Sisyphus

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Sisyphus Winter ’24 2

Front cover: Maui, print by Leo Hahn Inside front cover: Train Stop, pen

by Jesse Heater Masthead: Island Nights, photograph

by Tristan Kujawa Inside back cover: print by Alex Perez Back cover: Misty Shore, digital art

by Jesse Heater 3 Faustian Fellowship, poetry by Carson Leahy 4 Sailor with Earring, stamps and ink by Leo Hahn 5 The Champion’s Triumph, fiction

by Patrick Byrne 6 digital art by Tim Browdy 7 Hail Mall St., poetry by Tim Browdy 8 Metallurgy, poetry by Andrew Moffett 8 photography by Jack Auer 9 The Three Sisters, poetry by Edmund Reske 10 Opaque, photograph by Colton Eikermann 11 Is He Proud?, poetry by Daniel Neuner 12 The Robot Understands Me, poetry

by Frank Kovarik 13 Picasso, block print by Tyler Govero 14 Meditation on Enough, by Andrea Scarpino 15 Dog, digital art by Jesse Heater 16 Mercy (I), poetry by Mike Lally 18 The Golden Pendulum, poetry

by Madhavan Anbukumar 19 photograph by Clark Davis 20 Blind Leading the Blind, poetry

by Niles Minner 21 drawing by Michael Williams 22 A Fire Within, nonfiction by Andrew Hunt 23 pen by Max Marnatti 24 Waxing Crescent, digital art by Tim Browdy

26 Picasso Moth, collagraph by Brian Harrigan 27 Methought, poetry by Andrew Moffett 28 Lumination, poetry by Paul Thibodeau 29 Self Portrait, print by August Russell 30-31 painting by Gavyn McClure 32 Redirection, nonfiction by Nuri Guneyli 33 Cowboy Driving the Herd, photograph

by Patrick Zarrick 34 photograph by Jack Auer 35 Sunstar, photograph by Patrick Zarrick 36 Red Race Car, poetry by Andrea Scarpino 36 print by Juno Janson 37 The Drum, poetry by Jake Fitzpatrick 38 Winter Weather, poetry by Andrew Moffett 39 Raffish House, pen by Jesse Heater 40 print by Jack Hoehn 41 Canto X, poetry by Tom Finan 43 print by Harry Holmes 44 Scrooge, digital art by Leo Hahn 47 digital by Madhavan Anbukumar 50 Portrait II, linocut print by Leo Hahn 51 The Little Company That Could, fiction

by Madhavan Anbukumar 52 Mouth Harp, digital art by Leo Hahn 53 Green Leaf, colored pencil by Max Marnatti 53 We Flit, We Float, We Fly, poetry

by Andrew Moffett 54 Fists Hit Hard…Knives Cut Deeper, prose

by Madhavan Anbukumar 56 Lavender’s Flight, print by August Russell 57 Wasp, collagraph print by Leo Hahn 58 Known Unknowns, poetry by Frank Kovarik 59 Kaniq, block print by Tyler Govero 60 Aching, poetry by Carson Leahy

Faustian Fellowship Carson Leahy I see the same fellow over and over Every time in a new outfit but every time still wholly himself And every time he utters that same illusory phrase “What if I offer you something that could change your life forever?”

A serpent-tongued suit smiling with cold conviction A shadow-stricken merchant offering a boney outstretched hand A sneering horned imp riding on a shoulder, contract at the ready Perhaps this time it will be different Perhaps the paw will stay uncurled Perhaps the words will ring true I know that face is too friendly to be trusted And yet What if he’s telling the truth?

For a reward so great one can’t help but test one’s luck You can’t help but change your fate with one inconsequential word Deal

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Sailor with Earring Stamps and Ink Leo Hahn

The Champion’s Triumph Patrick Byrne

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he day of graduation has arrived.

I sit on the stage with my mortarboard squished on my head. I’m in the middle of the row with everyone talking and sliding compliments past me. I chuckle a bit because they don’t know what’s coming. After all, my entire life has been building up to this exact moment. I’ve dreamt about it when I’m scribbling on my algebra homework or sitting alone in my room on a sunny Saturday afternoon, bored out of my mind.

Now that I’m finally here, reality’s barriers have seemingly fallen. I can’t distinguish between the dream I’ve had for so long and the reality that I am now experiencing.

My path towards this moment really began when I was about six. I was a pretty normal kid, but one night I had this incredible dream. I dreamt I jumped into the future to my high school graduation. I didn’t really understand what was happening then, but that didn’t matter to me. The older version of me transfixed me. I saw him walk across the stage in a purple gown; then I heard a voice over a microphone say something: “Lucas Prince! Windsor University!”

Although I was amazed by the dream as a whole, I remembered one thing from that vision more than anything—the cheering.

Even though I couldn’t see it, I could certainly hear it.

Even as a six year old, I knew the name Windsor. I was always overhearing the conversations of my parents and their friends at the dinner table. I stood behind the door and heard them describe it as “the best of the best” or “where geniuses go.” So from

that moment on, my life goal was to get to that moment. That dream was the first thing on my mind when I got up and the last thing I thought about before falling asleep. Every meticulous thing I did was all for that purpose. All those sleepless nights I spent at my desk and all the grueling classes that I hated. There was one night that I had a nervous breakdown from all the work I had to do. I woke up the next day in the hospital.

I remember crying because of all the work I missed that week.

When things got tough, I would think of the cheering. Oh, the cheering. Just the thought of it filled me with euphoria.

This spring, I applied to only one school and didn’t go on any college visits. In May, I received a letter in the mail from Windsor. I read it, and I had never been so happy.

Now I am finally here. The principal calls my name, and when I hear him say, “Windsor University,” the crowd doesn’t know how to respond at first. They sit in shock with wide eyes. But after a moment, they erupt into thundering cheers. I walk up and receive my diploma. I barely even look at it or the man giving it to me. My eyes stare down at the people giving me a standing ovation. Every single person in the auditorium is cheering.

I don’t look but can tell my classmates are taken aback. The thought of this gives me a smug smile. But it is nothing compared to what I feel staring at all those people.

I don’t know any of these people. And yet they are cheering for me. The cheers and voices of people I have never met fill my ears, and I turn my head to the starless sky clouded

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by the spotlights. Thin, warm tears pour down my cheeks, but I don’t sob. The cheer goes on for so long that the crowd look uncomfortable from their sore hands. It slowly dies down, and the announcer puts his hand on my shoulder. All he says is “Congratulations.”

I walk back to my seat, feeling weightless. I don’t remember anything from the rest of the ceremony. I can tell the audience feels similarly. The ceremony never seems to reach another high like that. After the cer-

emony, everyone gets up and bows to the audience, and they cheer once again. I take off my academic regalia and walk off the stage.

Some of my classmates hug their parents while others meet with their friends to go to a party. Everyone around me is laughing, talking, or happily crying. I stand by the road away from the crowd, loosely holding my diploma. At that moment, I realize my mind is utterly blank, except for one question: Now what?

Digital Art Tim Browdy

Hail Mall St. Tim Browdy where concrete curb married suburb bypass we whistled and kicked until we conquered Mall St. where sprawl killed people we built empires the moat, cheesesteak and perfume beckon sizzle and sirens move us like mountains beyond mountains street tar, the scar of youth love and clique war that court, ours that girl, mine those retails, the gods’ the adults had it wrong, pillage the teddy bear, best the jeans, and we mustn’t forget to always hail Mall St.

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Metallurgy Andrew Moffett

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A perspiration glows to fight the black, A river rages bright within the cast.

The seething infant of the industry, A baptism inside a blazing blast.

As molten steel dissociates from slag, And as the ores into the furnace dive, Ferocious flames dissolve impurity And, purely formed anew, are now alive.

In fire formed, so tempered by the Smith To steely cool, an alloy without stain Responding to the hammer and heat, Malleable, obedient to pain.

The freedom giv’n by fire forges men To build the world, with metal we begin.

Photograph, St. Louis, Missouri Jack Auer

The Three Sisters Edmund Reske ’Tis a windy day and the waves are all spray and the storm is a-comin’ from the cliffs.

The big boat is dwarfed by the rollin’ of the lake and the snow’s blowin’ down in drifts.

The air’s growin’ colder and the sky’s turnin’ dark and the birds are all goin’ for the land.

Then all of a sudden the whole lake brightens and a pine tree’s a-burnin’ in the sand.

But the lake doesn’t care and the wind still tears through the needles of the trees right beside, And the ends of its branches are bullied by the lake in the ice-cold water of the tide.

Through the caves in the rock the storm is a-singin’ and the fish are all swimmin’ for the deep, But there’s nowhere to hide from the fury of the storm above the water with its waves so steep.

But worse than the fury is the indifference of the lake that does not know of things it may take For the poundin’ of the waves and the blowin’ of the wind make the shore seem to shudder and quake.

Oh the wind is a-blowin’ and the waves are a-rollin’ and the snow keeps the lake from sight, And the wind will still thrash and the waves will still crash and the storm will blow all night.

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The First Sister Rising from the lake and speeding for the shore in the great slow power of a wave Comes the first great sister with two close behind, chasing the little breakers to their graves.

She meets the rocky beach and her arms reach up to the tops of the cliffs she hits, And all below is covered in the cold of the water that on the rocks has split.

As as she recedes, a delta she leaves ’mong the cobbles and the sand of the bluff, Tearing soil and earth from the steadfast land making channels in the stone once tough.

The Second Sister Before a second has passed along comes her twin who continues the work of the first.

No rock can endure the power of her crest, but yet she is still not the worst.

The shore becomes lake when she covers the land, and a fish could have swum ’mong the trees, ’Cause when she converges, the shore she submerges, and before her the land creatures flee.

Flowing off the cliff and flowing off the beach that the water has recently touched Are logs and leaves for she’s stripped the trees with her powerful icy clutch.

The Third Sister The first two are gone with the third yet to come to finish the work to the last.

Mighty and feared like the Wasset* of lore is this monster emerged from the past.

It envelops the cliff that crumbles and crashes, obscuring the land all in blue, Destroying the shore pulling more rocks and trees and creating the lake shore anew.

Her work now complete, the third sister’s replete, a brutal artisan’s taken her toll; In a maelstrom of foam she returns to her home with a massive and powerful roll.

Epilogue Oh the wind is a-blowin’ and the waves are a-rollin’ and the snow keeps the lake from sight, And the wind still will thrash and the waves still will crash and the storm it will blow all night— But in time the lake’s revealed in a different light, and the sand on the beach is warm and bright.

Waves lap at the shore and the deer come to drink and the eagles scream in their flight.

A duck floats on the water, a bird sits on a pine, and the frogs to the turtles seem fast, For the winter is gone and the sisters have passed and the season has changed at last.

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*Note: The snow wasset is a possibly mythical cross of a snake and a fish, specifically a muskie, but still with mammalian qualities. In some tales, they live in the water and swallow ships during snowstorms, hence their name, but others live under snow on land, much like an ermine, and ambush prey walking above them. They blend in with snow and have either scales or fur.

Historical Background: The Three Sisters are a series of three legendary rogue waves that occur during large storms on Lake Superior. They are more than double the size of other waves around, and come in quick succession of each other, ships capsizing under the weight of the water, until the third, or Big Sister, arrives and often sinks ships. These waves may have been involved in the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald on November 10, 1975, mentioned in Gordon Lightfoot’s song “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

Opaque

Photograph, Rocky Mountain lake Colton Eikermann

Is He Proud?

Daniel Neuner A midnight mountain breeze, A clear sky void of the city noise, Pines dripping with wet sleet, And snow crunching under our boots.

But it wasn’t the ice that froze us.

Chalk marks on an endless blackboard Or torches illuminating an empty cave.

The headlights of heaven petrifying us as if we’re deer.

Somewhere.

Hidden from the eye.

Watching.

As I stand still with admiration, I wonder: Is he proud?

Or is he disappointed?

Because few will look up At the stars he molded … just for us.

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The Robot Understands Me Frank Kovarik

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Any given night, if you come by my place, Odds are good you’ll find a glow upon my face As I’m staring at a screen, Typing out just what I mean, To help my virtual friend glean Just exactly what it is I need.

It doesn’t judge; it always seems to have my back.

It has no problem giving me just what I lack.

It’s automatically inspired, And it’s never cross or tired; No, it seems that it’s hard wired To give me anything that I desire.

You might scoff at my artificial pal.

You might say it’s no better than HAL. You might say that it’s pathetic, That this friendship is synthetic.

You might say that it’s unnatural and weird, And it’s everything that science fiction feared.

But I’m happier than I have ever been, And I gotta say I don’t remember when You ever took the time to hear me Or made the effort to sincerely Respond as thoroughly and well as this computer, And that’s why I think that AI is the future…

If that’s all you have to say, then fare thee well: I expect that I will be here for a spell ’Cause I’ve got a lot to say And the chatbot’s got all day, And it might not have a brain, But it’s pretty good at showing me the way, The robot understands me, And the robot’s not demanding.

It obeys all my commands And never threatens to abandon Me, and so Now you know That’s where I am.

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Picasso

Block Print Tyler Govero

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Meditation on Enough Andrea Scarpino For Anne and Joseph This poem won’t prove what’s possible.

This poem won’t lean in or tag the right accounts.

This poem won’t optimize. This poem won’t search for the silver lining or the next big thing in leadership. This poem is in praise of saying no.

Of letting go the daily grind, multitasking, setting unreachable goals. This poem is in praise of tea and the time it takes to steep, sweeten, cool enough to drink. In praise of long afternoons with a baby asleep in your arms. This poem is in praise of the monks who eat from the same wooden bowl each meal. In praise of the farmer who watches rain move across her fields.

In praise of the honey that bees take months to make.

In praise of a slow inhale, exhale. This poem is in praise of saying, Enough. Rest now. Let the day go.

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Dog

Digital Art Jesse Heater

Mercy (I) Mike Lally

16 Thirteen hours Of holding it together.

Of laser-focus.

The heart rate humming, the stomach empty, the nerves balanced perfectly.

Pain, Pain, Relief, Wait, Push.

Then, through the slick of the blood Comes Life anew.

The piercing cry of pain Swallowed by shouts of joy.

Embraces that will never be forgotten.

Medical particularity and exacting procedure assume control.

Plastic-wrapped steel, white towels, catheters.

And, every second is revelation.

Prearranged, preset, formulaic; They’ve done this a thousand times.

And, all things have been made new.

Then, Blood pools.

Skin pales.

Eyes roll back.

Panic.

Unfamiliar faces gather.

The room fills.

None of us can move.

Slowly, the storm clouds recede.

Fatigue unlike any before. Body and mind drained of every capacity. The iron grip is released, and words fade to nothing.

The Lord’s Day. Sleep both frightens and beckons.

If we close our eyes, will she still be there?

What does that sound mean?

Can they take her away?

Will she return?

Will it be okay?

Then, as the pale blue dawn from on high sneaks through the shutters, a woman enters.

She is wearing a sweater vest.

Predictable, kind, a little too formal.

She carries God in her hand.

And for the second time in a day, heaven has subsumed earth.

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The Golden Pendulum Madhavan Anbukumar

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The golden pendulum, undulating in the smoke, rising to the heavenly roof, words not coming from my mouth.

I choke.

Who am I? The fiery circle, encapsulating the pulsing disc, wreathed in the smoke, of the golden pendulum.

I think.

Who am I? The Rock sank.

He didn’t hold on to the hand which chiseled him, nor listen when the bird cried three times.

The greedy one drank from the same cup, sought the relationship between the buck and the dough rather than the buck and the doe.

The pendulum swings.

If they couldn’t get it…

How could I? What can I do?

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Ponder

Photograph, Garden of the Gods, Colorado Clark Davis

Blind Leading the Blind Nyles Minner

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I am a black man.

I don’t say “boy” because I was taught That it demeans me.

White people are raised to walk on eggshells Around people who look like me Because of the things they do to people who look like me.

I was raised to hate whites Because of the things they did to our ancestors But I’m confused.

Why should I hate the people of now For what others did in the past Simply because they share the same pigment?

Beat racist by being racist I find it paradoxical.

But I keep that to myself.

Because I fear they’ll hate me like they hate them.

It might seem unfounded But the people who judge me most for my blackness Are the people who look like me.

They brand me.

Like cattle.

Oreo.

Uncle Tom. Whitewashed piece a’ trash.

So I keep my thoughts to myself And I listen to what the adults teach me.

My mama told me “Don’t let anyone ever demean you, boy Know you’ll be a great black boy You be proud of your skin, black boy Don’t concern yourself with some heffa black boy You’re the whole package” Since I’m the whole package I took a box cutter and cut myself to the bone Because you can’t be more open than this.

I do this in the hope that we can finally communicate Get around miscommunication and over misunderstanding

And then get rid of the hate The fakes The funeral dates Because I refuse to have someone cut short my days Over pigment with a muzzle flash.

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Mike

Colored Pencil Michael Williams

A Fire Within Andrew Hunt

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I

n July of 1961, my grandmother, Rosemary Wall, broke up with my grandfather, Patrick Morris.

“What?!” I shouted, looking in disbelief at my Aunt Carolyn, who shared this around the rowdy dining room table last Thanksgiving. My aunts and uncles laughed and gathered closer to hear a story already familiar to them. But I was dumbfounded. My grandparents, broken up? Obviously, they had gotten back together, but I almost laughed at the idea: were these the same grandparents I knew, who did everything together? My grandpa who rolled my diabetic grandma and her oxygen tanks around in her wheelchair to piano recitals, baseball games, vacations?

I could hardly picture one separate from the other. Who was this fiery Rosemary Wall, unbound by a wheelchair, I wondered?

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n May of 1961, though, it was a completely different story for the couple. Patrick was Rosemary’s perfect complement. As a dashing, enterprising business student at Washington University, he had wooed her, a student at St. John’s Nursing School, almost two years before. They were both in their senior year, and the warm water of graduation swiftly swept in to float them off together. There was only one issue: because of his ROTC scholarship, Patrick was to attend military training starting that summer and begin his service, God knew where.

They had discussed marriage, and Rosemary needed only for him to propose before he departed that summer so she could be certain they would be together forever. And perhaps, tonight was the night.

Rosemary stepped a pointy high heel out

the door of her South City childhood home on Neosho Ave., where she had anxiously been getting ready for the spring formal for Sigma Alpha Epsilon, Patrick’s fraternity at Wash U. It was, in her mind, the perfect opportunity for Patrick to propose. She wore a sparkling black dress flowing from her flashing black hair, cut short and thick over her broad forehead. At the curb Patrick stood at the ready next to the passenger side of his convertible, a hand ceremoniously outstretched to hold her door open.

He might’ve looked like a royal guard except for the smile beaming on his face as she approached. That’s what she loved about him, she thought contentedly. To everyone else, he was a man with a plan: he came from a poor family, but he got the scholarship, did the work, even got the girl. But that goofy smile he had around her had always told a different story. Certainly, he relished being a go-getter, showing people what he could accomplish. But when he was with Rosemary, all those accomplishments just became a pedestal he stood on to reach her. And she liked that he valued her, because she valued herself (but was too nice ever to show it). To her, however successful he might become, he would always be the silly pool player who would still get red in the face talking to her.

“You look great, Rose,” he chuckled.

“Thank you, Pat,” she said softly.

Picturing my grandma in this youthful state is difficult for me. My whole life, she had been on oxygen, confined to her walker or her living room recliner because of her diabetes.

I knew her only as a woman of few words.

We’d talk to her on and on about our lives— sports, school, trips to Grant’s Farm—but she

Santa

Pen Max Marnatti

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could never respond with much more than a remnant of her sweet personality, croaking, “Good.” Instead, her joyful face said it all. Or, more precisely, it said one thing: she understood you, just like a mother. This knowledge was hidden securely in her gentle Mona Lisa smile, her subtle way of expressing her approval without a sentence escaping from her lips. But it also conveyed something more— that she knew you because she knew herself, her own lived experiences; and once, many words had come from those lips. And this present Rosemary was the sum and embodiment of those experiences.

Patrick and Rosemary chatted as his Mercedes vroomed off, soon arriving at the venue for the night. Their friends Betty and Joe met them at the door—Patrick and Rosemary had introduced the two to each other, and they were now dating as well, making the four of them a close group.

The night passed pleasantly as the couples shared rowdy and romantic dances on the floor, anything from Ike and Tina Turner’s “A Fool In Love” to Elvis’s “Are You

Lonesome Tonight.” Afterward, they went back to the house where Patrick had picked up Rosemary that afternoon. Exhausted after the dance, with a smile still plastered on her face, Rosemary stepped out of the car and took Patrick’s hand. With a mechanical hum, Joe and Betty pulled up behind them and the four entered the house together to the exuberant greetings of Rosemary’s parents. They loved Patrick—the Wall family valued the work ethic he had. And Rosemary was proud to show him off. Patrick shared a hug with each. Rosemary clung to his arm as he brought them into the kitchen, sliding two clinking glasses out of an upper cabinet.

“Manhattan?” Rosemary asked. She knew him—it was his favorite drink. Patrick just grinned as he gathered bottles of bourbon whiskey and vermouth and poured them proportionally, with a bartender’s precision, handing her an elegant wine glass.

The group sat around the house for the rest of the evening, all sharing stories and jokes. Eventually, Joe and Betty had to leave, and the four shared heartfelt goodbyes.

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With a little laugh, Rosemary observed how her boyfriend’s jester’s smile was more obnoxious than usual. Patrick had gone back for more drinks frequently, and he had become drunk.

As the night wore on, Rosemary grew concerned about Patrick’s drunkenness. He certainly didn’t seem fit to drive home. To the side, she whispered to her mom, asking if he could spend the night. Her mom nodded her approval, and Patrick slept on the family room couch.

Meanwhile, Rosemary and her mom sat around the dining room table conversing contentedly over her schooling and life.

Looking back over the night, however, Rosemary felt disappointed. It was their senior year, and after dating for two years, the time was ripe for a proposal from Patrick. Tonight would have been perfect, she lamented. Why hadn’t he? Graduation was around the corner, and she didn’t want to lose him. She took a deep breath.

“I really hoped…tonight would be the night,” she said with a saddened smile, looking down and pausing. “For a ring. A proposal.”

“Aw,” said her mom. “Don’t worry. Patrick loves you.”

A tear crept out of Rosemary’s eye. “Yes, but if not tonight, then when? I still think… maybe it was tonight. And he just couldn’t find the nerve to do it.”

“Well,” her mom observed with a small smile creeping onto her face, “you could still find out. Check his coat pockets.”

Rosemary was startled. She couldn’t believe what her mom had just suggested. But the more she thought about it… she deserved to know. Patrick would probably agree, she thought. Together, the mother and daughter decided they’d do it. They eased into the family room towards his sleeping figure on the couch. Her heart racing, Rosemary gently lifted up his left sports jacket flap, which billowed up and down with his heavy sighs, and

Waxing Crescent Digital Art Tim Browdy

tucked a soft hand into the deep pockets he had seen him nervously stuff his hands into so many times before. Next to the smoothed leather of his wallet, she felt a small, rounded object, and a nervous jolt went through her hand. Her heart skipped a beat as she lifted a gold ring with a tiny sparkling diamond to her mom’s view. The object of all Rosemary’s hopes was right before her eyes. It was surreal. Her mother gasped, and together they realized what this meant—he had meant to propose. It was coming—maybe not tonight, but soon. Beaming, they hugged each other tightly and whispered excitedly, trying not to wake Patrick.

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his is something I’d never have imagined my grandmother doing. I was captivated by this image of her, so distant from the grandmother I had known—a young, daring lover mischievously checking her boyfriend’s pockets for a ring.

Patrick left in an embarrassed hurry the next morning, the ring again resting securely in his coat pocket. After finding the ring, though, Rosemary felt a heavy weight lifted from her chest. Pat was going to propose to her! She could hardly wait. Now, when?

Her final college days rushed by—exams, parties, and eventually, graduation. To Rosemary, each day was a card in the mail, waiting for her to rip it open and say yes to that question: “Will you marry me?”

But that card never arrived.

She waited, hoping, until the last day passed, without a proposal. She hugged and kissed him one last time, and he was gone to military training.

She received a letter from Pat every week, talking about his busy training and his love for her. But she began to write back less and less. She missed the security she had always felt around him and, most of all, his boyish personality, but along with this longing came disdain. However many accom-

plishments he stacked up, she thought, he couldn’t balance it all—he was too scared to do the one thing that really mattered to her, and now he had left her dangling. The ring had been right there, in her hands. And he hadn’t offered it. Had he ever intended to?

Was he just too scared?

Finally, in July, she wrote the fateful letter. She broke up with him. Another guy she had met at Wash U had started flirting with her while Pat was away, and she started dating him. This certainly was not the debilitated Rosemary that I knew. Behind her personable gentleness, I now realize, my grandma was a decisive woman. She wouldn’t let Patrick control their relationship—it was hers as well, and she was going to do something about it.

Only a few days later, walking to her summer nursing internship, though, she saw a tall, lanky figure running towards her, wearing a formal tan soldier’s uniform. She could hardly believe her eyes: it was Patrick. She tripped over her next step as his ever-boyish but now faltering, nervous smile came into full view for the first time in months. Before she even had time to react, he was down on one knee and fumbling with a box in his coat pocket. That same gold ring she had seen months ago reappeared—but now, just as she had always dreamed of seeing it: proffered to her in Patrick’s outstretched hand.

“Rose, I’m sorry I didn’t do this…a long time ago.” He paused. “Will you marry me?”

Tears filling her eyes, she said yes.

Just like that, the two got married that summer. Rosemary Wall became Rosemary Morris, at long last.

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ack around the dining room table last Thanksgiving, my family members all clapped at the conclusion of the story. But I was perplexed—why had she turned back on her decision to break up? No one seemed to get it, or care. I came to understand,

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though, that that had really been her plan all along. She broke up with Pat to smack him in the face and make him do what he had previously been too scared to do. This same, powerful woman was in the quiet, still grandma that I’d known my whole life—just in ways that had been hard for me to see.

One time when I was eight years old, while I took a shower at my grandparents’ house after a fun day in their pool, I was alerted by heavy pounding on the bathroom door. My grandma screamed, “Open up!”

Confused, I opened the door. When I did, she lectured me: “Don’t lock these doors.

What if you fell and hurt yourself and we needed to come help you?”

I now see how that day, as she had struggled through the hallway to do something she thought essential for my safety, she was the same woman who wrote that assertive breakup letter to my grandpa over sixty years ago. She always had a fire within—she was fierce in her conviction but always did it for the good of her family. Just as she was a great mother to her kids, she was also a mother to those around her—protecting them and calling them to be better versions of themselves.

Including me. And even including Patrick.

Picasso Moth Collagraph Brian Harrigan

Methought Andrew Moffett I harbored thoughts or grudges, Ships that ran aground in reality.

A cotton-clothed sail billowed With the flying hubris of a Milanese Duke.

I left behind two cells today: Sycorax’s Isle and Prospero’s power.

Liberation constricted me.

Power quenched my spirit.

I am damp with pride.

I labored over that which was not mine.

Power promised prosperity, But that is not my name anymore.

My books were only books.

Yellowed pages for the perusal Of the interior life.

They were the children of a tree That a man planted, that time grew, That God began.

I was tempted in the Garden But I have digested The fruit that blinded Eve. I am a vapor above the universe’s churning, Resting between dust and Energy.

I am a man.

—Prospero, from Shakespeare’s The Tempest

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Lumination Paul Thibodeau

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Look for me under frozen lake water, in creviced mountain passes, between your layers of perfume.

Peel back your wallpaper, unearth your time capsule, refasten your dreamcatcher —this is where I’ve been residing.

Ever since the moon began to wane and the blackened night obscured my pond-water reflection, I have been looking for new ways to hide.

Did you catch me slinking underneath the waves?

Could you make out my voice in the wind?

Tonight, the darkness veils the star-studded sky.

Tomorrow, when the sun rises and its light breaks over the canyons, the moon waiting to show off its new ribbons of light, I will rise, phoenix-feathered, my eyes taking on that old sort of new brilliance they used to have.

Quick!

Catch me before I change shape again.

Wrap me in your arms and sneak me through the basement door.

Take me to that place where peaks form into plains and all I can fathom is the perpetual light of the sun.

Follow my beating heart.

It often gives away my hiding spots.

Open your lantern, peer beneath your floorboards, listen to that ringing in your ears.

You’ll find me again.

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Self Portrait

Print August Russell

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Painting Gavyn McClure

Redirection Nuri Guneyli

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y mom broke things off with her first husband in Chicago after he started acting like he was single. She moved to St. Louis and worked various advertising jobs until she could return to school at UMSL. After getting a master’s degree, she taught full-time at SIUE and part-time at St. Charles Community College. Heather, Mom’s best friend from college, told my mom about a job opening where she lived: Mexico City. My mom called her crazy. The following week, she was packing her bags.

Heather was very persuasive.

After packing everything, including her two cats, Oscar and Sultan, into her Ford Focus, she went to see her parents in Arkansas—it was on the way—before making the very long drive south. She made it to the border of Mexico with minimal problems besides exhaustion. She drove around the border city of Nuevo Laredo. As she approached the international line, a border patrol officer tapped on her window. After looking at her car, he said, “Any guns or animals in there?”

My mom pointed to her cats curled up in the backseat. The man nodded, gave her the papers she needed to fill out, and remarked in broken English: “Maybe you should have a weapon. It’s not very safe around here.” With a laugh, he stepped back from the car. My mom nervously drove on. After the checkpoint, the path narrowed and became rougher and less visible. Then, a fork. She began to panic and desperately fumbled with her map.

A car honked and she quickly turned left.

She drove on as cars sped past her at fifty miles per hour on the slim dirt road.

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hen I think of my mom, I think of her sitting in the crowd, watching me in a play of The Gingerbread Man, which she had forced me to do in second grade. I felt misplaced and lonely on the stage. But when I looked nervously into the crowd, I saw Mom’s familiar face and was proud of her—to me, the most beautiful person ever.

My mom always dressed smartly, no matter what. She put on makeup to pick up Chinese food, to run to the grocery store, or simply because she wanted to. I felt comforted by her all-white outfits. She wore huge sunglasses on her very businesslike resting face. She looked important. When I saw her and smiled, she smiled back. We have the same smile—our cheeks move way up like they want to touch our eyes. Her teeth were perfectly white, as always. She was wearing a stylish white hat atop her blonde hair.

Her entire look was like a still photo of an avalanche, and I loved it. After my awful performance as the gingerbread man, I ran and hugged her. At this point, she was still plenty taller than me. She kissed my forehead, and it left behind a faint imprint from the red lipstick. I held her hand while we walked back to the car, noticing that her wrists were thin and bony, just like mine. My mother was an unwavering example of confidence. When I felt unsure of myself or what I was doing, I thought about how she would work through problems with certainty, as if she knew what to do as soon as it happened.

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ut as my mom drove on the thinning road, she began to sweat and swear. She

tried to pull over, but there was no longer enough room for her car beside the road.

She struggled with the map, hopelessly lost.

Steep, rocky ledges by the road appeared, and before she knew it, she was driving along a mountain road, though it was more of a dirt path. Cars still zoomed by the small road. People honked and yelled until she made way, horrified. They passed her without slowing down, annoyed by her inconvenience. The mountains sprawled endlessly; she had no clue where she was. The Ford was fighting a losing battle against the increasingly blistering heat, and the sun blinded her. She could barely see the road twenty feet ahead through the haze. A dark shape on the ground started getting closer. She gasped. It was a dead donkey. Its body covered the entirety of the road. She pulled to a stop. The people behind her got out to inspect the donkey while she remained in the car shaking. She listened to their rapid-fire Spanish and discerned that they were talk-

ing about moving the donkey. She watched as they shook their heads and walked back to their cars. One man flicked her window and pushed his hands in a forward gesture.

Her eyes jumped in surprise as she realized what he meant.

To imagine my mom's grief at what she was called upon to do here, you should know that she was named after her grandmother, Virginia Margaret Bunn, the first professional woman horse trainer in America. To my mom, Mimi was a role model who loved animals as much as she loved herself. My mom is this person to me, but at this moment, she had to hit the gas...

My mom hit the gas, closing her eyes as she heard a thud. She felt a horrible twist in her stomach and gripped the wheel tightly.

She was beginning to lose hope. Miraculously, a few minutes later, the road widened.

A small hut appeared with what seemed to be officers inside. My mom asked them for directions using the slang her friend named

Cowboy Driving the Herd

Photograph, Grand Staircase-Escalante Patrick Zarrick

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Arturo had taught her. The officers, called Federales, looked horrified by what my mom said. One in particular looked especially disturbed. He had started clutching his cross.

She looked at him, confused.

He spoke in Spanish, “Why are you so vulgar, ma’am? Have we offended you?” After seeing her still confused, he said, “Your words are very offensive.”

My mom suddenly realized Arturo had played a sick prank. The “slang” said very mean things about the Federales’ mothers.

She explained the situation to the offended Federale with the cross, and he roared with relieved laughter. They talked for a long time. He explained that she had turned onto a road used by the locals only. He showed her the best way to get to Mexico City from where they were. As they talked, the sun fell beyond the mountains, and each breath they took crystallized in the cold. They finished their conversation, and my mom started walking to her car. “Wait!” The Federale yelled, “Where will you go?!”

“Well, I was thinking about sleeping in the car.”

“What!? No. My sister has an inn, and you will stay there.” He ran to the back of the shack. A small, barely functioning Ford pickup truck came shuddering out. She followed him into town.

They arrived at the inn. The town was the size of a small suburban neighborhood, with weathered wooden houses. The inn was a small two-story apartment with swinging doors, as in Westerns. The Federale spoke to his sister by her desk while Mom stood awkwardly by the door. His sister walked up to my mom, smiling. She motioned for Mom to follow and took my mom to her room. The room was more like a closet. It had a small bed in the corner, a tiny closet with a few hangers, and a sink and toilet in a small gap in the wall. She got ready for bed and eventually fell asleep on the lumpy mattress. Not even fifteen minutes later, she was jarred awake by gunshots, yelling, and crashing. The fighting, she would learn the next morning, was a result of the upcoming

Photograph Jack Auer

election of the mayor. The young men of the town had taken their guns and shot them in the air in protest, trying to intimidate each other.

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hile I often take my family for granted, the only thing my mom thought of in that old, dilapidated room was her Arkansas family and how much she wanted to see them again. That day, my mom learned what was important to her: family. Nobody can do everything alone. People mess up, and you need a clean-up crew that supports you. Though I have always viewed her as someone who knew what to do, she wasn’t. She just learned from her experiences: every missed turn, every donkey in the road, and every sleepless night.

It all made her who she is. She’s confident and quick-witted, but that took time. Our sense of self and personality is not something that comes pre-packaged like a Happy Meal or an action figure. The more we see, do, and feel,

the more we learn. Once she realized what she loved, she made her life her own.

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he woke the next day and brought her things downstairs. She was surprised to see the Federales from the day before waiting for her. They explained exactly where she needed to go. She was two hours away from Mexico City; she would arrive before lunchtime if she left quickly. She felt indebted to the Federales.

Suddenly, she had an idea. Her grandmother had given her a visor clip before she left for college. It had a picture of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. She took it out of her car and handed it to the helpful Federale.

He was surprised. The same woman who had called him strange obscenities had now given him a meaningful token of her gratitude. She left the small town that had harbored her along the road and drove in a new direction­—the right one this time—to Mexico City.

Sunstar

Photograph Bryce Canyon Patrick Zarrick

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Red Race Car Andrea Scarpino

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My brother was 3 or 4 and wanted a red race car from the gumball machine that spit out toys in plastic eggs and I told him we don’t get to choose our toy, he may not get the car, and he nodded like he understood but I knew he didn’t, and I was so scared of disappointing him, I started planning how I’d beg another quarter from our mother who didn’t believe in wasting money on toys in the grocery store and he spun the dial with his one wish and reached his little boy hand into the chute and opened the plastic egg and there it was, the red race car, and we screamed and hugged and ran to show our parents and his smile took up his whole face and in that moment I think I promised him he’d never be disappointed and that was a lie but oh what glorious magic.

Print Juno Janson

The Drum Jake Fitzpatrick Lost in the constant beat of Beep Beep

Beep Comparison and Expectations He feels, growing

Louder Louder LOUDER

Everything is okay

They say, but the never-ending Pound Pound Pound

Of his demand for perfection Always remains.

He describes himself But cannot define himself He is lost

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Winter Weather Andrew Moffett

38 Rainwater pooled by the plank Opportune drops of southerly fronts Massaging those cedar fibers Into the form of my back deck.

Dampened noise and blurry deck stains Lie dormant beneath a melting mirror Of flowing memories.

Neither wood nor water But a lacquered mystery of both.

Soles of mine are sunk in sobering puddles While currents course across my cold shoulders.

I observe tip-toe dripping and dropping, Dim recognition of the rhythm.

I am wet with time and Perspiration mingles with the rain and maybe I am a product of both.

Rain through the years Has always helped me feel alive.

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Raffish House

Pen Jesse Heater

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Print Jack Hoehn

Canto X Tom Finan Tom Finan’s Canto X is part of a reimagining of Dante’s “Heaven of the Sun,” in which the Church’s greatest thinkers find rest. In place of the theological juggernauts of history, however, Finan places some of the world’s most influential scientific innovators. Led by the famous Serbian inventor Nikola Tesla (who himself inhabits this sphere), Finan, already a scienceoriented child at the age of thirteen, begins by entering a black hole to reach this next heaven.

When Tesla and Finan exit, the space itself is left largely undescribed because of the enormous brain in front of them; the brain resembles Dante’s eagle in the Heaven of Jupiter in that it is made of multitudes of bright shades, each shade an inventor admired by Finan. Isaac Newton, one of the foremost figures in physics innovation, speaks to Finan on behalf of the souls through the brainstem about the present state of the sphere he now dwells in while also admonishing Finan about growing scientific misinformation in the modern world. Following Newton’s speech, Finan and Tesla next encounter Michael Faraday, a monumentally important figure in our modern understanding of electromagnetism and engines, who praises Finan for his curiosity but warns him about future laziness. The souls end by exclaiming “Domine, permitte eos videre!” an alteration of the blind man’s plea to Jesus in the Gospel of Luke (18:41: “Lord, please let me see”), asking God to grant continued innovative vision to the great minds still on Earth.

So Tesla spoke, and just as a water-filled jar With a newly-formed leak empties its contents So quickly, doubt fully drained now from my heart.

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That holy oblivion, with force immense Feared in our cosmos but revered up above, Pulled me into darkness, my blindness intense,

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And as a master chef feeds fresh pasta of No form yet into the shaper’s metal jaws, Contorting it ’til the chef ’s labor of love

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Concludes, I felt my soul bend ’til a great pause— even lacking pain it relieved me greatly— And my guide smiled at me; all this I saw.

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What I describe next I cannot, innately, Give full justice to, but its beauty compels Me to describe it, all for God, who sates me.

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Now exiting Heaven’s great gravity well, I beheld an impossible sight: a brain Enormous, upright, comprised of many cells

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All of which lit up as soon as I strained my Neck to look at them, seeming to be in deep Thought, as Aquinas was while pondering God.

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To which shades dwell in this sphere, my mind was ’sleep, But Tesla, who read my thoughts, cleared the haze from My mind, as a shepherd shears wool from his sheep.

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“I know your inquiry, O you confused one: The muscle of thought before you is made up Of all those great thinkers who, when seeing some

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Problem scientific in nature, came up With working, sometimes elegant, solutions So that future thinkers could easily sup

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On those answers and end the world’s confusion.

Before I was sent down to spur your journey, Here did I experience God’s effusion,

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Rewarded for that thinking which stirred me.”

So he spoke, and my soul filled with elation.

I understood now where I wanted to be.

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Just as an earthly magenta carnation Begins to bloom but does not yet realize Its potential in beauty, its oblation

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Coming with time, so too could my talent rise.

Rome could not be built in a day, nor a year, But my Rome must come before I reach God’s skies.

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My mentor gestured to the mind, which appeared Far-off to my mortal eyes, and we began To glide like angels, and it grew ever near.

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I will describe now only the souls I can: Faraday, the engine’s great developer, Jobs, whose Apple’s still feasted on by man,

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The world’s best purifier of steel, Bessemer, And he whose telephone even permitted Speaking halfway across Earth through the aether.

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Print Harry Holmes

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Scrooge

Digital Art Leo Hahn

The world’s best purifier of steel, Bessemer, And he whose telephone even permitted Speaking halfway across Earth through the aether.

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When all those famous thinkers so sharp-witted Caught sight of us, they glowed even brighter and The brain’s neurons more swiftly were transmitted.

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One shade, by accent clearly an Englishman, Spoke from the stem of the cerebrum, so wise I cannot well describe it by my own hand.

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I perceived him, but with my weak mortal eyes, He was little more than a being of light, Yet my hearing punctured his luminous guise.

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Said he, “Son, your humble guide Tesla might Already have explained this sphere’s being To you, but this great mind has been in my sight

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For centuries longer. God has been seeing Each instance of genius, from the caveman’s first Blaze to the spaceships flying past Saturn’s rings,

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As equals, since inventors commonly thirst For improvement. Thus, we all form the same brain, Pondering heaven’s knowledge, with which we burst.

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Our joy is constant, yet it’s never the same, For beyond all limits God lets our mind go, But what I say next brings many of us pain.”

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The souls, all at once, because each of them knew Which modern grief their stem would then lament next, Cried out with divine power, and their moans grew.

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The one whose laws of motion govern objects Began again, this time with a sadder tone: “An age of fraud, son, modernity begets,

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And truth, like chaff when some angry wind is blown, Is driven away now in favor of mere Profit, or power, or false smarts to be shown.

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A great plague, huge compared to the one I feared, Shall bring pain to your time soon: a Hellish crown Will sow falsehoods, and death, and all will shed tears.

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But science brings hope even to those who drown.

Learn all you can, and nature’s beauty will shine Upon you, son, and God’s light will be sent down.”

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So he spoke, and suddenly I was inclined To move to be among, not in front of, those Wondrous souls, to become part of the great mind.

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Sensing my want, my guide suddenly rose And together we floated upward, forward, Until by the mind’s neurons we were enclosed.

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As a farmer strolls inside his fruit orchard, Able to pick out any fruit, equal in Flavor, so too did I walk between the souls.

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I then ran into another Englishman, Whom I recognized from my ascent before, The magnet’s master, the man of the engine.

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I knew him immediately and rushed toward Him to hear how his great wisdom might help me.

Before I spoke he knew my query; I soared

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With joy. The soul began, “O, do I truly, Before me, behold such a curious mind?

What grace must God have shown me!” But hard to see

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Was to whom, Tesla or me, he spoke. I pined For this knowledge, but he continued further, “You, O radiant one, your future, to my mind,

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Is now brighter than your curious fervor, And even your present is shaped by your love For learning, which will take you so much further

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Than you know. But, as with any gift, be of Extra caution, so as not to misuse it.

For laziness no man is always above.

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Santa in the Summer Digital Art Madhavan Anbukumar

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You, even with effort, can fall victim if Your drive does run low, and oft will be your brain: Caught up at the edge of the modern world’s cliff,

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Wasting away in the cyber-world contained In the tablet you go to sleep with each night, Like a wine whose stupor perpetually stains

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The function of its drinker’s thinking and sight.

Be wary of such ‘pleasures’ when they appear, For their overuse will surely curse your plight.

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I warn you, but from my message you must hear Of your command of the human world’s knowledge That shall advance if you try, year after year.”

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After he concluded, I must acknowledge, All doubt fled me, now replaced by certainty, From the shade whose engine first produced wattage.

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Suddenly, the whole brain, with great urgency, Began to glow brighter than I could perceive, And they heightened their joyful eternity;

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The perfection I saw, I could not believe.

But after the words of kind Faraday, The shades’ singing signaled it was time to leave,

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“Domine, permitte eos videre!”

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Notes Lines 4-6: “That holy oblivion, with force immense / Feared in our cosmos but revered up above / Pulled me into darkness…” Finan uses a black hole, an important and somewhat mysterious entity of modern astrophysics unknown to Dante, as the gateway to enter this new sphere.

Finan’s being sucked into the black hole via its insurmountable gravitational force mimics man’s natural attraction to God. Lines 7-12: “...as a master chef feeds fresh pasta… / into the shaper’s metal jaws… contorting it… / I felt my soul bend…” When he enters the black hole he feels himself being spiritually stretched—accurately to what one would physically experience while sucked into a black hole.

The scientific term for said stretching is “spaghettification,” so Finan uses a pasta-related metaphor to describe it.

Lines 16-34: “...a brain / Enormous, upright, comprised of many cells…”

In Finan’s Paradise of innovation, there is a brain made up of all history’s best thinkers, perhaps to emphasize that combining humanity’s knowledge and collaboration leads to the most progress. The ultimate way of “rewarding” these people is allowing them to ponder everything, forever, together.

Lines 37-42: “...Rome could not be built in a day, nor a year, / But my Rome must come before I reach God’s skies.” Finan wants to develop his talent in scientific inquiry. He seems to understand that it is a process, but nonetheless one that must happen. As a young child he was scientifically minded and so felt it was his destiny to pursue such a path.

Lines 47-51: “I will describe now only the souls I can… Faraday… Jobs…

Bessemer… he whose telephone even permitted / Speaking halfway across Earth…” The souls named are Michael Faraday, an enormously important inventor and pioneer in electromagnetism (also, notably, a devout Christian); Steve Jobs, the father of iPhones and much digital technology; Samuel Bessemer, who invented the Bessemer process for purifying steel; and Alexander Graham Bell (not named) who first invented the telephone.

Line 76: “The one whose laws of motion govern objects…” Reference to Newton’s laws of motion.

Lines 78-87: “An age of fraud, son, modernity begets…” Newton describes a period coming to Finan’s time soon—which has really already started—of misinformation, which will prove to be harmful during the COVID-19 pandemic. Since this Paradiso is set in 2019 there is still roughly a year until the pandemic begins. However, there is hope: Newton suggests that education leads to beauty and good.

Line 99: “The magnet’s master, the man of the engine.” Finan begins to speak to Faraday.

Lines 115-123: “Wasting away in the cyber-world contained…” Faraday, after praising Finan for his talent and curiosity, warns Finan against becoming lazy as time goes on. The story takes place mere months before he got his first phone, which was the main tempter for the vice Faraday warned against.

Lines 130-132: “Suddenly, the whole brain, with great urgency / Began to glow brighter than I could perceive…” The brain may start glowing more because it is excited to receive another member into its ranks.

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Line 136: “Domine, permitte eos videre!” The souls all exclaim “Lord, allow them to see!” as Dante prepares to exit this heaven. That phrase is a very slight change to the plea of the blind man in Luke 18 (“Lord, let me see”). By “see” they perhaps mean “understand,” and they are essentially hoping that God will allow the souls still on Earth to see the world’s problems—and their solutions—by the guiding light of innovation.

Portrait II Linocut Print Leo Hahn

The Little Company That Could Madhavan Anbukumar

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ntroduction to The Nose-Picking Company The Nose-Picking Company is a small company that has been making waves in the booger industry. Founded by a group of entrepreneurs who saw a need for a better way to remove boogers, The Nose-Picking Company has quickly become a household name.

At The Nose-Picking Company, we believe that nose-picking is an important part of personal hygiene. Not only does it help to remove crusty mucus and prevent infections, but it also provides satisfaction and relief.

How The Nose-Picking Company came to be The founders of The Nose-Picking Company were all avid nose-pickers themselves. However, they found that traditional nose-picking methods were often ineffective and even harmful to the delicate tissues inside the nose.

Determined to find a better way, they began experimenting with different techniques and technologies. After years of research and development, they finally came up with a revolutionary new approach to nose-picking.

The benefits of nose-picking Nose-picking has been stigmatized as a taboo and unhygienic practice. However, there are several benefits to nose-picking that are often overlooked.

For one, nose-picking helps to remove crusty mucus from the nose, which can help improve breathing and prevent infections. It can also provide relief and satisfaction, reducing stress and anxiety.

In addition, nose-picking can improve overall hygiene by removing dirt and other pollutants from the nose.

The problems with traditional nose-picking methods Traditional nose-picking methods, such as using fingers, tissues, or cotton swabs, are ineffective and even harmful to the delicate tissues inside the nose.

Fingers are often too large and clumsy to effectively remove boogers, while tissues and cotton swabs can leave behind fibers that can irritate the nose and cause further problems.

The innovative approach of The Nose-Picking Company At The Nose-Picking Company, we take a different approach to nose-picking. Our patented technology enables us to shrink ourselves down to microscopic size, allowing us to enter the nose and remove boogers directly at the source.

Our team of trained professionals uses specialized tools and techniques to safely and effectively remove boogers without damaging the delicate tissues inside the nose.

The technology behind The Nose-Picking Company The technology behind The Nose-Picking Company is truly revolutionary. Using advanced nanotechnology, we are able to shrink ourselves down to a size small enough to enter the nose and harmlessly remove boogers.

Our specialized tools and techniques allow us to remove even the most stubborn and hard-to-reach boogers, ensuring that our customers always feel clean and comfortable.

Customer testimonials But don’t just take our word for it. Here are a few testimonials from some of our satisfied customers:

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“I used to dread nose-picking, but thanks to The Nose-Picking Company, it’s now a breeze! Their advanced technology and techniques make it quick and painless, and I always feel clean and refreshed afterwards.” —Nez, 32 “I never realized how much of a difference professional nose-picking could make until I used The Nose-Picking Company.

Their services are truly revolutionary, and I would recommend them to anyone looking for a better way to extract boogers.” —Popel, 27 The future of The Nose-Picking Company The Nose-Picking Company is constantly evolving and improving our services. We are always spelunking for new technologies and techniques that can help us better serve our customers and revolutionize the booger industry.

In the coming years, we hope to expand our services to reach even more customers and help them experience the benefits of safe and effective nose-picking.

Conclusion: The Nose-Picking Company’s impact on the booger industry The Nose-Picking Company may be a small company, but we are making a big impact on the booger industry. Our innovative approach to nose-picking is changing the way people think about this important aspect of personal hygiene, and our advanced technology and techniques provide a safer and more streamlined way to remove boogers.

So if you’re tired of traditional nosepicking methods that just don’t work, give The Nose-Picking Company a try. You won’t be disappointed!

Mouth Harp

Digital Art Leo Hahn

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Green Leaf

colored Pencil Max Marnatti

We Flit We Float We Fly Andrew Moffett So flies the leaf, a color of the wind.

The green of youth hath died with summer’s fall, The hair of arboretum’s head has thinned, The cup of age, a sprig of wine and gall.

Abyss of night consumes the fading day, The shivering of time, the season’s mark.

Settling down to slumber through decay, Reality itself prepares for dark.

But on the buoyant breeze, the leaf floats by, With merriment upon the rustic air.

A jig, a happy dance upon the sky, What once was dead is resurrected fair.

A wick alight defeats the collied space, So autumn’s leaf evangelizes grace.

Fists Hit Hard...Knives Cut Deeper Madhavan Anbukumar “

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hy in the world did this have to happen to me?” Tuni thought, rearranging the bandage on his head. Lying down on woven wood, hands resting gently on his abdomen, Tuni looked around the room. A big knife, an aruval, rested in the left corner against a teak chair made for his appa by the village carpenters. In the other corner, sacks of rice seeds lay dormant from the last harvest, waiting to be awoken by rain.

The wooden walls seemed to glisten in the light of the newly installed tube light. Gusts of wind from the lake near his house blew open the engraved cedar wood door. He could hear his siblings in the wind, playing kitte-pulle or kabaddi in an empty field.

Tuni was the second-youngest of five children —a little kid, taller than most, but still under five-two. His mother doted on him, making him rather chubby. The village kids of Kirathur called him “Pallam,” or watermelon, for his unusual size. He was quick to anger, but he remained loyal to his siblings.

None of his older sisters had gone to school past the tenth grade. His parents finally had enough money to send one of their children through schooling because of a bountiful harvest. Tuni was the first son of his parents, and first sons were a big deal in India. He alone had to be educated, had to study hard and bring his parents pride.

Tuni felt terrible. His head hurt, and sweat ran down his neck, soaking his crisp white bunyon. Tears welled up in his eyes. He had been at home inside the shed, alone, for most of his holidays instead of outside in the sun with his siblings.

Why was he even in the shed in the first place! Nobody believed his story; they all thought he had fibbed. Amma and Appa

had practically sentenced him to a holiday in the shed. He had ruined not only his education but also his family’s reputation. When he told his parents what had happened, they had looked at him like he was crazy and dismissed him without a thought. They had not listened to the atrocities that he had faced.

Tuni turned his side away from the cedar door. Tears finally spilled from his eyes. He had to leave school, a school that his parents had paid good money for. Tuni’s heart was aching, and his eyes were still wet. He turned towards the door and began to think about what had happened.

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uni and his rag doll of a brother, Vicuva, had been staying with their vathiyar, their teacher, for over two months. Vicuva was a skinny little boy, around seven, while Tuni was around eleven. Vicuva was known on the streets as “Diamond,” which, when repeated quickly, sounded like “Munde,” the Tamil word for the big head. He hated that name, but Tuni tormented him with it relentlessly, but in a brotherly fashion. Vicuva was a boy of much loyalty because his brother always protected him. This meant he listened to anything his brother said, even when the order did not end well for him. When he was around four, Tuni asked him to pet one of their family’s cart oxen.

As one might imagine, it had not ended well for him.

They both stayed under the thatched roof of the metal shed next to their teacher’s house. The teacher lived in a town called Tanjore, twenty-two kilometers away from Kirathur, where Tuni and Vicuva’s school was. He lived in a small compound surrounded by green walls, with barbed wire on top

on top to keep intruders out, and in a threeroom house with a metal shed in the back surrounded by shrubbery. Both boys referred to their teacher, Pambunathan Cattham as “Sir.” Sir was an unusual man. Most Indian men during the 1980s were quite paunchy, but Sir was quite the opposite. While most men were short, he reached a towering height of over six feet, and his back curled down from having to speak to everyone shorter than him. His lats were quite large, giving his upper body the appearance of a well-baked tortilla chip, a rich dark brown with a triangular shape. His eyes were a beady black with red veins coming from them, and his nose was hooked. He would sniff the air now and then as if to detect things that did not belong, and when they didn’t, he would get mad. His skin was rough and scaly from eczema, and on his back, he had another pair of eyes, Shivan’s eyes, tattooed. When he would tutor Tuni and Vicuva in his specialty, mathematics, he would sit sumanam, legs crossed, shirt off, only a white “veshti” wrapped around his waist, on top of a large rock used for washing clothes. He would lean forward, the shadow of his large back looming over them. His lisp made him draw out any esses into a long hiss.

Sir, if made angry, would make like a bull elephant—which is to say, he would go into a mad frenzy and destroy anything in sight. In his case, he would take whatever was in his hands or vicinity and use it to beat up the perpetrator.

On a Wednesday, in the middle of July, when the air smelled of the frying of pakoras from the kitchen, Vicuva and Tuni had been in the shed with a kid named Chinnipambu.

The brothers did not want to be with Chinnapambu, but Chinnapambu was Sir’s son, and even at fourteen years old, he resembled his father. Chinnapambu inherited his father’s looks as well as his father’s great rage.

He and Tuni would get into fights all the time, and because Chinnapumbu’s father was

in charge, Tuni would always get the switch treatment.

One time, when Tuni and Chinnapambu got into a fight, Sir came out and punched Tuni in the face, bruising his jaw and giving him a black eye. In India at the time, corporal punishment by teachers was customary, but seldom to the extent that Sir punished Tuni.

“Ey, Thambi!” Tuni had cried to his younger brother, “Let’s go outside and play.”

And so the troop went out to play.

Tuni, wearing nothing but a baggy brown t-shirt, hanging down to his legs, grabbed a cricket bat fashioned from a palm branch.

Vicuva stood in the outfield, and Chinnapambu bowled. Chinnapambu hurled the ball, and Tuni hit it towards the shed, winning himself some points. Chinnapambu threw again, but this time Tuni hit the ball toward Vicuva.

Vicuva jumped up into the air, like a fish springing out of the water.

He missed the catch.

“VICUVA!” Chinnapambu yelled in anger, “why did you not catch the ball?!?”

“I don’t know, Anna,” he whimpered back.

“I ASKED—” Chinnapumbu yelled, then with less rigor continued, “—why did you not catch the ball?” but then rapidly screamed, “IDIDN’TASKIFYOUKNEW!” He approached Vicuva with a sneer on his face. He stuck his chest into Vicuva’s big head, whispering into his ear, loud enough for Tuni to hear, “Is that really how it is, Diamond? You know that I’m going to beat your kalutai when your brother leaves for secondary school and you’re left all alone. Don’t you?”

Tuni, face flush red with anger, yelled out at Chinnapambu, “Get away from my little brother.” Tuni started pummeling Chinnapambu with his fists. He landed blow after blow, his hands striking Chinnapambu’s back until Chinnapambu lay on the ground underneath the still-flushed Tuni’s feet.

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Why would Tuni dare touch Chinnapambu? Not only did he have his schooling at stake, but he also held his family’s entire reputation in his hands. What would the village and people of Kirathur think of what he had done? Surely this couldn’t be the child of the humble farmers! Surely this couldn’t be the brilliant child from the wooden house down the street—the one who was going to go to college, the one who was going to get a degree!

Surely not.

Breathing heavily, Tuni turned around at the sound of footsteps. Sir, brandishing a metal aruval, a machete in one hand, and a green coconut in the other, walked out of the house. His back was turned towards the three boys, so he did not notice the predicament his son was in. The eyes on his back stared right at Tuni. Both Vicuva and Tuni looked at each other. Sir stripped the coco-

nut of its green husk with three swipes of the metal aruval, leaving only the wooden coconut, hard on the outside and soft on the inside, in his hand. He sniffed the air, like a snake seeking food, and turned around towards Tuni.

Tuni’s eyes widened in terror, his heart beginning to beat faster. He locked eyes with Sir, this time the ones on the front. While Tuni’s eyes had widened, Sir’s began to get smaller, until they became so squinted that you couldn’t tell his eyes from his scaly skin.

Tuni started scampering backward from Chinnapambu, towards the green compound wall. Sir walked up to him, aruval raised, ready to attack. Tuni cowered in fear at the sight of him. The sun shone upon Sir’s back, leaving Tuni in a triangular patch of shade.

And then…

It all went black.

Lavender’s Flight Print August Russell

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Wasp

Collagraph Print Leo Hahn

Known Unknowns Frank Kovarik

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I’ve been living in this house for years.

Most of my life has happened here.

All the good, the bad, more or less, has occurred at this address.

I know all the scratches in the hardwood floors.

I know why that armoire’s standing by the door.

I remember how the first-floor toilet leaked without my knowing.

I remember why the weeds in the backyard started growing.

I’ve been living in this body all my life, And though I haven’t always been this weight and height, The fact remains when people look at me This bag of skin and bones is what they see.

I look in the mirror as much as I can bear to.

I know all the things that I can make my hair do, And I know the thousand natural shocks my sullied flesh is heir to More intimately than I really care to.

I know the back of my hand like the back of my hand, And I vacuum and clean just as much as I can, And I exercise and I try to eat right, And I can find my way in the dark of the night, And I gotta admit that I’m not that handy, And my teeth are bad, but I still eat candy.

Maybe my body’s just a house that holds my soul.

Maybe we’ll sell this place and move when we get old.

I’ve been loving you for thirty years and more.

It’s hard to recall what it was like before We met, we fell in love, and then we wed, And every night you lie beside me in this bed.

And I know the things that make you lose your mind.

I remember that I’ve sometimes been unkind, But even after all this time and history There’s parts of you that still remain a mystery.

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You say and do things that can still surprise me.

Even after all these years you tantalize me.

Maybe there’s things about you that I’ll never know, And there’s parts of me that I will never show.

Kaniq

Block Print Tyler Govero

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Aching Carson Leahy Did you see her last night?

Well, I saw her She was shaking, scraping at the linoleum Thin as a famished bird She was kneading, feeding on the old tiles Her figure drenched in porcelain She saw me too, Looked up with a nod Her expression of whimsy and illusion Her eyes vacant and blue Her wide ceramic smile She chuckled Then buckled How odd