Sequel 2015 to 2016

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SEQUEL 2015-2016 David Wolf Nancy St. Clair Coryanne Harrigan Allie Esch Kathrin DePue Christopher Nickel

Faculty Advisor Faculty Advisor Faculty Advisor Editor-in-Chief Copy Editor Art Editor

Staff Clayton Bowers Temesha Derby Caitlin Featherstone-Priester Addison Grant Emilie Hudson Ella Kistler Anna Littlejohn Kat McCaffery

Shelby Minmann Kate Morford Zoe Muehleip Patrick Peters Bethany Shaefer Haylee Slusser Ethan Zierke

Special thanks to the English and art departments as well as the Office of Marketing and Public Relations for their assistance with this publication.

The content in Sequel is not representative of the opinions of Simpson College. Subject matter may be sensitive to some readers.

701 North C. Street Indianola, IA 50125 www.simpson.edu 2

Table of Contents Fiction The Red Leather Couch

Zach Howarth

To Infinity and Beyond

Brooklyn Hunter Fiction

14

An Ode to Fallen Gods

Maxine Lauzon

Fiction

16

Burn It Down

Anna Littlejohn Fiction

32

Reverie

Brianna Stoever Fiction

36

Fiction

9

Nonfiction Poverty, Persistence, and Peace of Mind in Peru

Emily Koss

Nonfiction

38

Once Upon a Nightmare Shelby Rae

Nonfiction

42

Poetry Infant Spider

Kristen Alstott

Simpson College Haiku Series

Poetry

44

Kristen Alstott

Poetry

45

The Trials of Bianca

Kristen Alstott

Poetry

46

A View

Tyger Bottenfield Poetry

50

Beach Rest

Tyger Bottenfield Poetry

51

Time

Tyger Bottenfield Poetry

52

Part 1: Not Funny

Dallas Downey

Poetry

53

Part 2: Slightly Funny

Dallas Downey

Poetry

53

3

The Italian Campaign

Dallas Downey

Poetry

54

Constellations

Sidney Griffith

Poetry

55

Edit Image

Sidney Griffith

Poetry

56

Fighting for Freedom

Emily Hudson

Poetry

57

Strange and Terrifying

Emily Hudson

Poetry

58

Time’s Immortal Heart

Emily Hudson

Poetry

59

The Odd One Out

Neil Johnson

Poetry

60

Driving Contradiction

Anjali Khankari Poetry

61

Introspeak

Anjali Khankari Poetry

63

Homage to My Pants

Ella Kistler

Poetry

64

Life Fact #134

Ella Kistler

Poetry

64

Turtle

Ella Kistler

Poetry

65

An Amusing Aspiration

Anna Littlejohn Poetry

66

Haphephobia

Kat McCaffery

Poetry

69

Teeth

Lauren Meyers

Poetry

71

DV

Lauren Meyers

Poetry

72

#Basic

Taylor Nehring

Poetry

73

Toilet Talk

Taylor Nehring

Poetry

74

The Joys of Living Together

Taylor Nehring

Poetry

75

Roadkill

Taylor Nehring

Poetry

76

Rest in Pieces

Taylor Nehring

Poetry

77

4

Iris

Patrick Peters

Poetry

78

Imago

Patrick Peters

Poetry

78

Death of a Fatalist

Patrick Peters

Poetry

79

Posthumous

Patrick Peters

Poetry

80

aj

Bethany Schaefer Poetry

81

Angel Hair

Bethany Schaefer Poetry

83

Second Shift

Bethany Schaefer Poetry

85

The Ring

Bethany Schaefer Poetry

88

Bethany Schaefer Poetry

91

Once More, with Feeling

The Space Between the Canyon Lips Holds Life

J.J. Stand

Poetry

93

Nicole Stuhldryer Poetry

94

Strolling

Nicole Stuhldryer Poetry

95

Thunderstorm

Nicole Stuhldryer Poetry

95

One Last Puzzle

James Tillison

Poetry

96

As Time Ticks On

Andrea Van Wyk Poetry

97

Bad Spirits

Ethan Zierke

Poetry

99

Film Critic

Ethan Zierke

Poetry

99

How to Be a Good Client Ethan Zierke

Poetry

100

Matin en bois

Ethan Zierke

Poetry

101

Path of Least Resistance Ethan Zierke

Poetry

102

If One Person Could Only

5

Photography Sunset at the Iowa State Fair

Kristen Alstott

Photography

103

Closed

Annie Collins

Photography

104

Handmade

Annie Collins

Photography

105

Photography

105

Annie Collins

Photography

106

Annie Collins

Photography

107

Taylor Gehrls

Photography

108

Taylor Gehrls

Photography

109

Photography

110

Photography

111

Mayan City

Annie Collins

Refreshing Waves

School Is Out

Snow

Rainbow

Sunset at Lake Okoboji

Taylor Gehrls

Simpson’s Campus

Taylor Gehrls

A day without sunshine, is you know, night

Austin Hronich

Photography

112

7.8.13

Brooklyn Hunter Photography

113

Alaskan Adventures

Brooklyn Hunter Photography

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

114

Brooklyn Hunter Photography

115

Reflection

Melissa Moore

116

6

Photography

This Isn’t Love

Melissa Moore

Photography

116

Angel

Melissa Moore

Photography

117

Fin

Taylor Nehring

Photography

118

Rustic

Taylor Nehring

Photography

119

Photography

120

Photography

121

Rebecca Schmidt

Photography

122

Maureen Snook

Photography

123

Maureen Snook

Photography

124

Maureen Snook

Photography

125

Jessica Swenson

Photography

126

Jayde Vogeler

Photography

127

Jayde Vogeler

Photography

128

Faith Williams

Photography

129

Zoey’s First Fall

Taylor Nehring

Zoey Pounces on Pumpkins

Taylor Nehring

Secret Splendour

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

Robert C. Leist

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

7

Visual Arts Untitled

Al

Lead Guitar

Wasteland

Alayna Geronzin

Visual Arts

130

Emily Goodenbour

Visual Arts

131

Dan Gutmann

Visual Arts

132

James Jackman

Visual Arts

133

Visual Arts

134

Visual Arts

135

Christopher Nickel

Visual Arts

136

Patrick Peters

Visual Arts

137

Visual Arts

138

Revitalization Study 2

Christopher Nickel

Revitalization Study 4

Christopher Nickel

Revitalization Study 5

Oblivion

Child Slavery

8

Bailey Sipfle

Fiction

The Red Leather Couch Zach Howarth | Fiction “Why did you call me that?” He stood up from the red leather couch and turned on the tape recorder.

“Call you what?” responded Scott. He closed the door behind him. His tufted auburn hair was greased over, like his facial expression. “I don’t recall saying anything as I walked in. Even thinking anything, except that your door is huge. Chop down ten oaks just for that natural wonder?”

The psychiatrist chuckled. “I’ve always thought of getting one of those “Hobbit” doors, you know, the arch-looking ones. Could make some good business for my chiropractor friends. But I digress. Sit down, Scott. Let’s talk a little bit.”

“Talk, talk, talk; I thought I came to these appointments to ogle over your receptionist.”

“I wouldn’t mind that, except she’s engaged.”

“Eh, there’s a fifty percent divorce rate in America, Two-Face. Better tell her to flip a coin.”

“Is that my name now? Two-Face? That’s certainly better than the one you gave me when you walked in.” He ran his fingers through his beard, straightening out the curls. “Not entirely sure if I have the face for it.”

“Haha. I ‘spose you don’t. I also ‘spose you’re gonna ask me about my problem.”

“Well, actually, I’d like to get to your real problem—your wif—” “Ex. Wife.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Your ex—I’d like to talk about her. You seem upset and always avoid me when I speak of her.”

“I wonder why.”

“Are you ashamed of her? Of what happened?”

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Scott considered this question, and, lying back on the red leather couch, started laughing. He was bellowing. And in an instant, it was gone. Depression replaced joy. Scott’s tears ran down his cheeks like a waterfall. His head hung down, resting on his arms. He choked out, “No, no, doc. I’m not ashamed of her or what happened. I’m ashamed of myself with her.”

“Oh, that clears it up perfectly.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“That is what I’m here to do, Scott. Try me.”

“More of your—your cliche words, doc? Another fantastic shrink sentence from your books?”

The psychiatrist sat back, and stayed silent for a few seconds. He finally said, “Why don’t you tell me about something leading up to that Saturday? About her? Were you two arguing more often? Sleeping separately? There must have been something that led you to do what you did.”

Scott simply glared at the doctor. “You won’t even fucking say it, will you?”

The doctor leaned back, as though he was trying to be submissive to Scott’s demeaning tone. He could feel tension building.

“I don’t think it’s necessary to say it in this se—” “I FUCKING KILLED HER, DOCTOR. Is that what you wanted me to say this whole time? Jesus Christ, doc, it’s been four ‘sessions’ now, the jury is still out! Everyone thinks I’m a murderer and if you’re going to join the herd, you might as well now! If you’re gonna declare me insane, just do it!”

“Scott, sit back down, please.” Scott shook his head and noticed that he’d stood up in his small tirade and was holding the tape recorder over his head in his hands. He slowly placed it back on the table and laid back on the red leather couch.

“We had some communication problems.”

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“Well that’s not too uncomm—” “Let me finish, doc.”

“I’m sorry. Please, go ahead.”

“I talked a lot. She didn’t. There. Done.”

“Surely there’s more to this.”

Scott sighed and said, “Yeah. There is. She never really loved me. I could tell. She’d never say it, but I knew, ya know? We didn’t even cons...con...”

“Consummate?”

“We didn’t fuck on our wedding night.”

“Well, not everyone does. Did you feel that you needed to?”

“I feel like it should’ve been natural. We just got married. And it went downhill. We eventually stopped talking. Or she did. I tried all the time. I felt like I was married to a stone statue.”

“Did you ever seek counseling?”

“I found my own way to solve our own problems.”

“Scott, I feel like killing your wife isn’t quite comparable to a marriage counselor.”

“Certainly cheaper.” They shared a morbid chuckle.

The psychiatrist checked his watch, and mumbled, “You’ve managed to talk for fifteen minutes without actually getting to the point of our lesson today. You must think me quite the lab rat, Scott.”

“No, no, doc. Lab rats are vermin. I think of you as a koala bear. Much more innocent.”

“As innocent as Maggie?”

Scott instantly cocked his head to one side, almost in a feral manner.

“No. Nothing is as innocent as Maggie is.”

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“You mean was. So tell me why. Tell me why you’re dancing around, Scott. You first tell me you’re ashamed of what happened with her, next you tell me that you found your own way to solve problems—by killing her—and then you say she’s the most innocent thing in the world.”

“I must not tell lies, Ms. Umbridge. Stop twisting my words. I wanted everything from her. And only because I was willing—I was willing—to give everything.” Scott stood straight up. The psychiatrist could see his tears welling up again. He reached for the Kleenex box, but Scott grabbed it first.

“Appreciate it. Alright. Alright. I’ll tell you this: I don’t go out in public anymore. And I can’t. You got me, doc. I killed Maggie. I smashed her head in. It sounds ugly, doesn’t it? Well, it is. It should be. I can’t go out in public because everyone looks at me like I’m a murderer.”

The doctor was puzzled. “Is that not what you are?”

“Am I?” “The law sees it as a fitting title.”

“And we look to the law for morality now.”

“Do you see what you did as fit?”

“Yes.” “Your wife wasn’t talking to you. And you see it fit that you murdered her for that, Scott?”

“Because I was giving so much, and she gave so little. So yes.”

“Scott, I almost feel like I’m your relationship counselor now, not your psychiatrist.”

“Oh, goody! Does that mean I get to pay less on my appointments?”

The psychiatrist laughed for at least a minute or so, before calming down.

“If only, Scott. If only. So what do you want in the endgame, Scott? Do you want closure? Acceptance? Amnesty?

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Fiction

“I want to forgive myself. I want to be able to tell myself that it really wasn’t wrong to kill the woman I loved because she didn’t love me back.

And I want to know that—” Scott abruptly stopped and his eyes darted over to the door.

“Scott, what’s wrong?”

“I heard her.” He turned the tape recorder off.

“Scott, what are you doi—” Before he could finish, Scott shushed him and crept over. The doctor sat down on the red leather couch, puzzled.

“I heard a sneeze...I...I know that...that...” Scott’s head was already rushed with emotions and conflicts. It didn’t matter whether or not that sneeze was real, or if any of this was. As far as he was concerned, Maggie was just hiding behind the door, listening to the conversation. And he could get up in blissful contentment and walk up to the door, thinking of her blonde, wavy locks, emerald shining eyes, velvet skin reflecting off as the sun shining through the window. He reached to the doorknob, listening closely to every click from the lock, and pulled the oak door back and walked through.

Smiling, Scott stammered, “Hey Maggie.”

A man stood up from a red leather couch, and asked, “Why did you call me that?”

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To Infinity and Beyond Brooklyn Hunter | Fiction I wish I could say that the first time I saw you, sparks flew—that fireworks went off in the background, or maybe a violin started playing softly from some unknown corner. I wish I could say I remember our eyes meeting because it was so magical or that we met under romantic circumstances.

But I’ve always been one for telling the truth. So here it is.

We met on a basketball court in an old, dusty warehouse. I don’t remember the first time our eyes met, and the only reason I remember the first time I saw you was because I thought you were your sister’s boyfriend. I don’t even remember doing a double-take.

I wish I could say I immediately had a crush on you and it lasted for three years—that I went weak in the knees every time you talked to me and blushed every time you smiled. But honestly, I thought you were overly dramatic and a bit of a hippie. I can only recall three possible conversations we had in the past three years. Even when your sister became my best friend, I didn’t even notice when you left.

But I noticed when you came back. I remember when our eyes met the second time around, mostly because I was blinded by the sun shining over your shoulder when you showed up at the front door of your house, announcing you had come back for good. If I squinted just right I could see your beautiful brown eyes, and I know I saw a smile when you realized who I was. I wish I could say everything went over smoothly— that your sister was okay with the way you looked at me now and that she was okay with the way I was looking back. But I can’t say that.

I wish I could say that our first kiss was beautifully romantic in front of a golden-pink sunset. But I guess I should clarify that it was in the pitchblack back of your laundry room in the middle of the night, and that I later tripped on a laundry basket. You kissed the bruise that lasted a month.

And in the midst of all this craziness, I fell in love along the way. I’d like to think you did too.

I wish I could say you were my first love, but I can’t. But I can say you’ll be the love I’ll always remember.

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Fiction

I wish I could say that we lived happily ever after. But, after a year of being together and only two months apart, I must say that you’re off doing that with another girl now. And in a week, you’ll be married. I wish I could say it was to me...

Because though our story may be awkward, and it may not the best, I’ll always love you.

To infinity and beyond.

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An Ode to Fallen Gods Maxine Lauzon | Fiction An Ode to Fallen Gods Part 1: Rusty Hunting Knife I pull the trigger, reveling in the sound and rush of euphoria it always gives me. It was one of the few things that really could.

As expected, the newest bullet hole appeared right in the middle of the humanoid paper target, just as the last one had, and the one before, and so on. The other officers had left some time ago, so the sound of my peers’ appreciative remarks was decidedly absent. The near-constant commotion of Detroit is unable to reach this far into the station as well. The only noises to be heard are the gun in my hand and my calm breathing.

It is as close to Nirvana as I will probably ever get.

“Hello, Artemis.”

My body jerks in surprise, and I curse as I watch another bullet hole appear at the very outer ring. It is a terrible blemish on an otherwise perfect performance. My Nirvana is shattered, but I refuse to turn around just yet. I’m not sure what my eyes will convey if I do. “Figured one of you would find me eventually.”

“That shows quite a bit of intelligence for a brute like you. You’re aim was off on the last shot by the way.”

“Piss off, ‘Thena.”

“Is that any way to talk to your family? And after so long too?” Her voice hasn’t changed, still reeking of superiority and a calmness that always managed to make my blood boil. I squash the miniscule part of me that missed it.

I have to laugh at her statement, though. It’s bitter and mocking, and filled with a hurt that I hope only I can hear. “Is that what we are? Could have fooled me.” I try to say it casually, but my hands shake and I know if I take a shot again it will miss, which will be all my sister will need to see right through me. “Why are you here ‘dear sister’? Have dearest father and mother finally kicked the bucket?”

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Fiction

If she heard the ire in my voice, she ignores it. “Father and Mother are still doing very well. They miss you. Apollo does too.”

My patience, what little I ever had of it, has snapped and I turn away from the target and now glare at my sister with all the ire I can muster.

“Don’t you dare talk about him!” I hiss.

She stands straight in her prim suit and ridiculous heels—mousy hair styled in an unnaturally straight bob: the epitome of propriety and control. She hasn’t changed, even after all these years.

A perfectly maintained eyebrow rises at my reaction. She’s won this round and she knows it. “His music has been so sad since you left.

Mother worries for his health.”

“Don’t feed me that shit. If not for a bottle of gin, Mother wouldn’t give him a second glance.”

“Just like you didn’t give him a second glance when you left.”

The gun is still clutched in my hand and hangs at my side. I know that I would never pull the trigger, and yet I cannot make myself put it down.

It’s a reassurance. I am strong and I cannot allow my sister to think otherwise. I am strong and will never go back to being weak. “I gave him the choice to leave with me. The offer will always stand, but I am not going back.”

“You’re still as selfish as ever I see.”

“At least I’m not Mommy and Daddy’s lapdog.”

Her eyes narrow, and now I’m the one with an upper hand. “I’m at least trying to keep everyone together. But you? You left your family and ran out on everyone to live in this...” Her nose crinkles as she takes in the dim police station and my wrinkled uniform. “…squalor. Really, Artemis, how can you live like this?”

“Happily.”

“So, you’re happy that you left the rest of your family to suffer for the sake of your inane show of rebellion?”

“I never said that.”

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“It’s true, though, isn’t it? You, the big strong sister, left us on our own without a second glance. Do you know how much the younger ones have suffered? They lost their big sister, their protector.”

“Don’t you dare blame this on me! I am not the monster here!” I’m seething now and slowly advancing until I am a hair’s breath away from my sister. We are quite a contrasting pair, I think off-handedly: fiery brutishness standing against cold elegance. “Where are the bruises, Athena? On your arms? Ribs?”

I go to grab her with my free hand, and she retreats. That’s all I need to see. “Who gave them to you this time? Did you catch Daddy Dearest screwing another random woman and he wanted to keep you quiet? Or was it Mom after Dad leaves the mess for her to find?”

“Stop it.” Her composure is cracking.

I go on but my tone is softer now, but that only makes it more cutting: a honey-coated dagger. “Or was it going to be one of the younger ones and you stepped in to protect them? It adds up pretty quickly, doesn’t it?

Have you had to sleep on the floor yet because everything hurts too much to move? I always thought the living room carpet was the softest.”

“Stop it!” Her eyes are tearing, the mask of control shattering further.

“That’s the thing, Sis, it doesn’t stop. It never will.”

“You left us with them.”

“You could have left with me, ‘Thena. You all could have.”

She shakes her head and steps back, any vulnerability fading back into cold indifference. “I’m not like you. I still love Mother and Father.”

The truthfulness in those words is clear and heartbreaking. “Did you forget about the good days? We still have those, and that means there is a possibility for change. I will not give up like you. ” She speaks with conviction.

I morbidly wonder how long it will last.

She turns away and begins the walk out. “Goodbye, Artemis. I will not contact you further. It’s clearly a waste.”

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Fiction

“Athena” The click of her heels stops, but she doesn’t turn around.

“You can’t make them get better. They’re a poison, a disease with no cure.

All you can do is walk away and hope it doesn’t touch you.”

The click of her shoes starts again. “Run away? You used to be so brave, Artemis.”

“And you used to be so wise. I guess we’ve already been poisoned.”

An Ode to Fallen Gods Part 2: Cracked Chess Piece Apollo’s room could be described as eclectic if one wished to be polite.

The level of disorganization is quite impressive actually, in a horrifying way. No space has been left bare. Instruments lie in random clusters around the spacious area. The clusters themselves are also absent of any order, with a gleaming clarinet propped against large African drums and various chimes and flutes scattered around a tuba as though playing sentry to it. Despite the gleaming condition of the instruments themselves, the room carries a scent of neglect.

Music sheets laden with loopy, indecipherable scrawl are strewn on the floor like fallen leaves. Even the tasteful crème color that Mother chose for the room is buried underneath music posters that seem to range from the benevolent smile of Louis Armstrong to the painted and screaming faces of Kiss.

Apollo sits at the grand piano located in the center of this tempest, lost in a world of notes and melody that very little can wake him from. I had not lied to Artemis; the tune is decidedly melancholic. The notes constrict my throat and weigh on my shoulders, attempting to make them cave. I allow no outward sign of distress, but I do make sure my voice is loud enough to pierce the veil of sound.

“I found her.”

Apollo does not stir, nor do his fingers stop dancing over the keys of the grand piano. It’s anyone’s guess if he simply didn’t hear me or does not wish to acknowledge what I said.

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I move further into the room, minding my feet so as not to step on the sheet music.

Soon enough, I position myself behind him and slam a hand onto the keys, destroying the melody that had been permeating the room: a calculated risk.

Apollo’s fingers freeze in the air. He stares vacantly down at the keys for a moment. He blinks once and then again as if for good measure.

Sluggishly, those eyes turn to connect with mine. There is no hint of irritation for interrupting him. He looks as if he has just woken from a long slumber—muted confusion and disorientation.

“Hi,” he croaks simply. His voice sounds rough and the purple bags under his eyes are pronounced. This close, I can see that his clothes are not faring much better and his shirt seems to envelop his frame. It is clear he did not hear me.

I sigh but can’t dredge up the energy to be irritated. So I simply repeat myself. “I found her.” I don’t bother specifying the name.

His eyes widen fractionally, and I wait. Slowly his mouth pulls upward into a lazy smile. “That so?”

It’s not enough, so I push on. “She is currently working at a hovel of a police station. In Detroit. “ He turns away slightly and snickers softly. “I pity the criminals.”

Silence descends between us, stifling and awkward. I’ve never spent a great deal of time with Apollo, not out of hatred but out of indifference.

He drenched himself in emotion, weaving and molding it into art. I broke it down with logic. We were simply not fashioned to comingle, and I accepted that long ago.

“Did she look happy?”

The question is spoken softly, shattering the silence, and I am suddenly angry for some reason.

“Yes,” I hiss stiffly. “She seemed ecstatic with her new life in that cesspool. I suppose anything is better than us.” Again, I wait for some

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Fiction

reaction, some indication of the anger and betrayal that must be there.

Apollo smiles again. “That’s good.”

My mind stalls momentarily in surprise. I had planned for any and all possible reactions. This was not one of them.

Apollo seems to sense my confusion, another indication of my failure.

“I’m happy she’s doing okay. She was miserable here, so hearing that she’s happy out there…it’s good.” He doesn’t bother to hide that sadness in his tone, but the words are spoken genuinely.

“Are you not angry with her? She left you.”

He stares at me as though I have just suggested something very stupid.

Perhaps I have. “Why? She asked if I wanted to go and I said no. I thought I could make things better here.” His expression suddenly morphs into something that makes my skin itch and my stomach retch.

Suddenly, I do not have the energy to be angry, and its absence allows shame to slowly creep into my veins. This was a mistake.

I jerk my head in a stoic nod and begin to make my way robotically to the door. His voice stops me, just like her’s had. “Athena.”

I don’t really want to respond, but it feels far too much like a retreat.

“What?”

“Why did you look for her?”

It’s a question I had anticipated. After all, it wasn’t as though there was any love lost between Artemis and me. We were opposites in many ways, and conversing with her had only served to remind me of all I was not.

Still, I had formulated many well-crafted responses that all sounded perfectly logical and impartial. For some reason though, none of these are the ones that pass through my lips.

“Because I’m foolish.”

I refrain from slamming the door, but only just.

Apollo strolls into my room not two days later. His attire looks exactly the same as before, right down to the mismatched socks, and the realization makes my nose scrunch slightly in distaste. He doesn’t see it, though; he’s

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too preoccupied taking in the room at a leisurely pace, clutching one of his guitars like a child with a teddy bear.

A part of my mind absently tries to recollect the last time that Apollo had actually seen my room. I debate with myself over if I should speak, but am at a loss for what to say. So instead I watch intently as he glances around, waiting for him to make the first move.

While the gaze bears no inherent malice, I cannot help but selfconsciously scan the room as well, checking for any mess or stray knickknack. It is no surprise that the room blinks back at me as pristine as ever, with Apollo being the only glaring oddity.

“I forgot to say thanks,” he finally speaks, peering intently at pieces of armor dented and scratched from days long past that now rest peacefully behind fortified glass. At my lack of response, he finally turns and smiles easily in my direction. “For telling me about Artemis last time. Thank you.”

“My reasons were hardy selfless,” I state, feeling uncomfortable with this sudden display from him.

He shrugs as if that fact isn’t important. “No one asked you to go, but you did. That seems selfless to me.” He said it so simply, as if that fact alone justified bestowing any label of kindness on my actions.

As I stare at him incredulously, it hits me how out of place Apollo truly looks in my room. With his faded clothes and relaxed gait, he stands starkly against the rich tones and sharp edges of my room. The shelves of books and cases jab out around him like spikes, and I am suddenly overcome with the notion that anything I say further will cause them to pierce his soft shell.

I flap my hand instead to dispel the words. “Your thanks are unnecessary…but appreciated.” Unsure of how to proceed further, I turn down to stacks of paper sitting crisply atop the mahogany desk. I wait for the sound of retreating feet hitting the carpet and the click of the door closing. A minute passes and neither has happened.

I glance up again and Apollo is staring at the rows and rows of books in fascination, slowly moving from one title to the next.

“What are you doing?”

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Fiction

“Looking.” He responds, eyes not leaving their perusal of my books.

“Why?” “I want to.”

His logic has me sputtering silently. I am suddenly reminded why I tend not to speak with Aphrodite’s young son. Still, I do not actually have a reason why he should leave, so I simply sigh.

“Please be careful with the books,” I say glancing worriedly at the Sun Tzu’s Art of War now clutched in his hands.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, ignoring my fretful glances as he casually flips through the pages.

“I’m taking that as a verbal confirmation, and a promise to replace any you damage.”

Apollo huffs a laugh. “You’re ruthless.”

“It’s called taking precautions.”

“If you say so.”

I stare a while longer to ensure that he is being careful and then resume scouring the paper in front of me. The clear presence of another person in the room keeps me tense and unable to completely focus on anything but the actions of the foreign body moving around the space. The silence is constantly punctured with a sound of books being slid from their places and of covers being opened, a few moments of rifling pages and then the snap of the book being closed. My lip quirks upward upon the eventual realization that Apollo’s movements are going at a steady beat.

The noises stop at some point. I am not sure when, but now that I have noticed it, the silence is practically deafening. My head jerks upward only to be met with the sight of Apollo now staring at the antiques, a painting in particular. The frame looms over the display cases and even with Apollo’s impressive height; he still has to crane his head upwards to fully take in the raw glory of La Liberté Guidant Le Peuple. He stands stock still for perhaps the first time in a while and simply stares as one would at a particularly complex puzzle. The look seems wrong on his face.

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I leave my spot at the desk to stand beside him. I do not turn to him, though. Instead I gaze at the determined face of Liberté as she bellows a war cry. I have often spent nights much the same way, wondering what that woman would think of me. “It took me nine years to track down that painting. I always admired Delacroix’s skill.”

“It’s so loud,” Apollo whispers and though any harsh noise will startle the frozen people in the painting into action. “The more I stare, the more the words pour out of it. Some of its not even words, it’s just…feeling.” He breaks eye contact with the painting to stare at me now, and he suddenly looks far too old and far too young at the same time. “You know that saying ‘A picture is worth a thousand words’?”

I nod, unsure of what he wants to say.

He turns back to the painting with a broken smile. “I can’t remember a single song that had a thousand words in it.”

A pattern starts to present itself fairly quickly after that.

First, Apollo will open my door, dragging some instrument as he saunters into my quarters and will then proceed to rifle through my possessions.

He flicks through the books until one catches his fancy, at which point he sits on the oak floor. He proceeds to read for a few minutes, closes the book, and look for another. Most times he will strum absently on whatever instrument he has brought in while he reads, but there are days it lays abandoned at his side.

I once asked him what he was looking for. His only answer was a shrug of his shoulder before he began his perusal of my books once more.

The only constant is that, during each of these encounters, Apollo will stare at the same painting as he did the first time. His expression is reverent and melancholy. He never plays music when he stares at the painting, as though afraid to distract from it.

Today is such a day. Apollo had trudged in the late evening, dragging the now very familiar guitar behind him, causing my eyes to rise from their spot on my desk. His right eye, completely swollen shut, was visible within the first second, the deep purple color contrasting starkly against his pale complexion. He doesn’t turn to me, and instead locks gazes right away with the faces on the canvas.

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I do not question Apollo on his current state. After all, he extends the same courtesy whenever he sees the bruises peek past the sleeves of my blouse. This is the first time I have seen him injured. A part of me wishes to ask what he did, but I refrain. It is an unspoken rule of sorts—a reprieve from the outside world even as the marks follow us here.

He gazes at the woman in the painting as if in a daze, his hand slowly rising to press lightly on the battered area of his face. I wrench my eyes from the sight. It suddenly seems far too personal. Instead my eyes go back to the game before me.

I adore chess. Every beautifully polished wooden piece has a role and neither brute force nor simple luck determines their fate. Strategy is the sole difference between victory and defeat. Finding a challenger was never a problem, as I simply played against myself. It was a great way to find weaknesses in my own strategy.

Plucking one of the black knights from its place, I move it to take one of my white pawns, effectively breaching the defensive line I had created before. I then turn the board around and use a bishop to take out the knight. The piles of discarded pieces grow steadily as I trade blow after blow with myself in a flawless dance.

“Doesn’t it get boring playing against yourself?”

The dance halts, and my eyes rise to meet Apollo’s curious gaze. “I find that the strongest opponent is always yourself.” I keep my eyes trained on his good eye and raise an eyebrow at him. “I don’t suppose you would like to challenge me, would you?”

His eyes glance down at the pieces as if assessing them, lips pursing in contemplation, and eventually he nods. Apollo retreats a few feet and sits himself on the wooden floor, his legs crisscrossed like a child and pats the area in front of him in a silent invitation.

At my gaze he shrugs. “You don’t have any extra chairs.”

My eyebrow rises once again. “You realize that I could get a chair from one of the other room don’t you?”

“It won’t kill you to move from behind the desk. Besides, this way takes less time.”

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“You are certainly in a hurry to get beat.”

“Says the one stalling,” he replies cheekily.

I narrow my eyes but huff in acquiescence. Quickly resetting the board, I rise from my seat with the game balanced in my arms. I drop gracefully onto the floor across from him and set the board between us, with the white pieces facing him.

Apollo trains his good eye on the board for a moment before focusing back on me. The silence hangs awkwardly until I speak. “The player with the white pieces moves first.”

He grins sheepishly as he rubs the back of his neck and chuckles in an obvious sign of self-consciousness. “Oh whoops!” He looks back at the board for a moment and picks up a pawn and moves it diagonally.

I am torn between irritation and amusement at this point. “A pawn can only move diagonally to attack another piece. Otherwise it can only move forwards.”

“Oh.” “When was the last time you played this game?”

Apollo’s good eye becomes distant for a moment before it snaps back and his face breaks into any easy grin. “You know, I think this may be the first time.”

“You’ve never played, and yet you wanted to go against me? I feel insulted.” My words are deadpan and his grin grows into a smile.

“I was thinking I would get beginner’s luck. Besides it’s just a game anyway.”

“You’re lack of competitive spirit disgusts me.”

“You sound like Arty,” he chuckles. “She always challenged me to races or fights when we were kids. She’d get so mad when I didn’t care if I lost because it meant she couldn’t really gloat.” His gaze becomes distant but his smile remains on his lips—obviously reliving those memories in his mind.

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I scowl and cough to bring him back to the present. “Shall I teach you the rules then?”

He snaps back, once again, to reality and nods eagerly. The next few minutes are spent with me explaining the various pieces and their specific movements. A frown begins to adorn Apollo’s face. I simply assume he is frustrated by all of the rules, until he opens his mouth again after the explanation.

“So all the pieces can only move a certain way?”

“Well, the queen can move in any direction. But other than her, you are correct.”

“That’s stupid.” His scowl is more pronounced now and he picks up a bishop and glances at it with a strange expression. It almost looks like pity.

I pinch my nose in exasperation. “Those are the rules of the game. The goal is to find a way to win given the pieces’ limited movements. If they were all like the queen, the game would be chaotic.”

“But that’s so restricting,” Apollo whines. “You’re telling me these little guys try and protect the king, but they can only do it a certain way.” He wiggles the bishop still clutched in his hand in front of me. “This guy didn’t ask to be a bishop, and now he has to spend his whole life going in one direction until he dies. What if he wanted to move straight instead of diagonally?”

I blink at him in shock for a moment, slightly unnerved by this rather passionate outburst. “Apollo, the bishop is a game piece. It doesn’t have feelings.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” he sighs dramatically. “Besides, why give these things human titles if they don’t act human? Humans get to be more than one thing. They’re allowed to change, so why shouldn’t the bishop get to change? I mean, this isn’t how strategy works for a real battle, right?” At this, he turns to look at me searchingly.

“True,” I concede. “But even with people, they tend to act in a predictable pattern. We like to think we change and grow but, at our core, we are the same as before.” I take a piece in my hand now, the queen, and turn it in my hand. “So really, we are not so different from these pieces,” I whisper

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quietly.

The silence hangs between us now, heavy with something bitter and stifling. I twirl the queen repeatedly between my fingers, absently admiring the polished sheen of the wood. I always find it ridiculous that they gave the queen the most power and yet she protects the king.

Although it was certainly true when looking at history; women often sacrificed their skill and potential for a male. The queen’s power suddenly seemed like such a cruel joke by the game’s makers; powerful and powerless at the same time: A true pawn.

Suddenly Apollo puts the piece back and rises from the floor. He looks down at me and whispers softly, “I don’t really feel like playing right now. Rain-check?” He smiles apologetically but his sadness is palpable.

I nod at him, attempting a smile of my own. It probably looks like a grimace more than anything else. He moves straight to the door, not even stopping to glance at the painting again, and closes the door softly behind him.

I do not move right away. Instead I place the queen in her rightful spot and simply stare at the pieces, all unmoving and unassuming. Eventually, I rise with the board in my hands and place it in back on the desk.

I go to sit in my chair again and perhaps start another match against myself, but I find myself moving towards the painting that Apollo had stared at so many times.

The faces stare back at me accusingly.

By the time I bring myself to check on Apollo, days have passed and his right eye is no longer swollen and now only a smattering of sickly looking yellow mars the area, instead of the deep purple. He is once again at his piano, although the room is glaringly silent.

I stride purposely over to him and thrust my arms in front of his face.

He turns at an agonizingly slow pace to see the materials clutched in my hands.

The sketchbook is hardly remarkable and boasts a decidedly blank exterior, the only bit of personality being the light blue cover.

He stares at it for a long moment before reaching with trembling hands to take it. His eyes begin to mist over and I panic, not expecting this

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reaction.

“I realized that I may have been unclear during our last encounter,” I state, attempting to stay aloof and unaffected. The speech has been planned well in advance and practiced enough so that not even his sudden display of emotion could throw me. I take a breath and begin.

“I do believe that a person does not change from who they are at their core,” I begin. His red-rimmed eyes blink owlishly at me. I straighten my already ramrod posture and continue. “This, however, does not mean that the core of a person is not complex. There are some fascinating philosophy and psychology books on the subject in my room. I will point them out to you the next time you visit. “With that, I turn and begin to walk briskly out of the room, gracefully ignoring the quiet sniffling behind me.

The next time Apollo visits and sheepishly asks if I still want to play a game of chess, I calmly inform him that I had discarded the board. When he asks why, I simply shrug and say that I am tired of that particular game.

An Ode to Fallen Gods Part 3: Broken Lyre The pain crashes down on me as soon as the fist connects with my right eye. The blow brings me to my knees, and the crack echoes as they slam onto the polish floor tiles. My hands come up to cover my quickly swelling face.

He’s still yelling, arms moving in a flurry as he paces in front of me. I can’t really make out the words, but the tone tells me enough. I messed up again.

As I clutch my now throbbing face, I wish again that I were enough. I wish that I had been brave enough to leave when Arty asked me to. I wish that I was kind enough or smart enough to make everything okay—make the anger and hate in their eyes disappear and the pain stop.

I can’t even be angry with them can I? Not when I get it. Not when I know the look in his eyes as he looms over me, breathing heavily, his tirade apparently over. It’s the same look that she has as she crouches down and cradles my face like she cares, but then she makes sure to add too much pressure to the bruised area, so that its ends up hurting more: a warning.

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The pulsing flares of pain, the heavy breaths, the whispered words that threaten just as much as they soothe all form a tempo to a song that’s been playing over and over again. It’s the kind of song you hate but seems to be there any time you turn on the radio.

I try to block it out. I try to stay in my room where there is always something for me to play. I play anything and everything, hoping that if I’m loud enough the other song will stay drowned out forever.

Lately, it hasn’t been enough. I haven’t been enough.

The funny thing is that they’re doing the same thing: trying to block out the noise they hate but can’t seem to escape. We make our own song to distract us and, if we play it loud enough, it’s like the other noises aren’t even there.

We want to pretend.

It’s why I can’t be mad at them. I’d be a hypocrite. More than that, though, I’m mad at myself. They want so badly for everything to stay the same, to keep their song playing forever, but it’s been getting harder for me to keep up the rhythm.

When I look in their eyes filled with so much anger and desperation, I want to cry in a corner and soothe them at the same time. I want to tell that I can be better—how I can pretend better. I can play the song they need me to play as many times as they need it, as long as it can make the anger and hate in their eyes go away. I’ll take the fake happiness and fake love over their real anger.

I want to say that it can be enough for me.

Except, it’s not enough. It hasn’t been enough for a while and this fact is what makes me want to bury further in the illusion, play the chords until my fingers bleed and I am deaf to everything else. I know every note of the song after all. It’s so easy to just keep playing, but it’s tiring as well.

Every note starts sounding wrong and I find myself hesitating to play. I really am getting sick of this song, and that thought terrifies me.

I stagger to my feet and give a heartfelt “sorry” to them before shuffling out of the room. I really am sorry, because I can’t play pretend anymore.

I’m too small to play the role now, or maybe I’m too big.

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Soon, I’m in front of my bedroom door, but my hand just hovers over the knob instead of turning it. Right now, the thought of going inside and being surrounded by all those instruments seems suddenly suffocating.

My hand slowly slides down to my sides and I turn away from the door and head further down the hallway.

I just don’t want to play anymore.

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Burn It Down Anna Littlejohn | Fiction It was the beginning of the end. An old woman, Martha rocked back and forth quietly in her rocking chair on the porch of the home she had lived in for seventy years. Bundled in a warm, fluffy coat and a scarf that could almost double as a blanket, Martha watched the snow fall to the ground in big, soft clumps. There was not a sound to be heard for miles except for the soft creaking of her old wooden rocking chair.

Inside the house, only the mice taking shelter from the winter in her walls dared to breathe. Only the whispers of memories past could be heard: memories of the laughter of children, the barking of a few loyal dogs, the love of an old husband long gone, and the sadness that accompanied knowing only she could remember it all. A shiver ran down Martha’s spine. Her face was bright red with exposure to the cold, but something about the snow was hypnotic. It reminded her of the days long ago when her memories were still being made and not simply remembered. Martha stopped rocking in her chair.

Slower than molasses, Martha stood up from her faithful chair and grabbed hold of her walker. Her arthritis made it painful to move, but her house held too many memories for her to live anywhere warm. She was determined to die in her house just as she had lived in it: faithfully.

The house had stood for all these years. The least she could do was live in it until she was gone. Martha made her way into the house to warm up some soup a young woman from the country church she attended every week had brought over. Martha stepped over the threshold of her drafty little home and smiled knowingly as the screen door slammed behind her. The slam reminded her of all the visitors she used to have: everyone from expectant aunts and uncles to church folk bearing consoling comfort food dishes to giggling children with no cares in the world and their whole life ahead of them. They had all settled into the walls of the old house. That was where the memories would stay long after she had passed.

The winter wind whistled through the spaces around her, so Martha kept her coat on. She treated the cold as an old friend. Long ago the house had been sturdy and full of life. Though it was only a shell of its former glory, Martha’s old mind kept a few of the memories alive. The stacks of photo albums neatly arranged on the bookshelf in the small, dusty living room kept the rest of them. After so many years in one place,

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keeping the memories alive was all she really knew how to do. Martha pushed the front door closed but didn’t bother locking it. She couldn’t imagine a burglar targeting her old home. She reckoned few people even remembered anybody still lived in the old place. The only signal for miles around was the small touch lamp that glowed brightly in her living room.

The antique was the only light that Martha used on the entire first floor, not that the first floor was very large. She was never awake past sunset, and she usually didn’t cook until the sun came up, even though she rose close to 4:30 in the morning.

Today was moving more slowly than usual, and Martha grew weary before the sun started to set. The soup, a hearty minestrone, was rejuvenating after the hours she had spent in the cold. Martha was already exhausted from her efforts. After she had showered carefully, she climbed into bed and said a little prayer, silently hoping that tonight would be the night that she would be taken home to the Lord. She couldn’t imagine there were many more uses for her on Earth, and she had been weary of living for several years. She wanted to be in heaven with God and the rest of her dearly departed family. She wasn’t afraid of dying. After eighty-nine years of living, there wasn’t much that could scare you. She didn’t mind being forgotten. The world seemed to be falling apart at the seams. She was just as much the person as she had been at the prime of her life, but there was nobody left who seemed to think she was worth seeing more than once a week at church or at the senior center. She wondered how many days she had left. Maybe she could count them before she fell asleep.

Martha sat outside in her rocking chair, rocking back and forth in the same slow rhythm as always. There was a chilly wind, more bitter than usual this early in winter. She looked quickly to her left and realized that a looming darkness crept ever closer to her house from the east. The sun was still high in the sky, but she could see nothing past the black sheet that inched towards her. Through the snow it advanced, erasing everything in its path. Martha stood up more quickly than she had in years, leaving her walker behind as she slipped into the safety of her home. She locked the door behind her. What sort of anomaly was this?

She had never seen it on television. Martha took a deep breath. Soon, it might erase her. As long as she stayed in her house, everything would be fine.

After a while, nothing changed. Martha peered out the kitchen window; the outside world was unchanged. Just as she thought the darkness was gone, she heard a knock at the door. She turned around, dreading the

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sound. She turned back to the kitchen window. Everything had been enveloped in a darkness thicker than she had ever seen before. The dark visitor was just outside her door. It knocked again, this time with intensity. Martha shuffled to her entryway and then turned towards the front door.

“Go away!” Martha croaked, her ancient voice struggling to imbue the air with a life force that would not be smothered. The darkness knocked furiously, rattling her door and turning the handle back and forth. The darkness started to seep into the cracks of the house, wisps of thick black smoke reaching towards her. Martha walked to the stairs as fast as her old legs would carry her and made her slow descent to the top, the black wisps uttering remnants of her past as they slithered after her. Her heart pounded inside of her chest. She knew she couldn’t look back.

As soon as Martha made it to her bedroom, she slipped under the covers and closed her eyes tightly. The dark visitor was at her door. She heard the door crack and fall to the ground. It was all over. Everything was gone. Martha whimpered in her last moments before the darkness fell upon her.

“Move, move, move!” A strong, urgent voice cried out. Martha opened her eyes. The room was dark and filled with thick black smoke. Was she in a dream? Was this the darkness? Martha felt her frail body being picked up and carried quickly down the stairs. Her head rested against the stranger’s shoulder, a mask having been placed onto her face. When had all this happened? Martha couldn’t see anything through the smoke.

Had she died? Maybe she was being carried into the afterlife. After that, everything went black.

Martha slowly opened her eyes once more, letting the light in. Loud sirens filled the air, and three faces stared down at her apprehensively.

Martha coughed; her mouth tasted like smoke. She had a tube down her throat. One of the faces moved close to her and removed it. She was confused and dizzy. What was happening?

“Whaaaaatssss yooooooouuuur naaaaaammmmee?” One of the voices asked. She was beautiful, surrounded by a harsh white light like an angel come to Earth to take her home. Martha blinked slowly. What had she asked? Her name? What was her name?

“Martha,” the old woman whispered, her voice dry and gravelly. “My name is Martha.” Everything started to come into focus. Martha found

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herself on a rattling bed in the back of an ambulance. There was a man and a woman in green scrubs, and a firewoman with ebony skin weathered by years of ash and the stress of never knowing whether or not her efforts would be in vain. “My house...” Martha coughed, “What happened to.. to my house?”

All three faces looked at her mournfully. As Martha looked between the three faces, she slowly started to piece together what had happened.

Seventy years of memories had burned to the ground, leaving only her failing mind to keep the memories alive. She didn’t have enough time to tell what had happened in that little old house in the country. Martha closed her eyes, all of the tears she could have shed already stolen by the taunting wisps of black smoke that had stolen everything else. The EMT’s looked away; the firewoman sighed. Whether it was in relief or in apprehension of something greater, Martha couldn’t discern. Most of her life had burnt down with the rickety old house she had called home. Did the sigh even matter now? Did anything matter? All of her pictures and decorations had become part of the ash that she had inhaled in her sleep.

She had wanted her body to die, not all of her memories.

It was getting harder for Martha to breathe now. She could feel a weariness in her bones that she had not felt before. There was an ancient call that she knew well without ever experiencing it before. She knew that it was her time. It was the end of her beginning. Martha heard the heart monitor speed up. The EMT’s rushed to get a crash kit ready. The firewoman stared intently at the old woman. Martha closed her eyes and mournfully willed her heart to stop with all of the energy she had left.

Slowly, it obeyed, and Martha slipped softly into her eternal sleep along with the memories that were slowly dissolving into the cold December snow.

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Reverie Brianna Stoever | Fiction Azlyn stared at the back of his head.

A fly buzzed around the room as the teacher announced their new unit on the sleep cycle. The details of the lecture drifted off into the distance along with the class’s train of thought. Azlyn avoided the streaked board and admired the sculpture in front of her. A silky blond mane sat on his head, and a few strands curled at the base of his neck centimeters away from a collared shirt. It was odd, but she had never seen her subject’s face. He was new. Nameless. Faceless.

He turned in the stiff plastic chair. Eyes, blue as the ocean, greeted her.

Azlyn stared as the dazzling blues and greens swirled in a whirlpool of color. A grin etched itself onto his face. Wars could be waged over a face like his.

“Hello.”

The whole class fell silent, one by one. Everyone let the proclamation happen. As they should. The two of them were a performance—the students, their audience. Azlyn decided this was much better than the science of counting sheep.

“You are beautiful.”

Heat rose up her neck and flooded her cheeks, but his face remained unchanged. The nameless boy stood with confidence, the dream clouds on the board formed an angelic background for his glorious face. Although she pretended to be surprised and flattered, she’d expected this for quite some time.

“What took you so long?”

Flirting had never been easy for her, but at this moment, it was suddenly effortless for her to say what was on her mind. She had been brave enough to jump at the opportunity in front of her.

“Kiss me.”

She leaned forward until the heel of her palm dug painfully into her

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chin. With those two words her boldness faltered. Her lips searched for the right response, but found nothing. She hoped her eyes could portray every word she wanted to say.

“Could I borrow a pencil?”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“Do you have a pencil? Mine broke…”

Dull grey eyes met her own as she passed the nameless boy a pencil.

The teacher was still droning on while the rest of the class continued to dream. Disappointed, she stared at his cloudy eyes, and thought of how she would have given anything to replace them with the kaleidoscopes she had once sculpted. There was nothing worth watching with this new duet. He shifted his focus back to the front of the class, and she wished he could have remained faceless forever.

So as the teachers words became muddled once more, and the boy remained attentive to the lesson, once again, Azlyn stared at the back of his head.

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Poverty, Persistence, and Peace of Mind in Peru Emily Koss | Nonfiction Peru: A beautiful place with beautiful people—people who have so little but are so happy and willing to give so much to others. The poverty that exists within this country is heartbreaking, especially when it becomes obvious that the small, crumbling boxes on the side of the narrow alleyways scattered with a few pieces of torn clothing are people’s living spaces. There are no roofs, no protection from the elements, and nowhere else to go. Not every inhabitant of the country lives this way, but during the two and a half weeks I spent there with my class, I saw more than a few people in this situation.

Working with thirty young children at a local orphanage offered a unique perspective. None of these kids had positive background stories; instead, we learned that many children were left on the doorstep of the orphanage because their parents either did not want to take care of them or were financially unable to support them. One was left with a note from a mother who desperately wanted to give her child the best life possible but was forced to return to an abusive household and could not bear to let her daughter remain in that environment. Two more were abandoned after their father deserted the family, leaving a single mother behind with no income or means to support herself—let alone the other children she already had at home and the two newborns. As happy as most of the children living in the orphanage seem, they are often very aware of their situations. They cry for their parents and wonder when they’re coming back.

They crave attention and affection in whatever form it may present itself.

In the two days I spent with the children, I had half a dozen kids literally climbing on me at all times, desperate to interact with people besides the nuns who put all their energy into running the organization.

When lunchtime rolled around, the children, scampering through the basketball court, were herded into the cramped, makeshift dining room that also served as a recreation center. Our class was instructed to help them eat, but I was not prepared for the task of literally forcing food into the children’s mouths because it was too scarce to waste and their frail bodies needed as much nourishment as they could possibly get. The kids laughed and smiled as we attempted to communicate, our sentences fragmented and mangled by our extensive language barriers. Most of the kids had no problem eating, except for the tiny girl to my right who appeared

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to be too full to swallow another bite. Upon seeing her plate still filled with rice and pieces of chicken, one of the volunteers—a sixteen-year-old girl who had likely come from a similar background as these children— rushed over to our table, scooped food onto a fork, and shoved the food into the child’s mouth as the girl gagged, unable to comfortably eat any more of the meal in front of her. I was well-aware of the fact that food was scarce in this country, but it wasn’t until this moment that it became more of a reality. Any food they could get was too precious to waste, so they utilized every little bit that came their way. I realized that the nuns were not forcing the children to eat just for the sake of asserting their control; they did so because nobody could be certain what sustenance they would receive later in the day or any time throughout the week. If they did not eat and gain nutrients at this meal where food was available, there was no guarantee that any more would be available in the near future.

Having enough food to sustain me and my family is never something I’ve had to worry about. Money has never been a big issue—or if it was, my parents kept me completely hidden from the situation. I’ve always owned plenty of clothes, and it never once crossed my mind growing up that there would not be food waiting for me when I went back to my relatively clean, sturdy, two-story house in the middle of suburbia.

Realizing that my life was so incredibly simple compared to what these children and their parents had experienced filled me with a strange guilt.

I hadn’t done anything in particular to deserve this feeling—it wasn’t as if I purposely destroyed their opportunities for money and food, but I also had not done anything to deserve to be in the privileged position in which I found myself. Who was I to have the ability to go home every day to an abundance of food, a house that provided complete shelter, and parents who I know love me and are financially able to ensure that I do not have to endure many of the hardships these Peruvian families constantly face?

I spent most of my trip engrossed in this incomprehensible moral dilemma that made me discover a new level of appreciation for my ridiculously privileged circumstances while enhancing the shame I felt for undeservingly existing in this position.

In an attempt to diminish these feelings and continue with my goal of learning as much about the culture as possible while doing whatever I could to help the people we visited, I decided that I would take the experiences from my not-so-challenging American lifestyle and do my part to assist people who didn’t have the same opportunities. This inspiration is strongly influenced by one of the most striking moments during my

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Peruvian experience.

As we were returning from an orphanage in the mountains where we had spent the day serving families, dancing, playing games with the children, and learning more about the lives of individual people, our entire class, along with volunteers from the orphanage, chatted while our bus made its way back down the narrow, winding mountain road. A large group of local people who were originally supposed to join us at the orphanage were attending Mother’s Day preparation events for the upcoming weekend, so we had a large amount of food left over. Living in the mountains does not make it easy to create an abundance of communities close together, so the people living in these areas have to walk great distances in order to get to many different destinations. As we continued driving down the mountain, we began seeing people of all ages—some alone, some in groups, some who appeared far too old to be travelling over the rough terrain, and others much too young to be out there alone—walking across the mountain on their way back from school and work.

We were quite a sight to see, in our packed, 16-passenger bus that constantly looked like it was about to topple over the side of the mountain, so of course the eyes of all the travelers were on us from the moment we came into view. Some looked at us with excitement, others with fear, and most with pure confusion obvious on their faces. Upon seeing the first people walking quickly across the severely dry dirt with flimsy, open shoes, the bus driver slowed down and Sister Rosa, the woman who runs both of the orphanages, hurried to the front of the bus where the extra food was being kept during our journey. She and a couple of the volunteers quickly began piling food onto a plate, and I realized that they intended to bring food to the travelers since they were not able to make it to the celebration at the orphanage. I later realized that this was the obvious thing to do because the food was prepared for the purpose of feeding these people and they could clearly use a warm meal, but at that moment it seemed like the kindest, most heartfelt action I had ever witnessed. The look on the people’s faces when they were handed plates overflowing with warm chicken and rice and vegetables and all sorts of things that were likely specialties to them—at least special in the sense that they did not have to put the work into preparing it themselves—is next to indescribable. I cannot accurately explain the pure gratitude in their smiles as their eyes filled with tears of happiness or the sounds of the children squealing with joy as they began devouring their fresh meals.

Some individuals were skeptical and reluctant to accept food from such a strange-looking group of people, but after a short conversation with Sister Rosa they were more than willing to graciously receive the gift.

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There are some moments that I know will stick with me for the duration of my life, and this was definitely one of them. I like to think I’m a generous person and that my volunteer efforts make a difference to people. While I know that I can never completely eradicate their issues, as many of the problems are rooted in cultural and political foundations, witnessing the appreciation of these people made me realize that even the simplest actions can often make a world of difference, and there is always more I can do to help. Visiting the children and more fully understanding the value of food in places like this shows me that I am even luckier than I could previously have imagined. While there is no solid explanation as to how I ended up in this position, there is a very clear answer that I can always continue doing more to benefit the people around me—even those I may never completely know. I never imagined I would end up travelling to Peru, but I was there and I helped in at least a small way. Although I do not intend to help people solely for the ensuing senses of joy and accomplishment, those feelings are consistent reminders of all the good that individuals and groups working toward a common goal can bring to the world.

Even if the hardships cannot be stopped, the mindset of many Peruvian people is one that should be emulated by people throughout the world; their ability to undeservingly endure so many struggles yet remain so positive and optimistic gives me hope that other people are able to do the same and shows that maybe the people of the world—or at least their attitudes—really aren’t so bad.

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Once Upon a Nightmare…

Shelby Rae | Nonfiction Once upon a nightmare…

I typed out my thoughts because pen and paper have been extinct for many eons It’s been forbidden to use words Nowadays people TTYL B4 u Kno WTH WTF btd btw btdyqtpi cuz the LOL

BRBs 2 emoijis kissin n a tree make life easier

Right?

One thing I’ve learned from writing checks to my future is that easy isn’t always best Pause Blew your mind didn’t it?

As I’m reading from my smartphone who will one day take over the human race and plant robot baby eggs in my brain and be pressing my buttons asking, “Shelby, how much wood coulda woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” and I’d be like, “I’m sorry, smartphone. I’m not sure I understand.”

Most of you are listening intently or not at all At least one of you is debating on leaving for a bathroom break Another is probably thinking, Is she still talking? My god is she talking about me Eye Contact!

Is that what you were thinking? Don’t answer that My point is like a Shakespeare play: Life is not easy(exclamation point)

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Woes and foes be many but only strength prevails or something like that

Nonfiction

Easy and right are words given too much value like love and sorry Overused so much that my love for cupcakes is the same as my love to her/him/ he/she/it/they/them/cat/dog/fish/bird. Any and everything has the same meaning with no differences How in the hell did I get here? Ranting to a dimly lit room of people I don’t know: what kind of a poem is this?

Pause This is not a poem This is a plea This is a help me I’m broken and I don’t know what to do? I have scribbled more “goodbye life” letters and “no thanks, I’m busy” texts than I have been out of my dorm room Every bit of me is scared about the next day because life and school and cancer and depression are not like the movies!

I don’t pick my cast members or my plot line or genre. I just pick my screen time, and lately I’ve been thinking about having my credits roll sooner than they should Is my metaphor clear? I am not okay. My name is Shelby. I would like to help people but don’t want to become a doctor I like cupcakes and movies. I like people. I fear people. I’m awkward, and I am choosing something that is not easy, but I hope, to whatever deity is out there today, that it’s right I’m choosing to wake up tomorrow and not crawl back into bed I’m choosing to go to class and tell my friends and professor that I got up today and I am okay I’m choosing to become okay—because my not okayness is not okay but being okay will be okay Won’t it?

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Infant Spider Kristen Alstott | Poetry Disgusting like a putrid garbage bag filling the room with its stench Frightening like a menacing mugger stumbling toward its victim Ugly like a red wine stain ruining a new white carpet Annoying like a heavy menstrual cycle reminding women they are not pregnant.

Hairy like a long floor mat laying beneath a barber’s chair Black like a thick cloud of smoke billowing over a rubbery fire Fast like a zealous cheetah running through the plains Mysterious like a radiant moon glimmering in the night Quiet like a sly cat stalking its prey Shy like a luminous beam of sun peaking through a large thunder cloud Small like a compact grain of rice laying on a dinner plate Flexible like a willing rubber band stretching over a finger Delicate like a wilting flower blooming for the last time Innocent like a simple drop of morning dew resting on a blade of grass

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Simpson College Haiku Series Kristen Alstott | Poetry Red brick on red brick.

All the buildings look the same.

Walking in circles. * Stress at dawn and dusk.

Read, write, sleep, rinse and repeat.

The cycle of school. * I am a balloon high in the sky, lost in space.

No fame to my name.

*

Pastries, salty soups, greasy fries, and Outside Scoop.

A food baby grows. * Koi fish in their pond; library books all around.

Honey, I am home. * Flowering trees bloom.

Green grass, blue sky, singing birds, too bad I’m inside. * Dear school of my dreams, Where has all my money gone?

Sincerely, Student.

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The Trials of Bianca Kristen Alstott | Poetry My name is Bianca, and I. Am. Beautiful.

I just got out of a fabulous place called China, and now I’m just hanging out in this Claire’s

(which I’ve heard is pretty high end).

As soon as those doors open, I know I’ll be the first to be noticed,

I mean look at me.

With my shiny, pink sequins, and my newly constructed elastic

there’s no doubt in my mind that I will be bought by the first person who lays eyes on me.

Oh gosh, here we go, the manager is opening the doors.

Where is everyone?

I thought Claire’s was the store to shop at.

Okay, it’s been two hours and no one has even passed my hook yet. Are they blind?

Yuck! Looks like a mini Sasquatch just walked in.

I have never seen more messy, ratty, curly hair in my life.

Maybe if I just slide as far back as possible she won’t notice me.

No, no, no she’s walking in my direction.

Oh please stop gleaming gorgeously in the florescent sun, sequin!

Ahhh! She’s grabbing for me!

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I. Am. Ruined.

Lucile: “Mommy, I like this pretty, shiny pink one.”

Bianca: Pretty? Excuse me, I am beautiful!

Mommy: “Okay Lucile, if that’s the one you choose, let’s check out.”

Bianca: This cannot be happening! Curly hair is a nightmare. Every self-respecting hair

accessory knows that!

Day One: Lucile tried me on for the first time today. I have never been so stretched in my life! They tell you you’re first time’s supposed to be special, magical.

Maybe Lucile’s head is just too big for me.

Day Two: Lucile played with Play-Doh today.

She ripped me out of her hair and smashed me into her green and yellow blobs

that her “mommy” calls a “creation,”

all so that the Play-Doh would have a pattern.

I now have Play-Doh stuck in my...

Day Three: Lucile’s mommy took her to a strange place called a YMCA. After nearly drowning in the pool for an hour, I figured we’d be finished,

but no.

Lucile wanted to play leap-frog with her stupid, doe-eyed friends.

With every hop she gets more sweaty and greasy,

and now all my pores are clogged.

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All I can smell is sweat, and if I don’t get washed soon I think I might die.

Day Four: It’s Lucile’s first day of preschool. Finally,

I get to have better entertainment than the Wiggles.

Look at all the girls with the nice, simple straight hair.

Why couldn’t I have had their gorgeous locks to rest my greatness in?

Then I would never have to worry about curl-balls!

Day Five: It’s Lucile’s second day of preschool,

and I take back what I said about the nice, simple straight haired girls.

Honestly, they act like they’ve never seen a curl before.

They keep poking her head, and I swear if one more of you little brats pokes me again I think I’m going to...

Day Six: Lucile has not taken me out of her disgusting curly hair

since she smashed me into Play-Doh on day two.

That’s right, not one break from this hell hole.

She is now taking a bubble bath, and I am stuck in her hair.

Her mother has tried shampooing her hair, pulling me till I’m about to snap,

and some strange substance that I gagged on called Vaseline.

Mommy: “I’m sorry, sweetie, I just don’t think I can get it out.”

Bianca: You mean I’ll be stuck here forever!?

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Mommy: “I think I’d better get the scissors and cut it out.”

Bianca: Cut?! You want to “cut” me?! This is why curly hair is a worst nightmare. And It?!

I am NOT an it! I am beautiful Bianca!

Lucile: “But Mommy, I love it!”

Bianca: That’s right you little brat you better love me. You fight for me!

Mommy: “I know you love it, Lucile, but you can’t keep this ratty thing in your hair anymore.”

Bianca: She called me ratty. I’ve turned into mini Sasquatch’s hair once and for all.

This is really the end.

Mommy: “Alright, Lucile, hold still.”

Bianca: Goodbye cruel world!! *Snip*

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A View Tyger Bottenfield | Poetry the casing was thin and transparent, light shining on it from the lamp above. it gave the glass a sort of glossy texture, like a fresh coat of paint on a new Camaro. crystalline figures dancing on its fender; the reflections of a nearby skyline as the vehicle speeds on through the night. peering inward, his own reflection did the same. the tendrils stretched deep below the surface, hands reaching, as if an unknown claim waited at the bottom of the tank. tiny dots littered the tunnels. ruby flames stirring, trudging along like laborers; movements automated, each winding key twisted to its limit. one flame in particular caught his eye. it burned brighter than the others, glistening as it grew larger and larger. they were fighting. a mob, ripping at each other, furiously. like feral dogs battling over a scrap of meat. he could see the soldiers, their uniforms blanketing the fields; cloaks of honor draped upon their shoulders, but their blood-soaked hands seemed to speak of other things. he saw the weak, alone and thirsty; left to puddles of nothing while their brothers lounged in pools of wealth and greed. he watched the politicians, sneering as they waved their bills. the onlookers like wolves, nipping at their heels; torches in hand. and then there were the leaders, sporting their masks of power. hands suspended, above switches of turmoil.

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Poetry

they smiled as the glow of eradication gleamed off of their foreheads. staring at the scene before him, the man observed, perplexed. his breath had fogged up the glass, the cloud expanding, like an amoeba swallowing its prey. he couldn’t understand such needless chaos. they continued to clash. the death count rose with each passing moment, but there was no scoreboard to be found, no discernable sides to be had, as both factions were adorned with the fiery scarlet of the same team. looking away, he shrugged. it was only an ant farm.

Beach Rest Tyger Bottenfield | Poetry it was a soothing backdrop. sand as my mattress, the sheets were snug. each wave a blanket of sound crashing in hushed monotony. the kind air sent a breeze as greeting. a whistle of friendship followed by the warmth of a hug. miles away, San Diego was wide awake. a disgruntled neighbor, he was bustling on still. skyline like arms, he was reaching in anger. dreading a nap, he stayed glowing with rage. it was a nuisance at first, but I shrugged and lay back.

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the shine was soft like a lantern. a nightlight posted, guarding silently as I drifted to sleep.

Time Tyger Bottenfield | Poetry I sit alone as the clock ticks along. the subtle sound, it keeps me lost in trance. a reminder that stays in constant song, it’s father time who sings of wasted chance. we try so hard to keep our grades in line, yet turn our backs to moments better spent. a day could beckon and the sun might shine, but bills we’ve paid; that’s how we stay content. and what if we have less time than we think? our future selves, I’m sure they would agree. a sincere chat, they’d beg you not to blink. our life’s a tour and there’s so much to see. if in the end you’ll wish for time you lack, why waste it now when you won’t get it back?

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Part I: Not Funny Dallas Downey | Poetry This God-forsaken wall I continue to hit, Is no laughing matter.

Actually, I believe it’s hitting me.

That’s less of cliché.

Actually, this brick stampede has slapped me in the face.

Is this a bad joke? Does this really happen?

Or is this how the subconscious puts off work?

Hell, I don’t know. I feel as if I’ve been insulted, betrayed by my own self.

It’s as if my memories mean nothing to me anymore.

This sick, twisted antic can leave Any time now. I would like to write, Something slightly profound, at the least, Without being constantly struck by Your spiteful, clammy, callused hand.

Part II: Slightly Funny Dallas Downey | Poetry This time, I will shoulder the blame, For the clock chimes one, some chime a minute after, And my thoughts all but flood this blank, Cloud of a page called ‘Poem Seven.’

This alphabet soup called a brain is, Precisely, that. A jumbled mix of words, Stories, clichés, images.

I return to the drafting table, Starting with Plan A only to progress through The twenty five other letters, and then numbers, And eventually, Caesar’s numerals.

Alas I, too, will cross a Rubicon of sorts, For E Street is now flooded.

Pineapple Mango smoothie, I am coming for you.

This is no grand work, but it is A mixture of many.

This is worthy not of laureate designation,

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But of dissection and lucrative thought.

Oh, number Seven, you mangy dog, you.

You keep these fingers alight, You’re a bad egg, no ‘Diamond in the rough’ here.

Ha, look. Another damn cliché.

Mm, this frothy, fruity concoction is perfect.

The Italian Campaign Dallas Downey | Poetry An easy victory is well in sight, For losing is not on our restless minds.

We stand, competing with the urge to fight.

They come from front, from side, and from behind.

These beasts continue to train so long and hard, To try to take us on and off our grounds.

Sorry to them, for we have the high card.

And we’ll be damned if we will come unwound.

For now they stand broad-chested, pushing onward.

Feebly projecting gruesome thoughts, Ugly knurled faces pushing forward.

Their thoughts and wills won’t fail to be caught.

We must prevail in this battle of strength.

Operation Husky, July the tenth.

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Constellations Sidney Griffith | Poetry They tell me my freckles are constellations, and I wonder if that’s why I’m connected to the night.

My telescope eyes seek the stars dispersed around me.

My journey is a similar dot-to-dot formation.

I am shooting from one point to the next, incandescent, lighting my own path and rocketing through the dark past spinning planets. The air is still.

I can hear my heart beating—the last satellite tying me back to Earth.

My destination has always been the sun.

Eyes blazing I continue to look forward, hoping to reach what no one else has and never will.

It’s a death wish, they whisper, but my head knows better.

And I will keep going, I will keep going, I will reach my destination.

Looking back at the expanse over which I have crossed, measuring the light years, I will finally acknowledge the asteroids I have withstood and the galaxies I’ve discovered.

And I will finally see.

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Edit Image Sidney Griffith | Poetry Insert New Equation Turn Magnification On Zoom Focus Highlight Changes Numbered List Check for Updates Edit Your progress Trash Remind me later Remind me in an hour Remind me tomorrow Shut Down Sleep Restart What’s on your mind?

Reopen Last Closed Window Select All Clear: Contents New Blank Document Cut Copy Paste Hide Others Log in as another user Save As… Manage

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Poetry

Fighting for Freedom Emily Hudson | Poetry With my tear-stained voice I apologize, the words spill from my lips that I’m sorry.

You say that everything is fine, but the hollow-edge tone tells me that you’re hurting.

I cannot let myself wallow in the guilt that comes with the repetition of this scene.

The grief and the tears are my witnesses for every time I caused you to voice a shuttered version of It’s fine or I’m okay.

Because I know that it’s not, my allegiance to my past, constantly dragging me back from my present with you, the chains of obedience wrought by my family that bind me to them are what you are burning, smashing, desperately trying to sever to help me be my own person.

The lack of choice that I see to you is a refusal to decide my freedom and independence, my belief to you is counter-intuitive.

This is a fight I will never win, How can I choose you both, Something both sides need to know, though know that I love you as you soldier on through the battle for my life, knowing that somewhere behind the anxiety, anger and the black and blue of depression, there is the happiness of a life of our own and that I will never leave your side.

And while I cannot promise that

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we will never hurt each other again, I can promise to try and that I will never leave you behind in this war for our lives entwined.

Strange and Terrifying Emily Hudson | Poetry You are a strange, terrifying something, Ethereal light seen as beautiful, Stars that we fall for that leave us aching They do not know the comfort you bring, Reaching for you, but they are too fearful You are a strange, terrifying something Your mystery leaves me in awe, yearning To grasp the scorching fire of the graceful Stars that we fall for that leave us aching You are always moving, turning, changing, Glowing in the moonlight, you look thoughtful You are a strange, terrifying something As we turn away from your light, trembling, Those who rise up will hold that light, hopeful Stars that we fall for that leave us aching They walk among the celestial searching, For you are veiled amidst the immortal You are a strange, terrifying something, Stars that we fall for that leaves us aching

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Poetry

Time’s Immortal Heart Emily Hudson | Poetry If one can spin and move and walk and dance, Can one love and live and laugh and thrive, As one’s days move through Time’s arms by life’s chance Movements rebel as the gears come alive Ages pass and memories live once more Of life and loves and hearts broken Lovers scorned and the pain relived by score Times pass slowly and words go unspoken But Hearts can heal, learning again to hear Love’s hidden words flying to patch time’s scar The bleeding tapers, ceased, time disappears The beautiful ending of a hurt star While time moves slowly on our walk, Memories last for the Grandfather clock

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The Odd One Out Neil Johnson | Poetry Growing up different Was not magnificent In constant denial Of being “special” Not understanding social cues Makes me wanna sing the blues You were trying to better the situation But, I have trouble showing emotion It’s very hard for me to communicate Because I cannot differentiate You must think I’m stult However, you need to know I’m difficult I don’t have many friends And I won’t be making any amends Being most comfortable in isolation Is not the ideal depiction Please don’t go I just wanted to say hello I’m sorry that I aggravate Tell me how I can alleviate So, don’t look at me as a freak If anything, I’m a huge geek This is of utmost importance And I ask for your acceptance

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Driving Contradiction Anjali Khankari | Poetry The other day I sat, floating across the highway, hours passing as minutes, sign after cow after sign, making no move to interrupt my speckling mind.

Ebbing and fluid, interrupted and liquid, I smile to myself.

Warmth of spicy homemade sustenance fills my belly, pungent, magenta aromas hug to my clothes, thinking of the loved ones I leave behind, the comforting home I’ve only known.

I pass a semi.

You know, some consider it strange, with a dark brown father and a light white mom, a red dot on my forehead, but Hungarian to taste, I grew with blossoms in two different worlds.

Hindu, yet Catholic, strict, with a little laissez-faire, I’m a driving contradiction.

Open-minded to say the least, I’ve always found forbidden fruit sweetest, succulent experience floods my veins, trailing roads less traveled by incurious eyes.

A smoke or a toke, A kiss or a poke, I live unconfined.

No wonder I’m driving to be someone else, Back to a place of acceptance, resenting my roots that dig deep, twisted, wretched, holding me secure.

Red, white, and blue blare in the rearview, cripes.

As I slow to the right, my thoughts follow its lead,

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as my breath quickens I morph, untangling back to an innocent persona, one written in minds of my kin, the one I used nonstop just hours ago.

Confused and aghast, “Airplane radars mess up,” I’m convinced.

To the starched trooper, I’m full of excuses, a young, olive-skinned girl with not many uses.

Forced tears smearing my face, I spare a shaky hand for the ticket, one hundred and fourteen dollars, inevitable insurance increase, I’m screwed.

Heart clenched as I’m moving again, forward, minutes passing as hours, sign. after cow. after sign, I sit still, upset and broke. aching for company, churning lonesome bricks, no laughter to make light, I find myself longing for comfort and compassion, for home, not of those unconfined.

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Introspeak Anjali Khankari | Poetry I don’t usually think when I speak.

Sometimes it comes out unique, A fleck amongst the fleet Might sound kind of sweet.

Despite the stuttering show, A concept was there.

Whether you think it’s valid, I’m not sure I should care.

I set it free for release, A flight from scattered bleats.

Just lessening the load, Chaos gently seeps.

Excreted for approval, A steaming pile of doubt, Flowing from my mouth— It’s hard to converse.

I can’t usually meet an eye, Taking only a moment to try.

Each one having its own mind, Id and Ego limboed, Till I question why, We are hiding.

Stifled beneath spray-snow, Crystal on the inside, Lurking on the surface Who we’re meant to be.

With this understanding, I’m leering at your insides, I still can’t meet your saucers.

Windows without wayside.

Darting into dance— Swaying from the trance That comes too easy To those outside This bubble.

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Homage to My Pants Ella Kistler | Poetry Inspired by Lucille Clifton’s Homage to My Hips these pants are black pants. they have splitting seams in places not polite to talk about. these pants have belt loops that are just for show. they have an itchy tag that told you they would fit like your favorite pair of jeans. they lied. they sag when they wanna sag. they scratch when they wanna scratch. these pants are pocket-less pants. these pants are evil pants. i have known them to make this work uniform more degrading than it hast to be.

Life Fact #134 Ella Kistler | Poetry Kelly was at a party Hit the Jagermeister hard Recorded some friends trying to light their farts in an oven, Tried to put a shoe on inside out, And a ran into a glass door.

All in all, a good time.

The party died down Kelly needed a place to crash Some place soft like a couch Or a floor.

The poison worked its magic Kelly sleeps like the dead.

Until a premature awakening “Pat, what are you doing?”

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Slurred speech “Why are you taking off my pants?”

Might as well be speaking Ewok “Get off me!”

Alcohol still in the system “No! Stop it! Get your hands off me.”

Fights back with the strength of an infant “Stop it! I don’t want to—Don’t touch me!”

Penetration The next morning Guilt and self-loathing stuck like bile in the throat Stronger than any symptom of a hangover; Water can’t wash it away.

Kelly still remembers And self medicates.

But don’t feel sorry for Kelly Kelly isn’t a victim Kelly thinks about sex every seven seconds Kelly wanted it And he enjoyed it It’s a simple fact of life: Patricia, a woman, Can’t rape a man.

Turtle Ella Kistler | Poetry If a turtle was given wings Would it use them?

Would it have the strength to beat the wings and lift itself off the ground?

Would it have the ambition to climb great heights and gaze out at the world?

Would it have the courage to spread them wide, leap, and let the wind carry it off?

Or would its fear of heights get in the way?

And would the lovely gift drag behind it catching mud and dead leaves as it crawls Just slowing it down?

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An Amusing Aspiration Anna Littlejohn | Poetry I wish I were a Sky Pirate, sailing the seven shoreless skies with large sails and pigtails, like Pippy Longstocking meets Star Trek.

I’m a swashbuckling swindler at heart, With just a little practice I could be Blackbeard… you know…sans beard.

Captain Black Swagger, a real sinister scallywag.

I would be more fabulous than Captain Ahab…but you know… more like Captain Ahabityoucan’tshake because bad habits are scarier than old peg-legged men in most cases.

I would command the S.S. I Dare You to Shoot Me, No Really, I Double Dog Dare You, You Quaking Pile of Cowardice. You’re Not Shooting?

Didn’t Think So. What a Disgrace.

Flying high the Jolly Roger, shouting “Yar!” instead of yes and putting prisoners in the thin glass brig with little mercy as they beg to be brought out, they’ll scream and shout, and I’ll just stand and correct their non-pirate gramm“AR!” I’d go hunting giant white metal birds

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with burning vengeance in their wings.

Sure the people inside would be intimidated by the giant metal harpoon shooting through the hull.

But they’d be thankful in time. Or maybe not.

Sky Piracy is pretty frowned upon in most sky provinces after all.

I’ll take the Sky Pirate’s oath which (for future reference) is as follows: “I be promisin’ to pillage every ship from here to there, and I be promisin’ my loyalty to my self, so others beware, and most of all, I be promisin’ this on my own hide, this I swear.” So if somethin’ goes amiss, well then I better be prepared.

I’ll use my slingshot to shoot down satellites.

I’d go lightning surfing on the surface of the stratus, or was it cumulo-nimbus? and I’ll shoot cannons at the clouds to make incredibly ridiculous pictures.

Making parents have to cover their children’s eyes from here to Timbuktu.

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After dodging cannon balls, of course, at least I hope they move.

I’ll curse like a sky sailor and fall in love with the sun.

I’ll look around, won’t see the ground, you can’t tell me that doesn’t sound like fun!

Or maybe you can, but walking the plank above the clouds without a parachute probably isn’t how you imagined dying.

My skills will only get better with time. My speech would be appalling; sailor’s syntax is amazing and my hat absolutely gaudy, mauve with yellow feathers flailing, altogether entertaining!

Who has time to pile up treasure when you have your golden reputation to uphold?

So many of our dreams were deemed impossible by those who claimed to help us see.

You don’t have to be a Sky Pirate to be free.

You just have to dream.

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Haphephobia Kat McCaffery | Poetry How do I explain this to you?

You are so close with only silence between us as you stare intently waiting for me to explain why we’re here How do I make you understand that the one thing I need is the one thing I don’t enjoy How do I tell you that being touched is as pleasant as public speaking and being here I feel like an inversion of the advice they give I’m supposed to talk and somehow I only see you in clothes and feel myself more exposed I look up, feel panic rising from anticipation All I want is to be given the chance to try and change But how is that done when there’s no one to trust or understand my circus freak brain A special section of seats infused with anger and frustration reserved for the owner I am the lion tamer devoured by what he should be able to control No one told me I wouldn’t be able to control him that despite what I said it was the fact I couldn’t fight back that spoke louder And now when I look around there is a circus tent. Center ring surrounding me but I’m playing the wrong part This fear is the clown exploding from a cake No one likes that surprise—not understanding why it’s still here I am not the beauty the queen sitting on her elephant was stolen from me My acrobat thoughts start on a solid platform formed from logic but memories move them to action leaping to conclusions dizzying displays of potential My mind cramming everything into a clown car without the relief of climbing out I see the audience react in unison They see the clown and look anywhere else all wanting the beauty without her beast but I can’t separate mine They are one and not the same

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it must be why I haven’t been kissed in so long a time I want a change of scenery To know the acrobats’ path before they do To leave my clown car and smile with the certainty of the lion but it’s been so long since I’ve seen a harmless cub that an outstretched hand is a claw and not a paw You are so close and silence still between us I want to say all this and more but I’m failing my audition fumbling to explain why “I need your help” You smile. Rest a hand on my arm And although I shy away from having played that part I begin to tame the lion

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Teeth Lauren Meyers | Poetry Happening behind shuttered and fluttering eyes Abrupt fear is solid as table tops Falling loose from their sockets like wilting rose petals My gnarled hand inches ever closely To the silent yet powerful sound aligning a jaw gummed The words I’ve been trying to bite off for so long End up chipping my teeth into fragments Clicking and clacking down the drain of the sink Trying to wash away painted red fingernails from the blood crusted underneath Everything hurtful is gathered by the handfuls, digging into my palms Leaving spaces between my teeth

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DV Lauren Meyers | Poetry Among shaky limbs Your repeated apologies, repeated apologies Full of stum, stum, stum, bling words Carry a Silence Of their own Below my nose I get a whiff of your sour breath It is tasteless on my tongue Unnerving, metallic blood of the past Stains my lips with the color Rosemary Your twisted pleasure of torture quite insane Marks teeth among my collarbones I never asked the bottom of your boot To walk miles upon my skin once White as snow Now painted with purple bruises My bones are like diamonds Under frailty they show strength From your wrecking ball hands My hands bleed as I tie my hair back With shards of glass Your mouth curls into a crescent moon As you view Me The canvas Littered with a horrifying picture From the artist Known as You

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#Basic Taylor Nehring | Poetry I’m a basic white bitch Wrapped up in the fall leaves.

Wearing see through leggings This ass brings you to your knees.

Red lipstick on point, To match my crimson sweater Long curly hair and plaid scarf OMG I love this weather Let me take a duck face selfie, Try not to spill my pumpkin coffee.

Got on my cotton flannel And fake Ugg boots Hair in a messy bun Showing my true roots.

50 likes on FB Haters gonna hate me Following all the trends Becoming the walking dead.

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Toilet Talk Taylor Nehring | Poetry I waited until the moment was right.

I knew once he dropped his pants Plopped down And got to business That he wouldn’t be able to escape.

I waited until I heard the zipper, The clatter of the toilet lid And his phone playing Yet another random Youtube video.

It was the perfect opportunity, To pounce on my prey And I took the first chance I had.

I swung the door open quickly.

It surprised him.

Maybe even scared the shit out of him.

I don’t know, but I finally had his attention.

So I started in on my rant: I am not your mother Or maid Or personal chef.

I am your girlfriend…

For now.

If this crap doesn’t change, I’m leaving.

And I’m taking all of my shit with me.

When I’m gone you will have to 1. Clean up your socks that you leave all over the house 2. Make your own dinner concoction from the lack of things in the fridge 3. Wash and dry your own dirty work uniforms.

4. Not to mention every other god damn thing I do for you Your now perfectly dusted, vacuumed, and clean house Is sure to become a pigsty of sock piles and Dirty dishes, with mud-covered floors.

I’m not doing it anymore.

So you can man up Or live by yourself.

The choice is yours…

Until you decide, the toilet paper will remain out of reach.

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The Joys of Living Together Taylor Nehring | Poetry **Finds fruit snack wrapper on end table. **Sees two dirty socks lying on the floor. **Looks at him sitting on the couch doing nothing. **Begin rant.

Get off your ass so you can put deodorant on because you fucking stink like the pigs you brought home for NO reason that smell like garbage which you “forgot” to take out like the groceries you didn’t bring in.

Also could you turn the light down after you piss all over the toilet seat since you “happened” to leave it up.

For once could you close the sock drawer Or maybe open the door for me instead of letting it smack me in the face?

Or what about unloading the dishes since you use most of them or buy some more damn milk so I have some for my breakfast?

Would it kill you to go over the top sometimes like buying my favorite flowers, if you even know what they are, or would it hurt for you to go under the sink and actually fix it? **Notices he isn’t listening **Throws wrapper at him **Leaves in a mad dash **Repeat argument in one week.

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Roadkill Taylor Nehring | Poetry Sometimes, when money is tight and life is chaotic, I feel that the roadkill splattered on the highway is maybe a better option then the life I’m attempting to live.

There’s so much simplicity in lying there all bloody and brainless compared to working your ass off to bring home near to nothing, to have everything go wrong that possibly could, and to be fucked over so many times because one reality check isn’t enough.

Being the bump in the road, dead and ran over is painless compared to the bumps I’ve overcome yet still face.

Sure, it initially hurts Being struck by a moving vehicle but the burdens I carry hurt too.

People drive by and feel sympathetic for the lump of fur motionless on the highway while I can’t even get a passerby to ask why I’m having a mental breakdown.

Yet again, some people find the fun in veering to hit it once more…

Maybe we’re all bound to be smacked at least once, Whether we become roadkill or not depends on how hard we’re hit.

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Rest in Pieces Taylor Nehring | Poetry Your bright light has faded To a plain blank screen Your whirring heart Now makes the constant beep The one that signals Life being taken away; Fan clogged, Processor fried, Wires hanging limp, Hard drive may be salvageable.

Not only did you die But you had the audacity to take The priceless photos The long essays; Pieces of my life.

Which I still need!

So full of anger I’ll Cut your wires looser Shatter your screen And Pray that you don’t rest in pieces.

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Iris Patrick Peters | Poetry Purple iris pools in deep Blue. Dark indigo and bruise fill The fount of petals Swelling. Like liquid collecting, Falls brim with deep night, Sunless and starlit. Satin saturates This velvet sheet of night.

I stare into chaos, wonder Beneath black sky How darkness shapes a life.

Imago Patrick Peters | Poetry I am an unrealized aim, a forgotten Pursuit, left to dry I am the impasto on canvas Too muddled and abstract, incoherent I am eloquence clamped shut, I speak not In celebration but in bits, Like a stunted flower Not quite up to snuff, a colossus Made from ruins, a formless thing: Do not idealize me, Lest real becomes dream

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Death of a Fatalist Patrick Peters | Poetry A morning paper fits time in print, As sure as right weather: When the sun sharply sets And another day goes. At twenty— One hour I soak warm colors Of dusk in a glass of rye. Ripe golden Dram draws light, softens ice, And settles coldness round My hand. Like the ticking clock, I sit. Caring only to bend my arm, Greet a casual sip. In retrospect, I render recent memory and Graze its linear edge. Till wind stops Me, sublimates an urge to bleed This evening. Under red rind of sun I Shape new day in western aura.

So the inevitable always Begins, just as every end is a beginning.

When half-light settles in its dearth I will be unknowing then.

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Posthumous Patrick Peters | Poetry The rain has dried its rags, Wrung out on roadways.

Shoes plod the store-front glaze Of puddles gleamed in half neon.

Awash the curb, collective eyes stare Like big box adverts.

Bulk phrases grin with cut-rate words, Claiming: happiness is cheap.

A free house will clear at midnight.

Threadbare patrons rest their pence.

Voices make for trains in vague Remarks, banalities often left unsaid.

Elsewhere, she sits and lets it be.

Shuffling stations will weave The distance where arms now Brush in the senseless trundle.

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aj Bethany Schaefer | Poetry the text wakes me up around 8:30 on a friday morning at the end of july. aj is dead by the time i read the last word, i am no longer tired. i don’t know why zachary chose me to share the news with. i was never a fan of aj. all i remember of him is that he was extremely annoying. i know, that’s mean to say about a dead boy, but i haven’t even thought about the kid since we graduated last year, he barely existed to me. i find out that he collapsed the night before playing basketball, because of a tumor on his heart. they took him off life support just before i got the text. i should probably feel awful that i don’t feel awful, that i don’t feel anything. but i don’t. it may be terribly sad, but he wasn’t my friend to lose. later that night at my sister’s wedding rehearsal, i don’t fail to miss the irony that a happy day for us is the worst day ever for his family. by the time the funeral comes around, i haven’t shed a single tear. during the service, i look around and i’m brought back to the 8th grade. that was when kayla died, barely fourteen years old, and she had her funeral here as well. our high school gym, the bleachers packed with grief. the other time a kid died in this town was years ago, some boy whose name i don’t know, and i wonder how many people mourned for him,

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because in small towns death is a community affair. we like to be known as people who can pull together and overcome the bad times. it’s kind of fucked up when you think about it, that one day you’re in the school gym, celebrating kids’ wins, and the next it’s their losses. i’m back at aj’s funeral and i can’t help but notice that his pallbearers are schoolmates, boys who used aj as their running joke for years. it’s kind of tragic that the closest friends he had, who are trusted to carry his body, are the ones who used to laugh at him behind his back. though it seems a little cruel, i let the guilt i feel for not feeling sad over aj comfort me. i’d rather be honest and mean than fake being upset. i refuse to be someone who writes mourning posts on the facebook wall of someone i have never cared for, a postmortem “frenemy.” it’s 8:30 on a friday morning at the end of july. i’m the wrong person to be the first to hear that aj has died, but probably the only one to care.

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Angel Hair Bethany Schaefer | Poetry Spider webs are amazing.

Flexible like human hair, as elastic as a rubber band, seemingly stronger than steel.

Webs have different purposes; they can be used to catch prey, to look pretty, to move around, to protect eggs.

All this from a tiny gland in spiders’ tiny butts.

In order to even make a web between two objects, such as trees, spiders wait for the wind to blow in the right direction then release a strand of silk and wait until it catches, crossing the line and building the web as they go.

While this is all so incredible, that something so small and delicate can be so strong, have you ever heard of Angel Hair?

In Australia, you know, the country with a shit-ton of spiders the size of bowling balls and snakes that eat crocodiles and giant centipedes?

Yeah, that Australia.

There, they have a phenomenon called Angel Hair. This is a punishment from the Devil himself.

Spiders do something called “ballooning;” they climb up high—in trees or bushes, and throw silk into the air where it catches and rains mass doom on unsuspecting towns.

The “doom” is actually spiders.

The webs travel a long way, sometimes at heights of nearly 2 miles off the ground.

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Then, they settle.

Entire houses, cars, towns, are covered in a snow-like spider web filled with millions of little spiders.

These shifty little shits turn towns into a winter wonderland straight from the mind of Tim Burton.

What the hell is up with that, Australia?

Are you guys okay? Actually, you know what, fuck Australia and their spider towns. I say we burn them down.

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Second Shift Bethany Schaefer | Poetry Hour Zero: I walk through the glass door of the general store with one minute to spare until my shift starts say hello-nicetoseeyou-haveagoodafternoon to the worker I’m replacing, and move to Register One so I can count the drawer.

Despite the bright red LANE CLOSED sign, I have to tell four customers that no, I am not open. Sometimes the thought of how mindnumbing the next eight hours of my life will be makes me doubt the real value of eight dollars an hour.

Hour One: By the time the first hour has gone by, I have already heard Gerry complain about Mary and Breanna and Angela and Mike who have complained about Dave and Danny and Stephanie and Char, and Zachary keeps a big smile on his face while he tells me just how much he hates everyone here.

Not that I blame him, it’s hard to tell the difference between our coworkers and a pack of lions who are moments from tearing apart a gazelle.

Vicious.

Hour Two: When I glance at the clock on the register for the fifty-sixth time and notice it has only been two hours, I start to wonder if this is what dogs feel like when you put a treat on the tip of their nose and make them wait to eat it; the reward is so close but you have to hold on for just a while longer. I count down my shifts in minutes because it’s easier to tell myself five hours and thirty-three minutes than it is to round up to six. Thirty-two minutes now.

Hour Three: After three hours the only thing that keeps me going is the thought that in one hour, I am halfway done and it’s just four more hours and then I will

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be completely off. Between the customers letting me know how great the weather I can’t enjoy is and Mike trying to flirt around his constant irritating sighs, ahh, shoot, the only safe place I have is the bathroom, and even then there’s a chance I’ll find something that needs to be fixed or cleaned.

Fantastic.

Hour Four: I’m halfway there and the joke “if it doesn’t scan it must be free!” got old the second time I heard it months ago and if one more person comes in and screams at me that the pumps aren’t working when they just don’t know how to press Enter, I might not make it the next three hours and forty-seven minutes. My feet are sore, my back aches, and I’m starving but we can’t afford to staff enough people for breaks and if I sit down, I’m lazy, and resting makes me a little too human.

Hour Five: With two hours and seventeen minutes to go, there’s a chance that I’m going to survive. I’ve been called honey by the truck drivers, sweetie by the older guys, and the boys my age are reading my name tag, saying Beth like it’s a foreign language that they can’t wait to learn. I’ve given my spiel a million times, hello-howareyou-thebathroomisbackthere-haveaniceday, and I’m having a tough time joking about how high prices are for the thirteenth time today.

Hour Six: It’s around this time that I have a tough choice to make: do my final sweep, mop, bathrooms and risk finishing early with nothing to do later, or wait a while, which usually brings customers in droves, meaning I can’t finish until the next employee shows up. Whatever I choose, it’s like the customers

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know and they do whichever is least convenient for me. I imagine that this is my punishment for all the times I’ve questioned customers’ intelligence tonight.

Hour Seven: It hits the double digits - just fifty-seven minutes left! - and there’s hope that freedom is just around the corner. In just forty-nine minutes I will be free from Mike’s sad, longing gaze and Krystyn will have to put up with the comments about how tired everyone is, like four a.m. is only a ridiculous hour for them.

There are fifteen minutes left and I’m practically counting down the seconds and Krystyn calls to let me know she’s going to be late so I’m not going home that soon.

Hour Eight: By ten minutes after my shift is supposed to have ended, I have had plenty of time to think about how sad some parts of this job are. Like, the fact that if someone handed me $10, my time would be more valuable to them than it is to this company. Or how wearing this smock makes me so unhuman to customers that they won’t say a word to me, like their silence defends them from having to care. Krystyn arrives and I say hellonicetoseeyouhaveagoodnight and walk through the glass door, twenty-nine minutes after my shift ended.

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The Ring Bethany Schaefer | Poetry When I was a young girl, my mother had a ring.

It was an heirloom, passed down from her mother, and her mother’s mother, and her mother’s mother’s mother.

It was a beautiful ring, a black onyx crystal shaped like a heart.

My mother came into possession of the ring after she was married.

It was given to her by her mother as both a gift, and an apology.

I’m not sure what my grandmother was apologizing for, but my mother was married shortly after my grandfather passed away, so perhaps my grandmother was just sorry that he could not be there to give my mother away.

That was a trend in my family— around the time a girl got married, her father died.

My mother’s marriage was not a happy one.

My father, and my father’s father, and my father’s father’s father, were mean men who liked whiskey and discipline and weak women who didn’t fight back.

I spent most of my childhood by my mother’s side, comforting her while my father yelled, wicked words tearing her apart letter by letter.

I always admired that beautiful black ring, helpless like my mother, collecting her pain and suffering.

Maybe it’s because that ring had so much history,

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so many family secrets that I wanted so badly to know, but I loved the ring. I wanted to know which woman in my family it first belonged to, and I wondered if she was as unlucky as the ones who wore it after her.

It has always seemed ironic to me that in a family of bad relationships, our biggest treasure is a ring shaped like a heart.

It’s like we wear our hearts on our hands, as if they’re less likely to break.

Despite the lack of luck with love that surely must run in my veins, I too married recently.

I don’t love him, and he does not love me; we have nothing in common, he is fire while I am ice, he is up and I am down, but it’s better this way.

I won’t feel as broken when he breaks me.

I’m waiting for the day my mother finally gives me the ring, the ring I have wanted since I was young. The ring that I deserve.

The only thing my mother could possibly be waiting for is my father’s death, the final sign that it is time for her to pass on the ring.

I refuse to wait any longer. It’s been long enough and I have been so patient. I guess it’s true that if you want something done, do it yourself.

My father has been feeling poorly lately, the roles of my parents switched as the ladies are the strong ones.

My mother and I have been nursing him like the wonderful women we are, fanning his flushed face, rubbing his back while he gets sick.

I pour my father a glass of whiskey mixed with

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just a touch of Ricin. I tell him it will dull the pain.

He looks at me with glazed eyes from the drink or the dying, I’m not sure which.

I can’t believe that in just a few days, that ring will finally be mine.

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Once More, with Feeling Bethany Schaefer | Poetry Open mouths move together in a dance undeniably familiar We are panting because there’s not enough air for either of us in this tiny, dark room.

Our bodies are pressed so tight together, We melt into one.

But do you feel it?

A muted gasp, A quiet moan.

Fingers ghost across damp skin in a desperate attempt to keep grounded Your skin is so hot, I think I’m burning.

Are you?

Do their fingertips ignite you from the inside out?

Or are you an alley cat, leaning against the warmth of a running car?

I can feel your heated breath on my neck.

Your sweat is on my skin.

Is it supposed to feel this way?

Is it supposed to be this way?

Do You Feel Anything?

No. Your gasps calm, My skin cools, Your lips flutter against my forehead.

You are satisfied, This time.

“Did you…?”

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“Yes.” Liar.

You close your eyes.

You hold me close.

You know what they say: If at first you don’t succeed, Try, try, try, try, try… Again.

Maybe next time, you’ll feel it.

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The Space Between the Canyon Lips Holds Life J.J. Stand | Poetry The space between the canyon lips holds life, life-dream untouched by human mind and plan.

We transform nature into hourglass sand; Perhaps the final grain will seal our strife.

We cannot fully know our fated price, As we knock down death’s door by our own hand.

Behind us stretch our desecrated lands, long the victim of our stewarding vice.

The deadened heart beats louder than the truth.

Powered by corruption, its pulse might cease.

The damage cannot go unnoticed, no, the Earth may rid itself of human proof and finally leave a pummeled world at peace, life, so brutally held, letting us go.

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If One Person Could Only Nicole Stuhldryer | Poetry If one person could only be a light in a world where not many survive, then all people could learn to reunite.

Someone could rise above the strife, despite the challenges of just being alive.

If only one person could be a light.

One who is strong could begin the long fight, and show the entire world it can strive, then all people could learn to reunite.

It just takes one to start a fire, ignite a blaze deep inside; wholly revive.

If only one person could be a light.

Like a baby bird from the nest. Take flight!

Join a cause, learn to not just live, but thrive.

Then all people could learn to reunite.

Around this huge world, we could start tonight, and take away the things that deprive us. If only one person could be a light, then all people could learn to reunite.

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Strolling Nicole Stuhldryer | Poetry Walking outside my grandparents’ old house the breeze blows the scent of sweet lilacs.

I pass by the overflowing garden where the succulent grapes shimmer in the sun.

On a clothesline the towels hang, and the wind releases the fragrance of lavender like a just lit candle filling my nose with its luscious perfume.

In the mud, lies a bed of beautiful violets and morning glory.

A painter’s easel in the soil behind my grandparents’ weathered home.

Thunderstorm Nicole Stuhldryer | Poetry The storm rolls in like an echo, of the quiet town it hit last.

A million lightning bolts streak the skies, deafening thunder to shake my ears.

A lullaby rain begins to fall, One hushed raindrop seems to fall at a time.

Moaning winds shake the small house, As the rain cries from the sky.

Faster than a blink, the storm is miles away.

Wind whistles a steady gust, beginning to dry the dripping trees.

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One Last Puzzle James Tillison | Poetry Five years old and we are at Grandma’s house.

She asks if I want to make a puzzle.

I say of course and we do.

It’s 100 pieces and has rabbits, her favorite animal.

Ten years old and puzzles are a given at Grandma’s.

Walking in there’s a new puzzle unopened on the table.

This one is 300 pieces with an eagle, my favorite animal.

I love nothing more than making puzzles with her.

Fifteen and I am making puzzles with Grandma again.

She tells me how good I’ve gotten at puzzles.

We make a puzzle with some mountain on it; I am not paying much attention.

These things are really boring now, but I love her more than ever.

Twenty and I don’t go to Grandma’s very often anymore.

I see a puzzle in the store and it makes me think of her.

This one is 1000 pieces and has the Wizard of Oz. I realize how much I miss her and a tear falls on the lion.

Twenty-five and I am making puzzles with Grandma.

We found out she has early stages of Alzheimer’s.

We are making the 1000 piece Wizard of Oz puzzle.

She tells me that’s her favorite movie for the third time.

Thirty and I am with Grandma, she’s getting worse.

Remembering things is tough; she has forgotten my name four times today.

We are doing the Wizard of Oz puzzle; it’s her favorite.

She says how long it’s been since we’ve made it; it was last week.

Thirty-five and I am with Grandma in the hospital.

They tell me this will be my last visit with her.

We do the Wizard of Oz puzzle once more.

She asks if it’s new, her eyes are blank; my tear falls on the lion.

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As Time Ticks On Andrea Van Wyk | Poetry From where I hung on the wall I had seen it all.

The day the couple first came to look their expressions showed they had found their nook.

I was there when they moved in as they decorated the place with a grin.

They made each and every repair with great care for little children running around was their prayer.

Then one day they brought home their new daughter and I watched her grow, walk, and totter.

The man and woman, their time they devoted to loving her and upon her they doted.

Not many years later, came another the two became playmates for each other.

The tiny house was then full of voices while the parents smiled at the outcome of their choices.

I watched closely as they grew experiences came to each one, new.

Fun times arrived like the first day of school to the first time diving in a swimming pool.

At times the house wasn’t always full of smiles the family had their fair share of trials.

In each tribulation the family fought and to everyone, multiple lessons were taught.

Throughout these times the house was a sanctuary a warm, cozy place where love was primary.

Through a warm cooked meal to everyone, home was ideal.

Then the time came for the girls to go.

Great emotions to leave filled them with woe.

While they did not want to depart, they knew they could always come back to where it all did start.

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As for the man and his spouse they are still visited by their kids in that house.

And I am still on the wall going tick-tock as they wait and watch, me, their clock.

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Bad Spirits Ethan Zierke | Poetry When I no longer sought to know my pain I looked to you that you might understand; you asked not what it was I wished to gain, supported me, a glass with ice in hand.

Memories of the past have led me here and now my essence summons your control; my eyes, my words, my thoughts no longer clear in your charade I play the starring role.

You took my life and flipped it on its head I can’t imagine what there was before; you gave my heart a beat when it was dead but I can’t count on your help anymore.

My star-crossed lover: I must let you go but cheers to saying yes when they said no.

Film Critic Ethan Zierke | Poetry images bounce off my eyeballs; a common occurrence—a daily hustle, these fleeting scenes of sourceless emotion, scandalous honeys with guns because, Hey, it sells! these scenes project our passing fascinations while your beloved star gets high off some young lovers’ Friday night dinner-and-a-movie.

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How to Be a Good Client Ethan Zierke | Poetry lace up your shoes; it’s a walk to the office allow yourself plenty of time you might forget something or maybe you’ll buy cigarettes ‘cause you’re out be aware of the time; it’s the difference between early and late, the difference between good and bad when you arrive you hang up your coat you tell her you’ve quit smoking ...for real this time you exercise daily follow the food pyramid mom found a job that pays well dad finally gave up his drinking and you found yourself a good girl for christ’s sake don’t tell her the truth it’s easier when you’re happy; less work for everybody look at her face when she talks nod when she pauses smile and thank her when you leave your eyes drift to the clock “excuse me, miss, but I believe our 45 minutes is up”

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Matin en bois Ethan Zierke | Poetry lying in bed I float like the breeze through your hair in between a dream and rousing reality sleep kisses me and your lips meet mine on the other side enveloping me and pulling me deeper, deeper deeper your sweet whisper hangs in my head the skin of your breast, like marble made warm by the sun caresses the small hairs of my chest it’s as if I am outside looking in at us I watch my own eyes glaze over with lust from hell my body bows down for I’ve entered a new domain: a fortress of fornication over which you rule with unfailing foxiness you lean in to whisper once more and your breath on my face fills me again with life wake up I search the bed for signs of you evidence of your presence but you seem to have drifted free of me and all I am left with is the hardened memory of you dwelling here, down below

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Path of Least Resistance Ethan Zierke | Poetry honors scholars, white collars, they look down on smaller dollars you say you made it, they said you would true I wonder what they would say if I said I could too rare skills, they make a man, but rare skills aren’t rare anymore they’re bought online or stolen, like items from a store so I think I can do without it they seriously doubt it I’m not arguin’ I let my progress make them think again the norm has always bored me document my story I’d rather take risks now than spend my life behind a desk until I’m forty when I wish I’d done what I loved to do instead of takin’ orders like they told me to a straight-laced citizen I wish that we’d get rid of them they’re just models of establishment so Uncle Sam can make more work for him our creativity is at stake when all we chase is paper the money that we make might as well be smoke and vapor it’s temporary tender; a way to pass the time but it’s not much to look back on when the reaper says “you’re mine”

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Photography

Sunset at the Iowa State Fair Kristen Alstott | Photography

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Closed Annie Collins | Photography

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Handmade Annie Collins | Photography

Mayan City Annie Collins | Photography

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Refreshing Waves Annie Collins | Photography

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Photography

School Is Out Annie Collins | Photography

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Snow Taylor Gehrls | Photography

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Rainbow Taylor Gehrls | Photography

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Sequel 2015-2016

Sunset at Lake Okoboji Taylor Gehrls | Photography

110

Photography

Simpson’s Campus Taylor Gehrls | Photography

111

Sequel 2015-2016

A day without sunshine, is you know, night Austin Hronich | Photography

112

Photography

7.8.13 Brooklyn Hunter | Photography

113

Sequel 2015-2016

Alaskan Adventures Brooklyn Hunter | Photography

114

Photography

Follow the Yellow Brick Road Brooklyn Hunter | Photography

115

Sequel 2015-2016

Reflection Melissa Moore | Photography

This Isn’t Love Melissa Moore | Photography

116

Photography

Angel Melissa Moore | Photography

117

Sequel 2015-2016

Fin Taylor Nehring | Photography

118

Photography

Rustic Taylor Nehring | Photography

119

Sequel 2015-2016

Zoey’s First Fall Taylor Nehring | Photography

120

Photography

Zoey Pounces on Pumpkins Taylor Nehring | Photography

121

Sequel 2015-2016

Secret Splendour Rebecca Schmidt | Photography

122

Photography

Untitled Maureen Snook | Photography

123

Sequel 2015-2016

Untitled Maureen Snook | Photography

124

Photography

Untitled Maureen Snook | Photography

125

Sequel 2015-2016

Robert C. Leist Jessica Swenson | Photography

126

Photography

Untitled Jayde Vogeler | Photography

127

Sequel 2015-2016

Untitled Jayde Vogeler | Photography

128

Photography

Untitled Faith Williams | Photography

129

Sequel 2015-2016

Untitled Alayna Geronzin | Visual Arts

130

Visual Arts

Al Emily Goodenbour | Visual Arts

131

Sequel 2015-2016

Lead Guitar Dan Gutmann | Visual Arts

132

Visual Arts

Wasteland James Jackman | Visual Arts

133

Sequel 2015-2016

Revitalization Study 2 Christopher Nickel | Visual Arts

134

Visual Arts

Revitalization Study 4 Christopher Nickel | Visual Arts

135

Sequel 2015-2016

Revitalization Study 5 Christopher Nickel | Visual Arts

136

Visual Arts

Oblivion Patrick Peters | Visual Arts

137

Sequel 2015-2016

Child Slavery Bailey Sipfle | Visual Arts

138

SEQUEL 2015-2016

139