2025 USU Creative Writing and Art Contest Issue

Utah

Content

Fiction

1st Place, Eva Nelson, “Breathe”

2nd Place, Sarah Ellis, “Whatever Did Happen to Cornelius” p.16

3rd Place, Hannah Smith, “Let’s Play Mermaids” p.22

Nonfiction

1st Place, Chloe Scheve, “Moonchild”

2nd Place, Yash Rivera, “Cyclical”

3rd Place, Luka Rompato, “Feast” p.40

Poetry

1st Place, Brook Haight, “your nature”

“ fill me”

“cycles” p.45

2nd Place, Noelani Hadfield, “Too Much Information”

“Grandmother’s Cotton Fields”

“Sea-Salt Atonement”

3rd Place, Rose Ivins, “Sign Of”

1st Place, Kaisha Mills, “Self Portrait”

2nd Place, Sterling Brinkerhoff, “Silent Sentinel”

3rd Place, Myleigh Peterson, “(Lucky Number) 5”

Mentions

From the Director

This special edition of Sink Hollow presents the winning entries of the Utah State University Creative Writing and Art Contest, which is open to all USU undergraduate students from all departments and disciplines. We want to thank each and every one of our contestants this year for all their hard work. Each writer and artist who submitted is part of a vibrant and inclusive writing community here at USU and in Cache Valley.

The contest was quite competitive, and we are grateful to our contest judges, who generously shared their expertise: AJ Romriell, Jordan Forest, Karin Anderson, Marie Skinner, Russ Beck, and Robb Kunz. Thanks also go to my fellow Sink Hollow faculty advisors Russ Beck, Robb Kunz, Charles Waugh, and to Nicole Despain and Taryn Sommers, the English Department administrative staff, whose assistance in running the contest has been invaluable.

As Contest Director, I regularly find myself in awe of the talent and hard work coming out of the USU arts community. I am especially impressed with our Sink Hollow staff, who make this contest possible. I leaned on the stellar Sink Hollow staff who helped run the contest, organized and promoted the Helicon West reading, and produced this stunning issue of the magazine. I owe them all an extra special thanks for their dedication. Chloe Scheve and Woodrow Walters led the contest team this year and processed submissions—their work was essential to the success of the contest, and I am grateful for their leadership. Truly. Brooklyn Hibshman, Jessica Lindhardt, Henry Hallock, Woodrow Walters, Chloe Scheve, and Jacob Casper copyedited winning work, and I am grateful for their skill and responsiveness. Cade Taylor designed this incredible issue of the magazine, and Linn Eggett put together the slideshow for the reading at Helicon West. Eliza Oscarson, Linn Eggett, and Woodrow Walters created posters for the contest and the reading. Getting to work with these students has been a real gift, and I am so proud of their dedication and commitment to make this opportunity available to all USU undergraduates. Day in and day out these students are doing the vital work of sustaining a literary community.

Being a part of this contest, getting to see the beautiful art and writing coming out of USU, has been a particularly bright spot for me this year.

Ashley Wells, Contest Director and Sink Hollow Poetry Advisor

Abigail Hong “Bone Appetit” Honorable mention

1st Place Fiction, Eva Nelson

Breathe

Tall stain glass windows stretched down the chapel walls, waterfalls of color and depictions of Christ. And while the winter sky was winding back its light even earlier than the day previous, the congregation was washed in a soft rainbow. Gentle purples and blues brushed against the rigid edges of the pulpit and pews, softening their harsh shadows.

Snow-soaked shoes shuffled through heavy wood doors, and people brushed the powder from their jackets and hair. The room was full of gentle greetings and sparkling eyes. This time of year, the church was busier than usual; even those who rarely attended sometimes brought their children along to hear the Christmas services.

In a row near the back, a young man mentioned this to his friend, smiling and leaning into his space. However, his enthusiasm was met with a scoff.

“Yeah, and that’s when they dig their claws into you.” Although the friend’s reply was muttered and the meeting had started several minutes ago, the original speaker still sucked in a sharp breath. He swatted his friend’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

“David, you can’t say something like that! What if someone heard?”

David’s only response was attempting to settle more comfortably in his rigid seat. The answer was obvious, and honestly, it would not worsen his situation by much. If anything, it would give the congregation a solid reason to dislike him, rather than mere speculation.

Following a hymn that dragged, Eddie’s uncle approached the pulpit. The preacher was all harsh angles, and his sharp dark jacket and crisp white shirt made it seem as though he were more folded origami than human. His eyes resembled shards of flint—any conflict and they would cough up sparks. He spoke about God. His words were warm and sticky, drizzling over the audience like syrup over pancakes. Their wide eyes sparkled and heads nodded as they absorbed his words.

The attention of one pancake, however, was not transfixed like the rest. In fact, his breaths had grown slow and soft, his body relaxed for the first time since entering the chapel. Yet, the sliver of sleep was tragically interrupted when a dress shoe made contact with his shin. More startled than hurt, David jolted upright in his seat. “Eddie, what the he–” David pressed his lips together, cutting his expletive short. Sheepishly, he glanced at Eddie, who raised an unimpressed eyebrow. However, his mouth twitched with a smirk that made David’s stomach stumble.

“It hasn’t even been ten minutes and you’re already falling asleep?” Eddie sighed, his tone resigned but unsurprised. “Can’t you at least pretend to pay attention?”

“Why?” David muttered back. “It’s the same every year. Every week, really.”

“It’s important.” Eddie’s eyes sparkled just like the others’, and David swallowed, lips turned down as he dragged his eyes back to the preacher.

“I came at all, didn’t I?”

Eddie nudged David’s shoulder with his, breathing out a laugh. “You always come. Don’t act like I’m forcing you.”

Though Eddie’s tone was warm, the words triggered a frigid lump in David’s throat. He swallowed roughly as he looked down and picked at his ripped jeans. Despite the panic attacks that often followed, regular church attendance meant less painful conversations where his parents talked and David was drowned out. It meant fewer evenings where his mother sobbed while his father ensured David was aware of how much his choices hurt them. And his brother. Why couldn’t he set a good example for his brother?

David’s sigh scraped the silence, but neither boy spoke. The preacher’s drawl crawled into the space between them and settled there, heavy and scratchy like one of the wool sweaters shoved in the back of David’s closet.

Then, “I pray for you, you know.”

David stiffened at the words, but didn’t meet Eddie’s eyes. In them, he would only see the sparkle that consumed his own. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

David knew Eddie had struggled once, and sometimes he saw fragments of the depression that still lingered. But his friend was adamant that church had saved him; who was David to argue against that?

Eddie sighed too, and David didn’t need to look to know that his friend was pouting. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek, eyes following the rainbow that still dripped from the windows and stained the congregation. There was blue in Eddie’s hair.

“But I care about you.”

Sometimes, David wished he wouldn’t do that either.

When David was seven years old, he almost drowned in the river behind his house. His parents had warned him and his brother to keep their distance, emphasizing the strong current that would trap their little bodies, drag them against unforgiving rocks, and tear the air from their lungs. They had never been the type to sugarcoat things, trusting fear to convince their children. For a time, it worked. David and his brother stayed behind the barbed wire fence, content to play in the bleached, dead grass of their yard. However, the cool greens and browns of the forest tugged at David’s mind, and he inevitably gave in. He only wanted to see; he wouldn’t go close enough for the river to touch him.

One summer afternoon, when the heat of the sun made his shirt cling sticky to his skin and the clicking of their broken sprinkler became insufferable, David found himself wriggling through a gap in the fence. His delighted giggles and gasps of wonder wove through the forest’s peaceful quiet as David skipped over a blanket of dirt and pine

needles. Patches of shade and light slipped over his skin, and David gulped down pine-sweet lungfuls of the clean air.

David didn’t notice the strong rush of the river until his foot slipped on a wobbly stone, and his body crashed down a muddy hill. He hit the water before he even processed his tumble. All he saw was blue. The water stung, as though hundreds of needles were being dragged against his skin. It clawed its way into his nose and mouth, forcing his last breath of air from his lungs as he hacked and gasped. And though his head pounded and wisps of inky black had begun to line his vision, David couldn’t help but notice that the river was not as cruel as his parents had described. The water cradled his body carefully, soothing his new scrapes and bruises as it gently brought him to his new destination.

Obviously, David didn’t reach the ultimate destination. Rough hands dragged him onto the slick bank and pounded at his chest, forcing out water and bruising his ribs until proper paramedics arrived.

Memories of what followed had grown blurry in the ten years that had since passed; washed-out hospital walls, cries from his family, the looming presence of their preacher. The only thing that remained clear was the way his best friend burst into the room, shoving past the doctor and throwing himself onto David’s hospital gown-clad chest, wailing.

“I thought you were gone, David! They told me you were almost gone!” No one had been able to pry Eddie away for about thirty minutes while he whimpered, “You can’t leave me, David. You can’t ever leave.” If he strained his brain, David could still see the way tears had stained Eddie’s cheeks red.

His mother said it was a miracle. Their preacher had felt inspired, she said, to walk that specific trail by the river and had seen David fall in. Had he reached the boy even a minute later, David would have received brain damage or wouldn’t have made it. David owed the man his life. David had lived because of their congregation’s prayers and God’s mercy, his mother said.

David later learned that Eddie had been walking with his uncle and had witnessed the rescue. Even years later, Eddie told David that he would never forget the sight of the preacher lifting David’s limp body from the violent water.

It was funny, David was certain the congregation prayed more for him now, at seventeen, than they ever did at the time of his accident. David wasn’t the church pariah, not really. For that to be the reality, the church goers would need an actual reason—and proof—besides his gloomy demeanor and penchant for hoodies and boots. Obviously, his mother and father frequently voiced their concerns to their preacher; the man came by several evenings a week to join them in bible study and prayer. When David wasn’t forced to join them, he could often pick out his name, tightly wrapped in layers of concern, from their hushed conversations.

His mother wasn’t the type to broadcast the struggles of her family, so as far as David was aware, the rest of the congregation had no justifiable reason to dislike him. Not yet, anyway. The

truth would come out, eventually.

Yet, every time he entered the chapel, it felt as though everyone’s eyes snapped right to him, cold judgment raking over his skin

The week of the twenty-fifth, David arrived at the church alone, anticipation blossoming in his stomach when he thought of his best friend inside. David’s mother, father, and brother all arrived early to socialize, while David preferred not to spend any longer in that chapel than was necessary. He always arrived alone, then spent the meeting at Eddie’s side before they both trekked in the shared direction of their houses. For better or worse, the church wasn’t far from either of their homes.

As he approached the steep, concrete steps, he found an older woman trapped on the second, her cane slipping on ruthless ice. She shivered, her lacy black shawl not doing much to protect her thin shoulders from the chill that coated the air. Had she walked?

“Here, let me help,” David said softly upon reaching her, offering his arm and moving to support her back with the other. The woman’s eyes darted up, widening when she took in his appearance. David tried to maintain his pleasant expression; he knew how he looked. His black hoodie, clunky boots, and spattering of earrings certainly weren’t typical church attire. Additionally, it had been ages since he had last trimmed his dark hair, and it hung fluffy around his face. He was hardly a picture of tidy reverence. The silence stretched long between them, like a piece of saltwater taffy.

Pricks of heat traced David’s neck, and he cleared his throat. “Uh, I’ll just–” he started to withdraw his hand.

However, to his surprise, the woman reached out and gripped his arm. “Thank you, dear.” Together, they hobbled up the stairs. When David moved to pull open the thick wooden door, the woman stopped and patted his cheek. “You’re a nice boy. They’re wrong about you,” she stated, before shuffling into the chapel. David stared after her, mind thrown into static due to her bluntness.

When David finally stepped into the building, he had to remind himself to suck in a breath around the pressure in his chest. As he slipped between bodies clad in stifling Sunday best, David’s eyes trailed to the front of the chapel. He didn’t bother searching for the rest of his family, his eyes only sought out a head of familiar golden waves.

Eddie stood in the second to first row, chatting pleasantly with the preacher. Color melted from the stain glass behind him, soaking his hair and dripping down the shoulders of his white dress shirt. However, Eddie’s eyes kept flicking back to scan the crowd, subtly searching. Upon spotting his best friend, Eddie grinned and pulled away from his conversation.

Although Eddie was an only child, quite a few of his extended family members attended the service along with his parents. David saw Eddie’s mother reach out to grip his arm, her face twisted with displeasure as she spoke. Her eyes met David’s, and guilt stabbed down his spine. However, Eddie’s eyebrows pinched together and he brushed her arm away.

Eddie was stopped several times on his way to David; his friendly disposition, as well as his status as the preacher’s nephew, resulted in him being quite well-known. He nodded politely

and returned greetings as he shuffled up the aisle, his smile breaking through the stuffy atmosphere like a breath of air. Eddie’s eyes twinkled with his own sparkle of kindness. The strangling weight, which had found David at the door, finally relaxed its grip.

At last, Eddie reached their spot in the back. “Hey!” Wood squeaked as he slid onto the hard bench next to David, linking their elbows together. David felt his lips twitch into a smile.

“Hey.”

Eddie’s worn bible sat in his lap, a mess of dogeared pages, bookmarks, and colorful tabs marking his favorite verses. David knew the margins were crowded with Eddie’s neat handwriting, a record of his love for the Lord and appreciation of the doctrine.

A shred of tension returned to David’s chest as he gazed at the book, and Eddie must have noticed the way his shoulders stiffened because he nudged David’s side gently.

“Hey,” he murmured again, softer, but didn’t say anything else.

Sometimes David wondered what Eddie’s parents said about David to their only son—their precious son who David was corrupting. He knew his mother talked to Eddie’s. Perhaps his best friend was well-informed of all the ways they considered David an abomination. Maybe Eddie had been begged to stay away. Maybe David’s parents thought spending time with Eddie would cure him. Eddie was, after all, expected to follow in the footsteps of his uncle.

David swallowed, and his nose began to burn. He scrubbed at it with the back of his hand and ducked his head, stinging eyes glued to his lap as the preacher began his sermon.

Yet, Eddie’s arm snaked around his shoulders and pulled David tight against his side. David’s breath snagged in his throat at the proximity, and he wondered if the preacher noticed the act of comfort. However, David only sucked in another shaky breath, relaxing into his friend’s warmth.

The sparkle in Eddie’s eyes flickered as he watched his uncle at the pulpit. He chewed at his lip and traced the edges of his bible with his fingertips. David frowned. The fractures in friend’s eyes were familiar—hairline cracks that let harsh lights in, new colors that bled into the threads of what had previously been solid and pristine. It was as though David watched himself from years ago; the doubt behind the eyes was the same.

David hadn’t thought much of his mother’s sudden interest in his and Eddie’s friendship all those years ago. He hadn’t sensed the significance behind questions such as, “Do you two ever talk about girls?” or comments like, “You two spend an awful lot of time together.” He answered honestly. No, they didn’t. Yes, because they were best friends. He did not know what he might have done differently had he realized what his mother truly meant. Because even he didn’t understand himself in that way at fourteen; how could he present all the answers to someone else?

However, he would understand quickly enough, before he was truly ready, through extra

visits from the preacher and strange books from his mother. The books told him that he was destined to be lonely, that love didn’t exist for a person like him. The preacher told him that smothering his heart was the only way to be saved.

Christmas came and went; they had now reached mid-January. David was expecting Eddie soon, but as he ventured outside to wait for him, his mother called out.

“David! David, come join me!”

David eyed his mother warily before slowly joining her on their house’s back porch. The snow had begun to melt, leaving the ground soggy in its wait for spring. He sat on the very edge of the wooden rocking chair beside hers, as though he would be burned if he made himself comfortable. He flinched when pages of smothering doctrine were dumped into his hands. David stared down at the bible. The pages were crisp, a single bookmark tucked where his mother had likely read this morning.

“Read with me, won’t you?”

Sweat clung cold to the back of David’s neck, and he tried to suck in a breath, but the air splintered in his lungs. The sound of water dribbled in his ears, low for now, but there.

“What?” David muttered. “Why?” He hadn’t read a bible in months.

“Aloud, please.” His mother smiled, voice lined with steel. There was no escaping this.

David could not recall what lay in the verses that he read to his mother, only that witheach word, it felt as though a rigid hand clamped tighter and tighter around his throat. Water rushed angrily in his ears, and the book in his lap blurred. Only after he had choked out the words for fifteen minutes, perhaps longer, did his mother let him stop.

Reaching up to cup his face, with phantom gentleness she brushed away the tears that soaked his cheeks. “You must be feeling God strongly,” she said proudly, and David couldn’t breathe. He shoved the book into her lap, scrambled up from his chair, and stumbled down the porch steps.

He ran, ripping away from the path and into the woods, ignoring the cries of anger that chased him but didn’t follow. His legs burned with effort and branches of pine tore at his face, but David didn’t stop running until he collapsed, the uneven bark of a pine tree pressed firmly against his back. There was a loud rasping sound, like grating metal, and David realized that it was him. His breaths scraped and burned.

“David! David!”

Pine needles flew as someone skidded to a stop before him, crouching and gripping his shoulders. “David, I need you to breathe with me, okay?”

When he heard Eddie’s voice, David dragged his head up from where he had curled into his knees. Dusty light illuminated the boy’s hair, and his soft brown eyes were fixed on David. He was so beautiful, and he was David’s.

“I—I can’t,” David choked, chest shuddering with sporadic gasps. “Eddie, i-it hurts, I

can’t—”

Eddie pulled David into his chest. “Okay, okay. I think I understand you better now.”

“I can’t, I ca-can’t do this,” David could only gasp, jagged breaths slicing at his lungs, “I can’t do this anymore, it hu-urts—”

Eddie hugged him tighter, and the pressure was safe. David chased it, digging his face into his friend’s chest, Eddie’s collarbone pressing against his temple. “I want you to breathe with me, okay? In for three, out for four, okay?” Eddie murmured.

David managed a shaky nod, twisting his fingers into Eddie’s shirt. The flannel tickled his knuckles. Eddie’s chest rose against his cheek, and David did his best to fill his lungs along with that movement. Eddie’s sweet scent filled his lungs, and the guided focus began to dry out the river in his ears. The minutes rolled by until he could only hear his best friend’s soft counts and Eddie’s heartbeat pressed gentle against his ear.

David sniffed. Even after his breaths had evened, he couldn’t make himself move away. “Thank you,” he whispered into his best friend’s shirt.

“I’m always here for you.” Eddie’s fingers combed gently through David’s hair. His voice trembled. “I think I understand you better now,” he repeated, and neither boy said anything more.

David didn’t know how much time slipped past as they huddled against the tree, but it must have been hours. Finally, when red and purple clouds began to mingle with shadow, he forced himself to pull away.

“How much of that did you see?”

Even through the fast-approaching darkness, David could see that Eddie’s eyes were glassy, sorrow having dyed the rims red. “A lot.” His voice was scratchy from disuse. “Does that happen often?”

David snorted; it was wet. He rubbed at his aching eyes with the heel of his hand. A headache had begun to press hot against his temples. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“David.” Eddie’s voice broke, and David’s head snapped up. “Is that… is this what church is for you?”

Something like a smile pulled at David’s lips, but it tasted bitter. “I guess you could say that.”

“Then why—why do you come every week?” Eddie’s eyes searched David’s face, as though if he stared hard enough, he could peel back all of David’s layers and understand him at his most raw.

A flutter of nerves made themselves known in David’s chest. “I…” David’s eyes darted down before he forced them back to Eddie’s tear-smudged face. “To see you, mostly.” His voice was barely a breath, the words trembling in the air between their bodies.

Eddie’s breath caught, and David rushed to fill the silence, suddenly panicked. “And, um, you know—usually my parents lay off about how much of a—um, disappointment I am if I—”

“David.” Eddie’s arms wrapped back around his shoulders, but this hug felt different. Electricity wriggled along David’s arms and tickled the back of his neck. He couldn’t stop the

shiver that traipsed down his spine as he returned the embrace. Eddie’s nose was cold where it pressed against the side of David’s neck. His breath was hot on David’s collarbone. Their legs pressed together, knees tangled in a new closeness.

An icy raindrop splattered onto David’s shoulder and he swore, jerking back. Darkness had now settled among the trees, the moonlight glancing off of the increasing drops of rain.

“Come on,” David said, running a hand through his wet hair and climbing to his feet.

Eddie remained on the ground, though his eyes followed David’s ascent. Water streamed down his flushed cheeks, and his eyes glittered with something new. David hadn’t seen it often enough to recognize it before.

“Eddie, come on,” he said softly, extending a hand. Eddie took it, and held on.

“David, I—”

“Eddie, it’s okay,” David cut in gently. “You don’t have to put it into words before you understand it.”

Eddie’s eyes flashed with gratitude. “I think I do understand…” he murmured, but he said nothing more as they hurried back to their houses through the rain.

The changes were small over the few months that followed. David still sat beside Eddie in their spot at the back during church. They still whispered together, and when Eddie’s brown eyes glittered, David’s stomach would twist and dance because he knew it was because of him, not the words being said up front.

David received an increase of dirty looks from Eddie’s mother and family, and most of David’s conversations with his own parents were filled with looks of concern or frustration. His mother had decided them reading together would not be a one-time event, either.

However, the two teenagers began to frequent the forest. It was against a pine tree that David first traced his best friend’s eyes with a smudgy eyeliner pencil stolen from his mother’s cabinet. It was beneath a blue sky, swollen with pink and purple clouds, that Eddie traced David’s fingers before locking them in his. They walked beside the hill that led to the river, watching its tumultuous waters together.

Under the trees, Eddie glowed.

They had conversations that they never could in that chapel.

“Do you believe in God?” Eddie asked one day. It was April now, and he sat on the ground weaving a chain out of wildflowers.

David glanced up from where he sat across from his friend. “I’m not sure. I think there has to be something…” he trailed off, tracing the delicate petals of his own wildflower with careful fingers. “Why? Do you?”

Eddie shrugged, frowning a little. “I do believe there is a god… but sometimes I don’t see Him much at church.”

David’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Eddie fidgeted with the flowers. “I… I’ve seen His hand. He’s helped me so much. But He would never be cruel and smother his children.”

David’s eyebrows rose. This, he understood. “So, what you’re saying is…”

“I just don’t understand how they can preach one thing and then act so differently!” Eddie vented. “God wouldn’t want us forced into boxes—he’d want us to flourish and become who we are meant to be!”

David could only nod, his heart stuttering a bit in his chest.

“They want me to be a preacher, you know,” Eddie said after a moment of silence. “Like my uncle. They’ve got a university picked out and everything.”

David swallowed. It felt like forcing a cheese grater down his throat. “What are you going to do?” There were only about four more months until the school year began, and David knew of the pressure Eddie was under.

Eddie’s glow dimmed, and David could practically feel him withdraw somewhere in his head. It sent a spike of panic through him. It reminded him too much of the last time Eddie’s depression had been bad. David wanted to reach out, to offer him something to pull him out of his head before he drowned.

“I don’t want to go,” Eddie said softly, his lip trembling. David wondered how long his friend had let this fester on his own. “I don’t know if this is even what I believe anymore. I don’t want to conform to fit something that hurts the people I love.”

David’s eyes burned. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t drag the words out. Maybe they wouldn’t have been the right words, anyway. It hurt to see Eddie’s heart bleached and cracked and frail like this. Not when he was usually the sparkle of color that flowed from sprinklers when the sun touched them. His best friend was always so quick to offer warmth and safety to whoever needed it—he never remembered to ask for help.

“I think I have to go.”

David’s eyes darted up. His stomach lurched. “But—”

Eddie smiled; David wondered if it tasted bitter. “Here, this is for you.” Carefully, he placed the chain of flowers around David’s head like a crown, before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Neither boy said anything more after that. They only breathed together; one with regret, the other with growing anxiety.

Eddie was seventeen years old when he drowned in the river. He was dead long before they pulled his body from the water.

The evening after the funeral, David stood in one of the river’s shallower areas, eyes trained on the sky. Rain hurled itself against his body, blistering its way down his face and mixing with his burning tears. His feet had long since lost feeling; he wondered how many more steps he

would have to take until the numbness overtook his heart, as well.

“You left me,” David whispered, clutching Eddie’s bible to his chest, his flower crown pressed between its pages. “You said I could never leave…”

Rocks bit into his knees when he fell. Water splashed and stabbed at his skin. “But you left me!” he screamed, his ragged cries getting caught in the rain. The river tugged at his waist, its touch a cruel mockery. It had been the last to touch him. Eddie had been alone and had chosen the river’s ruthless embrace. It had painted him blue. “You left,” David choked.

The rain didn’t relent, clawing at his face and soaking his hair, while the river desperately tried to drag him along its path.

“Breathe with me,” David whispered. In for three, out for four.

Addie Hemsley “Almost” Honorable mention

2nd Place Fiction, Sarah Ellis

Whatever Did Happen to Cornelius

— Superfast Jellyfish (feat. Gruff Rhys and De La Soul) by the Gorillaz —

What happened you ask? It’s hard to say. Possibly killed by his girlfriend Isabel. Possibly killed by the janitor of the woodlands. Possibly killed by Macklemore N. Cheesetry. Possibly killed by his best friend Steve. Possibly killed by his would-be pickleball coach, Archibald. Possibly killed by Wren, whoever she is. Possibly killed by so many people. So many suspects. So who to trust? Nevermind that.

I think the real story is what could’ve happened to Cornelius Hail. So let’s just talk about that for now. First of all, call him Cori. Why the heck would anyone name their child Cornelius? Well, his mother had a thing for a boy in highschool named Corialanus who never quite noticed her. She fell in love with that boy and his name soon followed. Of course she didn’t need her husband to know she never got over her first love, so Cornelius would suffice.

So this boy Cori. Kind of a girl’s name, and kind of a girl’s boy. Not a lady’s man. A girl’s boy. He was cute and boyish but not suave or masculine in the way he wanted to be. Or in the way his father classically wanted him to be. Cori was indeed a combination of every cliche. But that will make itself apparent. So now that you’ve been clued in, let’s start in the middle.

When Cori first wakes up each day he hits the snooze button. He hits that very snooze button over and over for approximately an hour and then he stiffly rises out of bed. You would think that would make him consistently an hour late to class. He is consistently 5 minutes late to class. He aways accounts for that hour of snoozing but never accounts for the 5 minutes it will inevitably take him to find two socks. He never bothers finding matching socks, as that would take ten minutes. His socks are obviously excellent hiders and desperately need to be domesticated.

This very morning, after an hour of snoozing, Cori made himself 6 minutes late to class due to the extra minute he spent looking at the clouds when he stepped onto the front porch. There were some clouds present. The clouds were clouding. Cori knew nothing about clouds but he was certainly a passionate cloud looker. Especially if they were moving or extra waffle-like. Today the clouds were moving and waffle-like which absolutely demanded looking. An experienced reader might take the extra cloudy clouds as foreshadowing of something. Nothing to see here though.

Cori made his usual sweeping entrance into his first period math class. You might be wondering what math level Cori is at as a senior in high school. Is he in AP Calculus BC? Is he the try-hard no one likes to compare themselves to? Is he in Math 1010? Getting college credit of the most basic kind so that he never has to try ever again, prematurely relinquishing success? Cori doesn’t like to be placed in boxes and so out of respect for his memory I won’t tell you.

As Cori made his sweeping entrance he caught eyes with his best friend Steve. Again who the heck are these parents making life-altering decisions for their children, giving them such odd middle aged men names. Steve sounds like the name of your depressed accountant, not a 4 year old. Steve did in fact make it through grades k-11 with minimal bullying and so he had that going for him. Steve was one of those people who always went noticed. Cori was referred to as Steve’s best friend. Since this is Cori’s chapter we’ll say “Shove it Steve who we only know because you’re Cori’s friend.”

“Good Morning Cornelius, glad you could join us”, droned Ms. Abernathy. A very cliche and rehearsed line from Ms. Math who was terrified of failure and rejection. If only she could’ve gotten past her issues she was sure she would be a married doctor by now. Instead she was an amazing aunt and rottweiler owner. “We’re currently discussing questions from the homework due last night by the way…” and on she went.

“Cori. Psst. Did you see the clouds this morning?” Whispered Steve from his seat next to him. Cori wasn’t about to get noticed chittering in class so he nodded with an acknowledging smile and resumed his pretense of listening. “You busy tonight?” Cori shook his head. “We should do something after practice?” Cori nodded. Steve had pickleball practice everyday. He was trying to get recruited. Cori secretly despised pickleball. Not the sport itself, just the many hours he tried and failed to become a member of their school’s team. This created a bitterness in his soul against the sport. He was absolutely terrible and honestly reference to any athleticism in general boiled his skin. He couldn’t understand the perpetuating societal forces that established worth in men from these arbitrary methods of contention, coordination, and competition that he simply lacked. And so what option did he have other than simply trying harder. Carol Dweck would be proud.

More clouds clouding. More pretending to care. More numbness in his soul than he would like to admit. Let’s skip all the crap of morning classes and go right to lunch. “Hellooo Steeeve” Cori approached their usual table but noticed something was different. Maybe there was a poster on the wall that wasn’t there before. Maybe the arrangement of the tables was new. When he realized Cori was there, Steve’s face brightened and he removed his seemingly permanent ear buds from his ears. Steve was obsessed with listening to podcasts about animals in alphabetical order. He chose them based on their presence and order in the encyclopedias from the city library. Every year he started back at A even if he hadn’t completed his circuit of animals A-Z. Don’t worry, Steve isn’t a true nerd as that would too strongly contradict his coolness factor. He is solely a closet nerd - barring Cori’s knowledge of these facts. Steve’s fixation began when he was in fifth grade when his mother passed away. She wasn’t a nerd or obsessed with encyclopedias or alphabetical orders or animals, it simply became the obsession that was necessary to keep existing.

“Hey Cori. Any stories?” Steve asked.

“Not that I can think of…” Cori responded distractedly. He continued noticing the details of the room. Something was certainly different. And the subtlety was weakening. It couldn’t be just a poster or the tables. Suspicious. “Does something seem, I don’t know…wrong maybe?”

“Umm, no. Maybe you did too many integrals in class this morning? That always feels

wrong to me.” Crap. Steve exposed Cori’s math level. Well don’t go putting Cori in a box now.

“No, I’m being serious, something is really off.” If Cori is being serious then this must be serious. Cori is a silly duck, not a serious goose. A proper investigation might be in order.

Steve inspected the room and their food. “Are you ok, Cori?”

Cori shrugged. Do you ever have pencils in one of your backpack pockets and that’s where they always are because that’s where you always put them. And slowly overtime you have less and less pencils until they are all missing and you have no idea what happened to them because how did they all disappear when you always place them back in that singular pocket and nowhere else. That’s what this felt like. “Does it feel like… something is supposed to happen today? Or maybe something wasn’t?”

“Not really, no.” Steve seemed pretty concerned.

Isabel placed herself on the bench next to Cori. “Hey bae, how are youuu todaaay?” She placed a fat wet kiss on Cori’s frazzled face. Oops I forgot to mention Isabel. Let’s talk about Isabel. Firstly, she goes by Isa pronounced eye-suh not Ih-zuh. She will place you on her enemy list if you pronounce it incorrectly or call her any other variation of Isabel like Izzy or Belle. Cori has always admired her for that. Isabel is extremely sure of herself - a quality many people are intimidated by which is a complete double standard against women but don’t get Isa started on that, she will give you a full education on the woes of society’s double standards. What else about Isa? Oh she’s embarrassingly wealthy. Filthy rich. She has an extremely loving family though, don’t worry. Her parents are always there for her. The wealth was entirely inherited and her parents are both kindergarten teachers.

“He seems to think something is missing?” Steve speculated. Steve and Cori were best friends but there always seemed to be some distance that no one could get past when it came to knowing Cori. I suppose everyone has a few layers of themselves they hold on to just in case. Steve often wondered if those layers were his own fault. That maybe he wasn’t good enough or accepting enough for Cori to truly be whoever it was he was hiding. Of course these are thoughts he would never admit to. If anyone ever asked what Steve was thinking at any time he always answered “The catalytic converter on my car is having issues and I’m debating whether or not I should just let it be and face the fact that my actions are having real impactful environmental ramifications or I should bite the bullet and pay to have it repaired or replaced. The economy these days is really whooping my butt and I don’t think I have the means to see a mechanic about the issue but I know that if I don’t, the emissions, which I am fully aware that my car is releasing, will destroy my conscience.” That was a joke. Steve would never admit that either. His real answer is always “Cars”. Maybe the only layers Cori hid were secret opinions he had about potatoes. Cori claimed he hated all potatoes but Steve caught him enjoying hash browns once and it was a whole thing.

Cori continued inspecting the room while Isa began saying so many nonsensical things. Cori noticed someone across the room. A face he shouldn’t know but did. “Nevermind, I think you’re right that I did too many integrals this morning.” Steve observed Cori’s face. The layers weren’t just potatoes and he knew it.

Wren sank into her bench in the lunchroom. Her eyes traipsed across the room, carelessly landing on his face. A sliver of her heart died whenever she saw him smiling and breathing and living in a separate world from hers. She wrenched her gaze toward her dull cafeteria food before he would see. The colors here were suffocating, the temperature stifling. She didn’t know how much longer she could stay.

— Epilogue by Justin Hurwitz —

Cori was unsettled the rest of lunch. He went through the motions of finishing his food and heading towards class but he couldn’t rid the feeling of someone heavily breathing on his neck. Cori walked into the room and immediately felt the breath disappear. Cori stopped in the doorway for an embarrassingly long time. Long enough for three of his peers to stack up behind him impatiently waiting for him to continue. One of them was Josephine Sauter, the biggest pick-me in school. But of course Cori was one of the many uncultured men of his generation who didn’t know what a pick-me was or how catastrophic they could be for the progression of women’s rights. Internalized misogyny will be Josephine Sauter’s downfall at the age of 44 when she chooses to start dating a man for the prospect of male attention and validation. That man will be married to her best friend when she starts dating him (of course she knew that) and her best friend, Jennifer Kindley, will be the woman to murder her.

“Feeling slow today, Mr. Hail?” Asked his teacher who could never remember his first name but could always remember his last name. This was because Cori gave off rain vibes - whatever that means - and hail is another type of precipitation. Out of respect for Cori this teacher will also be nameless because I will claim to never be able to remember her name which of course is a lie. The reason all of these facts are known is because it is what the teacher tells Cori every time she forgets his name and thinks that this is sound logic and should excuse her lack of effort to learn her students’ names.

“Oh my bad” Cori quickly sat down. Josephine walked over to Cori and put her hand on his wrist.

“Cori are you alright?” Josephine muttered close to his left ear.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Josephine plopped into the seat next to Cori and let her eyes linger on him for far too long. Homewrecking starts young folks. Be warned though. Do not take this depiction of a woman as evidence to perpetuate stereotypes. As I mentioned earlier Cori’s life is full of stereotypes not to be perceived as all-encompassing truths.

“Hoe-sephine.” Someone coughed under their breath from the back of the classroom. Cori turned to see who it was. It was the face from the lunch room. The one he didn’t recognize but should. Or shouldn’t recognize but did. He couldn’t decide.

You may be thinking: Cori doesn’t seem to be fitting his role of invisible nerd who looks at clouds and is never on time and has the social ineptness of a middle schooler - which is another

trait of his we glazed over because the kid already has enough fighting against him I was hoping we could take a moment to get know him first before revealing all of his oddities. Well anyways, don’t worry, Josephine is that way for every living creature on the planet - invisible or not - and despite this quality of hers, this is the first time she has behaved this way towards Cori.

“Eyes up here, please” Teacher drones. Like we care. Cori swiveled back to face Mrs. Teacher. Unfortunately for him, Cori does care. What a pushover. Teacher continues to lecture blah blah blah. Cori continues to ramble. La La La. In his mind of course, don’t eeeven worry.

Cori’s unease itches back. Breath breath breath. All eyes are looking at him. Eyes eyes eyes. What?

“Mr. Hail, what are you on about?”

Cori leaps out of his daydreaming-mind-rambling. “Huh?”

“Would you like to share with the class or can you please stop mumbling? We are trying to learn here.” Why is everything Teacher says so typical?

When I said don’t eeeven worry a moment ago, I was lying. Honestly you should always be worried about Cori. Cori looked to Steve, bewildered as usual. “You were saying something about a gate? And a face that you don’t recognize?” Steve explained to Cori who unwittingly had actually begun to ramble out loud. Yeah folks we should have seen that coming. When the wise Bister Bohnson worked as a double agent in Sicily, Italy he learned how to daydream whilst having a full fledged scintillating conversation. Who is Bister Bohnson you may ask? Wouldn’t you like to know. Unfortunately for Cori, he can’t have a single daydream without turning it into a vocal monologue. It happens daily. Another question you should pose: why is the word scintillating almost solely used in vernacular to describe conversation and nothing else. Ever heard of a scintillating sermon? Doubtful. Scintillating lecture? Not very likely. Scintillating conversation? Daily.

“Gahh, I’m sorry Mrs. Teacher, I’ll just listen” Cori bowed his head in embarrassment. At least he has experienced this exact moment enough to be good friends with embarrassment. They even held hands a few times. That is until Cori friend-zoned embarrassment, claiming that he needed to work on himself and that he needed some space. That didn’t last long though.

If it didn’t end you would learn about Wren and the conspiracies. You would learn about the parallel universes and how it was all unravelling. Cori was at the center. You would learn about Steve and his closeted skeletons. You would learn about the person who actually killed Cori. You would learn about it all. But this is about Cori and it ends with him.

That day afterschool, Cori was looking at the clouds again. He looked for a little too long while standing at the crosswalk waiting for the light to change. Cori never jaywalks. The light changed and the walk-sign signaled that it was his turn to cross. He didn’t notice. A single father of 8 month-old twins was waiting to turn left. He saw Cori but observed that he wasn’t crossing. Cori then realized the walk-sign was on to cross. Mid-left turn, the twins started crying. Cori started crossing. Single father checked on kids.

The end.

Emmaline Jones “Haven” Honorable Mention

3rd Place Fiction, Hannah Smith

Let’s Play Mermaids

What color is your tail? Better question: why do you get to be the blue one while I’m every-pink else? Let’s play mermaids. Let’s figure this out.

Set this scene like imagining. These streets are southern. Kudzu-covered. It’s 2009 and the world is not ending. Brilliant is the sunburned light of your freckles. Lost teeth. Mine, too, and quoth the tv, “pillow pet.”

God doesn’t want to kill me yet, but I pray as if he does. Your hands have dimples. Uncalloused. Unmarred. In the morning, after dreaming, they become soft. I smooth them. The Arkansas climate must be good for us.

We are sisters, and fairies aren’t real, but we pretend they are. Neither are pirates, or cowboys, or Mermaidia. Suburb is a word adjacent to sacrament, celestial in its glory. Language becomes sacred here. Bread and water. Primordial. I’ve never been hungry in my life, but I’m starving.

We’re surrounded by white fences. Our father goes to work, or is he studying? A modern Prometheus bringing prescriptions to our cabinets, mockingbirds circling him, pecking at his allegory. Nights, a graveyard. Look– there’s the dogwood branches, a summer-fogged window. We have omelets for breakfast and practice snapping, thumbs to flesh, and watch stupid movies. We’re lucky; stupid isn’t a bad word. Puffy white clouds screech with cicada song. Wind. Magnolia. Morning glory. Honeysuckle. Humidity. Cottonwood. Ache.

Life isn’t a narrative, but as a child, I am nothing if not storybook.

Summers are for swimming. We know this because wrinkled fingers go away once you’re dry. One drop of water and we’re magic. What spell do we cast today? Minivan, crumb-covered seats, un-damp towels, sunscreen. You talk to me. The drive isn’t far, and our pool is neighborhood-owned, which really means we are the owners, the commanders, the witches of the water. Communal does not mean communism to us, but if we had only ourselves, it would work this time. Our friends are here. We bend the murk to our will. Around. Over.

In our favorite show, three girls have the ability to transform into mermaids. The best part? They wear matching necklaces. We are not three– not yet– and when that happens, one of us will be a brother instead. It’s just the two of us for now. Locket-less. When we play, we don’t choose the color of our tails. It’s already established. You are blue, and I am pink.

The chlorine might make our hair lime, but it’s not as if that matters. Stained is the new pure. As mom drives us back home, every house is identical, like childhood fears. Remember how I used to run away from dogs? Tiny ones. Spaniels and terriers. But I was tiny, too, and small things are scared of small things. You make me feel big. I’m your big sister. The gas station outside our neighborhood sells powdered donuts, sunrises, and snow cones. I get tiger’s blood. You get blue raspberry.

In the house, in the living room, I wrap you up in a blanket that smells like closet. You squeal when I drag you around. We are worms. Dust to dust to mulch on a playground. We stand in the shadow of the valley of death, but luckily for me, I don’t know that I’m going to die. Mermaids never die.

So, this is where we are. This wilted town, this mark on your nose, this paint on my nails. Everything is as it should be. But, somehow, your tail is blue. Stranger– mine is pink.

Here comes the real-deal, unlike those games of pretend. I will put this as bluntly as a seven year old can. You’re more of a girl than I am, but blue belongs to you. Why do you want it so badly? Maybe it’s the shade that matters. Sapphire is certainly yours, birthstone and all. How about an offering: sky. Ice definitely counts. Baby. Aqua. Water, even. Cerulean is not in our vocabulary. Can I say electric?

Your skin is so tan– too dark for blue. How are we related? How can we relate? How do you live unafraid? How does anyone live without fear? How does our mother raise us? Will you play mermaids with me?

Enough of these questions. I’m ready to answer. Seven year olds do, in fact, have feelings: emotional intelligence derived from Youtube cryptozoology.

You’re blue because I gave it to you.

There. I said it. I’m pink because I knew you wanted blue. Because I’m the oldest. Because I give things up for you. No one understands sacrifice quite like the lamb, and I was born in the year of the sheep.

In that mermaid show, the girls are scared of getting caught because they know they’d be trapped by people who want to understand them but never will. And, as a result: experimented on as if they’re not human. Are they human? Either way, caged. Their tails are not yellow, but ripe gold, and the funny thing is that they’re all the same color. They don’t get to choose or change. So, really, mermaids aren’t actually as free as we think they are. They must stay below the surface, not because they can’t breathe above it, but they can’t live above it. If I wasn’t stuck beneath your depth, would I survive? Would I know how to live without you holding me back?

I know I’m being selfish. This is the way things have to go; eldest children have always given up needs for sibling’s wants. But I am a child and I beg to be selfish.

Sirens know how to navigate the evil inside of them. They’re like people, but with longer hair. I don’t want to drag sailors to their deaths, but if you asked to play pirates instead of mermaids, could I resist the pull to pull you under?

I don’t want this resentment. I didn’t mean for it to go this way. I didn’t mean to make you cry.

What is it about siblings that make us bare our teeth? We sleep in the same bed, listen to the same songs, brush our teeth with the same paste. In another life, we’d even have the same face. Sometimes, I look at you and see myself; your torso has always been a giveaway that there’s something between us more compatible than blood type. Or is it the shape of your smile? No. It’s the freckles. Definitely the freckles. Your heart is my heart. Your wounds are my wounds– five holy (hole-ly) ones. They didn’t slide a lance through Christ’s liver; it was your laugh. I’d stand in the corner forever if it meant summer would always tan you your darkest shade.

Please don’t cry.

In the show, the girls have powers, because apparently being a mermaid isn’t awesome enough already. So, what power do you want? Ice, fire, or controlling water? You can be anything. Proof: the ice on your side of our shared bed, empty as you wake before me, the fire of your five star after I steal your eggo waffle, the wet of your tears when I won’t play polly pockets with you. Is your tail sparkly like dress up wings, rhinestoned like my lunchbox, glossy like Sprite bottles, or iridescent like a gasoline spill on the big road? Pick anything you want while we have the time. Our brother will be born next August, but this summer is for personhood. It’s for your brown eyes and the way you know how to climb anything, everything, and the dirt under your nails. This summer is for–

Ice cream trucks. You get the fruit flavor and I get the sandwich. Chocolate-vanilla. Risk free. Your tongue is stained a fresh bruise shade. Stick it out to bother me. I promise I won’t tell.

A stray cat, orange striped. It knows what it’s doing by choosing you. We leave a bowl of milk on the sidewalk. Lean, scoop, hold. I did the same to you when you were a baby. Its body is almost the size of yours, but you wrangle discomfort with a grin.

Linoleum. Inch by dining-room inch covered in toys. What a disaster we are. Our mother copes, somehow. The sun lies warm on the tiles. Ants follow our chemtrails.

Scissors. Your hair cut unevenly by your tiny hands. Dimpled hands. Soft hands. Don’t talk to me about lotion.

Radio. Ours has Disney princesses on it. We play Taylor Swift CDs and memorize every word. Romeo and Juliet are not from Shakespeare, but from a song.

Playground. You fall into the dirt. Arm broken. I’ve never broken a bone, but I’d like to understand how pain makes jelly into determination, and how a five year old can withstand it. A blue tail.

Summer ends, as summers do, fading into perpetual passing seasons. I’d like to Atlas the weight of growing up, but it’s for both of us to bear. We haven’t played mermaids since my last loose tooth.

I learned how to shave my legs and taught you how to do it behind mom’s back. Rites of passage always came quicker for you, where for me, they were earned through blood, sweat, and years. Still, I always thought of teaching you as if I was teaching myself; I never understood how to do things the right way the first time, shaving included, and I wanted you to know better before it was too late. Smooth as a tail gliding through ocean. You didn’t ask to be my little sister, and I

didn’t ask to bear that first-born novelty. It always seemed like mermaids knew how to live without being taught, but who was the first to step into the water and transform? I must have learned to swim before you did.

Maybe blue was your way of having something of your own for once– not a hand-me-down, but a universal truism; the sky existed before the womb. You weren’t selfish; you were just a child. And maybe I only ever wanted blue because you needed it more. Blue is the color of my eyes, and I’m sorry I took that from you. I’m sorry it wasn’t freely given. The truth is that you know how to shave your legs. You know how to brush your hair without breaking it, and you know how to tan without getting burnt. You know things I don’t.

We’re two-thousand miles apart, but I wish we were in the same pool. Even the best canyon summer here couldn’t rival the worst heat at home. I’d take your gnawing dog days over this loneliness. Give me your weak and weary, your crooked spine. A night of soft hands. I spent so much time wishing to surface that I didn’t see how much I belong with you in that deep blue.

Let’s go back to the pool. The sun won’t give us wrinkles. Chlorine tastes good. The grass still smells like grass. I’ll gladly choose the pink tail, because you deserve to be happy, and I’m not a child anymore.

Sterling Brinkerhoff “Silent Sentinel” 2nd Place

Lily Webb “Watchman” Honorable Mention

Crius Palus “Before it Broke the Rules”

Honorable Menti

1st Place Nonfiction, Chloe Scheve

MOONCHILD

“I think that all women are witches, in the sense that a witch is a magical being.” - Yoko Ono

I was never taught to search for the man in the moon. His face—created by the sea of serenity, the sea of rain, the sea of clouds, the sea of islands, and the sea of vapors—eludes me on clear, cold nights. Instead, I see my mother’s rabbit: her long ears curving around the edges of the moon, the mortar sitting in front of her, her paws grasping the pestle to her beating heart. Stardust mixes with her cotton tail. Upon the moon’s surface, the rabbit curls her body around the core of the moon, protecting the sustenance inside the mortar.

“Look at the rabbit in the moon,” my mother tells me. “She’s pounding poi.”

Waxing Crescent

Our church, with its weathered orange bricks and sleek, white steeple, resided down the street from my home located in West Valley City, Utah. The building consisted of a chapel, numerous classrooms, a gymnasium doubling as an event venue, and a kitchen. The entirety of the interior seemed hidden under a layer of coarse grey carpet. The pews, the stairs, a third of the walls, were all covered in a soggy grey; the color of late January snow.

On the backs of the pews, a small shelf held dark green hymn books. On their covers, a replica of the Latter-Day Saints Tabernacle pipe organ is embossed in black. I would often place a sheet of paper over the embossing and heavily crayon over it. Slowly, the image of the looming organ revealed itself again. The imprint, like on paper, lingers in my mind even now.

Every Sunday morning of my childhood, we scrambled to look presentable—christ-like, so they say. I rotated between three dresses each week. One, a light blue adorned with crimson paisleys around the collar. Another, a knee-length dress, pale pink with ruffled sleeves. The last, I stole from my mother’s closet. It was black, ankle-length, and sleeveless. This dress made me the most feminine, graceful version of myself. I’ll admit I felt pretty and, at that time, beauty and holiness were almost interchangeable. If I dressed the part—if we dressed the part—perhaps it would convince the congregation we belonged on the same pew.

When we arrived, my mother walked us down the aisle in the chapel, like a hare leading her young to salvation. A soft prelude floated over the faithful and my shoes whispered reverently on the carpet. My sister, B, followed close behind. We passed large families: The Schows, The Hansens, The Winters, The Gaileys. At the end of each of their rows sat their patriarch; the Father.

My mother guided us onto a pew on the far-left side, near the front of the chapel. The opening customs would commence and the three of us—mother, daughter, daughter— would pick up the green hymnals like everyone else and flip to the assigned song for the morning.

Then, we’d sing.

Within the LDS church, only men can give blessings aimed to heal and protect others; however, there are some exceptions hidden in the folds of doctrine that, as a child, were not revealed to me. The exceptions do not change the fact that the rewards of celestial glory are safeguarded by the men in power; They are the only ones endowed with Priesthood Authority. Women can receive blessings from this power but cannot ordinarily wield it for themselves.

First Quarter

In the very back corner of our refrigerator, on the top shelf, rests a half-gallon mason jar full of water. Its metal lid tightens around the lip and condensation clouds up the glass. When I wipe my hand across the jar, a celestially frigid chill seeps into my skin. I ask my mother what the water jar is for.

“It’s my moon water,” she responds. “I fill it up with tap water and set it outside overnight when there’s enough moonlight to reach the earth. The water gets infused with the moon’s energy.”

I am impressed. This is a side of my mother I have not yet seen. “But then, what do you do with it?”

She answers, “Oh, I drink it.”

There’s a belief that the moon’s energy can be harnessed for our own personal gain. In other words, we can wield its power through our own rituals and practices. In witchcraft, water enhanced with the moon’s energy can empower intuition, intensify spells, and kindle divination.

During an LDS sacrament, individuals are prompted to drink from cups of water and to eat mauled, torn-off clumps of bread that symbolize both the blood and flesh of Christ respectively. The boys in the church—once they are endowed with the priesthood at 12-years-old—bless the water and bread before the trays are passed around to the congregation. Every Sunday, the blood of Christ dripped down my throat and, when I was meant to think about all that Christ had done for my salvation, I found myself wanting more than what was given me. Metallic on my tongue, it tasted like rusted pennies. The plastic cups were small, like sewing thimbles. Lukewarm and slowly choking my faith to an early death, the small sip of water—if I can even call it a sip—did not satisfy my thirst for something greater than myself.

My mother’s moon water, however, I could drown myself in; indulge myself in. I could drink and drink and drink until I finished the first jar and then prepare more with my own power endowed to me by the cosmos. I could brew tea—oolong, green, chamomile, lady grey—and watch the infusion occur organically, naturally. I could fill a hot bath and mix the moon’s energy with epsom salt crystals and lavender bubbles and soak my whole body in the spirit of my mother’s rabbit.

Waxing Gibbous

Driving back from a camping trip, we stopped at a tea shop in the nearby town. The structure nestled among other local businesses but stood out due to its powdery blue patio and chanting wind chimes. Inside, a crisp yellow splashed across each of the walls. Tea tables dispersed around the room too; some adorned with tea sets for sale and seasonal flowers. What really caught my attention, however, were the shiny tins and paper bags of loose-leaf tea lining the shelves.

The leaves varied in color and scent, allowing space for every individual and their specific tastes.

Some teas were darker, almost brown like coffee grounds.

Others maintained the dried reds and pinks of rose hips and hibiscus.

One tea, with lavender, revealed a dusted purple mixed with black tea leaves.

We spent a long time in the shop, opening canisters and smelling the leaves inside. Because church doctrine asks members to abstain from drinking both coffee and tea, our exploration of the tea shop was ungodly. However, that did not prevent us from swapping the fragrant tins.

“Here smell this one.”

“That’s good. Try this.”

“Oh, I love that one. What do you think of this?”

We left the shop with my mother holding a small array of her favorites. They were hers and hers alone. I don’t think anyone could have taken away my mother’s joy of being her true self and acting on her own desires. We drove towards home.

Gripping the wheel, my mother told B and I, “You know, I think I’m done letting a bunch of men in the church tell me what to do and think.” We skirted around a curve. The lake behind us shrunk in the rearview mirror. “If I want to drink tea, I’m going to drink it,” she said. “If something makes me happy, I’m going to do it.” I found her confession indirect permission for me to do the same. A shift in my identity occurred. I saw myself evolving into who I really wanted to be, without the constraints of a religion telling me who I was.

We pulled up and out of the valley and I began to think of ways to break the rules.

Full Moon

The Earth’s moon is widely accepted to be a product of a major collision between proto-Earth and another planet roughly the size of Mars. These two bodies crashed together, reforming and combining and blending to form a new planet, a new earth. However, a chunk of these two celestial bodies drifted away from the chaos and towards the depths of space.

It didn’t get too far.

The silent child transformed into a body that continually pulls back towards its origins; an echo of the mothers who came before her. A daughter, like myself, who views her mother as a guide.

Waning Gibbous

I skip church one Sunday and then the next. It becomes routine. I bury my scriptures under my bed and cease to flip through their pages; they dust over with neglect. I find a new god in the books I choose to fill my world with. Reading Toni Morrison, Carmen Maria Machado, Chanel Miller, and Melissa Febos has become my new religion.

I say fuck occasionally.

I go to one or two parties and drink warm beer that leaves a foul taste in my mouth, but I wash it down with the cold, night air when I step outside. I look for signs. I listen to birds.

I tell the moon goodnight when I see her. I no longer say my prayers, but a good kiss almost feels like one. I don’t confess my sins to a man—The Bishop—but allow them to mix inside of me and shape me into who I am, for better or for worse.

On the edge of the ocean in Alaska, I search for sea glass when the tide is stretched thin. I buy rose quartz and amethyst and jade and moonstone. I pick up rocks and stash them in full pockets. I am kind. I am accepting. I burn incense and allow the smoke’s ghost to embrace and caress me.

When I die, I no longer worry about how I’ll reach celestial glory without a Father. I think I’m okay with not knowing what happens after death. I don’t need to sing the tunes of a congregation anymore.

Writing becomes my salvation. I am released from my guilt.

Last

Quarter

The planet that crashed into our proto-Earth in order to give birth to the moon is named Theia. Similarly to how our Earth is characterized as a feminine entity—a Mother, so to speak—Theia is also identified as female. The name originates from Greek and means “the divine One” or “goddess.” How odd it is then, that the moon, born from two mothers, is stripped away of its own femininity, and distinguished as a man? Why are the three women of my family—goddesses in their own right—characterized by the lack of a male authority under the scrutiny of the church?

Waning Crescent

Now, my Sunday mornings are spent snuggled in a warm bed, not on a stiff pew surrounded by greygreygrey. I wake up slow and tumble out of my blankets to brew coffee with lots of cream. When I am at home, my mother drinks along with me. Afterwards, she spends the rest of her Sunday mornings in the yard, trimming the trumpet-vine and pulling weeds from her herb garden. She scratches the small chins of her two newly adopted kittens. My mother meditates.

I read and write in the margins about how I am sifting through the story that is being told to me. I continually both accept and challenge the established narratives and wish I learned the practice of discernment earlier in life.

I think of my father and wonder where he is, but I don’t think about god. Have I damned him in my disbelief?

My dresses hang in my old closet because I haven’t the heart to get rid of them just yet. They are artifacts of my past, reminding me that I have freedom to refuse, to dismiss a belief that hurts me. My wardrobe consists of soft sweaters, black t-shirts, and jeans that are too big. I watch the sky lighten little by little and I notice a slight wisp of moon like a fallen breath, fading in the dawn.

I am still reverent, but in my own way.

New Moon

The sky is empty save for the stars, but a new beginning is on its way. The cycle of birth, death, and rebirth perpetuates. Each month, I wait for the rabbit’s resurrection.

Hannah Smith “Crest” & “Fairytale” Honorable Mention

2nd Place Nonfiction, Yash Rivera

Cyclical

Dear Mother and Father, I hope this letter never reaches you, and if it does, that there’s no return address. Because I’ve come to the conclusion that I can no longer have you in my life.The hardest part is knowing that regardless of if I stay or go, this generational cycle will keep repeating itself. I think I finally understand how Shuyen felt. Because as much as I love you, this cycle ends with me.

Shuyen was a woman in her forties or fifties with long, messy, brown hair. She spoke in almost perfect English traced with her thick, Chinese accent. Monday through Saturday, from morning until evening she worked in our home. She’d spend her day cleaning the four bedroom house, or preparing breakfast, lunch, or dinner. In her free time, she’d take my siblings and I to the park or play games with us. She’d let us eat ice cream on the couch when our parents weren’t home. She’d stand outside the bathroom door while I was throwing up or constipated. When I cut my left ring finger cutting a lemon, she was there to clean and wrap the wound. When I’d been forced to go hungry, she’d sneak me a little bit of food I liked so I didn’t have to starve. To six to nine-year-old me, Shuyen was my mom. And I always knew she sincerely cared about me. When I was eight-years-old, after my brother’s birthday celebrations, Shuyen gave me a gift, several of them even. The first was this gorgeous white dress with a sleeveless lace top with flowers and some shoes to match. A polka dot mask with a little pink bear with a bow tie on it. And some little, pink, note supplies. But the next day, Shuyen didn’t show up. Nor the day, nor the week after. One day, a plump, Chinese woman with a pixie cut who couldn’t speak a word of English showed up at our house. “When’s Shuyen coming back?” I asked my mom.

“Shuyen’s sick right now,” she answered. She told me Shuyen was so sick she’d been hospitalized. She told me that Shuyen would return when she was feeling better, but one of her friends was here in the meantime. Day after day went by and I grew more and more worried. Was she getting better? Was she going to be okay? Was she going to come home? When Shuyen’s replacement was fired in just a few weeks, I worried that meant she wouldn’t be able to come back. But she would, wouldn’t she? When Shuyen wasn’t sick anymore, she’d come home. She’d come back for me. Day after day passed, then it was weeks, then months. Slowly, my little eightyear-old mind came to the conclusion that Shuyen had finally passed, but no one dared to tell me. I cried all night that day.

One day, when I was still eight-years-old, I joined the crowds of kids waiting for the bus to school. Among them was a little girl just a few years younger than me and a little boy in a stroller. A set of brown hands wrapped around the handles of the stroller towering up to who I quickly recognized as Shuyen. Her head turned towards me and her black eyes met mine. My limbs froze. My thoughts swerved around my skull. Because quickly I began to realize Shuyen was never sick, she’d just abandoned me.

And year after year, I wrote poem after poem asking her: Why?

Dear Shuyen, do you even remember me? I wonder if you ever think about me, ever miss me, ever wonder what I’m up to. If I could visit you would you be happy to see me? Would you be mad if I did? Even if I really, really missed you? Shuyen, are you even alive? Would you even remember who I am?Would you recognize me?That girl must be graduating soon. Is she doing well in school? Is she talented? Did you celebrate her last birthday with her? Are you there with her when she’s sick or having a rough day, like you used to do for me? Do you make her my favorite meals? Are you gonna be sad when she leaves?Will you keep in touch through every big step in her life? Do you ever wonder what I’m doing with my life? Do I ever pass your thoughts? Ever wonder how I’m doing or if I’m even alive? If you saw me now, would you be proud? I’m in college now, while I don’t know if you even finished middle school. I’m doing so many things, but I’m not sure how you’d feel about most of them.Would you be disappointed in me?Why did you have to leave me? I hated being in that awful house without you. I wish you could have taken me with you. Dear Shuyen, I really miss you. But I doubt you even think about me.

I remember when I first read The Help. My mother had recommended it to me. No surprise, she saw herself etched into the story of Mrs. Leefolt: a young White mother who was much too young to be a mother. And I, a teenanger at the time, saw myself embedded into the pages of Leefolts two-year-old daughter, Mae Mobly. Shuyen was my Aibileen. My colored mama who’d raised enough kiddos that some were now as old as my own mother. I knew my place in the story when Mae Mobly asserted that Aibileen was her mother, but especially at the end of the book when Aibileen is fired. I still cry as I think of her last moment with Mae Mobly as she looks her in the eye and reminds her, “You is kind. You is smart. You is important.” I wondered what Shuyen would say to me now.

I wondered how Mae Mobly and Mrs. Leefolt’s story continues after Aibileen is gone. If Mrs. Leefolt ever became a good mother. Or was she just eternally a pampered wife the way the older Chinese women would label my mom. Would she forever retain the mannerisms, cognitions, and emotional maturity of a teenager? Would Mae Mobly ever be more than a doll to play with than a child to raise? Just as I had been. Would Aibileen ever come back into Mae Mobly’s life or was this the end of that story? Would Mae Mobly sit in that house and wonder if Aibileen would ever return or where she was or if she even remembered her? I wondered if Mae Mobly would turn into her mother. Would she hire her own Aibileen and become the new Mrs. Leefolt? Would she grow up pampering and coddling Mrs. Leefolt in her childhood and then becoming

that emotionally abused but emotionally abusive parent? Or maybe would she turn into me: stuck in the decision to keep the cycle going or start a new cycle for herself.

It was the 27th of January of my fifteenth year when my relationship with my mother changed. Leaned back into the couch, I listened as my mother talked about The Help with a friend. That she saw herself in the lives of the White housewives that filled the pages, at least in the ways they treated their help. She compared herself to the time Mrs. Leefolt forced her Black help to use a separate bathroom for fear of contamination. After all, she had fired one of her own out of disgust that she showered in our home and used our hand towels to dry off. But the tale didn’t end there, she confessed to firing another because she had demanded a raise. But what sent me into a masked episode of rage was when she told us about Shuyen, laced with the excuse, “I was just a dumb, twenty-eight year-old.”

My mother and her friends had been having a competition to see who could pay their help the least. Shuyen made about ¥5 a day, at the time that was the equivalent of $0.70 in U.S. currency. And slowly, she was making less and less and less. I wonder what went through Shuyen’s mind as she picked out my goodbye gifts. I wonder what she thought as birthday celebrations drew close to the end knowing that once we were in bed, she would tell my mom she quit.

Tears built around my eyes as my mother unlayered each detail building up to the end of that story. My hands started shaking. I couldn’t look at my mom, because suddenly I realized it was never my fault. It was hers.

To my dear brothers and my dear sister, not a day will go by where I don’t think of you. Where I won’t regret leaving you. Where I won’t wonder what you’re up to, if you’re safe, if you’re making friends, if you’re struggling or working hard on something. I hope the birthday cards I send actually reach you. I hope you can remember the good memories I have with you. That I’m not just the villain who left you alone in that house. That you won’t believe the stories that I left because I have no morals or I’m a sociopath or I was“tempted by Satan”or that I was acting like a rebellious teenager. I hope you know that I’m not leaving because I want to. I hope you know I want to talk to you, that I love and care about you. That you won’t have the same questions I hold for Shuyen. I hope that when you ask why I haven’t called in weeks or why I’m not visiting this year or any other that they tell you the truth. But I know them better. I hope you can know one day why I had to leave.That you’ll know how our parents will never accept fault, how they lovebomb and gaslight.That you’ll know the facade they wear in public and the facade they wear in front of you. I hope this cycle can end so that you don’t have to become me. And when you graduate, I hope you’ll reach out to me. And I’d be happy to see you. Be happy to hear what you’ve been up to. All of it. I hope I get to see you again.

I would become my Shuyen, to finally pick myself over an abusive cycle. I would become my Shuyen to become the older brother who was never present and abandoned my siblings, because there was no other way. How could I leave my siblings to go through what I went through? How could I abandon them? And I could hear my parents’ voices guilting me, “How can you do this to your brothers and sister?” How could I continue this generational cycle, to break another cycle?

I would continue a cycle that had been present in my family for generations. Always a sibling or other leaving the cycle, only to be painted as the villain of the story. I could never make sense of those stories. Why would they cut out their family like that? Why would they abandon their younger siblings? Why would Shuyen leave me? And suddenly, it all made sense. Suddenly, I understood how this was a problem that had spanned not just my own life and that would never end. Suddenly, I understood why Shuyen had to leave. I understood that the feelings I had towards my siblings, the love I had, everything I wished to tell them was her wish for me. That in this tragic end to my story within my blood family, I found her. I only wish I could have found her sooner.

Deareight-year-oldme,IthoughtIleftyoubehindinthathouse.ThoughtI’dbecomemuch wiser, stronger, and more capable than you.Yet I still find myself reverting into you at the right trigger, and am just as helpless and confused and emotional. And I wonder how long it will feel like we’re trapped in that house, as it slowly fades into a distant memory. And I’d tell you:“You are loved.”

Dear ten-year-old me, you were always so in tune to the ghosts in our house.Their shadows.Their presence.Their voices.Their terror. One day you’ll understand where they come from. Why you find fear in some and comfort in others. You’ll make sense of the ways she speaks to you. And I’d tell you: “You are brave.”

Dear fifteen-year-old me, you were right to run away. I’d go back to tell you to pack better. To leave your phone and your nostalgia and your guilt.To pack your love and your motivation and a pillow. But I’d also tell you it’s impossible. That you were right, but to wait. And I’d tell you: “You need help.”

Deareighteen-year-oldme,yourpoetrytellsmeyou’restillwaitingforhertocomehome.It tells me, you are haunted and lonely and afraid. I promise you, in the next few years and beyond it gets better. But I can also promise you they’ll never get better. And I’d tell you:“She didn’t want to leave you.”

I kneeled, holding the beige deck of cards between my folded palms. My eyelids squeezed themselves together as I prayed aloud, “Please, anyone who is listening to this, I need your help with my family this weekend.”

I poured my heart out into those seventy-nine cards. I instructed the dead how to speak to me through the cards in guiding my selection. I laid three cards selected at random in front of me and slowly turned each one. The first card read, “I am helping you with your family.” Despite using this deck for months, I’d never seen it before. How perfect of a coincidence had befallen me. The second card just said, “I felt your love when I crossed over.” Frustrating. Someone who died while I was alive, but I’d never been particularly close to any of my relatives who passed. The

final card hit with a surge of emotions: “I didn’t want to be sick anymore.” Her name fell out of my lips in a whisper as I let out soft sobs, “Shuyen.” Because if she didn’t want to be sick anymore then that meant she’d come back for me. Through nights spent writing poem after poem to her, wondering if she even remembered who I was. Through every panic attack about having to visit my mom in the upcoming week. Through every family conflict and every episode of abuse. Through the rough moments in which I had no one to talk to and the good ones as well. On nights when I was throwing up or having flashbacks or in tears. Monday through Sunday, from early morning until midnight Shuyen is a ghost in my home. When I graduate in a few months and proceed in my career and through every key moment in my life she’ll be right there. Because dear Mom and Dad, she has always been the parent for me that you never were.

Kaisha Mills “Self Portrait” 1st Place

Brianna Pickering “Return to the Earth” Honorable Mention

3rd Place Nonfiction, Luka

Rompato

Feast

In 2009 a giant isopod located in a Japanese aquarium went on a five year hunger strike. “Giant Isopod No. 1” was found in 2007, along the coast of Baja California. The aquatic pillbug was then subsequently depressurized, packed in an airtight box that could fit its twelve inch long body, and shipped some 5,955 miles to Toba, Japan where it would spend the rest of its life in captivity.

I was freshly 14 when I first learned about this giant isopod. Having just started high school and coming out of a multiple month quarantine I was not doing too hot. Over those months spent in quarantine I had managed to develop an eating disorder. Something not too uncommon among depressed and isolated 14 year-olds. It was decided by my psychiatrist that I was unable to keep living without treatment, and I was subsequently shipped a short eighty six miles to Salt Lake City where I would live and receive in-person treatment until I was deemed fit enough to return to everyday society.

Giant Isopod No. 1 lived a relatively normal life; as normal as one can live in a glass tank. Then on January 2nd, 2009 it stopped eating. There was no apparent catalyst to this decision. In the wild it’s not uncommon for giant isopods to go years without eating. On the ocean floor food is few and far between. Nutrient-rich whale falls are the preferred meal for giant isopods, however, it’s rare for a whale to die and for its body to make it all the way down to the bottom of the deep sea. This wasn’t the barren ocean though, this was an aquarium where meals were guaranteed and food was never far.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like food. Food was objectively good to me. It was that in a world where so much had been uncontrollable, I could have complete control of what went into my body. This was my way of coping with the rising amount of uncertainty in my life. I didn’t understand why I was considered a danger to myself, or why I needed to go into treatment. I think this was why I became so fascinated with Giant Isopod No. 1. We were one in the same.

Caretakers at Toba Aquarium tried to find a solution to Giant Isopod No. 1’s seemingly meaningless protest. It wasn’t sick and the food was fine. Regular (attempted) feedings would continue throughout the years with no success. Word had started to spread on Japanese news, and people began to flock to the aquarium to see the famed anorexic giant isopod. Pressing their faces against the glass to catch a fleeting glimpse of the crustacean turning away from its meal.

I was officially diagnosed with anorexia nervosa at the beginning of October 2020. This was right as I was entering the treatment facility which would become my new normal until I was

“fixed.” I was incredibly angry at everyone but myself, and I had vowed to resist any form of help. After all, I didn’t need any help. Treatment was hard. I wasn’t allowed to go home during the week and my behavior was constantly monitored. Everything I did and ate was recorded. I was forbidden from using the bathroom without someone there to watch me. Disgusting hospital food was pushed onto me and I would be punished if I refused to eat it.

Giant Isopod No. 1 remained a mystery to everyone involved. It wasn’t a question for me, though. I knew why it wasn’t eating. After all, we were in the same situation: captured from home, relocated somewhere strange, food forced upon us daily, and the gawking of strangers and medical professionals alike. I knew that the stress and resentment of living as a spectacle had pushed Giant Isopod No. 1 into protest, just like it had done to me.

Giant Isopod No. 1 had begun to realize how desperate the public was for it to eat. Instead of backing down, it had learned to trick its caretakers. During feedings No. 1 would carry its meals to the far side of the tank and move its mouth as if to simulate eating. The excitement caused by this apparent development was short-lived when people realized it wasn’t actually eating the freshly caught eels and mackerel. It seemed to be mocking them. “You can’t make me,” is what I think it was trying to say. Or maybe it was the name. If I was named Giant Luka, I think I would stop eating too.

Like Giant Isopod No. 1, I was stubborn and guarded. I had started to employ the same techniques I knew the crustacean had used before me. I would bide my time, eat my meals, and drink my Ensures. As soon as I graduated treatment I would go right back to the way I was before. I just had to be patient. Unfortunately, patience is not one of my virtues.

In March 2021 things had started to change for me. I found myself enjoying the veggie burgers and soda I was offered at the hospital. I had caught myself staring at the ice cream in the grocery store during my allowed weekends at home more times than I’d like to admit. The thought of recovery was incredibly terrifying to me. I was about to dive into the bottomless ocean, the same ocean Giant Isopod No. 1 had come from.

It was Valentine’s Day 2014 when the story of Giant Isopod No. 1 ended. After five years of a hunger strike with seemingly no cause, it had died. A necropsy was performed but no internal causes could be found either. Its body was frozen for preservation and future research and is now held somewhere in Japan.

In October 2023 I officially graduated from anorexia recovery. I thought of Giant Isopod No. 1 frequently. I hoped that it had recovered as well. We were one in the same, after all. I learned about Giant Isopod No. 1’s death recently while looking up this story to make sure I had the right information. It was like a bucket of Pacific ice water had been poured down my spine. Giant Isopod No. 1 had not recovered. It had died, just like so many others had before it. I was lucky enough to survive my eating disorder, Giant Isopod No. 1 was not. I still think of Giant Isopod No. 1’s protest often, and I still admire its dedication and willpower. I will always, for better or for worse, share its stubborn nature and distaste for fish. Now when I eat my favorite sour vegetable tofu noodles or indulge myself in my favorite banana pie I imagine Giant Isopod No. 1 deep in the ocean, feasting on a whale fall.

1st Place Poetry, Brook Haight

your nature, fills me, cycles

your nature

“it was never about your hair,” and other things they’ll say after the fact. father or eldest daughter, we will rip it out all the same.

but where did the dogs go? they are talking in church about her missing sister trading monster for monster.

they saw the woman dying and pointed to the spider before the man like it makes a difference.

i dream of his lovers more often than him, paper-strewn teacup sundays in dusty sunlight. wishful thinking, but no strays allowed.

they tell me

“i want to pull his chin hair out with my teeth because i have eyes he doesn’t want living in his house anymore.”

pretend your head falls off from nodding in a mirror. say it’s not your sister dying. my teeth would bare the instant my body couldn’t stop them.

this is biting knuckles till they callous and waking up choking on your throat, paralyzed in the silhouette of your mom.

my cobweb would be a single strand floating next to nothing, if it could. i don’t want to kill.

Brianna Pickering “The Great Divide” Honorable Mention

me

august, shoving entire fists down my throat just to feel that pit again

a cozy kind of emptiness from belonging nowhere the world is alone with me in it. the gum i swallowed still remembers him good aching out all over pardon me, it’s just this summer, the way it leaves there was something soft dying in those nights that purrs under my hand

it should be about a kiss but i want so much more than something in my mouth

backsliding like a sun beneath the horizon

a son in my bed like a broken ceiling

breaking in, stealing like men whose names start with “sigh”

women whose names end with “see?” like a wave of tumbling spiders

stumbling climbers like a palm-sweaty rock

tossed up and down like a backsliding daughter

2nd Place Poetry, Noelani

Hadfield

Too Much Information, Grandmother’s Cotton Fields, Sea-Salt Atonement

Too Much Information

The brain was built for intake, to process and spit spit spit out emotion: to regurgitate all these insoluble truths into palatable bits. Coarse, rough shit that stings, scrapes all the way down the esophagus, rendering you voiceless, hollowed-out voicebox vibrating pointlessly, endlessly angrily screaming.

Kaisha Mills “Away” Honrable Mention

Grandmother’s Cotton Fields

Ferocious white bursting from crusted seams, speckled cotton fields baking in southeastern sunshine. Grandmother sits on the patio, presiding over the acres. Looking at her now—nails immaculately kept, corgi restless in lap—her stroke seems distant. Lucky, so lucky the doctors said. I guess her luck has refilled since her second husband withered away in an armchair, cancer cannibalizing his brain. In his absence, she has become a caretaker of less sentient things, conferring love upon ficus trees. Her elegant, arthritic fingers can no longer shuffle playing cards, contritely passing off the duty to younger visitors. Back home, thirteen hours away, my great aunt has remarried her ex-husband; she explained that his idiosyncrasies and irresponsibility have grown moot, eclipsed entirely by the comfort of having someone exist a room away. Now, bereft a second husband, my grandmother lives alone. In the hospital, the doctors found a hole in the bottom of her heart, leaking deoxygenated blood into the stream. My mother and I have been looking at smart watches, ones with fall detection and heart monitoring: the internet says they’re great for seniors living alone. A poor substitute for flesh and blood, but at least next time, she won’t have to wait for the neighbor to find her face-down, blood vessels failing in the Arizona heat; at least next time, she won’t have to plead—fruitless—to the sprawling cotton fields and an empty house.

Sea-Salt Atonement

In the sand, near the wave-line, getting thrown down again and again, salt-fire up your nose and gasping for more: more traipsing sun rays over the sea floor, more salt weaved through hair-strands, more of that sharp sensation of your eyes on my sand-scrubbed back; meanwhile, my feigned inattention falls lightly on my face, heavy on this sun-baked brain.

Myleigh Peterson “(Lucky Number) 5” 3rd Place

3rd Place Poetry, Rose Ivins

Sign Of, 7:30 a.m. tuesday extinguisher, CRAQUELURE

Sign Of

“god made no death: neither hath he pleasure in the destruction of the living.”

if not god building forms, out casting molds of man and mountains much alike then who would? we read, under maples, of death with a rift in his dark cloak. which is why we shake those signs out of anything. “surely it means something.”

if not god itself, the dragonfly on the river is most certainly your sister. consolation comes as scripture, tech disturbances, quails, dreams, sun dawning, most commonly, red wine. anything. surely, it means somethingif not god allowing defiance of boundaries, how do you account

for the cat caught crossing our path? or the leaf’s shiver when a name is called. it is proofwithout data, facts or anything- surely it means something.

Kaisha Mills “Thunder” Honrable Mention

7:30 a.m. tuesday extinguisher

how shocking, shaped like a pyre face up, fess up, fire [i’m trying to cup my hands over everything that can’t be held] down the throat of a canyon it glints, splits oxygen choking the light it emits

Peterson “(Lucky Number) 2” Honorable Mention

Myleigh

CRAQUELURE

the sun has already set across its black horizon as we discuss the piece, in whispers, so as not to disturb it / i am searching for a meaning deeper than the surface layer of paint / you point out to me all these little rorschach bits- i see a football, and you see an observatory, i see a droopy-eared dog where you see puss-in-boots / and no one makes me laugh like this. while i show you the gallery, it’s the latest yo-yo ma concerto: somewhere within, i have al- ready seen every piece in this exhibit, so now i watch you. / and my favorite part is not the meaning, nor the marrow: instead, i admire the craquelure. /// later, under the blankets we have pinned to the windowsill to build our- selves a sacred keep, i show you a purple-green bruise / you show me a yel- low-pink blemish / you show me your cracked lips and i show you my dried arms. / after all that we have seen today, perhaps these things ought to be ugly. but no- beautiful is still the easiest word i find for you / i can only hope that when we are sixty-three and written up and down with the hairline fractures of age / you will still let me stare- like i am ad- miring my favorite piece in the show

“Up In #2”, Frederick Hammersley, 1961