Mosaic 2020

Mosaic 2020

Mosaic 2020 Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota Literary and Arts Magazine

Printing by

Š Copyright 2020 Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota Materials appearing in Mosaic are the property of the authors and artists.

Ideas expressed in the works featured in this magazine do not reflect the thoughts or opinions of Mosaic or Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota. Mosaic provides students with an opportunity to publish their creative works and offers readers an opportunity to experience differing viewpoints through written and visual works.

Selection Committee Haley Williams–Editor Daniel Collette Ian Hebeisen Kati Keller Kaitlin Patterson Sion Williams Jo Yang-Nicks

Faculty Advisor Dr. Erin Mae Clark

Cover Art “Whimsical” by Shanice Davis

ii

A Word from the 2020 Editor I am so grateful to have had this opportunity to be the editor of Mosaic this year. Since high school, I have wanted to work in the publishing industry and either be an editor or a marketer, and Mosaic has given me the chance to work on the skills needed for both of those careers paths. One of the things I was really excited to work on this year was the digital magazine. It has been a long process coordinating with different people to figure it out, but I think it will be a great way to expand the outreach of the magazine. Although this year did not end how I wanted it to, I definitely learned a lot about how to adapt to different situations and communicate with a variety of people. I am so happy to see this year’s edition come together, but I’m sad to see this experience come to an end.

For this year’s magazine, the theme I chose is “Perspectives”. The world is viewed through so many different perspectives, and I think getting a new perspective can open your mind to things you never thought of before. Even works of fiction can have a basis in reality and teach you in ways you never thought possible.

As C.S. Lewis said, “That is one of the functions of art: to present what the narrow and desperately practical perspectives of real life exclude.”

Haley Williams iii

Table of Contents Tunnel to Nowhere — Gabriel Rysavy

1

Reclaimed — Adam Hebeisen

2 3 4 6 7 8 9 10 14 15

The Poet Who Searched For God — Ian Hebeisen –a Girl — Kati Keller r u serious — Annabeth Kerr

Tick Tick Tick — Bre Kenney Vodka — Natalya Mayotte

Magic in the City — Cassidy Meyer The Man With Monarch Wings — Ian Hebeisen Leaf Trace — Victoria Mota

Leaf No Trace — Victoria Mota

God Plays a Mean Piano — Daniel Collette

Boats at Dusk — Elliott Rysavy

Untitled — Nicole Weninger

Blank Galaxies — Maggie McGee

Post-all nighter — Sion Williams

Penguin — Gabrielle Shupe

The Conference — Emma Lay

Crab Apples and Ice — Shanice Davis iv

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

After a Few Too Many Drinks — Jack Hatton Icy End — Emma Mockler For the Boys — Jaci Poswiatowsky

Piece of Culture — Kati Keller

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Nature’s Brilliance — Gabriel Rysavy

leaves — Teresa Wroblewski

Sketchbook — Ian Hebeisen

Capital Letters — Daniel Collette

24

Manicured — Annabeth Kerr

Fairy Lights — Shanice Davis

Scantrons — Maggie McGee

Stress Ball of Universe — Kati Keller

As Summer Dies — Ian Hebeisen

Scotland’s Finest — Amanda Pohlman

37

Yum — Emily Kline

I’m totally hidden — Adam Hebeisen The Two Sides of Autumn — Sion Williams Flats Not So Flat — Annabeth Kerr

Wedding Day — Rose Kraus Morning Reflection — Gabriel Rysavy

38 39 40 v

Table of Contents Cont.

41

Ballerina — Emily Kline

Seaward Bound — Gabrielle Shupe The Chalkboard — Maggie McGee

Chalk Dust — Ian Hebeisen frog — Teresa Wroblewski

Umbrella Street — Elliott Rysavy Once Again — Sion Williams

Snaps in Hong Kong — Kati Keller Frankenstein — Peter Specht

Haze Bison — Adam Hebeisen

Epiphany — Jacob Kramer Life Wisdom — Gabrielle Shupe

& — Jacob Kramer

Fall in Winona — Maggie McGee

Sugar Loaf — Emma Mockler thoughts of her among the corn — Daniel Collette Time for my Close up — Adam Hebeisen Envy — Kendra Baca

On the Demise of Lovecraft — Destiny Walker vi

42 43 47 48 49 50 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

Tunnel to Nowhere Gabriel Rysavy

1

Reclaimed

Adam Hebeisen

2

The Poet Who Searched For God Ian Hebeisen

A halo of cigarette smoke wreathed his head.

“I’ve seen God in a falling cup of coffee, sending breakfast blend spiraling to spray a murky river across linoleum and between the mug’s shards of tarnished porcelain.

I’ve seen God in the eyes of the alley cat feasting from the palm of a malnourished man.

I’ve seen him in the condensation and oil left on the window by inquisitive kids.

I’ve seen Him in blood leaking from a loose tooth; the city’s graffitied women and children; the steam from a dishwasher, still draining; and the sunlight piercing through icicles at dawn.

I have yet to find Him among the church pews.”

3

–a Girl Kati Keller

Some truth.

Some exaggeration.

Some myth.

Some story.

I was born to be

Given up, Randomly assigned And raised by strangers Typa baby.

I passed fickle time on Budget meal plans With 2 |sticks| Among other utensils Homemade nutrition That’s s’poseta make You grow strong “Why don’t you eat more?”

Kinda Kid I dragged a lingering Palm o’er anything I passed in store aisles Making my father glare “Why d’you do that?”

Typa Girl I stood on Easily-tanned Things Often called sticks

(more properly titled appendages) With straight hair to waist 4

(please don’t stroke it) “I look how I look” (sorry you don’t like it) Kinda Teen I started my mornings With heated chocolate or tea Let the drink slip slowly To soothe my throat That became speckled with calluses From swallowing disappointments “Don’t drink so swiftly” Typa young adult I remember evenings Brimming with off-tune Singing and bouncing ‘round the house— *stop* My mind became a canvas That slipped from gradients of Neon to pastel to watery grey Cacophonous to Calypso quiet to Thanos sleep “You changed…”

Kinda Woman.

I got some higher e*d (really?)

Did some writing with OvErLoAd Яeflection (so you think) And learned to run (so you did) Type-A-Girl.

5

r u serious

Annabeth Kerr

6

Tick Tick Tick Bre Kenney

Tick tick tick The seconds click by as we wait to hear Police watch by the doors, no one goes near A bang on the wall, A tear falls, Did anything really happen at all?

Tick tick tick The seconds click by as we wait to hear I clench my fists and shake with fear The sirens wail, The system fails, Beside his gun, the boy’s blood trails Tick tick tick The seconds click by as we begin to hear The ambulance take the boy from the rear I begin to cry For I had to spy And I was almost the one to die

7

Vodka

Natalya Mayotte

To this day, it still reeks the thing you still cravemakes you smile cheek to cheek, while you make your lover weak.

All she wants is for you to listen, but you watch the blank television, nothings on and you aren’t either your bottle is your appeaser.

Just as you once cradles us, you cradle the bottlefast asleep at the top while we’re at the bottom.

Gee, what a role modelyou really are awful.

8

Magic in the City Cassidy Meyer

9

The Man With Monarch Wings Ian Hebeisen

A classroom pet retells the relationship he watches unfold between a schoolgirl and a fairy.

Celery tastes like playing cards soaked in dishwater, especially when discarded from an eighth grader’s lunch tray. Miss Davenport lifted the top of my wire cage, depositing a couple small celery stalks into my food bowl.

I shot her a disgruntled look, working to convey every feeling of disdain and hatred I felt towards her and the celery she unceremoniously plopped in my home. I shifted from my musty shredded newspaper bed and scooted my way to the upside down water bottle for a drink.

The students sauntered their way into class around 8am, shuffling across the grimy linoleum and trailing melted snow sludge and street salt behind them like bipedal snails. They begrudgingly opened their copies of To Kill a Mockingbird, straining to keep their heads from falling onto the desk. I streaked to the wire wheel on the side of my cage and started sprinting, just to prove fatigue as a matter of mind over body.

The lesson began. Miss Davenport’s lecture slogged out of her mouth and spilled onto the floor, meandering to each student’s inattentive ears. I surveyed each drowsy, acne-ridden face, my beady eyes harpooning the sides of their heads to study every pore and frown-line.

My cage rattled. Glancing up, I witnessed an azure figure the size of a pink eraser with golden monarch wings crouching atop my cage’s white wires. His untidy hair resembled lichen growing on a decaying snag. He tapped 10

his needle fingers absentmindedly as he slowly fluttered his wings.

“Hey! You’re not wanted here!” I roared. “Mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” said the fairy. He nonchalantly ran his hand through his hair.

I scoffed, nuzzling myself under last week’s funny pages.

The fairy remained stationary, fixated on something in the distance. I looked to where his marbled eyes were focused.

Sitting in the back of the classroom, a girl with the sunset trapped in her auburn locks returned the fairy’s intense stare. Her mouth stood slightly open, and her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady cadence, as if the ocean’s rolling waves possessed her lungs. She gave the fairy the smallest smirk, and the fairy reciprocated the gesture.

The fairy leapt from his perch on my cage like a dandelion tuft catching a passing breeze. Miniscule scales fell from his wings, leaving a comet trail behind him.

As the diamond scales drifted leisurely to the ground, the fairy landed acrobatically on the girl’s desk with a flourish, bowing low and brushing his feet. The redhead scanned the classroom to ensure nobody saw, relieved to find her peers placidly transfixed by their own scattered daydreams.

The girl dipped her head so her eyes interlocked with the fairy’s. They exchanged whispers and giggles throughout the entire class period. The bell pealed, shattering the tranquil fog of the classroom. Students scrambled to restore order to their backpacks. The fairy shot the redhead an indignant scowl, and the girl’s eyes moistened. I heard her heart form hairline cracks. The fairy’s shoulders shook with laughter. He whispered into the redhead’s ear. Her lips stopped trembling, morphing 11

into a smile. The fairy kissed the redhead’s cheek, then streaked off in a blaze of glitter.

Their courtship continued for days on end. Each morning, I watched as they flirted back and forth. The fairy started bringing the girl small gifts: intricately carved seeds, ornately decorated pebbles, saccharine berries the likes of which I’d never seen before. The redhead’s dimples grew ingrained into her face whenever the fairy crooned to her, shielded from view by Romeo & Juliet. Her eyes glazed over, a curtain of infatuation obstructing the corporeal world of the classroom around her.

One night, long after the school day ended and the janitors retreated home, I heard the classroom door creak. Prying my eyelids open, I drowsily inspected the dark classroom. The digital clock blazed against the inky shadows, casting an infernal red haze over the vacant desks.

Slinking past the door, the redhead cautiously tiptoed across the room. She wrung her hands as her eyes darted around like minnows circling a swimmer’s foot.

“Are you here?” she asked. “Of course,” said a voice.

The fairy floated out from a corner of the room. As he came into view, he gradually grew, becoming the size of an infant, then a toddler, until he finally stood before the girl as a young man. The dim light sculpted his muscles as if he were a marble statue. Charisma flowed from the fairy, engulfing all that witnessed him like an ethereal waterfall.

The redhead threw herself into the arms of the fairy, burying her head in his chest. The fairy firmly wrapped his arms around her and enveloped the redhead with blanketed, labyrinthian wings of silk.

“I didn’t think you’d wait for me,” the girl said. The fairy 12

placed a wiry finger underneath the girl’s chin, tilting her gaze upwards to meet the galaxies encapsulated behind his eyes.

“I’d be a fool not to. I cannot live without you,” he whispered. He pulled her into a kiss. The redhead’s muscles tightened. A scream tried to escape her throat, but her esophagus collapsed around it. I watched as the girl began to crumble. Ash fell from her cheeks, diffusing into a cloud of smoke. As she dissolved, the fairy closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, drawing the smog into his mouth and filling his lungs. Soon, the girl vanished completely, and the fairy stood alone in the classroom. He flapped his wings and diamonds shimmered blood red in the air. Then he took off into the obsidian night sky, a satisfied smile swelling across his face.

The next morning, I stared at the redhead’s empty seat, the students gawking blankly at Miss Davenport, unphased and unaware of the fairy flirting with the blonde boy in the back row.

13

Leaf Trace

Victoria Mota

14

Leaf No Trace

Victoria Mota

15

God Plays a Mean Piano Daniel Collette

God plays a mean piano, Gliding softly ‘cross the keys; Casting notes like seeds you sow To grow yourself some peas.

He throws them willy-nilly And looks not where they land; If you saw him, you’d think him silly — Seeds as plentiful as sand.

God doesn’t stop to watch’em grow, He only keeps on playing.

You thought the bible told you so, But he don’t hear you praying.

He’s just listening to his song, And you could listen too, Just try your best to play along With your own special tune.

God never stopped creating As the whole world kept on aging.

So why can’t you Join the few Who’ve started up their playing.

16

Boats at Dusk Elliott Rysavy

17

Untitled

Acrylic paint on wood panel Nicole Weninger

18

Blank Galaxies Maggie McGee

If I add milk to the ebony universe between my palms It will seep and crawl into a nebula, Until I lift my spoon to play God And spread the galaxies evenly Through the small expanses of my night.

If I leave my cosmos undisturbed It will impose and gain its finite infinity Until I raise it to my lips And spill the Black Hole slowly Down to fuel the next act of my creation.

19

Post-all nighter Sion Williams

Restless, restless, restless.

“Just a quick nap” I say 4 hours later The lights are still on, My books are unpacked, My shoes are still on And my hair isn’t wrapped.

Good Morning, Good Morning, Good Night.

Can you please cut the music down ?

I think it’s two bright To bright* Too bright*.

I can’t even think straight, Let alone speak straight.

“Hey Nia, what time is it?”

I’m good, just a little tired , thank you for asking. You have a nice day!

20

Penguin

Gabrielle Shupe

21

The Conference Emma Lay

She attends the conference that she calls her life. She sits at panels to hear from the best on how to perfect her skill. She silently observes, taking notes to reflect on later. Her skills are applied practically in workshops, but she shows restraint for her moments of realized application. During each workshop she silently manipulates her subject, falling under the radar to not raise too much attention. She makes notes on her subject, analyzing the moments of weakness and the moments when her subject still grasps unto her attention. Each workshop she attends, her skills progress until her restraint slips away and the final gratifying moment of realized application comes to fruition. She has prepared for this moment.

Years of self-hatred, years of anger, years of under met expectations, and years of inadequacy have accumulated in her conference. Finally, her years of conference can be relinquished through her workshopped skills. She readies her subject, presenting trust and guilt like two ropes that will ensnare her subject into submission. Her subject, too afraid to say no, too afraid of the consequences, feels the tightening of the two ropes and does not fight them. Her subject has made the application for her skill too easy, but she does not argue. She practices patience at first as she slowly unravels her skills. A little invalidation here, a little gaslighting there. The first sexual assault is applied with a sly, mischievous smirk to confuse her subject. The first sexual assault is applied with a sly, mischievous smirk to confuse her subject. The first sexual assault is one of many until finally the true moment of gratifying realized 22

application is enacted. She does so without any remorse, uttering a child’s response as if it’s a mistake. But her subject knows it’s not a mistake. Her subject grapples with the reality presented, deciding to shove them in the corner of the brain that everyone chooses not to touch. The subject swallows the rape and does not touch it. The rape, the abuse, and the sexual assaults eats the subject alive until the subject is empty. She, on the other hand, moves onto her next workshop where her new subject awaits.

No one suspects the reality of things, no one asks for the truth. No one truly knows what has transpired, but I, the subject, knows.

Crab Apples and Ice

Shanice Davis

23

After a Few Too Many Drinks Jack Hatton

My head; A Nascar race.

Icy End

Emma Mockler

24

For the Boys Jaci Poswiatowsky

Waking up, I grab my cup sipping the headache down.

Memories of the night before, me and my pals at the discount store.

Only thing bought was the cheap liquor that got passed around the whole gang, plus Trevor.

Remembering our lives Before we had wives, We’d run the streets everyday.

Now all that we do with our lives Is sit around and pass by time and finally get to payday; Supporting familiesAnd their disarray.

But hey, I’ve still got my memories.

25

Piece of Culture Kati Keller

Tatters of the maiden’s gauzy skirt Catch on laurel branches as she staggers To the river in an attempted escape From the groping, ichor-veined arms Which catch her with awful ease.

Hot hands trace the curves of her flushed face.

Neck. Collarbone. Down, down, down.

She feels the Phlegethon coursing Through her flesh and sinking,

Sinking, Within.

Sinking.

As Apollo disrobes with glowing hands, She can only struggle like a dove With a clipped, speckled wing And moan for protection Like Lucretia would centuries later, Like Pandora had centuries earlier, Like Tarana would millenia later.

Just before fatal push, The river puts on a display Of fatherly concern And transubstantiates daughter To laurel tree.

Did any know breezes and cuckoos Would replace the golden touches?

Did any know urges to brood Would replace glutted lust To prowl through her parts?

26

A crown of victory in games, A prize for en-titlement, A symbol of molester’s favor, A piece of wilderness Stripped by does for food.

Another piece Of culture Dismissed

as myth.

Nature’s Brilliance

Gabriel Rysavy

27

leaves

Pencil on paper Teresa Wroblewski

28

Sketchbook Ian Hebeisen

I lay you out in front of me and break you into pieces.

Studying the lazy shadows lounging across your cheekbones, I pull you from the vacant page.

Your ashy irises, your veins and sinew straining beneath your skin, the ghostly creases coy around the corners of your mouth. Reducing you to curves and a collage of light and dark, I pull you out of nothing. But I leave the whites of your eyes blank and untouched by graphite, for nothing is as important as something built from blacks and greys.

29

Capital Letters Daniel Collette

i like capital letters; i like how they command

a space they’re Confident and Strong. they always tell you what they mean and how they feel. they get what they deserve, and take nothing more. they always know their

place.

if only i was a capital letter

like U.

30

Manicured

Annabeth Kerr

31

Fairy Lights

Shanice Davis

32

Scantrons Maggie McGee

In the corner beneath a taped-over poster Polly Dwyer can’t get “Blessed Be Your Name” Out of her head as she baptizes her answers in graphite.

Then when time is up She will cry at either the Heaven of her God, or The hell of another’s.

Adrian Jackson sits next to the door, Methodically filling orbs with dark black certainty.

Then when time is up He will greet the expansive void as an A+, Or the pearly gates as flames.

In this purgatorial pursuit They feel their tailbones go numb Against blue plastic chairs As the lefties smear the sides of their hands In the gray space produced by No. 2 pencils.

But as while they answer “a, b, c, or d” To the questions of praying towards Mecca And preparing Kosher dinners, The methodical march of the second hand Beats down on those poor kids Who didn’t study at all.

Like Riley Harris, who, in the front row, Holds his temple in his right hand As the left grazes across empty circles of heaven, Stuck on question number one.

33

Stress Ball of Universe Kati Keller

34

My head Is a stress Ball With brain For flour (Or fiberfill, Beans– Whate’r you Want).

I feel the long-fingered Hand, Sticking with sweat And peppered with ink, Belonging To a kid Named Itak Who kneads Like the stout baker On Webster Ave Working dough For golden challah.

But skin Is not rubber And brain not yeast-risen.

My pulsing head becomes A Tell-Tale Heart About to bust Like bubblewrap snapped, Chocolate bar Cracked, Each nerve Wracked, My world– Jacked.

As Summer Dies Ian Hebeisen

Cigarettes and whispers pass between lips as we both gaze at shadows stretching their fingers feeling the dewdrops dressing the grass.

Drowsy fluorescent light bathes our bodies.

Your arms tighten around my chest keeping me warm stirring the fires behind my ribs.

My breath disappears grey smoke swirls into frigid night air, biting slightly as summer dies along with our time together tonight.

35

Scotland’s Finest

Amanda Pohlman

36

Yum

Emily Kline

Crunchy, chunky, crackers Thrown into my mouth Soggy, sour, saliva Down In my stomach Growl, groan, gurgle, Acid reflux Unexpected, Uproot Into a bucket Oi! Ouch! Ope! Goes my stomach Fluffy, flummy, fish Thrown into my mouth….

I’m totally hidden

Adam Hebeisen

37

The Two Sides of Autumn Sion Williams

Reds, yellows, oranges, Deep greens, maroons and hues of honey Paint the small town.

Vines cradle the yellow cobblestone walls.

V’s of flocks all fleeing fall.

Lemonade shaded skies Vanish. As childish autumn leaves roll down the highway.

Take 41 north all the way, to Green Bay. The Greyhound’s soft growl prowls through Tree straight roads and curvy fields of gold.

Under charred skies The greyhound’s hellish howl Withers against the moonlight’s summoning.

A place once so inviting Now nothing less than frightening.

A Jack’s petrifying grin.

Lurks at crossroads Burning in the shadows Humbled by hallowed ground A place where, Hell’s iron fence meets Heaven’s cleansing kiss.

38

Flats Not So Flat Annabeth Kerr

39

Wedding Day Rose Kraus

Many tearful faces around two rings; Two people united with lock and key.

Morning Reflection Gabriel Rysavy

40

Ballerina Emily Kline

Down dips the body as the music swells, An intimate response to the high angelic symphony.

Naked limbs grasp blindly for the sweet warmth of the sound.

Centered, the muscles stretch, aching to fill.

Instinctively, the body soars and Nothing stands in its path Going and coming, it is its own muse.

Seaward Bound

Gabrielle Shupe

41

The Chalkboard Maggie McGee

42

Chalk Dust Ian Hebeisen

A girl in detention is haunted by a chalk drawing.

Allison slashed the chalk across the blank chalkboard.

Her masterpiece was almost complete. The drawing portrayed a nun in grotesque caricature, but unmistakably resembled Sister Wendy: the same half-moon spectacles, the mole at the corner of her mouth, the drooping lines underneath her eyes. Of course, Allison took some creative liberties to enhance the image. Sister Wendy’s right hand clutched her breast, while her left hand plunged between her legs. Crescent devil horns sprouted from the nun’s wimple, matched with a pronged tail coiled around her feet.

Marveling at her sketch, Allison returned to the slate to scrawl four large letters across the whole picture: “CUNT”.

She snickered to herself, grateful nobody else received detention that week.

Backing up, the drawing’s spectacled eyes followed her movements, and Allison shuddered delightfully. “Always watching, aren’t you, you old bitch?” she said. The drawing just stared.

A rustling behind Allison made her spin around. She scanned the empty classroom, seeing nothing but rows of desks. She snorted to herself and turned back towards the drawing. She examined the nun; she could have sworn she didn’t add a forked tongue poking between the thin lips. More rustling. Allison whipped around, again seeing nothing. “Hello?” she said.

Nobody answered. Allison took a few steps down the 43

center aisle, wiping her perspiring palms on her uniform’s plaid skirt. Her eyes surveyed the gaps between the desks.

She shot a cautious look over her shoulder. The drawing glared at her from the chalkboard, the pronged tail raised behind its back.

“Listen, if anyone is here, you better come out now or I’ll kick your ass,” Allison said with mock confidence. A rustling from the back corner of the answered.

Allison felt her pulse accelerate. Slowly, she crept towards the corner, moving like a glacier across a valley.

The rustling continued. A single desk sat between her and the corner. Allison shot another glance at the drawing, cursing herself for being unnerved by her own work. The lifeless, chalk eyes staring at her coupled with the skewed angle of the nun’s head made it look like her neck was snapped.

Allison sucked in a shaky breath, grabbing onto the single desk. Rustling taunted her on the other side. She closed her eyes.

“Allison, stop being a dumbass,” she thought. “Okay.

One... two... three!” She yanked on the desk, pulling it back like a clumsy curtain. A mouse darted out from the corner, abandoning a candy bar wrapper and scurrying along the floor’s trimming. Allison released her breath, nervous giggles slipping from her mouth.

A squealing pierced through the air, shattering the monotonous silence of the room. Adrenaline shot into Allison’s bloodstream like a racing bloodhound as she faced the chalkboard. Shifting along the slate, the drawing’s tail swished back and forth as its tongue darted from its mouth. Each movement produced an awful screech as the chalk scratched the slate. Allison stared, her 44

jaw slack and her pulse pounding in her skull.

The nun’s eyes examined the chalkboard. It pressed its spindly hands against the black surface like a mime against an invisible wall. The drawing froze for a moment. Then the scraping started again as the chalkboard started to ripple and bend.

Allison felt like ice water poured down her spinal column. Beads of sweat created a thin strip along her hairline, like a crown of salt water. She peeled her eyes from the drawing, zeroing in on the door towards the front of the classroom, perpendicular to the chalkboard.

“C-c-cah....” the drawing’s mouth opened and a raspy voice struggled to produce noise. Chalk dust floated out between the thin lips.

Fueled by another surge of adrenaline, Allison sprinted down the aisle of desks and slammed into the door. She rattled the brass doorknob, unable to turn it.

“Fuck!” she said. Allison began pounding her fists against the oak door. “Help! Somebody help me!”

“C-c-c-cah...” a raspy voice answered. The drawing protruded from the chalkboard, its face pressed against the bending slate like seran-wrap over skin.

Allison turned from the door, running towards a window. A harsh cacophony of squeals sang from the chalkboard as the drawing ballooned outwards. Allison tugged at the window pane, but the window proved just as stubborn as the doorknob.

Tears began trickling out of the corners of Allison’s eyes, and her breaths grew shallow. Looking over her shoulder, she could see the nun from the waist up leaning out from the chalkboard’s frame, arms and neck taking shape. The unblinking eyes bored into Allison’s own bloodshot ones.

45

Sprinting between the desk, Allison searched for something to defend herself: a ruler, a pencil, anything.

She opened each desk’s lid, only to find blankets of dust.

The room blurred with tears.

“Come on!” Allison cried. Her thoughts were interrupted by a slumping sound followed by silence. No more scraping, no more raspy voices, just the hum of the incandescent bulbs above her.

The chalkboard, again blank and black, loomed over her. Allison stepped towards the front of the room. She inspected the shadows of the room and wrung her hands.

She approached the larger desk at the front of the room, then froze. A puff of chalk dust danced upwards from the floor.

“C-c-c-cuh-cun. Cun.” Rising up from the other side of the desk, the slate black nun peered at Allison through chalky white spectacles.

“Oh, God,” Allison whispered. “Cun. Cun. Cun,” the nun wheezed as it stumbled around the desk. Allison tried to move, but her legs didn’t respond. Streams of tears trailed down her cheeks. The nun extended fingers like spider legs.

“Cun.. Cunt,” the nun said. “Cunt. Cunt. CUNT.” Slate fingers groped at Allison’s face. Any scream that might escape Allison’s throat strangled itself in fear.

Half an hour later, Sister Wendy returned to the detention room to find it empty, save for a drawing of a nun and a girl on the blackboard.

46

frog

Pencil on paper Teresa Wroblewski

47

Umbrella Street Elliott Rysavy

48

Once Again Sion Williams

Sitting at her grave I reminisce about the time we had together.

Eating gumbo with Big Momma, as fireflies danced around us with a friendly envy.

Their dances take us from golden pastures right onto Big Momma’s porch swing.

I loved that swing.

I loved Big Momma.

She oozed from every pot of gumbo warming the hearts of New Orleans.

She was the Jewel of the city, The light that lit the streets of New Orleans at night.

And the joy that coursed through our veins during the day. But losing the Bistro snuffed out that light.

The same thing that lit her fuse blew it out.

49

Snaps in Hong Kong Kati Keller

I wonder how they feel. Those with likenesses formed from colored dots. To be captured, developed, distributed. I wonder how they feel. Those who have representations of their figures hanging on walls or tucked in wallets. I wonder how they feel. To be glanced at, stroked, cherished. I wonder how they feel. 一 : The fine fern leaf waves unnoticed among thousands, A solitary, solid thing. 二 : Wheels carry the silver MTR car over tracks, A local stumbles at the sight of a foreigner in a Mickey shirt. 三 : Did you know there is a convergence place under the bridge Beside the river of curving, roving ripples? 四 : Let us watch the double-decker balancing along the singlelane street, A pin head bobbing to the beat of the city’s circulation. 五 : A Hill and a Climb are a singular entity.

A hill and a climb and our joined hands could mean decades. 六 : Would you prefer seclusion in a white, gauzy room or the Company of crackhead younglings— Venus’ sleep or Motion’s city? 七 : Heavy fog wraps ‘round the humid air and our sticky skin.

The lady on Stanley beckons— Come in, come in, have you eaten yet?

Air condition’s kiss. Vitality revisited. 八 : The couple wades into open Ocean to thighs’ tan lines, their Playful touches join light lips and damp hips.

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九 : Would she like to grace one of those cellophane circles with loopy writing And hang it by a ribbon on the silver bridge lattice? 十 : Perhaps she would prefer to sit under a red canopy with foreign characters As your black dog tans beneath the sun’s dancing drops at the entrance? 十 一 : Or join the aged and fresh figures bending in slow

synchronization, Weaving about one another under the city lights by the bridge as darkness bleeds

like creamer in coffee through the sky? 十 二 : Can you see the car bugs hurtling ‘long over silhouette

bridge As scintillating water roves with winking, waving

midnight? 十 三 : Twinkling skies wink with the city outside the open

window as R ain poises to drizzle, pour, monsoon over the precious pair.

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Frankenstein Peter Specht

My October birthday meant Halloween.

Spooky music and dressing up in costumes, going door to door asking for tricks or treats.

Grandma always had fun with Halloween, getting in monster costumes, making Jack o’ lanterns and popcorn balls.

“What are you going to be?”

She would ask every year.

“I’ll be the wolfman” I had said that one year, “Great, I think I’m going to be Frankenstein” she had said from the bed.

Grandma got ready early that year.

She had the beeping machine that read her heart, she had a bag of fluid going in her arm.

She laid in the bed as if ready for the strike of lightning that would wake her up.

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Haze Bison

Adam Hebeisen

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Epiphany Jacob Kramer

I have the distinct pleasure of being alive - realizing that

Life Wisdom

Gabrielle Shupe

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&

Jacob Kramer Out of all the words available to man “And” carries so much strain.

It denotes addition – both good and bad The omnipresent dream to be known causes this sway Besides, most want to be known for “this” and for “that” anyway.

But, in the end, all tombstones are the same Can a little grave also convey such grandeur?

“And” can make us proud - Is this where meaning is found?

What cuts deeper into the world: the length of “ands” or the depth of actions done?

Does one or both ease the most tears?

And this is one of many concerns to fathom in a span of one hundred years.

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Fall in Winona Maggie McGee

When the leaves change in Winona— When they caramelize and ripen and toast— The plaid-clad girl in me reveres Them as Sistine Chapels and Van Goghs, awed by the swift drip of near Paintings to the canvas of the pavement.

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Sugar Loaf

Emma Mockler

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thoughts of her among the corn Daniel Collette

those ears of corn surround me; silent sentries all enfold the quieter threshing of my hands. harvesting each ear of white kerneled corn; thinking of her teeth. how they smiled and frowned (both, as far as i witnessed). from my pocket, the jingle of keys penetrates the perfect and absolute silence. that sound, mating with the present image of pure, sweet, white kernels conceives the bastard moment from my history (the one i’m trying to forget): how i counted the notches of the keys that counted each and every tooth as i scraped 58

at her perfect enamel. running from her tell tale teeth that lay in the anti-vital stained bed of her resting head. i brought myself here to this jury of corn. as her body waits in hiding, i am still awaiting their sentence.

Time for my Close up

Adam Hebeisen

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Envy

Mixed Media Kendra Baca

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On the Demise of Lovecraft Destiny Walker

When, long ago, the gods created Earth In Jove’s fair image Man was shaped at birth.

The beasts for lesser parts were next designed; Yet were they too remote from humankind.

To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man, Th’Olympian host conceiv’d a clever plan.

A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure, Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.* As Prometheus forged beings for earth, he thought them honorable of equal worth.

Humans were sculpted with love in mind but love crumbled with the wrath of mankind.

The separation of Prom’s arts began when one-piece deemed himself the better man.

He thought his fair skin cast him a better figure, “My clay shows lighter, therefore I am bigger children of dirt and bush can not compare How unruly sit the kinks in their hair.”

Throughout his life he delayed the message all the while he avoided the presage.

He thought his skin provided the answer while his intestine was claimed by cancer.

Despite his reign, he’s still left to wonder why he is the one who lies six feet under.

*“On the Creation of Niggers” by H.P. Lovecraft

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A big thank you to every person who played a part in the creation and publication of this year’s edition of Mosaic. I want to give a special thanks to Dr. Clark, the selection committee, the Marketing and Communications department at Saint Mary’s, and of course, all the students who submitted their work. Mosaic truly wouldn’t be what it is if it wasn’t for your help and your contributions.