would she descend and descend and descend forever? Was there light, or was there darkness? She went down without returning, unable to climb back up, never knowing where the stairs would lead. Robin didn't see her go, but the stairs had planted an image in his mind that would never give him peace. Sometimes the dress she wore changed color, or her hair was longer or more curled. But it was always Beatrice, going down the stairs without looking back, leaving him behind. He pulled the watch from his pocket. He was already late for work. With great effort, he tore

his eyes away from the abyss and turned toward the exit. It was not yet time. On every door of every floor, a large sign said the same thing: “Caution: all stairs lead down.”

Summers With an Angel –Samantha Sidorowicz8

The sun in those summers always felt so warm and sweet. As a child, I thought it was the way the rays kissed and lingered on my skin. Looking back now, I know the credit doesn’t belong to the sun. It belongs to her.Angela. Auntie.

We were always going somewhere in those summers. “Don’t forget your beach towels!” Mom called from the trunk of her black Ford Explorer. Her wide-lensed sunglasses, bright white smile, and sun hat made her look like one of those beach-goers in those commercials for vacation packages. “We won’t!” we shouted back as my brother and I grabbed our Disney-themed beach towels and buckled into the backseat. We couldn’t wait to leave. Leaving meant one thing - we were soon to see Auntie.

Voices of the 2000s would echo through the speakers as we drove - Usher lamenting love, or Lil Wayne flexing his money. Sometimes, a Jesse McCartney song would come on, and I’d sing along with my mom. The summer air would slip through the windows as we drove west to Port Huron, where Auntie would be waiting. Our musicfilled drives filled the distance between us and her.

“How are those cherries?” Auntie would ask me with a smile and a twinkle in her blue eyes as I plucked one from the bag and chewed the juicy, pink flesh from its pit.

8 RCU alumna

“Really good, Auntie,” I would reply to her through a mouthful, red juice dripping down my chin. I’d wipe it away with the back of my small, sun-tanned hands.

When I had my fill of cherries, I’d indulge in a ham or turkey and cheese sandwich. Sometimes, I would add crunchy chips inside, either Lays or Doritos. Auntie would watch me make a mess, that same friendly smile lingering. It was as if she was enjoying the simple youthful joy of the sandwich with me. It was a delicacy of summer and our childhood -especially after swimming. The kind you wish your mom had packed more of. Being with her always made those sandwiches taste better and helped us forget what was missing.

Those days never lasted long. It felt like a blink before we stood by the fountains, rinsing the sand out of our flip-flops or crocks. When we were done, we’d turn to take one good look back at the beach - the place where we laughed, dove through waves, collected rocks, built sandcastles, munched on snacks, devoured sandwiches, and guzzled fizzy pops that tickled our throats.

As the day slipped towards evening and the sun slipped into its sherbet- colored show, there was one last joy left - ice cream.

“What flavor are you going to pick?” Auntie would ask us as we stood in line, restless.

“Blue Moon,” I would say, knowing it was only on a rare occasion that I would get to enjoy the soft, azure delight. Its flavor is one I still can’t quite describe.

“That sounds good,” she’d say, studying the flavors behind the glass herself. These days, I can’t quite recall her favorite.

The cold, creamy confection would help us soften into the ending day. As we ate, my Mom and Auntie would wipe the stickiness from our little fingers and chubbycheeked faces with single-ply napkins. Their ice cream would melt as we devoured ours. The one problem with ice cream is that it never lasts as long as you wish.

Soon enough, we buckled ourselves into the Explorer to go home. We said our goodbyes, in sticky, sunburnt hugs. Her light brown hair draped over our tiny shoulders. The scent of her - suntan oil and coconut, with a hint of soft flowers from her perfumewas what I imagined the tropics to smell like. Thinking about it now, she was the embodiment of summer. Warm. Bright. Exciting. Alive.

I did not know then what she was giving us. I did not know that she was tending the wound that our father left in our family. My adolescent mind couldn’t understand that those beach days were her way of helping us heal and move forward - a brief respite from the feelings waiting at home.

As we got older, the beach days faded into memory. We grew up. We learned to drive; discovered our identities; crunched for exams; graduated high school, pursued professional degrees and careers; moved out of town. While life carried us forward, the cancer was silently stealing her away from us.

But it did not take those summers. Did not steal herheart and spirit.

Even as an adult, I can feel the warm tickle of the sun on my skin. I’m back in Port Huron, the sand between my toes as I lay on my towel, chewing on cherries and taking a hefty bite of my chip-filled sandwich. In my ears, I can still hear Auntie asking me about the cherries and ice cream; feel her hair tickle my shoulders as she hugged me goodbye. Her smiles were brighter than the sun.

I only wish I had known that I was spending my summers with an angel.

Adult Teen Mom

- Anonymous

My relationship to my mother Is much like that of Ray to Molly In Uptown Girls

She loved that movie

We watched it together often A comfort to us both

I never understood why it was so meaningful to her Until now

Standing at the same age that she was when she had me

Living the life she wasn’t allowed to live

–Nicole A.E.

I love you to where it makes Jesus cry

A tear has fallen from the sky

He looks at me with a heavy sigh

Leaning in to hug me

I melt in his arms

So much so he’s almost lost my soul

Begging for her acceptance while needing my own dependence

What if my love for her makes Jesus nervous

I love a love that is seen as sin

Who has truly won

The devil or Jesus

I yearn to feel holy yet I seek the unholy

I beg for forgiveness yet I sit at her feet

I love like Jesus yet I lack his knowledge

You are the fire I touch without worry I’ll burn

You are the storm I chase forgetting I’ll sink

The choice in private but denied in public

You live in between reality and dreams

Stuck in a loop of promises turned into suggestions

A hand that lets go first

I lust for our life and yearn for your eyes

I hope devotedly for a chance for us to fly

Years will be added as we look at the same sky

White Pine Cone9 -Kris Schaedig 10 9 Graphite on paper 10 RCU faculty

The Lonely Pig -Brandon Langeland11

Once upon a time there was a little pink pig named Stanley. Stanley lived in the barnyard on a gigantic farm. On the other side of the fence from this barnyard was the big, comfortable farm house where the Farmer lived, but Stanley slept in the barn with the other animals. And what animals they were! This farm contained six sleek fast horses, eight cows who had won ribbons for their milk, ten sheep with the softest wool you ever felt, and twenty chickens who daily laid the most perfect eggs imaginable. You would have thought it to be the most wonderful farm in the world, and for a while Stanley thought it was.

Then one morning he awoke on his pile of hay, stretched his little legs, and wandered out to get his morning drink of water from the trough. At the same time, two of the sheep were standing near the water having a conversation. As Stanley leaned down to drink, he saw the reflection of the two sheep, with their soft white wool. Then he saw his own reflection, with the floppy ears, the flat round snout, and the curly tail, and he realized that he was not at all like the two sheep.

“But if they are like each other,” thought Stanley, “and I am not like them, where are the others who are like me?”

Stanley looked around in vain for any other small pink animals with floppy ears, flat round snouts, and curly tails, but of course there weren’t any. Stanley had an awful realization.

“I am the only pig,” he said. “I’m all alone in the world.”

Suddenly not feeling very playful that day, Stanley walked back into the barn and lay back down on his pile of hay, deep in thought:

“If I am all alone, who will take care of me? Who will I take care of? Surely I belong somewhere and with someone, but who could that be if I am the only pig?”

Looking around at the other stalls in the barn, Stanley had an idea. He thought, “If there are no other pigs, then maybe the other animals will let me join their groups, for surely they must realize that it is a sad thing to be all alone. I will ask them right away!”

Trotting out of the barn, Stanley crossed the yard over to the six horses, who were staring majestically over the fields.

“Excuse me!” Stanley squeaked. The horses gave no response. It was then that he realized just how much smaller he was than the horses, and how much louder he would have to be to get his tiny voice to reach their ears.

He shouted at the top of his lungs. “Excuse me! Excuse me, sir! Down here!”

One horse turned his head and haughtily glanced down at Stanley. “Gracious!” he whinnied, “It’s that pig from the barn! What could you possibly want?”

Stanley replied, “Sir, I have just realized that I am the only pig on the farm, and I don’t want to be alone! Do you think that I could join all of you and be a horse?”

One of the other horses laughed loudly. “Do you honestly think that you could fit in with the six of us?” she asked.

Stanley climbed up on the fence to get a little closer to their ears. “I know that I would try,” he said, “and I would try ever so hard! I promise you, I would do whatever you would ask me if I could just be a horse with you!”

The other four horses turned away from him with a huff. The first horse, however, stood in thought for a moment.

“Little pig,” he said, “surely you must understand how impossible your request is. But in order to make it perfectly obvious that you could never be a horse, I will give you a challenge. The Farmer keeps us not just because we are beautiful, but also because we are fast. He enjoys setting us free in the fields and watching us race around as fast as lightning. Anyone who was not fast could never be a horse. Therefore, we will go out to the field now, all six of us, and start running. If your little legs can catch up to just one of us, then we will let you be a horse.”

Stanley jumped with excitement. “Oh, thank you sir! I will try!”

The six horses chuckled to each other and walked over to the edge of the field.

“Are you ready, Stanley?” the first horse asked.

“I am!” Stanley shouted.

The horse gave a loud whinny, and all six of them raced out into the field, little more than a blur on the horizon. Poor Stanley tried to move his little legs as fast as he could, but it was soon obvious that he would never be able to catch up to them. He drooped his floppy ears and walked back to the barn.

“He was right,” Stanley thought, “I could never be a horse. But look at the cows over there! They don’t need to be fast at all! I wouldn’t have to race them! And their floppy ears kind of look like mine. Surely they would have no problem letting me be a cow!”

He trotted over to the stalls, where the eight cows were munching on hay.

“Well, hello little pig.” one of the cows drawled in a low voice. “What brings you to our stalls today?”

“I am hoping you could help me,” Stanley answered.

The cow looked up at Stanley with a kind face. “I will certainly try, little pig.”

Stanley’s heart swelled. The cows already seemed to like him better than the horses did!

He began his speech to them. “I am the only pig on this farm, and I don’t want to be the only pig. You all have floppy ears that are similar to mine, do you think that I could be a cow with the rest of you?”

The cows munched on their hay and looked at each other knowingly. One of them called to Stanley from her stall, “Little pig, do you know why the Farmer has us?”

“I don’t even know why he has me, so I certainly don’t know why the Farmer has you.” Stanley answered.

“It is because of the milk that we provide,” said the cow.

Stanley felt a sinking feeling again. “I cannot provide milk,” he admitted.

“Not so fast,” said the first cow, “there could be another way. It’s true that we provide the Farmer with milk, but that’s not the only reason he keeps us around. It is because we sing for him. Come, fellow cows, let’s show the little pig how beautiful our voices are.”

All eight of the cows then joined their voices in a low, harmonious chorus of mooing. Stanley stood for a moment just listening to the beautiful music. The first cow slowly turned her head back to Stanley.

“Do you think you could make music like that?” she asked.

Stanley jumped up on a hay bale and cleared his throat. He kept in his mind the sound of the cows’ voices. He took a deep breath .but all that came out was a quick, highpitched oink. He tried again, but just made the same sound.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the cows, “but I can’t sing like you all.”

The first cow looked at Stanley with pity. “Don’t be discouraged,” she said. “Not everyone is born with a beautiful voice. The sheep, for example, don’t make beautiful noises either. Maybe they will let you join them.”

Stanley glanced hopefully out the door of the barn at the ten sheep grouped together in the yard. “Then I will go talk to them. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, little pig,” the cow said, “and good luck.”

Stanley marched right out of the barn right to the group of ten sheep, determined to finally belong to a group. As he approached, one of the sheep on the outside of the group saw him coming and stared at him.

“You’re a pig.” he said blankly.

“Yes,” Stanley said, “I am. I am the only pig, and I am very lonely. Could I please be a sheep with you so that I don’t have to be lonely anymore?”

The sheep didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to the sheep next to him and pointed to Stanley. “That’s a pig,” he said, just as blankly, “he wants to be a sheep.”

The second sheep blinked for a second and chewed on his spit. Finally he said, “That’s a pig. Not a sheep. We’re sheep.”

Still staring at Stanley, the second sheep kicked the one behind him, who in turn passed the kick throughout the group. Pretty soon the whole flock of ten sheep were facing Stanley and staring at him.

“That’s a pig. Not a sheep.” They all murmured.

“But I want to be a sheep!” Stanley cried. “Why can’t I be a sheep?”

The sheep continued to murmur blankly at him. “Not a sheep. Can’t be a sheep. No wool. Our wool is pretty. We have pretty wool. That’s because we’re sheep.”

“Can’t I learn to have pretty wool, too?” Stanley asked.

“No wool. He’s pink, not white. No wool. Not a sheep. Too pink. He’s a pig,” the sheep droned.

Stanley was losing his patience. “If I could learn to not be so pink, could I be a sheep?”

The sheep just droned on, “Too pink. No pretty wool. He’s a pig. Not a sheep.”

With the same flat tone, the sheep continued that refrain as they turned away from him, one-by-one, and slowly wandered over to the feeding trough, never once talking to him directly. And so Stanley stood there in the middle of the barnyard all by his lonesome. He had already been feeling lonely, but now, after being turned away three times, Stanley was feeling triply lonely. He was so sad that he lay down in the ground right where he stood and gazed at the ground.

“Poor little pig,” a voice above him said, “Don’t pay those dunder-headed sheep any mind.”

Stanley looked up and saw a striped cat stretched out over the top of the fence.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Stanley said.

“That’s because I don’t live in the barnyard,” the cat answered.

Stanley was alarmed. “You don’t?! Are you an invader? Do I need to tell the Farmer?!”

The cat laughed. “No, I’m not an invader. I don’t live in the barnyard because I live in the house withthe Farmer.” “Withthe Farmer?” Stanley asked.

“Yes,” said the cat, “I’m his pet cat, Nadine. And you are Stanley the pig.”

“You know my name?!” Stanley asked, surprised.

“Oh, yes. I know all about you.”

“Then you know I’m all alone. I’m the only pig.” Stanley said, feeling sad again.

The cat named Nadine said, “That’s not so bad. I’m the only cat. And you won’t feel so lonely for much longer.”

Stanley felt his heart leap. “I won’t? Does that mean there will be other pigs?”

Nadine stretched again and lazily said to him, “No, but you won’t be in the barnyard for much longer.”

“But where will I be, then?” Stanley asked.

“Do you not know?” Nadine said, sounding surprised for the first time. “You are only here until you are big enough, and then you will become the Farmer’s pet, just like me.”

“Really? Does that mean I’ll be a cat, too?”

Nadine laughed, yet still in a lazy way. “No, like I said, I’m the only cat. But I’m not the only pet. Look over there, Stanley.” Nadine pointed with her claw, and Stanley looked through the fence at a large, excited dog running circles around a tree, happy as could be.

“That’s Augustus,” Nadine said, “and he’s another pet. But he’s still the only dog. He and I live in the house with the Farmer, and we spend all our evenings snuggling with him on his couch in front of the fire. He told us about you, and he told us very specifically that you would someday come to live with us.”

“That’s too good to be true!” Stanley squealed.

“But it is true, nonetheless.” Nadine replied. Stretching again, she said, “Well, I should be going. It’s almost time for my hourly nap. But I look forward to seeing you in the house someday, Stanley.”

Leaping gracefully off the fence, Nadine walked lazily toward the house and out of view. Stanley felt happier than he had ever felt. He did have a purpose, and he did have a family that would come to get him someday! He was so excited he started to do a little dance as he walked back through the barnyard.

One of the twenty chickens saw him and started to cackle to one of her friends.

“Would you just look at the pig?” she laughed. “He’s dancing around like he thinks he’s somebody!”

The other chicken gave a loud, mocking cluck. “If only he knew! He’s only a lump of bacon!”

“That’s not true!” Stanley huffed. “I’m going to be a pet for the Farmer. The cat told me so.”

The two chickens called to the others, “Do you hear that, girls? The pig thinks he’s going to be a pet!”

The entire flock flapped around him and cackled mercilessly. “A pet?” they said. “Pigs aren’t pets! Pigs are never pets! Who would ever have a pig for a pet?”

“But the cat said!” Stanley insisted.

The chickens laughed harder. “You can’t trust cats! Everyone knows that! She was just making fun of you, and you fell for it! Ha ha ha!”

Poor Stanley felt his hopes sink further than ever before. “Maybe she was telling the truth,” he sniffed, “Why wouldn’t someone have a pig for a pet?”

One of the chickens clucked in his face, “Because, you fool, just look at you! And then look at the other pets! They are cute and furry and cuddly! Look at those floppy ears,

that round snout, and that pitifully curly tail! Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous? What kind of a pet is that? Everyone knows pigs are good for one thing and one thing only!”

“One thing only!” the chickens all echoed.

“W-what is that?” Stanley shivered, suddenly afraid.

The chickens glared at him cruelly. “Bacon!” they hissed.

Stanley felt a chill go down his spine.

“You’re lying,” he whispered, even as he felt the tears well up in his eyes.

“Oh no,” the first chicken said, “You’ll be taken to the Farmer’s house, all right. Only it’ll be on a plate!”

The chickens all laughed again and began to flap their way back to the chicken coup. Stanley felt like he couldn’t move. His hopes had been built up only to be dashed right away. And not only that, but he now knew that the Farmer only kept him in order to eat him some day, and that was it for his life.

Stanley felt there was one chance left for him. He called out to the one chicken at the back of the group.

“Wait!”

The chicken turned haughtily to him. “Yes, pig? What else could you possibly want to talk about?”

Stanley couldn’t look her in the eyes. “I was wondering, miss, since I do not want to be eaten, if I could maybe not be a pig. I’ve been told that I cannot be a horse, that I cannot be a cow, and that I cannot be a sheep. But could I maybe be a chicken? If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

The chicken didn’t laugh at him like the others, but still had a sneer on her face.

“Foolish pig,” she said, “You cannot lay an egg, can you?”

“No,” Stanley answered.

The chicken continued, “But that is what we do. That is what it is to be one of us chickens. We lay the most perfect eggs on the face of the earth. If you cannot do that, you have no business being a chicken.”

Stanley protested, “But everyone keeps telling me what a pig cannot do, but what is a pig supposed to do, besides get eaten?!”

“Don’t you know?” the chicken huffed. She pointed to a mud pile over by the wall of the barn. “That is what pigs do. They roll around in the mud and the muck and make themselves as filthy as possible.”

“But I don’t want to roll around in the mud and the muck!” Stanley said. “I don’t want to make my pink skin all dirty and messy!”

“That is what pigs do,” the chicken repeated. “Look, you’re only going to be eaten anyway, so you may as well spend what little time you have left doing what pigs are supposed to do and get in that mud. Meanwhile, I must go do what chickens do and get to laying one of my perfect eggs.” With that, the chicken fluttered off to join the others in the hen house.

The sad little pig wandered over to the mud pile. It smelled really badly and did not look like something he wanted to have a part in. Was this really his destiny? To roll around in this mess and then to be eaten?! It didn’t seem fair. He cried some very depressed tears indeed.

“Well,” Stanley thought to himself, “there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it. I’m a pig, and I should do what a pig is meant to do.”

With that, Stanley flung himself into the mud pit. He rolled around on his back several times and spread all of the slimy, smelly, runny mud all over his pink skin. It felt gross to Stanley, but he reasoned to himself that at least he was where he truly belonged. And here he would remain, right in the mud, until that sad day would arrive when the Farmer would come to eat him.

Suddenly, a tall figure towered over Stanley, casting a large shadow over the entire mud pit. Stanley squinted his mud-crusted eyes at the figure, barely able to make out the large straw hat and the overalls that all of the farm animals had become familiar with.

“Why, Stanley! What are you doing in the mud?” the voice of the Farmer said.

Stanley hung his dirty head in shame. “This is where I belong, sir.” He meekly replied.

The Farmer shook his head. “Oh dear! I didn’t realize this day would come so soon, but look at you! It’s obvious I can’t leave you out here in the barnyard anymore.”

Stanley froze. So that time had come! The Farmer had come to eat him already! At least he didn’t have to spend a lot of time wondering. As the Farmer walked into the barn and returned with a large horse blanket, Stanley resolved that he would just go quietly. After all, this was what he was on the farm for.

The Farmer reached over and wrapped the filthy Stanley in the blanket and lifted him in his arms. For some reason, even though he was about to be eaten, Stanley suddenly felt very safe. He didn’t feel one bit afraid as the Farmer carried him out of the barnyard and into the house. The Farmer gently set Stanley down in the bathtub, and then filled it with warm, soapy water. He began to wash all of the mud and muck off the pig, and slowly Stanley’s floppy ears, his flat round snout, and his curly tail became visible and clean. As the Farmer dried him off, Stanley felt relieved to be his old pink self again, if only for this last moment.

“Sir,” Stanley squeaked shyly, “I want to thank you for cleaning me off, even though I know it is only so you can cook me and eat me.”

The Farmer looked surprised. “Eat you?” he said. “Is that why you think I brought you here?”

“But isn’t it?” Stanley asked.

“Stanley,” the Farmer said kindly, “have you ever wondered why you are the only pig on the farm?”

“I have indeed,” Stanley answered, “but the chickens told me it was because I was to become bacon.”

The Farmer gave a little laugh. “No. I have a pet cat and I have a pet dog, but I wanted to make my pet family even bigger. And so I looked around to find the pinkest little pig with the floppiest ears, the roundest snout, and the curliest tail. Then I found you. You are exactly what I’ve been looking for in a pig, Stanley, and so I brought you here to be my pet.”

Stanley gasped. So Nadine had been telling the truth all along!

“But…” he started, unable to believe his ears, “but…the chickens said that no one keeps a pig for a pet.”

“I do.” The Farmer smiled. “Besides, what do they know? They’re chickens! I only had to keep you out in the barnyard so you could get used to being around other animals, but if you were going to start spending time in the mud pit then I had to bring you in before you got too used to that. You’re too precious to me to live in the mud.”

The Farmer set Stanley down on the floor and let him take his first tentative steps around the farmhouse.

“And this is my home now?” Stanley asked.

“Your home is wherever I am,” the Farmer replied. Stanley peaked around the corner and saw Nadine and Agustus sitting on the couch. Nadine waved lazily at him, while Agustus immediately leaped down and ran to slurp Stanley in the face.

“It’s been a long day, Stanley,” the Farmer said, “welcome to your family.”

With that, the Farmer went to light a fire in the fireplace. Nadine patted a spot on the couch next to her and beckoned to Stanley. The little pig hopped up, soon joined by Augustus. Finally, the Farmer sat down in the midst of the three and pulled them all close to him.

And so, for the first of many many evenings, Stanley the pig snuggled in with his family, right where he belonged.

This extraordinary piece of children’s literature explores themes of belonging and friendship. Dr. Kemp-Covington’s character learns how to handle diabetes while learning that what make us different make us special.

Please follow our digital edition of Blackberry Winter for exciting updates about Dr. Kemp-Covington’s book!

The Cat Who Lost His Way

- Aaralynn Karman

We all lose our way sometimes the way someone steps onto a path and wanders down its twisting route until they’re not sure where they ended up. It was the same way with Gideon. Gideon was a cat, and he was sure he was the mightiest cat who ever lived. However, Gideon did not know that lions or tigers existed, so he didn’t know how wrong he truly was.

When Gideon jumped off the windowsill of his owner’s house, down onto the cushioned chair sitting on the porch, he was sure he was in for an adventure. He made his way down the porch’s steps. His paws brushed against the lush green grass. Gazing upward, the warm sun kissed his face. He stretched, relishing the blissful warmth. Before taking off across the yard, Gideon glanced back at his home one last time. He’d spent time there long enough. He wanted something new something wondrous and he trusted only himself to get there.

Gideon wove his way through bushes, tall grasses, and flower beds along the streets. All around, noise was constant. Cars beeped and made nerve-wracking sounds that Gideon was sure were explosions. People shouted, wind whistled, and music played from some odd device. Then there were kids bouncing basketballs and laughing. The little kitty liked those sounds, as they reminded him of the kids back home. He’d see them again soon, he promised. He just had to have his adventure first.

Everything was also larger than normal. Inside of Gideon’s home, everything was people-sized. It made sense since he lived with people, but out here…everything was giantsized. Skyscrapers loomed in the distance, trees towered over him, and buildings went on and on until he couldn’t see them anymore. Was this what the outside was really like? All concrete and noise and structures that were impossibly high? Not that Gideon was afraid of heights. No, Gideon always told himself. A cat that was afraid of heights would not be mighty at all. The only problem was he totally wasafraid of heights.

Gideon continued on, ducking away from all the chaos to a quiet space where the sun glimmered on dewy grass. He bounced through the leaves, taking in all the new sights and smells, until he spotted a blue butterfly. His light green eyes focused in on it and he gave chase.

Past bushes and flowerbeds, Gideon chased the pretty butterfly. Tall pines cast shadows upon him the farther he went. He continued on a pathway as he turned away

from a small park and into a forest. The smell of earth pressed into his nose. The blue butterfly flew high above him until it blinked out of sight. Turning his attention back to what was around him, Gideon realized it wasn’t like where he had just been. Trees towered like the skyscrapers around him, hiding the wide blue sky above. Crickets buzzed all around, a loud raucous in his ears. But the biggest issue of all underbrush hid the path he was sure he had just been on.

Panic spiraled through Gideon and he crouched low, slowly backing into the shadows of a bush. He had lost his way. He didn’t know how far he was from home. He didn’t know if his humans would come looking for him. And if they did, how would they find him in such a lost place like this where the path was hidden from sight?

Gideon laid down where he was in the dirt, sadness washing over him. To top it off, the blissful sun didn’t shine here, so it wasn’t even a great napping spot. At that moment, Gideon didn’t feel very mighty or adventurous. He was wishing he were home. Maybe home was where he should have been all along.

A twig snapped.

Gideon’s ears perked up in alarm and he jumped to his feet. The bushes around him rustled. And then a familiar voice spoke a few feet away.

“Gideon? Here kitty kitty!” his human father called. “It’s time to come back home.”

They had come after him! He was not forgotten, after all!

Gideon jumped through the underbrush and ran into the open arms of his human father. Held close, Gideon rubbed his face against his human. The children and his human mother gathered around, petting him and rejoicing at his return. Suddenly, all the sorrow washed away and was replaced with the beautiful feeling of being found the feeling of being sought after because he was loved.

As they walked out of the shadowed forest, Gideon knew he would be careful not to lean on himself and his desires so much anymore. Instead, he would trust where he was called to be and what he is meant to do. Seeing the joy on the children’s faces as they looked up at him affirmed that all the more. But most of all, Gideon knew that no matter what, if he ever ended up lost, he could be found.

I think we’re all like Gideon in some way. Sometimes we lean on our own plans and desires. Sometimes we end up lost, but we will always be sought after by God. And we can always be found.

It's been snowing all week

And I think that God is crying

I

think God is crying –Rachel Williams13

I think She sees children ripped from their parents

Humans being called illegal over lines on a map

I think She sees Her children being attacked and cast out for loving who they love

I think She sees the most vulnerable with Spiderman backpacks crying for their father

I think She sees Her children being brutalized in the streets while trying to protect their neighbors

I think Mother Nature is reigning down on this broken world

I think God is shedding tears over the violence done in Her name.

I was a host

He was stressed out I offered a listening ear

An Olive Garden Lobby -

Cora Fox

He told me that they were out to dinner that night

Their families were stuck in Palestine They needed to decide what to do. Despite his citizenship

He was terrified of being deported To a war torn country he could not call home I offered only sympathy What else could I have done?

He wasn’t asking for money or aid, He only needed someone to hear him.

My Love for Bugs

–Maggie Russell

The Beam -Jailen Tatum14

Hi, my name is Jane. I'm 17. I woke up this morning, and it seemed like a typical day. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and people were walking. For some odd reason, I've been having a feeling that something was coming. I was headed to school when the ground started shaking. It was really odd because there's never been an earthquake around here. I live in Michigan, by the way. After everyone felt the ground shake, I quickly ran to my friend Sarah's house, which was down the street from mine. As soon as I got to Sarah's house, the door was wide open, and a few windows were broken. I became curious about what might have happened here, so I took a step into the house, which was all shaken up, and called out Sarah's name. "Sarah!"

At first, there was no answer when I started yelling her name. I began searching through the house and still yelling her name. The inside of the house seemed as though someone had thrown a huge party there. The ground started shaking again, but this time it was a bigger rumble that lasted a bit longer than the other time. From outside, I hear a scream. Someone was yelling my name. It

14 Graduating Senior

sounded like it was Sarah. "Sarah!" I yelled, "Help me, it's got me", Sarah said. I ran outside, and I saw Sarah, but what I saw was terrifying. Sarah is still screaming; she's yelling for me to help her get out of a green beam of light coming from a cloud.

"Sarah, I'm coming". I run over to Sarah, and I stick my hand into the green beam of light and try my hardest to pull her out of it. Sarah reaches out to grab my hand. "Jane, you're going to have to pull your hardest," Sarah said. "What else am I going to do, idiot?" I pull with every bit of strength I have, but she is stuck in the beam. The green beam started to draw Sarah into the sky. I didn't know what else to do, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let whatever that was up there take her without taking me as well. Without hesitation, I jumped into the green beam after my best friend. I made it to the top a minute after Sarah.

"Sarah, where are you?" I yelled. It was dark until a light turned on. I could only see a path that was leading to a room. I started to follow the path, and my God, with each step I have taken, it feels as though someone was watching me the entire time. As I get closer to the door, I can hear a noise coming from inside. It sounds like Sarah's inside. I've reached the door. Although it seems like Sarah is speaking to someone, I fear that whatever is inside has the power to copy a voice if

it can suck an entire human being up into a beam of light. After contemplating, I finally swallow my fear of what I might see inside and open the door " Sarah?"

TheStoryofEvilbymothy

–As translated by Asher Dumoran

The Daughter of Evil

'Twas a long time ago, somewhere quite far away,

Was a kingdom grand under a tyrannical reign.

And the monarch sitting on the throne, so cruel and mean, Was a noble maiden of only age fourteen.

All throughout her palace was pure luxury and gold.

Plus, a loyal servant with a face just like her own.

In the stables was her favourite horse named Josephine.

She had anything and everything a girl could need

If there wasn't any money left for her to spend,

She'd tax it out from all her subjects without end.

"Anyone who dares oppose me," she would always say,

"Will be put to death this very day!"

Evil flowers bloom,

They sweetly spell your doom.

Rising with a beautiful crimson hue.

Pitiful, pathetic weeds grow around her.

Ah, but soon they'll all rot away to quench her thirst

The tyrant princess held a love within her heart.

'Twas the prince of blue who lived an ocean apart.

But he declined, for he had fallen in love

With an emerald lady from a neighbouring nation.

Soon filled with envy, the princess got to work, And one day summoned her most trusted minister

Quietly she told him her wicked, cruel scheme, "Raze them all and rid the world of wretched Kingdom Green"

Homes of many burned away to ashes in the night.

Lives of many disappeared, while others fled the site.

Cries of all the masses fell upon her deafened ears

While she never shed a single tear.

Evil flowers bloom, They sweetly spell your doom.

Rising with a maddening crimson hue.

Such a pity that a flower so fragrant and sweet,

Ah, has so many thorns that, once too close, will make you bleed

"This evil princess must be overthrown!"

Cried the people as they let their pent-up anger show.

Leading the rebellion, they followed in her stead

Was a lady swordsman with her armour gleaming red

All of the fury that was built up over time

Wrapped around the country as they counted all her crimes.

Soldiers were too tired to fight off the restless mob; They were fast defeated as the masses marched along.

Finally, the people made it passed the golden gates. The palace halls were empty as the servants had escaped. That sweet and lovely princess never posed much of a fight; They captured her under the dead of night

Evil flowers bloom, They sweetly spell your doom.

Rising with a saddening crimson hue.

Paradise built on the backs of subjects she once knew, Ah, crumbled to the ground as they all bid her their adieus

'Twas a long time ago, somewhere quite far away

Was a kingdom grand under a tyrannical reign.

And the monarch sitting on the throne, so cruel and mean, Was a noble maiden of only age fourteen

They had marked her execution time for 3 o'clock,

When the church would ring its bells and send her to the block.

Once the ruling princess, she sat down without a word.

What could she be thinking as those thoughts were never heard.

Finally, the moment they'd been waiting for arrived.

The bells that rung that day were gloomy in their chimes.

Without looking up to meet the masses' hateful eyes

She had uttered for the final time.

The Old Man -Jonathan Bernard

July 7th, 2098. In the market city on planet Juno. There is an old man in the middle of the busy market. He sits there leaning against a pillar while sitting on stacked crates while holding his 2029 assault rifle. He looks to be in his 80’s. He wears his dog tag around his neck. He wears an old dark green jacket and tan baggy cargo pants. His boots are covered in mud and dirt. His beard is grey and scratchy. His face tells stories of pain and tragedy. His left arm (which holds his rifle like a walking stick) is now a prosthetic. He sits there with his old dog who is a German shepherd. He looks around the busy market as AV’s fly above creating winds of sand and dust. The heat is unbearable but the shade that he is in is cool.

As he looks around something catches his eyes. A man in black and white suit stands there in the middle of a crowd. He stands out like a sore thumb. The man looks at the old man but looks away like he’s talking to someone. The old man looks suspicious of something so he looks around again and sees a man staring at him but quickly looking away. The other man fixes his shirt revealing a necklace that looks like a badge. The old man looks even more suspicious.

“Let’s go Buck.” Says the old man with a raspy voice. He stands up and wears his gun around him to swing it to his back. His dog, whose name is Buck, stands up as well. The old man starts walking through the dense crowd towards the market entrance. He is followed by men in casual clothing but one of them is the man in the suit. He tries to lose them in the crowd but their numbers grow as they follow him to the entrance.

Once he passes through it an black AV appears, it blows dust and sand everywhere making the people run to cover from the dust. The old man covers his face with his hand to prevent sand in his eyes. Eventually the AV flies higher so the dust stops blowing. The old man turns around to a line of men at the entrance staring down at him. Then suddenly the man in the suit walks out from the line of men and says “Afternoon Mr.Abmer!”

The man smiles as he puts his sunglasses on due to the sun. The old man remains quiet as he sees more men approaching to block the staircases to prevent escape. These men seem very well armed and dressed more in military uniform.

“But I feel like that’s not your name. Am I right? Alex?” Says the man with a smirk on his face. Alex seems to be analyzing but with anger in his eyes.

“Who are you?” Alex said, looking at that man with disdain and hatred.

“We’ve been looking for you for a long time Alex. My name is Detective Ezra. Lead Director of the investigation department of The United Nation Grand Intelligence. Or call it UNGI.” The Detective's smile goes away to a straight and serious tone. Alex holds his rifles behind his back.

“You are a hard man to find, Alex. Hard to get since the events of Ham 2, 2069. On Earth. Where you killed, single handedly. All the gang leaders of Ham 2. Which led to disruption that led to a civil war. That killed millions.” After the Detective said this, Buck whimpered as a sign of readiness. Alex scowls at the Detective.

“And not only that! You gave us one of our best agent. Valerie.” These words that the Detective said only made Alex more furious. His face seems ready to kill. Ready to cause havoc.

“Who sought this lifestyle as not meant for hers. Then decided to settle down with a little Elf girl.” The Detective's smile returns as he tells Alex this. “Now this action could’ve made warrants go away but... We are seeking for, a fall back man, to blame for this tragic civil war. Are you going to be that fall back man? Huh Alex?” When the Detective finishes, Alex stares at the men who surround him and with his right hand he reaches for a ball. Once he does he quickly slams it to the ground creating a huge plume of smoke.

Then immediately opens fire at the agents blocking behind him and yells at Buck “Buck let’s go!” Buck immediately charges at one of the armed men blocking the stairway and bites his arm. After this Alex runs to jump off a railing falling to a shack. He falls through and lands on a bag of rice painfully. He slowly gets up in pain as Buck runs down the stairs and follows Alex as he runs through the village.

“Get him! I want him dead!” The Detective yells as he recovers from being blinded by the smoke. All the agents run after Alex. While they run, Alex swings his rifle around to take aim as he runs through the fleeing crowd. He then sees a crowd of agents running across the sandy road. Alex quickly starts shooting them down before they could pull the trigger. When they are shot down he runs to his right to the building and climbs some stairs but he’s confronted with an agent taking aim around the corner.

Then Buck rushes in from the side and tackles the agent down. Buck bites down on the agent's arm as the agent screams in pain. Alex goes right again and enters a series of alleyways. He goes up and down all over the complex alleyways. Suddenly an agent

comes around the corner to open fire on Alex but Alex shoots him down before he could land a bullet on Alex.

Alex rushes past the agent until another one high kicks Alex rifle away and back hands Alex across the face. He then grabs Alex by the jacket and pins him to the wall. Alex's body is slow to react as his body is breaking down from age but manages to right hook the agent and slam him on the wall. He grabs the agent's head and slams it on the wall three times which makes the agent fall onto the ground bleeding. Alex catches his breath and grabs his right side in pain.

He then grabs from his right side his pistol, although very slowly due to his pain. He racks the pistol and starts moving through the alleyways again with his pistol taken aim. He hears Buck causing chaos on the dusty street as he sweeps through the alleyway. He encounters an agent attempting to kill him but he’s shot down with only a bullet grazing his left side.

“Is that all you got!” Yells Alex as he peeks around the corner on the balcony. He sees two agents firing at him so he covers and then peeks around again to shoot them down. One falls on the ground wounded but gets shot in the head by Alex. When they die, Alex starts pushing forward up the stairs but an agent on top of another building shows himself to shoot at Alex. He takes cover at a railing and then shoots the agent off the roof and onto the road to his death.

Alex takes his breath again and says “Just like old times just like old times huh.” He then stands up and starts sweeping through the alleyways again but this time killing agents left and right. He eventually finds some quietness as he sweeps but wonders where Buck is so he goes to the main street but takes cover immediately when he sees multiple agents and AV’s all there gathered.

He peeks around the corner and sees an agent holding Buck by his collar and dragging him slightly because of Buck's injury. He’s about to get out of cover until he sees the Detective walking out an AV with a pistol in his hand. He walks up to Buck who is whimpering. He seems to be talking until he aims at Buck.

Alex then says with a whisper worried voice, “No!” Which catches the ear of the Detective who starts looking around. He then hears the Detective yell, “This is what happens Alex!” He starts looking around for Alex, “This is what happens when you evade death!”

Alex looks at the Detective with anger and hatred in his eyes, “You started death to see death everywhere you go! So just surrender! So death can finally leave you alone!”

Alex stands there in thought of how to get Buck out of this situation. Though he seems to have taken too long. The Detective gives a slight smirk and aims at Buck. Before Alex could react Buck whimpers and disappears with one loud shot. Alex looks in fear as Buck is killed by the Detective.

Then suddenly the Detective sees Alex peeking around the corner. He then says to his agents, “Get him.” The agents see Alex and immediately start shooting at him. Alex gets into cover and starts running through the alleyways again until he sees a ledge in a small empty market place and runs towards it. He jumps off the ledge but realizes it’s a long fall. He falls for a couple seconds until he crashes through the roof of a shack and falls on top of a lot of hay.

He grunts in pain as he lays on top of the hay. He then starts sitting up slowly in pain and grabs his back like he broke something. He then grabs from his pocket a small hologram projector. He stares at it for a long time as he catches his breath.

“Fuck it.” Says Alex as he presses a button on the hologram projector. A beam of blue light admits from it which takes shape into Valerie who seems to be a bit older. Alex watches the old message as she starts speaking to Alex.

“Is it on Alissa?” Says Valerie as she stares at Alex. A faint but clear voice of a little girl could be heard in the background speaking, “I think it is Mom.” Valerie then nods her head and says, “Okay, well.” She clears her throat, “Alex… if you're listening… uhm… just wanted to properly thank you…” Valerie's face of confusion fades into a sad look in her eyes but with a smile.

“Fuck I sound like a fucking… corporate women…” She chuckles a bit but then stares directly at Alex and takes a deep breath, “I’m safe now… Mars is actually a pretty place… nice people, delicious food, the soft green grass, the dome sky that protects us… just wish you were here to see it. Maybe you can stop by sometime. If they're not looking for you anymore. Just… Thank you for everything Alex… I hope you have your happy ending too… I love you Uncle Alex…” She kisses her hand and waves at Alex, “Take care of yourself…” She smiles while Alissa could be heard playing around in the background and then hologram message disappears.

Alex sits there in silence and in a dark shack with very little light. He sits there with a small tear on his cheek. He then smiles with joy in his heart. He finally wipes his tears away and stands up. He leaves the shack hesitantly and sees the crowded road filled with elves and dwarves and humans. He raises his hand to call for a cab.

When the cab arrives he’s taken to the outskirts where large farmland with giant silos decorate the fields in the distance. He pulls into a long driveway leading to his old farmhouse. When he pays the cab driver he steps out and starts limping to his house. The grey house seems to be an old style from the 20th century with a windmill next to it. He steps onto the step of his porch but hears something behind him. He looks over his shoulder and sees a small drone hovering in the distance by an old tree. He sighs and looks back to grab his pistol in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out and turns around to shoot the drone down.

He puts his pistol back and thinks for a second. Then he finally goes into his house which looks runned down. He goes to his living room with furniture all moved to the window as a barrier or cover to shoot out of. He goes to the fireplace and removes the wooden logs and lifts a hatch containing high grade explosives. He grabs them and heads outside. He starts lining it out across the yard. Each bomb connected with an old wire.

He leads the wire back to his porch and connects it to a small transmitter hidden in the bushes. After what felt like 30 minutes of work he sits on the porch step and waits. He stares at the sky that shows a giant red gas planet. He looks at the gas planet for a while for what felt like hours until he hears AV’s in the distance getting closer. He sees the black coated AV’s land on the giant yard and a heavily armed soldier dropping out. They start walking closer to Alex with their guns pointed at him. Alex stands up with his pistol in his right hand.

When he stands up, the soldiers stand still but before they fire they hear the Detective yelling saying, “Hold up! Let me talk to him!” He walks in front of the soldiers with his hand raised and the other hand with a pistol. He stands there between them and Alex.

Alex stands at the porch ready for something. The Detective then says, “I’m giving you a third time’s charm to give up and surrender to become that prisoner that you were meant to be…” Alex stands there in silence but not with anger on his face but readiness, “You see Alex, you thought you can… live a normal life?! Relaxing on a farm, drinking a cup of coffee or beer… staring into the beautiful sky. How did you really think this was gonna go?!”

Alex starts looking at each soldier's placement and starts walking a bit forward off the porch as the Detective continues to talk, “I mean nooo, murderer, gets a happy ending, Ale!. It’s just the way it is. Loose ends need to be tied up a last straw that needs to be cut so we can move on from the civil war!”

The Detective suddenly stops talking as he sees Alex left hand behind his back. He then looks at Alex with a face of realization. He then says under his breath, “And you're that last straw that needs to be cut.” He aims at Alex but at the same time Alex presses a button behind him and a chain of explosions go off killing each soldier brutally and killing the Detective.

Alex is launched back into the porch stairs as the final explosion goes off. He grunts as he looks up at the smoke covering the yard. Alex looks down and sees blood seeping through his shirt. He realizes shrapnel hit all over his body. He grunts more as he tries to stand up. He leans on the porch beam and starts taking deep breaths. He looks again at the mess he caused as the smoke clears. He sees body limbs littered everywhere and the Detective body in half on the ground.

“Good riddance.” Says Alex as he turns around and limps onto the porch as he sits on a rocking chair. He then looks to his right to see a beautiful sunset in the distance. He then hears a familiar voice next to him saying, “What a beautiful sight.”

He looks to the left and sees Shaun sitting there in another rocking chair smiling at him. Alex smiles and says looking back at the sunset, “Yeah, it is.” They both look at each other for a bit until Shaun says, “Thanks for keeping a promise.”

Alex looks back at Shaun who is looking forward. Alex nods his head and says “I like to keep ‘em. It brings meaning to survival.” Alex looks out past the yard and into the beautiful sky. They stare out together until Shaun says with a smile on his face, “To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning to that suffering.” Alex stares out in thought and says with a big smile and a heart fulfilled, “I get it now…” They sit in silence as Alex… finally… can…rest…

Consolation

–Nathan Freundl

Yet even if he is a tyrant, There is still Good, And an insufferable part of me says I ought to fight for it.

Not for things. Things are cheap. But for a life well-lived? For an honest, pure heart? For people?

Even ifmy family and friends all die tomorrow, My sister is a little girl today. She wakes me up in the morning by placing a cat on me, And then leaves me drawings of cats before school.

I have a shoebox, Three photo albums, And a treasure chest Filled with notes that say “I love you, Nathan.”

When God murdered one of our cats, The sight of my own little sister crying incapacitated me for months. Could I do that to her with my own life?

Oh, it is notgoodfor us to be alone.

Even if He is silent, My little sister is not. She looks me in the eyes. She hugs me.

She tells me that she loves me.

Is she not a miracle? Is love not divine?

Is she not one of the greatest goods?

I would die for her, And so I will live for her.

Heaven’s Horizon -Grace

Conklin

I sat in hell loving you

Loving Her -Nicole A.E.

While the fire consumed every inch of my body

Every touch you burn my flesh

Marking me from head to toe

I bled for you

And you drew stars around those scars

The grip of your delicate hands

Reached in my soul taking every last breath

I sat on my knees as you took my strength pleading for your love

I looked into your deep blue eyes

And I had fallen into the ocean

Dissipating the fire that I have been engulfed by

I had lost my sense of pain

For a longing of her love that made me numb

And then you left me in the hell hole you dug

Keeping me at arms length away

Just enough to look into your eyes and feel nothing but a false comfort covered in greed

Now I sit at my knees praying for god to forgive me

Yet in the in between

The air I try to breathe has been corrupted in an evil I can’t even explain

Anxiety has clung onto me

You get what you want

And I let you hang me

Pine Cone15 -Kris Schaedig

Loblolly

15 Graphite on paper

Time Leaves a Scar -Peyton Frederick

I can recall a time before I knew your name when I admired you so much. The way you walked with your long puffy coat and white vans. Eyes wandering, avoiding eye contact. Leggings that hugged your physique so perfectly.

I can remember the way your alluring blonde hair glistened in the sun. Your laugh was a symphony that I could hear from a mile away.

Listening to it could never get old.

The mystery that came with you even though you weren’t hiding.

Luck in the highest form when you positioned yourself in my life.

The “accidental” meetings on the sidewalk because you left your binder in the dorm room.

Feeling wanted and desired every second the day passes. Reciprocation was never so noticed.

All the notes, kisses, grand, and minor gestures that make you fall in love.

Blind without a leader dog.

You could relish in all the amazing things even when you know they’re temporary.

Because for a fleeting moment nothing else mattered. Everything was second to the bond we shared.

Blossoming flowers in an endless field.

I

’m Sure You Did

-Melissa StPierre16

The text read: “I’m sure you did.”

That’s it. Perfunctory. I read it with a kind of snarky bite that is usually reserved for special occasions, like parking lots and telemarketing.

She was supposed to be my friend. Had been for the better part of memory.

At one point, she was my best friend.

I text her with wild excitement about just finishing some lesson plans I was particularly jazzed about for the upcoming school year.

“I worked really hard on these.” Read with exhaustion and disappointment in your voice.

“I’m sure you did.”

It cut a little, but I wrote it off as maybe a bad day. Perhaps I’d read that wrong. Maybe it was joyous: “I’m sure you did!” and the exclamation point was just missing.

The texts got shorter or further apart. I called. No answer.

That’s fine. We’re both busy working women and I have a young child at home. It’s all good. We’ll reconnect when we can.

I tried to email.

16 RCU faculty

Nothing.

I called, only to receive an accusation of texting to only attempt to get her on the phone. It was clear we weren’t going to talk.

I’m a writer, so I wrote.

I wrote several handwritten letters and notes. I was more or less begging to be told what I’d done, or not done, to my friend.

I beat myself up and down, backward, forward, sideways, trying to figure out what I had done.

What. I. Had. Done.

Me.

I interrogated myself, only to come up short, tired, and crying.

I imagined as many scenarios in my mind as possible. What had I done?

Nothing that I could come up with.

What had my family done? Nothing, that I could come up with.

It was 2021, and I don’t know anyone who wasn’t struggling. During our last “real” conversation, she berated me for not making the choices she demanded I make.

She compared me to the one person I knew she vehemently hated. Told me we were the same.

I was, in her words, as bad as her husband’s ex-wife.

And yet, I came back for more.

The now infamous text.

“I’m sure you did.”

To myself I thought, maybeshe’s in a cult? Some sort of new incarnation of NXIVM?

It was easier to imagine that my former friend couldn’t speak to me than to think that she just preferrednot to.

At the time, I lived in an area that had spotty cell service. To this day, I have no idea why I would occasionally receive text messages days later, or never.

One of the last messages I received was an accusation that I was only texting her in an attempt to manipulate her to get her on the phone.

In another, she called me a bad mother.

A bad mother.

I am many things. To borrow from Whitman, “I am vast. I contain multitudes.”

She could have insulted anything: my home, my hair, my music taste (still would have been wrong, but ), or even the career I love.

When you use my child to weaponize your cruelty, that’s a line I cannot come back from.

There’s a scene in a book I recently read in which the narrator recounts riding atop the hood of a moving car. The driver slams on the brakes just to see how far he’d fly.

I flew pretty far, and if I am being realistic, I limped once I got up.

Dedicated therapists:

And,explaintome… how many people from your collective past does Jane Doe have in herlifetodate?Whatdoyouthinkaboutthat?

Me, thinking about it: none . I think I was the last one but I’m not entirely sure.

Let’s consider for a minute that perhaps this is a pattern.

I don’t want to.

Thelackoflong-termfriendshipssaysmoreaboutherthanitdoesaboutyou.

I have pondered this for going on five full years.

Unexpected tragedy will close some old wounds but not all of them.

When she experienced this, she reached out. Over a month later but I suppose there’s value in an “A for effort” somewhere in there.

She called while I was at work. Again, I was working on plans for a class that I was excited about. Maybe she’d developed thatknack for timing since we’d last spoken?

I let the phone ring. I stared at it, of course, as you do. I didn’t want to answer it. We hadn’t spoken in years, so what could I have possibly done now? I guess I’d find out after my classes that day.

I left, driving with even more anxious energy than normal.

I called back while in the parking lot of my daughter’s school. I was waiting to pick her up from an after school program and knew my time was limited.

I planned that. Protect your peace. She answered.

Crap . I was going to have to talk.

I was really hoping this could go to voicemail and I could just hang up. I don’t leave messages. I’ll write you a novel as a text, I’ll send you a voice memo that sounds like a podcast, but I will not leave a message.

Her tone was a little on the light side. It wasn’t as if we hadn’t spoken in years.

Whyarewetryingtobefriendsrightnow?Thisissoweird… If she says, “hey, mama”, like she used to, I might just puke on the sidewalk. Just right here. I hate this.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiyyyyyyy!” (I hate the sound of my own voice right now.)

WhydidIjustdothat?

Seven minutes and twelve seconds. It took 07:12 to tell me that a family member of hers had passed away. No, they weren’t doing a memorial service. There’d be something else down the line. She’d “keep me informed” (I had better chances of being struck by lightning.)

Finally, the time on my phone read 04:54 p.m. The blessed time of “I gots to go!”

“I have to go, I have to go grab my kiddo…”

She called again, several months later. It was the summer, I think.

I didn’t answer. Protect your peace.

I’m not conflict avoidant. I just know when I want to spend emotional currency.

This time, I didn’t call her back either. Protect your peace.

I’ve finally, recently, come to the conclusion that I will neverknow what happened (or didn’t).

When I talk about her, which isn’t often, I say she’s someone I once knew. Again, I still prefer the cult story.

I’d be a liar, even to myself, if I said that it didn’t sting. It does. She can’t/won’t/will never see how amazing my daughter is. I didn’t call her when tragedy struck. I’ve kicked her off the Grand Council, so she won’t know when I make major life choices/shifts/upheavals.

I won’t let her image float into my mind when joy bubbles and runs over, which is often.

I can say I am a recovering people-pleaser, and it’s true. I suppose I can thank her for that, maybe on some small level. I didn’t hand over my gumption and let her Play-Doh her way with it.

I shape my own choices, make my mistakes, and own my own triumphs, thank you very much.

Since losing my former friend to a cult (see, it gets easier to say), I’ve cut other people off on my own accord.

Protect your peace.

To some, I’ve given them answers. To others, I haven’t. Maybe they assume I, too, am in a cult?

I don’t owe anyone the pieces of me that add up to their own justifications.

I protect my peace.

I’m sure she does too.

The Final Entry -Samantha Smith

Sarah’s hands shook as she slowly turned the page.

The paper was blank.. until letters began to bleed through, forming in real time, as if written by an invisible hand. Red ink spread across the page in jagged, frantic strokes.

"You should NOT have opened the door." Not was underlined and uppercase. This is serious..

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She spun toward the front door. It was still closed. The chain was still on.

But... the handle was moving.

Click.

The chain slid free on it's own.

The door creaked open, inch by inch. Cold air flooded the kitchen, carrying the smell of damp earth and something metallic. Sarah stumbled backward, clutching the book to her chest. The porch was empty again... no figure, no footsteps, no movement. Just darkness.

She looked back down.

A new sentence has now appeared.

"Check the porch."

She swallowed hard and stepped forward. Every part of her screamed to slam the door shut, but her legs moved without her permission. She then stepped outside.

The box was back.

The same brown cardboard box. The same shaky handwriting.

Her name...

Inside was another book that was identical to the first, except this one looked new. It appeared to be untouched.

She opened it.

The first page was dated tomorrow.

The entries described everything she was about to do. It said things like, how she would call the police, how they wouldn’t believe her, how she would go to bed and try to forget. The final entry was written in darker, thicker ink.

"At 1:27 am, you will hear a knock."

Sarah dropped the book.

Behind her, the front door slammed shut.

She turned, and that is when she saw herself standing in the kitchen, holding the first book, frozen in fear.

Her reflection smiled.

That was when she understood.

The book wasn’t predicting her future. It was documenting a loop. The figure on the porch, the whisper in her ear, the text messages... those were all from a version of her who had already lived this night, opened the box, and became whatever was writing the book. She wasn’t being stalked by a stranger after all.

She was being replaced by herself.

Every time she opened the box, read the book, and followed it's instructions, she became the watcher for the next Sarah. The author. The messenger.

The knock wasn’t from a stranger.

It was from Sarah, the next Sarah, standing on the porch, holding a box, ready to start the cycle again.

Now, it was her turn to pick up the pen.

The pen scratched across the page, and beneath her trembling hand, the book wrote her final entry in her own handwriting: “She delivered the box.”

In a Place Ethereal, Zephyr Stirs

-Melissa StPierre

In a place ethereal, Zephyr stirs .

“Come on girly pop…you know you’re too good at leaving” It taunts:

“You’re in love with an idea”

“He can’t help you.”

Flying away, I don’t belong in the ethereal. At least, not today.

Shunning all other options, I take a Lyft.

Saving the zephyr for something, Someone else, Corporeal.

In a Place Ethereal, Zephyr Stirs -Emmy Cook

In a place ethereal, Zephyr stirs, waking something long asleep, wintering beneath soil and snow. Buried.

A hibernation of wills For there has been plenty of Dying–

The sun does set in the West. It goes down in a fiery blaze, shattering the snow like glass. Thawing. And a breeze blows the cold away For there will be plenty of Living–

aroundandaroundgoesthewind it breathes in it breathes out aroundandaroundgoesthewind it breathes in it breathes out

In a place ethereal, Zephyr stirs, each season takes something for itself, to give something to the next.

Nothing lost

Nothing gained

Only a miraculous changing of shapes. Forthereisnothingnewunderthesun–

aroundandaroundgoesthewind it breathes in it breathes out aroundandaroundgoesthewind it breathes in it breathes out

In a place ethereal, Zephyr stirs, My eyes open wide, and I say to the wind: Defiant.

Ifallisvanityandchasingafterwind

Let me chase after the winds of change–for spring has come Again.

Creatives

Jonathan Bernard

Quote: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

Life Advice: Just keep trying. If you are weak, pray for strength. If you keep failing, pray to be picked up. If you are lost, pray for guidance. Whatever you do, just keep trying.

Emmy Cook

Student Editor, Blackberry Winter.

Quote: “What goodly creatures are here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world that has such people in’t” Miranda, The Tempest (Shakespeare)

Life Advice: Good things can be hiding in the smallest places, so let yourself stumble upon them when they find you.

Sofia Ferneda-Souto

Quote: “So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.” - Clarice Lispector.

Advice: You can feel embarrassed today or regret not chasing your dreams tomorrow.

Cora Fox

Quote: "When she talks, I hear the revolution" - Bikini Kill

Life Advice: Keep an open mind and stay kind

Aaralynn Karman

Quote: "We are mirrors whose brightness is wholly derived from the sun that shines upon us." - C.S. Lewis

Life advice: There is a light and there is a way through every darkness and down every path. You just have to find it and keep going. Don't give up.

Brandon Langeland:

Theatre & Music and Interdisciplinary Studies

Professor

Role Model: Fozzie Bear

Fun Fact: Has eaten Burger King in the Middle East

Margaret (Maggie) Russell

Quote: We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths. -Walt Disney

Life Advice: Life is short, hug your loved ones because you never know what’s next. Sometimes life does suck so just eat a bowl of ice cream.

Melissa StPierre

Faculty Advisor to Blackberry Winter and Assistant Professor of English

Quote: “Am I more than you bargained for yet?” -Fall Out Boy

Life Advice: The only person watching you is Thoreau, so you better be going confidently in the direction of your dreams. If you aren’t, turn around, you’re going the wrong way.

Kris Schaedig

Adjunct Faculty, Humanities (Instructor of Studio Art courses, Art Appreciation, and Art History)

Quote: "The sky is my prayer, the birds are my prayer, the wind in the trees is my prayer, for God is all in all." Thomas Merton Advice: Listen to and follow your gut. It's almost always right.

Rachel Williiams

RCU Director of Marketing & Communication

Quote: “Deep within each of us is a spark of the divine just waiting to be used to light up a dark space.” Fred Rogers

Life Advice: Be kinder than necessary.