Philomathean MMXXIV: Where Our Dreams Take Us by Bridgewater College English Department

BC Digital Commons Edition, 2024 First published in 2024 by Bridgewater College’s BC Digital Commons. PHILOMATHEAN MMXXIV: WHERE OUR DREAMS TAKE US. Copyright © 2024. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

logo is a registered trademark of Bridgewater College For information, address Bridgewater College, 402 East College Street Bridgewater, VA 22812 Cover image “On the Roof” by Ryan Tenberg

Philomathean

MMXXIV

Where Our Dreams Take Us

Table of Contents Exploring Where Our Dreams Take Us

I Am

Searching

Sõnar al Respirar

Daydreams

Starcatcher

Astrophil

Champion Fashioned in Fantasy

Duality of Dreams

Dream Catcher

To Thine Own Algorithm Be True

What Dreams Are

Nightmares

Never Ending Dream

Pains Gray

J.L.

the feeling of losing something you thought you'd know forever

Bridgewater College 9/9/2023

Broken Dreams and Waking Truths

Ephemeral Dreams by the Shore

Eema

My Vision Upon the Moors

On the Roof

The Wild Hunt

The Most Peculiar Dream

Benadryl Dreaming

Stuck in a Fantasy

Nightmare of War

Hellissandur

The Dragon and the Cave

Stellam Matutinam

This Plane of Existence pt. 1

This Plane of Existence pt. 2

Awakening

His Astre: Part 1

Incandescent

A Beautiful Dream

His Astre: Part 2

Maryanne

The Dream of a Mother

My Darling

Growing Pains

Cat Woman Fish

Dreamscape

The Playground

Braveheart

Assless Chaps, Number 2

Exploring Where Our Dreams Take Us Katelin Carter, Editor-in-Chief

The Philomathean has amplified the voices of our students and the Bridgewater Community at large, bringing individuals together through the good times and bad since 1896. Initially, the Philomathean was published as the Philomathean Monthly, created by Bridgewater College students to share students’ news articles, literary creations, local ads, and silly jokes. Later, the Philomathean became a printed collection of students’ creative and academic work, published until 2018 when it moved to the BC Digital Commons. Its pages present the diverse perspectives and shared experiences that define our community's connection. Encountering and appreciating these perspectives and experiences fosters further understanding and solidarity among its readers. This year’s theme, "Where Our Dreams Take Us," beckons the dreamers, the poets, and the seekers to share their stories. At first, the editors anticipated submissions filled with the fleeting imagery of sleep, and indeed, we did; but, as the pages of the Philomathean began to fill, we discovered a composition far richer and more complex than we had imagined. The dreams our submitters shared with us were not solely the products of a subconscious realm but also of aspirations, dreams (and dreams deferred) of a hoped-for future. From the fragments of shattered dreams to the soaring heights of ambition, each submission bore witness to the human experience. The choice of a theme, picked for its visual allure, grew into a deeper significance, surpassing mere symbolism and expanding beyond its initial confines. Our theme became a profound exploration of the human spirit—a testament to the power of the surrounding community. And so, we invite you to drift off in this year's issue of the Philomathean. To cross the line between waking and sleep, weaving in and out of the hopes and aspirations of our community of dreamers, and discovering the myriad paths that lead us to where our dreams take us.

I Am Casey Beard

I am soaring in the sky, high above the world in a bright red balloon, kept alive by flames alone. My best friend stands beside me, laughing — No. I am laying on a beach, the warm sun beating down on my skin, staring out at the children as they run into the ocean, howling and screaming with joy. — No. I’m a highschooler, driving to pick up my younger brothers after school because my parents can’t get away from the office — No. I am a businesswoman, sitting at a bland desk with my name on it, in an uncomfortable suit, typing away at something I’m pretending to understand — I am a shard of ice, glistening within a crystal clear glacier. The sun shines down on me, and I know my time is short. I know — No. I’m sitting in a room in the hospital for the fourth time in five months. My family is disappointed in me, and I wonder why they still care. I am swimming in a lake at the beginning of summer, feeling the cool water lap at my neck and shoulders — No. I’m a wife, walking through the brightly lit grocery store and wondering if we will have enough to buy a pack of cookies this month. I turn over the paper I’ve carefully budgeted everything out on, and —

I am a stone, sitting unturned in the forest. I don’t have many visitors, but the leaves always stop by and say hello, even if — No. I am a son, bright-eyed and eager, ready to prove himself, ready to fight and die for his country. I’m about to leave, and my mother cries, but my father nods at me. I feel something settle as I think I’ve earned his respect. — No. I am happy, surrounded by friends and family. I am dying. I am happy. I am Gone — No — I am soaring in the sky, high above the world in a bright red balloon, held up by flames alone. My best friend stands beside me, laughing — — and as I sleep, I know deep in my soul: I am home.

Casey Beard studies Psychology and Equine Studies at Bridgewater College

Searching Grant Nyland

Grant Nyland studies Business at Bridgewater College

Sõnar al Respirar Beatriz MacArio

A veces sueño mientras duermo, A veces vivo mientras sueño, A veces me evito en ellos, Y... a veces gano… otras pierdo. Porque sueño despierto, Los sueños son esos deseos, Esas ganas de llegar, pero... ¿y si no llego? El no llegar no me impide soñar. Y en los sueños brillaba, Corría sin parar, ganaba, lloraba, A veces me caía, pero me levantaba, Y sí, brillaba para poder vivir la realidad. Aunque a veces pierdo el sentido, Disfruto de lo aleatorio, conecto... Porque me busco y me encuentro, Porque soy libre, no se aceptan los complejos. Esos que a veces nublan el reflejo, Reflejo de la luz que todos tenemos. Los sueños están vivos, llenos de color, de pasión, En ellos disfruto de quién soy, de quién he sido. Porque mi corazón late al respirar, Porque sueño en esa libertad, Porque soñar me da tranquilidad, Y vivo en cada sueño, con cada latido. Y el latido es ese sueño... cumplido, Saber que al despertar no me habré ido, Porque sueño con todo lo que vivo, Porque... soy feliz... al seguir en el camino.

Beatriz MacArio studies Psychology at Bridgewater College

Daydreams Isabelle Bauer

Isabelle Bauer studies Digital Media Arts at Bridgewater College

Starcatcher Olivia Dewan

Stealing dreams and turning them into reality is a risky business, but damn, it pays well. I twirl the dagger between my fingers as I stare out at the black surface of the Sea of Subconsciousness. The inky water laps gently at the sides of my ship, The Dying Moon. With a hand on my hat, I tip my head back to the sky, staring up at my bounty. The stars are bright tonight. They’re almost as shiny as the gold in my pocket will be. But I’m not here for just any star. I’ve tracked the rotation of the Sea for years, all in preparation for this moment. Over my dead body will the Vespertine not be mine. She’s been hiding for centuries, as the Sea is very protective of her. Too bad I’m exceedingly good at my job. “Alright!” I call out, swinging my legs to the deck. “Get the gear.” My crew leaps to life. They cork their bottles of rum and grab their grappling hooks. The Vespertine will put up a fight, that’s for certain. I snatch my sun-soaked lasso from where it hangs on the mast. “Captain!” my second in command, Lasia, shouts as she runs to my side. “Have you found it?” “Of course I have,” I reply with a grin. “We have exactly ten minutes before she surfaces.” “I’ll get the weights ready.” “Perfect.” She skips away, and I shake my head with amusement, my fingers trailing over the iridescent glass orbs on my belt. In exchange for reality, my crew sold me their souls. Their undying loyalty and lives. I need them to hunt dreams. However, not everyone can harvest the stars on the Sea. As far as I’m aware, there is only one other person aside from me with the ability. My desk is overflowing with letters from people all over the realm, begging me to harvest them a star. Some seek to wish for health, some wish to forget a lover, and some wish death upon their enemies. If you can dream it, it can become reality, but only if I catch you a star. Stars themselves are slippery bastards protected by the light of the moon, and the only thing that combats the light of the moon is the light of the sun, hence my lasso. I nearly had to sell my own soul to get my hands on it. Without it, I‘d be out of business. The Dying Moon sails straight. The waves begin to grow in intensity. They lash at my railings, dumping the black water onto my perfectly clean deck. My leather boots splash in the liquid as I cross to the wheel. The moon mocks me, and I scowl right back. We fight each other constantly. The moon hates when I steal her stars. She rallies the Sea in defense, trying to drag me and my crew to the depths. She hasn’t succeeded once. The moon might be strong, but I’m a tenth-fold more determined. Money is the biggest motivator known to mankind. Well, money and desire, and desire is what makes me rich.

“Captain, we’ve got trouble,” one of my crew says. I don’t even have to turn to know who’s on our tail. “Grab the guns!” I roar, my voice slicing through the furious hiss of the wind. I let go of the wheel to rush to the side of the ship. Sure enough, another vessel races full speed ahead, just off our end, her silver sails a beacon in the pitch black. Lasia curses next to me as she reappears. “Orders, Captain?” she asks. I pause, waiting for The Gazer to pull parallel to us. When she does, my lips curl into a snarl. “Fire.” Lasia shouts my order back to our ship. Just like that, it’s all-out war. Shots crack off in rapid succession. Gunpowder chokes the air. I touch my hips to make sure my twin pistols are loaded. The Gazer, regardless of our very clear warning to back off, drifts closer. “What are they doing?” Lasia demands. We watch our rivals with shared hatred, waiting for their next move. The Gazer is known for their unpredictable and reckless behavior. Tonight won’t be any different. Members of their crew grab onto ropes and then jump. I curse. “They’re boarding!” “I’ve got this,” Lasia replies. “You get him.” She leaps into the battle, a whirlwind of chaos and destruction. There’s a reason why she’s my second in command. Mercy isn’t a word in her vocabulary. My crew clashes with The Gazers with the force of a raging hurricane. Blades sing as they’re ripped from their sheaths. Lasia shoots me a bloody smile full of teeth as she skewers her sword through the torso of an unsuspecting man. I tear my eyes from the battle to scan The Gazer for my target. It’s difficult to see through the haze of smoke and the spray of the angry Sea, but there he stands at the helm, staring right at me with a smirk. The wind whips through the shells and trinkets woven into the locs of my hair. I slip one of my pistols from its holster and cock the safety back. I ignore the fight as I walk across my deck, the screams of the damned and dying all around me. The blood and black ocean water mix together in a gruesome, gothic painting. I rip one of the ropes out of the hand of a man trying to jump back to The Gazer. Planting my boot on his back, he soars overboard with a hard shove. The Sea swallows him immediately, wrapping a watery hand around his waist and pulling him to the bottom. Yes, the moon is furious at us tonight. She knows what we’re here for. But I’d already have my prize if he wasn’t here. I should’ve expected this. Of course, he would be after the Vespertine, too. The

biggest wish in the sky was nothing more than a legend a few weeks ago, and now, like all dreams in the sky can be, it’s a reality. That reality is mine. I step off the railing and fly through the air. Adrenaline sinks into my veins as I land in a crouch on The Gazer. I’m swarmed immediately. Bang, bang, bang! Three shots from my pistol, three dropped bodies. I stopped feeling the mental effects of the kills when I dreamed them away four years ago. That was the first star I ever wrangled for myself. I couldn’t let the crew know what a mental toll it was on my soul, so I did it in secret. I captured the star and burned it down to liquid with sunfire in my laboratory. Sometimes, I can still feel the heat of the dream as it scorched its way down my throat, but now, taking a life doesn’t even register. With a flick of my wrist, I send my dagger into the heart of a woman who lunges at me. She collapses to the floor in a growing pool of red. I pick my way through the battle, up the stairs, and to the wheel, where he waits with his back turned towards me. “Hello, Nasya.” “Adonis.” I spit his name as it leaves a foul taste on my tongue. “By the ancients, if you keep getting in my way-” “The Vespertine doesn’t belong to anyone,” he replies automatically, his voice grating on my ears. “Not until you capture it, at least.” “Yeah,” I scoff. “Which is why you’re getting in my way.” He hums and spins on his heel. “You say that, but I was perfectly content to sail right past your ship. You fired first.” “Oh, please. Don’t pretend like you weren’t loading up your cannons.” “You always paint me to be the villain.” The sarcasm in his voice makes me want to scream. A dry laugh escapes my lips, and it’s effortless to raise my weapon to the underside of his chin, forcing his head back. Even with the barrel of my gun at this throat, his dark eyes simmer with amusement. Like he doesn’t believe I would actually pull the trigger. “Put the gun down, Nasya,” he demands. “Why? Scared?” “Well, there is a gun at my head.” “The only thing you can blame is your poor decision-making skills.” “Not your unhinged and rather unhealthy obsession with dropping my body into the Sea?” Screams from below grow in intensity, a collective panic. Both Adonis and I shift just in time to watch a massive wave crash over the decks of both ships. I gasp, drop my gun, and grab onto the railing with all the strength in my body. We rock dangerously to the side. Men and women tumble into the Sea,

but the black of the water hides the blood. I curse as several of the orbs on my belt lose their glow. The souls no longer have a body to support them. “Stop stealing my crew!” I rage back at the moon. Her only response is to send another wave that pummels The Gazer. I lose my footing, and my hands slip. Breath flies from my lungs as I hit the wood hard. The Gazer continues to dip towards the water. The tip of the sail sinks into the ocean, soaking the fabric. I slide across the deck and scramble for anything to pull me back up. Splinters catch under my fingernails. I bite back a shout of pain as my leg slams into a cannon, but I manage to snatch onto a free rope hanging from the mast. I wrap it around my wrist, and the force nearly pulls my arm from its socket. “Nasya! Grab my hand!” Adonis shouts, holding onto the railing with one arm while reaching out to me with the other. “No!” I exclaim. “I’d rather die!” Another wave rocks the ship. My hand slips down the rope with a coarse burn. “Are you out of your mind?” he snaps. “I’m trying to help you.” “I don’t want anything from you!” “Fine. Have fun drowning.” “I will, thanks.” The ship jolts again, and I inch further down the rope. I’m an excellent swimmer. If I fall, I’m sure I can beat the Sea. A wave leaps up and wraps around my ankle like a leash, then yanks. I screech and kick, trying to dislodge the grip. It does nothing. “Alright! I'll take it back! Adonis, pull me up!” For a moment, I think he’s simply going to let the Sea take me to the abyss, and that is one of my greatest fears. There are no fish or little crabs. It’s just pure emptiness, a bottomless, liquid pit of despair, doubt, and dead dreams. I refuse to become a part of that. I’ll fight the entire ocean if I have to. A hand latches onto the back of my shit and pulls me upwards. Adonis drags me onto the railing with him. I sit panting, trying desperately to catch my breath. “Are you going to say thank you?” he prompts. “Nope.” He scoffs. “Figures.” “Nasya!” Lasia screams. “The Vespertine!” Adonis and I stop arguing and turn our attention to the sky. Sure enough, the Vespertine has risen from the ocean. She hovers only a few inches above the Sea, nearly as bright as the sun herself. Black water drips from the sphere of swirling blue, green, and gold light and forces me to shield my eyes. I

don’t know if the battle pauses. I don’t know if we stop hacking away at each other with blades, but for me, time ceases to exist. I place a hand over my heart to make sure it's still beating. “We’ve got five minutes before she gets too high in the sky for us to reach,” Adonis says. “I propose a temporary truce so we can trap her.” “Why? So you can steal her from me? I found her first!” “Even split,” he replies. “I get half, you get half. She’s powerful enough that her strength will be beyond any other wish.” I curse low under my breath. He’s right. We don’t have much time. I did not complete years of research to let this opportunity pass. I make a split-second decision. “Deal.” We shake hands, locking eyes for just a moment before launching into action. From the other side of the sinking ship, Lasia sprints across the wreckage with my lasso in hand. I race to meet her. Adonis starts ordering our remaining crews around. Cannons are reloaded, not to shoot, but as weights. Lasia throws the lasso. I snag it out of the air, and continue my dash to The Dying Moon. I pull the lasso over my shoulder and use one of the ropes to swing back to my ship. When my boots hit the deck, I’m off running again. I reach the mast and start the climb to the crow’s nest. By the time I make it to the top, my muscles shake with exhaustion. I push myself upright and unwind the lasso. Ignoring the ache in my arm, I swing the lasso above my head, gathering momentum until the speed is dizzying. Golden light erupts, chasing back the dark. The wind picks up in an attempt to throw me off course. It won’t work. This is my job, my livelihood. This is what I do. I will the lasso to fly true with all my heart. I pour bits of my soul into the fibers. Then I let go. The lasso cuts through the wind. It launches past the other stars as it slides through my fingertips on a direct path to the Vespertine. My breath catches in my throat when the circle closes around the sphere, and then all hell breaks loose. I throw my weight back against the mast as the Vespertine tries to rip me from my ship, but I’m unprepared for the sheer strength this dream possesses. My feet skid against the wood, and I dig my knees against the railing for balance. Shit. I’m not going to be able to hold it for much longer. I uncoil the end of my lasso and throw it to the deck below. Adonis, thankfully, is right underneath me to catch it. He ties the end around one of the loaded cannons. With a nod in his direction, I start reeling the Vespertine in. The skin shreds off my palms, but I don’t dare release my grip. As more slack gathers along the lasso, Adonis drags the cannon back. Together, we pull the Vespertine to The Dying Moon. The star fights me with everything it has. Sparks fly from where the sun-soaked rope sinks into its substance. But I am stronger.

When the Vespertine is inches away from The Dying Moon, I jump from the crow’s nest. My stomach rises into my chest from the drop, a grin on my lips from the thrill. I drag the star to the deck, and it crashes with a bang. If I hadn’t crafted my ship out of the strongest wood known in all the realms, the star would’ve plowed right through. My crew jumps back as I wrap the lasso around the star, subduing it completely. It doesn’t fight anymore; it accepts defeat. I place my ruined hands on my hips and stare down at my prize. “Finally,” I breathe. “Are you planning to melt her down now?” “Later.” “Who are your clients?” “Too many to count. You?” Adonis tilts his head to the side. “I wasn’t going to give her to anyone.” “How selfish.” “Oh? How much are you selling a bottle for?” “Fair point.” I consider my next words carefully as I ask, “What would you wish for?” “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replies. We lapse into silence as we stare at the fallen star. It will take days to melt down, even longer to bottle the liquid and sail to the ports where I can sell it. Adonis steps from my side and starts across the deck to the cabins. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” I demand. “My ship is totaled.” “And?” “And we still have our deal,” he replies. “You owe me half that star.” “Yeah, but that doesn't mean you get to stay on my ship.” “You’re not a woman known for keeping her word.” “You don’t know a single thing about me,” I snap. “But fine. You and your crew can stay in the holding cells.” His jaw drops. “You’re kidding.” “Nope. You’re always more than welcome to remain with your vessel, as any good captain would.” “What vessel?” he says, gesturing to the what’s left of The Gazer with both hands. “She’ll become part of the Sea any moment now.” “Then I guess you better start making those holding cells a comfy place to sleep.” Adonis rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

I grin in victory. “Wonderful.” He hesitates, and the words that come out of his mouth nearly knock me over. “Do you ever think of what would happen if we joined forces?” “Adonis, don’t mistake your desperation and my kindness for friendship. It won’t happen.” “Uh-huh.” “I’m serious.” “Yep.” “Just… go away. Now.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m already gone.” “And you owe me a new gun!” He flips me off as he strides away. I shake my head and turn to the Sea, who has settled back down. The waves are gentle once more; in fact, there’s hardly any movement. It mourns the loss of the Vespertine, but that’s what happens when you release things from your subconsciousness. They can become a reality that is easy to possess if you’re persistent enough to brave the storm.

Olivia DeWan studies Communications and Professional Writing at Bridgewater College

Astrophil McKenna Doran

McKenna Doran studies Biology at Bridgewater College

Champion Fashioned in Fantasy Grace Warren

Grace Warren studies Digital Media Arts at Bridgewater College

Duality of Dreams Erica Tiffany

Erica Tiffany studies Digital Media Arts at Bridgewater College

Dream Catcher Kiya Whitaker

“Thanks for meeting with me,” I say, hesitantly taking a seat in the brown leather chair. “Thank you for coming,” she says, smiling and spreading her notebook neatly before her. I remember her name from the business card: Elora Rayes, paranormal investigator. “What can I do to help?” “Well… I’m not sure. You probably deal mostly in ghosts and demons and stuff…” I shift to the side, picking at the armrest. “I wouldn’t know what to call this.” “It depends. Everyone has a unique experience with the unknown.” “Right… I just needed to tell someone, and you’re the only person I could think of who wouldn’t instantly turn me away. I’m not going crazy. I know I haven’t been sleeping much but… There’s a good reason for that.” I avert my gaze as she scribbles away in her notebook. “I see,” she finally says after a long moment. “Why don't you start from the moment things stopped being normal? I won’t interrupt, just tell your story.” There’s that smile again, warm and inviting. I tug at my collar, itching at the scars underneath. With a light nod, I sift through my memories, trying to organize the confusion and fear into something coherent. Where would I even start? When were things ever “normal?” I pull my journal from my jacket pocket and flip through the pages, barely scanning any of its words. I land on the first page and decide to go from there.

“I think… Everyone’s had that dream: the one where you realize you’re dreaming, but the realization only lasts a couple of seconds before you wake up. Some people try to get to that moment, stay there, and control what happens. Lucid dreaming. It isn’t a new concept, but it has always fascinated me. Hell, everything about the mysteries of dreaming and the mind did.” She nods and starts writing. I swallow and continue. “So, when this dream study appeared on campus, calling for volunteers, I jumped at the opportunity. The group was small, and we all kept dream journals, meeting once a week to discuss our experiences. The organizers, a couple of second-year psych students, jumbled together all the popular techniques people online used to lucid dream: keeping a dream journal to build ‘dream recall,’ practicing reality testing —checking your hands is common— and using mnemonic devices to manifest

lucidity. Little things like that. Nothing out of the ordinary. “If you’re successful, you’ll enter what they called the ‘Dreamscape.’ Out of everyone, I was the last to get there. It started with normal stuff. I’d be at school or the park, somewhere in town, or during some weird scene my brain created, and I’d become aware of everything. Then I just started messing around. Sometimes I’d fly, conjure celebrities, or break reality itself. My experiences were no different to anyone else in the group or anything we read online. Everything started off normal. “In the first unusual moment, the Dreamscape brought me to a road in the middle of a desert. I could feel the coarse pavement beneath my feet, the sweat dampening my clothes, and I even had to shield my eyes when looking around. I felt as if I was truly there. But, when I looked at my hands, they were fuzzy, almost like how AI programs can’t render hands when they generate art. I started down the road, walking for quite a while, though my perception of time was altered. I know my pace became sluggish, and my body layered in sweat, but I dragged myself further. I hadn’t seen anything but a vacant horizon for what felt like hours. And then, I came across a dead-end sign before the landscape changed. “The ground disappeared completely, but I still stood on something solid. Beneath me was the town, and as clouds trudged beside me, I realized I was standing in the sky. I could point out my house, school, the grocery store, all the familiar places from up high. As I kept moving, the ground shifted, becoming lighter. I wasn’t moving on solid ground anymore, but with each step, my foot sank into the surface. Almost like stepping onto a mesh net. It thinned more and more before I felt as if my foot would break through at any moment. “Somehow, I slipped. I lost my balance… or I was pushed… I’m not sure. I fell toward the city below, but I didn’t wake up with that fleeting sensation of falling. No. I felt my stomach drop, the wind rushing past me as I flailed around, and a rising sense of dread as the surface loomed ever closer. And I remained in the dream… even as my body slammed to the ground and split open… In dreams, you aren’t supposed to feel pain. It isn’t supposed to be real. But I felt my bones out of place, cracked and twisting in ways they shouldn’t. I’d say there wasn’t a place in my body free of pain. My vision blurred, my head spun, my cracked jaw hung open, and my ribs pushed into my lungs, straining what little ability to breathe I had left. As my vision finally faded, I noticed a figure approaching me, but I awoke before they got close enough.” Elora nods again, still writing. Still silent. I wipe my palms on my sweatpants and

refocus. “When I awoke, my heart pounded, and I still felt wet, believing it to be sweat at first. But when I went to the bathroom to grab some water, I saw myself in the light. Every inch of me was covered in blood. I quickly tore at my clothes, examining my body for cuts, gashes, or bruises, but found nothing. Even after I showered, scrubbing aggressively, I found nothing. I didn’t feel anything either. I think I was too tired to acknowledge everything and chopped it up to the dream until I found my clothes and towels on the floor the next morning… stained a dark red… “After that, I was hesitant to try lucid dreaming again. I didn’t mention anything to the group either, the others still sharing their normal, cheery stories. I didn’t mean to enter the Dreamscape again, but when I awoke within it, I stood in town. Per usual, I checked my hands, but they weren’t as fuzzy as the first time. They still had this layer of blurriness, as if the texture hadn’t fully loaded in. I started walking or floating really, finding shadows appearing and disappearing at various points on the street. I guess it was less like shadows and more like people who were in motion but stopped abruptly, like when you take a picture of a moving object and it’s all smeared. Anytime I got too close to one of them, I heard the muffled sounds of words, but I couldn’t make out any actual words —and not that it was in another language or plain gibberish. I’d describe it as the murmurs of a crowd speaking over each other. Maybe you’ll get a word or two, or a phrase here and there, but you can’t fully understand what’s being said. “I kept moving, seeing cars and other vehicles with a similar, strange look. The sounds of their horns or engines sounded distant, even as I stood right beside them. Buildings moved slightly, with the red and blue aura of a 3D effect outlining them. If I stared at anything or anyone for too long, I’d lose my balance with dizziness. I decided to walk home and go to sleep, a common method in lucid dreaming that allows you to enter actual sleep. However, when I reached my street, my house was different. It flipped as if I was looking into the reflection of it in a mirror. I went to open the door and phased through instead. One moment, things inside the house looked normal and the next, everything flipped itself right in front of me. Still, determined to reach my bed, I slowly drifted toward my room. Now left instead of right. As I approached the bedroom door, the walls turned to waves, and the hallway pulled the door further from me. I could hear a familiar voice on the other side growing louder and this time I understood it clearly. It was my voice repeating, ‘Hello?’

“Now the walls moved inward, drawn to each other, and trying to flatten me. I quickly reached the doorknob but couldn’t fully grasp it as my hand kept phasing through it. I decided to throw my body into the doorway, and that’s when I woke up. At least, I thought I woke up. My room still seemed to move, but my hands were full of stark details. There’s a term for when you wake up from a dream, but still feel like you’re in the Dreamscape. It’s called a hypnopompic hallucination and is supposed to be temporary. Before the study began, we were told this might often occur. I asked and I’ve researched, and there is no term for when the Dreamscape bleeds into reality because that’s impossible… It’s supposed to be impossible. “There was a loud banging on the front door, and I leapt from the bed. I even gripped the doorknob tightly, walking through normally. But when I stepped outside of my bedroom… I walked right back into it. In front of and behind me was my bedroom, and in the room ahead, someone was still lying in bed. As the figure sat up, their back towards me, I realized I was looking at myself. And then I… It spoke. “‘Hello?’ When its head turned to face me, it looked at me without eyes, speaking again with no mouth. ‘Who are you?’ “I awoke in reality this time, arms covered in goosebumps, body trembling, and unable to shake the feeling that there was someone else in the room. Before my eyes could adjust to the darkness, I rushed from my bed and fumbled around until I found the light switch. Even though I could see I was alone, I didn’t feel like it. And I didn’t like the way I looked in the mirror. I could tell it was meant to be me, but it wasn’t entirely right. It doesn’t make sense, but none of this does. I’m certain someone was watching me that night… and that feeling didn’t go away. Everywhere I went I felt eyes on me or that someone was following me. And every time I turn around to get a good look at them, they disappear. Even if there is no crowd for them to blend into. I can’t look at my reflection anymore. It looks back at me strangely. The world changes too. It flips without warning. Objects that shouldn’t move do, and people seem distant. They’ll talk, and their words fade into that unintelligible garble, their faces contorting, disappearing. Sometimes I disappear… “On the rare occasion I do fall asleep, I end up in the Dreamscape against my will. I think I stopped keeping notes in my journal at this point, but I remember it well. I’d wake up somewhere around town or in some room of my house, knowing that thing was there with me. It’s your typical ‘being chased’ dream, but when I’m caught, I wake up in the real world, with a

scar to show for it.” I roll up my sleeves, revealing the long, jagged scratches running up my arms. I pull down my collar, showing the claw marks and scars streaming down my neck and chest. Elora gasps, her pen falling still, and I continue. “I haven’t successfully escaped it… not once. I don’t know how to beat it. I don’t understand what game it’s playing or why I’m part of it. I haven’t been back to the group, and I’ve stopped sleeping altogether, or at least I’ve tried to. Day after day, I feel like my reality and the Dreamscape are becoming one and there’s no way that can be possible. Someone did something to me. This thing is after me… In the dreams, it’s getting more violent, and in reality, it inches closer to me every day. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” I choke down a sob. “If these dream wounds are already becoming real… I can only imagine what it’ll do to me in the real world… if this really is reality…” I meet Elora’s gaze, searching her face. Her brows furrow, her lips purse, and then she turns back to her notes and draws in a breath. She seems confused, of course, but mainly concerned. She looks back at me and opens her mouth to say something, interrupted by rapid knocking on the door. “I’m meeting with a client-” she starts, but the door is already swinging open before she can finish. I shift in my seat to view the intruder, and my entire body freezes. Slumping against the door frame is… is it… wearing my clothes, though disheveled, and wearing my face, breathless and eyes wide when they land on mine. “Whatever he says, don't believe him!”

Kiya Whitaker studies Digital Media Arts at Bridgewater College

To Thine Own Algorithm Be True Erin Miller

In the not-too-distant future, neuroscience and computer science will progress to the point that we will be able to view people’s dreams. Even now we can generalize. If the area of the cortex that processes faces is active, then we infer that there are faces involved. Perhaps you are dreaming of people? But nothing beyond that. I am glad I am not in that future. I like having something in my life that is secret. I do not want to be known. The world knows enough with its algorithms tracking my every click, my every pause as I scroll, my every search term. Does anyone really believe they can go incognito? It has been like this for years. In 2006, shortly after the birth of my daughter, I started receiving American Girl catalogs in the mail. They knew. When she turned 15, they stopped coming. They knew. Advertisements pop up for affinity groups with which I didn’t know I had an affinity. It wasn’t until ads started appearing for hair-thickening shampoos that I realized that my hairline was indeed thinner. Where will this future take us? We may imagine ourselves as Hamlets alone on the stage of life, yet like the Danish Prince, we are watched. I have begun to question whether my behavior is driving my algorithms, or they are driving me.

To scroll, or not to scroll, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of corporate culture, Or to take arms against the algorithms And by opposing end them. To click—to post, No more; and by posting to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand LOL cats That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To click, to post; To post, perchance go viral—ay, there's the rub: For in that post of fame what peace may come, When we have shuffled off our public face, Must give us pause—there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of trolls, Th'oppressor's wrong, the Goop girls’ bitchiness,

The pangs of ghosted love, the law's delay, The Kavanaughs, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself settles student loans With a bare bodkin? Who would Meta bear, To not touch grass but beat the Boss, But that the dread of FOMO after death, The undiscovere'd TicTock, from whose meme No influencer returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear the chat groups we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus Zuckerberg doth make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale Insta filters, And enterprises of great pith and wokeness With this regard their pink hats turn awry And lose the name of action.

Erin Miller oversees the Psychology Department at Bridgewater College

What Dreams Are Gabe Miller

Dreams aren’t made of clouds. dreams are born of sweat and blood, They’re formed by sleepless nights, awful fights, and tears when you don’t have the energy to cry. Dreams aren’t purple or pink. Dreams are dark, ungrateful masters, Who elude you where they can, destroy your plans, and punch you in the face when you get too close. Dreams aren’t simple and easy. Dreams will take you to hell, They seem impossible to overcome, leave you feeling numb, and challenge you to sacrifice it all. So you must grab those bastard dreams, grit your teeth, and yell, But don’tforsake your purpose; don’t be scared of hell.

Gabe Miller studies History at Bridgewater College

Nightmares Emily Smeds

Dreaming, dreaming, softly sleeping something scary, something creeping always scraping, softly bleeding shadows swirling, grimly reaping. Tossing, turning, to and fro horrors creeping, stealthy-slow in the corners of my mind darkness tumbles, you will find. The lights go out and sleep consumes in my room, which is a tomb for the light that comes at day, keeping my nightmares safe at bay.

Emily Smeds studies English and Professional Writing at Bridgewater College

Never Ending Dream Zoe Workman

I awake from my dream, but I’m still in a dream, one that is never-ending. I remind myself that I’m a person and prepare myself for another day of this recurring nightmare. I slide out of bed. My hands aren’t mine. They’re distorted like my thoughts. I brush my teeth and try to avoid the reflection that looks back at me. Is that even me? I can no longer tell. It doesn’t look like me. Who is that in the mirror? I don’t have a face in my mind. The one in the mirror startles me. Oh no, I’ve looked too long. I’ve stared in her eyes for minutes now. My breathing gets heavier. Where am I? Who am I? Why am I here? I walk downstairs. My father is in the kitchen, but he doesn’t look like my father. I talk to him, but he feels far away. Like there’s a glass separating us. Separating me from the world. My parents aren’t real. My friends aren’t real. I’m not real.

I feel like nobody would hear me if I made a noise. Like I will find out no one can see me. That no one can understand me. I look outside. Everything looks fake. When did everything lose its liveliness? I sit in my bed. I feel like I could disappear. Maybe that would be better.

Zoe Workman studies Professional Writing at Bridgewater College

Pains Gray Lydia Hough

Lydia Hough studies Art at Bridgewater College

J.L. Luis Gutierrez-Palacios

Many times I asked myself, where have you been? Quite some time has passed, unanswered questions haunt me to this day. The memory of you appears in my head on replay, after you, the person you knew vanished and was never seen. Many times I sat on the floor with the desire of seeing you again; and every time I did, all I found was indifference and pain. I dreamed of you last night one last time. Under a tree we sat, and our eyes met as it was for the first time. Memories and emotions temporarily blinded my reason, You grabbed my hand and the warmth of it made me feel sublime. Wandering by your side made me regret the end of our season; but at the same time, I remembered why our game had reached full-time. I had you in front of me, a moment I waited for so long. After wanting to say so much, I felt a lump in my throat leaving me speechless. My vulnerability dictated that talking to you was wrong, seeing you again showed me that your absence allowed me to progress. With a smile you said goodbye to me and faded away. I woke up from the dream that made me understand it was the end of our highway.

Luis Gutierrez-Palacios studies Business Administration and Professional Writing at Bridgewater College

the feeling of losing something you thought you'd know forever Krista Brown

i saw you last night for the first time in years you looked just as i remembered and you told me grip onto memories with your fiercest strength remember everything you had and were feel every part of yourself growing and changing tell them the stories of your youth, your childhood let me hold your hand just one more time i would know your face anywhere but you couldn’t stay do not leave me here, scared and unsure i am alone and reaching for something that no longer exists you are gone and so is my reflection i miss you but i carry you with me every day you wouldn’t recognize me, but i would know you anywhere the only dream i want to have again

Krista Brown studies Professional Writing at Bridgewater College

Bridgewater College 9/9/2023 ShiLi Quade

ShiLi Quade studies Digital Media Arts at Bridgewater College.

Broken Dreams and Waking Truths Isabelle Bauer

Sometimes I still dream of you, and it’s like nothing changed. I feel your warmth, and your smile too, it makes me feel like it used to. It feels so real, that the fears start to creep in, my stomach drops, and my mind won’t stop, racing through the worry. And right when I realize, I need to let you go, I wake up, to my room aglow. I realize, it was just a memory of you, Someone I barely even knew. I loved someone that you made up, I'd only see the real you when you drank from your devil’s cup. Now I lie awake, remembering the lies, from a time when I would lie awake and cry. I used to think our love was real, and what’s funny now, is that pain I used to feel, crept away like the setting sun. And now I roll over, and fall fast asleep, because my pillow is now dry, I no longer weep.

Isabelle Bauer studies Digital Media Arts at Bridgewater College

Ephemeral Dreams by the Shore Katelin Carter

Caught in the ebb and flow of an ocean's gentle hold, I gradually draw nearer. The shoreline displays its rugged edges, and they dig into my delicate exterior I find myself strewn upon the shore My very essence, exposed. I implore him to halt Yet secretly, I ache for his unwavering advance. I immerse myself in the waves crashing upon me powerful and aqueous I can feel his longing for me, and mine for him. It's not his body I desire, but his soul. I dream of his words, his smile, his deep blue eyes I long for his gaze to find me, to cradle me in his arms, to heed my voice, But he remains blind and deaf, and so, I have severed his grip. The ocean is now tranquil, yet I yearn for the next tempest.

Katelin Carter studies Political Science and Professional Writing at Bridgewater College

Eema Vanessa I. Rouillon

I mourned you, long before you were gone. I mourned you when the hourglass stopped pricking. I mourned you in our farewell hugs. I mourned you bitterly; I mourned you meekly. I mourn you, still; But fondly.

Vanessa I. Rouillon teaches English at Bridgewater College

My Vision Upon the Moors Emelyn Koene

The moors were dark as I carefully walked, nothing around for those desolate miles. Over and over I ambled and talked, about his evils and his wiles. He strolled along, with steady feet, as I made each of my careful strides. He grasped my neck, white as a sheet, his beloved, forgotten bride. Went steadily there for quite some time. slowed my pace and quieted my voice, To hear a dozen hollowed chimes, and contemplate my previous choice. We came upon his resting place, left him there in eternal disgrace.

Emelyn Buttercup Koene studies English and Communications at Bridgewater College

On the Roof Ryan Tenberg

Ryan Tenberg studies Art Education at Bridgewater College

The Wild Hunt Meredith Scheiner

I look into your dark eyes, love, and see the riders fly. Through mist, and wind, and trampled souls, I can hear their striking vies. I marvel in the Wild Hunt in its race past land and time. I see its fearsome, feral fight to reclaim the world that was mine. Your iris is the ground they bound across, your pupil the full moon that looms: I see, over the summer horizon, the right that no one assumes. Their faces are fogged over, as though within a dream, and I sense rather than see it: Their cold, age-old scream. For the Wild Hunt has hailed and arrived to proclaim some glorious catastrophe. The world may sink in terror, but I sense no agony. I have seen the Wild Hunt; I have heard its haunted howls. In the depths of obsidian night, I have seen what it befouls. The Wild Hunt troubles the lands and leaves the cities bleak. Whatever, my dear, you desire, there is no more for you to seek. The Wild Hunt has always ran through your eyes, dark as smoke. I understand the fear they bring and I know the pain they cloak. I know I am immune, my love, as long as the moment stands: for though the Hunt is in your eyes, I have hold of your hands. Meredith Scheiner studies Professional Writing and Communications at Bridgewater College

The Most Peculiar Dream Samantha Katlyn Herbst

I had the most peculiar dream last night I was chased by an unseen fiend I had no control over my movements I had no control over anything All I could see was a misty darkness All I could hear was a heinous laugh All I could understand was the hatred behind me All I could make out was that evil Over and over again Over the unseen traps beneath my feet Other forsaken creeps of old Overseeing me was that fiend Under the stairs I would hide Under the ticking of that clock Underneath those stairs I shook Utterly alone Everything seemed to come at me at once Every hand would grab me Every laugh would tear at me Every toothy grin would consume my soul I had the most peculiar dream last night…

Samantha Katlyn Herbst studies Professional Writing and Music at Bridgewater College

Benadryl Dreaming Mason Lawhorne

He dons his gaucho hat and slips on a black cloak. Behind him it billows as he folds into smoke. With the advent of dusk, his nocturnal pilgrimage begins. Searching for minds altered by medicines. Leering red eyes beneath his wide brim. Whose threshold he crosses is on naught but a whim. An unholy watcher, with eyes of smoldering coal, peering on unseen, his gaze piercing the soul. One day you may waken, frozen perfectly in place, a dark minder above you, but you’ll never know his face.

Mason Lawhorne studies Environmental Science and Biochemistry at Bridgewater College

Stuck in a Fantasy Grant Nyland

Grant Nyland studies Business at Bridgewater College

Nightmare of War Samantha Katlyn Herbst

Smoke filled my lovely nursery The noisy firing let out a ring Violent men were in a hurry My mother was overcome with worry Calling to me, her young offspring Smoke filled my lovely nursery A shot rang so deadly Trying to clip my wing Violent men were in a hurry The newly red ground seemed ugly My hand fumbling to grasp at anything Smoke filled my lovely nursery This day’s woeful shots were too early I fell as the Moirai snipped my string Violent men were in a hurry I face the end of life’s journey Lulling me to sleep, the voices mournfully sing Smoke filled my lovely nursery (Such) violent men were in a hurry

Samantha Katlyn Herbst studies Professional Writing and Music at Bridgewater College

Hellissandur Brandon Christian

Brandon Christian takes photographs and videos for TDC Marketing in Harrisonburg, Virginia

The Dragon and the Cave Emelyn Koene

I think that I might be dying, Weeping, wailing, screaming, crying. Feels like forever in this cave: Ominous as the silent grave. It is like a rusty prison cell, Like at the bottom of a well. I know that I am not quite alone. Together we complain and moan. I am weak and tired, woe is me. I need relief, it is plain to see. I don’t know what there is to gain From this awful torture and pain. Feels like I am endlessly falling. To the heavens I am calling. I wish this were all just a dream; That is certainly what it would seem. I think that I might be about to die, To weep, to wail, to scream, to cry. There is a great dragon in here; Its words and glaring eyes I fear, Makes the world begin to shake, As it enters in just like a snake, Evokes fear in the depths of our hearts: Words to our ears like poison darts. The dragon gives an angry glare; It calls to me, but I just stare. My mind is blank, my words are gone: Can’t figure out what’s going on. What should I do? What should I say? There has to be another way. Why must I go through all of this? Slowly fall into an abyss. I think that I might have died, Wept, wailed, screamed, cried. Emelyn Buttercup Koene studies English and Communications at Bridgewater College

Stellam Matutinam Caroline Green

Caroline Green studies Digital Media Arts and Communications at Bridgewater College

This Plane of Existence pt. 1 Samantha Katlyn Herbst

My childhood was such a dismal existence. From a very young age, I was forced into motherhood when my father died. Mutter and my older brother worked just to keep food on the table while I raised my younger brother and ran the household. There were no childhood playmates for me, though I was friendly with our neighbors, Liesl, who was a year younger than me, and her brother, Franz, who was a year older than Charles; there was no such thing as a formal education or even an education on the womanly vices. The only education I had was the one I had given myself from my father’s books. My younger brother knew only me as his mother. Mutter was never there to feed him, or educate him, or even shower him with affection. Saying goodbye to Salzburg for the first time, we were in tears. We had never left the city, even before my father’s death. It was a shocking turn of events for all of us. Yet, we had no say in the matter. My mother knew relatives in the country, people we had never met. They offered her a mortgage on their plot of land, which she said was the size of twenty streets in Salzburg. Though I had no understanding of what that meant, I knew it was big. ... The trip to the outskirts of Anthering was long. We were to move to the farm country, about twenty minutes from the town and a little more than two hours from Salzburg. My mother, unable to afford a carriage for the trip, had us walk. We carried our clothes in carpetbags. Though I hid books from Papa’s collection, we had little else. Lorenz’s toys were left behind. I was still young when we left my father’s house. My brother Charles was almost thirteen, while I had turned eleven only a month prior. My brother Lorenz was five at the time and had no understanding of why they were taking the house away. We had lived there for several years after my father’s death, but what my mother told us was that she could no longer afford the house, so we were moving to the country to live on a farm. Charles was excited to get out of the factory, but Lorenz and I, who knew nothing else, were heartbroken. My only pairs of shoes already had holes, so the road only made them worse. I wanted to drag my feet after an hour, but I stayed silent as we followed. Charles looked just as miserable but knew to keep his mouth shut. On the other hand, Lorenz didn’t know. After all, this woman was nothing more than our landlady to him.

“Mama!” He screamed, looking up at me. “Let me go home! Let go!” He kicked his feet in the dirt and let go of my hand. Turning around the second he started carrying on, my mother screamed at him halfway through his little dialogue: “You are to behave this instant! Enough with this childishness. You must learn to treat your sister and me with respect.” At that, he burst into tears. When I picked him up, my mother looked at me. “And you, Anastasia. If you don’t learn to control him, there will be severe consequences.” When she turned around towards Anthering, refusing to speak to us again, Charles and I gave her a disgusted look. She had become nastier since Papa’s death. Though she never hurt us, she was verbally abusive, and her problems with alcohol only made things worse. We knew her drinking problems were what caused her to lose her first job and forced her to work in the glass factory, but that wasn’t the worst of the problems. Her drinking was what also gave way to financial strain and, eventually, our home. Upon our arrival, no one was there to welcome us in the dead of night. It was bleak when the four of us stepped onto the front porch for the first time. Lorenz was terrified, but our mother walked to the door and unlocked it without hesitation. She acted as though she had been there many times, something that seemed to scare me even more. There were only three rooms downstairs and the same number upstairs. Downstairs, there was an old-fashioned parlor that was worn out and almost rugged-looking. We also had a kitchen and a dining room, neither of which were fancy in any way. Upstairs held the three bedrooms, with Charles and Lorenz’s on the right of the stairway and Mutter’s and mine on the left. If there had been more of us, we would’ve been crowded. The first room she took us to was my brother’s room. Lorenz began to panic at being separated from me, but I promised him in whispers that I would visit him in the dead of night when Mutter was asleep. I looked behind me when I finished to see her checking the closet to ensure they had enough space for the few belongings they had, allowing my mind to rest at ease. It didn’t take long for her to leave my brothers and show me my room, which was across the hall. It was smaller than theirs, but at least I finally got my own room. Back in Salzburg, we all shared a room. This was like freedom to me. Yet, as I opened my carpetbag, Mutter looked me straight in the eyes. “Anastasia, you are to be alone. The three of you will be here almost by yourselves. I will be here, but only at night. I

will find work in the town while you run the household. There may be some nights I won’t come home until morning. Don’t you dare ponder it.” At last, she turned to the door to close it behind her. Before the door was closed all the way, she looked back at me. “You aren’t to go into the village, and you must speak to no one. And one last thing.” Her eyes grew dark. “Never enter your brothers’ room. Or even mine, child. There will be a dreadful punishment for you.” ... Since we couldn’t run errands, we had nothing besides the garden. Meat was scarce and only given during holidays. Other pleasures of the stomach, like dairy and bread, were too. We had almost nothing, which made even Charles miss Salzburg. In the early mornings, I noticed Mutter writing letters to relatives and friends she had left in Salzburg. So late at night, if I knew Mutter was asleep or never came home that night, I began writing to Liesl about the situation. Liesl answered every letter I sent to her with glee, and I answered as soon as I could. Lorenz got sick after our first month. He could barely walk anymore and stopped speaking. He would mainly sleep. Mutter did nothing. She was there briefly in the mornings to tell him she loved him. He’d only stare at her, wondering who she was. It was me he wanted, but Mutter had no understanding of it. She stopped being a mother the moment my father died. She had to become a working woman, and if her daughter could be her child’s mother, what did she care? “One of us should go to the village and get the physician,” Charles told me when Lorenz had finally fallen asleep. “I’ll go since Lorenz needs you more.” As he turned away to grab his worn-out coat, I grabbed his wrist and shook my head. “No. Mutter said we can’t leave the property. I don’t want to disobey her. Please, please, don’t disobey her.” My words only seemed to make him angry. “Forget her rules! What about our brother, Asia?” He asked, using the nickname Mutter refused to use. “She never even saw him as her son. You basically raised him!” His words spoke the truth, but I was afraid of our mother. Though she had never hit us, I was still afraid of the wrath she had faced when receiving the letter from the bank. The memory sent shivers down my spine. “If he gets worse by next week, I’ll let you go.”

Lorenz recovered a few days later, but the lack of variation in our diet seemed to have a negative impact on his health. Every few months, he grew ill, but he always managed to recover once we took him outside. It helped the recovery, but the sun was never a permanent solution. Months flew by as we lived there all alone, but peace was not a welcome guest. Mutter was out visiting her relatives for most of the day, while Charles and I would be doing the work in the house and in the garden. Lorenz, on the other hand, was given the childhood we never had, and neither of us wanted to take that away from him. ... It was almost a full year after our arrival at that country house when Charles and I were outside doing laundry. Mutter was never home to do this, making me head of the household, with Charles acting as my second in command. We never went to church anymore. Mutter told us to get down on our knees and pray to the Lord, but we were growing sick of it. Why weren’t we allowed to go to church with the other children or to the market to buy meat? Why were her rules so complicated and vile? We had no one but each other, but it seemed she had the world. She told us she was staying with her parents, but something told us she was, in truth, visiting friends and, quite possibly, visiting a man we believed might one day become our stepfather. We both saw him a few times drop Mutter off in front of the house before giving her a kiss and driving away. It was a familiar sight, but it was usually one that brought about a terrifying attitude from her when she entered the house and saw us at the table. It was on those nights that she would throw a dish against the wall, claiming I didn’t keep it clean enough. In Salzburg, I stopped thinking about her as a mother. Now, I began to hate and fear her. She brought bottles home in the mornings to drink her way into oblivion. None of us liked seeing her like that and avoided her, but after a while, we noticed it brought out a terrible reception. She usually took it out on Lorenz, who was always the credulous witness. Though my brother grew increasingly distant and angry, he was never this way towards her. It was almost as though he respected her, the way a prisoner respects, but hates, his jailer. During her days-long absences, Lorenz was very different from the way he had been when he was young. His innocence had been taken away from him, which was something Charles and I had tried so hard to let him keep. He often threw stuff against the wall and

screamed with a horrifying sound, saying it was our fault he couldn’t leave the property anymore, and it was our fault that he was alone. “Asia, what are we going to do about Mutter? She seems distant.” My brother asked me as we hung the laundry, unaware that he had pulled me out of my listless daydream. Sighing, I pinned another shirt to the clothesline. “Mutter isn’t a problem we can face now. The longer she’s away, the better we are.” Turning away, I grabbed the last shirt in my basket. “Lorenz is the one I’m worried about. He has no one his age like we do. He needs other kids to run around with, and we’re far too busy to help him. Besides, I think something’s wrong.” As I looked up at the upstairs window, I noticed him staring down at us. He seemed angry about something, but I couldn’t tell what it was. “Look at him, Charles. Tell me that’s normal for a six-year-old. How can that look alone be normal?” He had no response to my questions and picked up his basket as we both headed towards the house. Charles glanced up at the window briefly before stepping onto the back porch. Like me, he was afraid of what this new life was doing to us. None of us were healthy anymore, and we were all barely eating the little amounts of food we were given. We hated the vegetables we were given every day, with nothing else to eat with them. Mutter refused to buy chickens since they were too expensive. And though her drinking problems weren’t nearly as bad at this point, she was still very angry at us, as if she was angry that we existed. Sitting on the floor of the parlor, I took out one of my father’s books to read. Charles sat across from me, watching me read. Eventually, I looked up, wondering why he hadn’t said anything, but the puzzled look on my face gave him a voice. “What are you reading?” Showing him the title on the spine, I went back to reading, but he interrupted my reading again. “What did it say?” At that, I became more puzzled. Showing him the spine again, he shook his head, which prompted me to answer. “The Sorrows of Young Werther by von Goethe.” I looked at him carefully. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” He said carefully. “I was wondering how you learned.” His words made me confused for a moment before I realized that Charles never finished what little education he had. Papa just started teaching him at his death, leaving Charles without a teacher. Unlike me, he was never home to finish his education. Charles may have been able to

read one, maybe two words, but he couldn’t really read. So, taking pity on him, I began to teach him how to read and write. ... “What does this say?” I asked. Charles looked at the paper carefully before hesitating. He couldn’t figure out what it was saying. Even still, he tried. “Hassen.” He said it with a long vowel instead of a short one making it hasen. It sounded funny, but I did my best not to laugh at the sound. “Hassen,” I corrected as nicely as I could. Even still, he looked at me slightly funny, clearly saying he hated it. We went over it again until it was readable to him. Then we moved on to sperren. It was then that he started growing angry. He couldn’t read the p or the r. But his struggle would only continue. At thirteen, he was finally learning to read, but it made it no less annoying. Lorenz would watch and often laugh at Charles’ mistakes until I took him aside. Lorenz, looking at me with pleading eyes, would only listen to my words. I was his world, and only I made the pain and anger go away. For about a month, we struggled to get Charles to read. Sometimes, I would create a fun game for Lorenz so he could finish learning how to read as well. He’d always laugh at whatever game I made up, but it only seemed to make Charles feel inferior. It was as though I couldn’t please one with reading without making the other feel ashamed or upset. For months, I tried my best to fix the solution, but I never felt like I was done. ... Another year passed, leaving us in worse shape than before. Lorenz was always sick, and when he wasn’t, he was always angry. Charles was growing worse for wear as well. Like Lorenz, he was gaunt. Mirrors were useless. My brothers removed theirs, but I kept mine. It was almost always covered and was only used at dawn, when I could barely see my reflection. It was then that I would pull my black hair back in a simple bun before re-covering the mirror. It was a horrifying existence. All of us, despite endless sunlight and fresh air, were becoming sicker and would only gain needed weight whenever a holiday or birthday came around the corner. Neither Charles nor I cared about appearances anymore. In the evenings, I let my hair down. In the summer, we would wear only one layer, but in the winter, we would often wear two or three-day clothes.

Charles understood complex sentences. Mutter now spent weeks visiting anyone. Lorenz mutely clung to me as a safety blanket. He had reversed the aging and shut everyone but me out of his world. I refused to give up hope after everything and kept going about as usual. Charles began to have arguments about the existence of God while I thought God was going to save us one day. We arrived in that house in the summer of 1793. Two grim years passed. Even I began to feel the effects. We were slowly being drained of life. It was late one night during early January. While my brothers slept, I stayed up reading the letter Liesl sent me. In it, I read some of the most beautiful words ever. She said she and Franz were going to take us away from Mutter. My heart leaped in joy as I cried out. We were finally leaving. As I got up to tell my brothers the good news, Mutter opened the door. Instantly, I hid it behind my back, but she ripped it out of my hand. She quickly read it before looking down at me. Her eyes flashed anger. “You’ve defied me?” She asked, keeping her voice down. She ripped the letter in before my eyes. “You betrayed me, Anastasia?” I was shoved to the ground as she lost control of her senses. Darkness covered me in a blanket, and my memory faded before me, forever.

Samantha Katlyn Herbst studies Professional Writing and Music at Bridgewater College

This Plane of Existence pt. 2 Samantha Katlyn Herbst

There I stood outside the house as the wind blew through my hair. The blue dress I wore was the nicest one I had. It was chilly that day, but I didn’t mind. This was no ordinary day, for there were visitors. Liesl, as well as Franz, had brought a carriage to take us away for good. We had everything ready the night before, so Charles and Lorenz were saying goodbye to the few belongings that they couldn’t take with them. I, on the other hand, waited outside. Closing my eyes, I waited. He promised he’d come back, and I believed his promise, so when he stepped forward, I almost thought it was real. My friend’s brother was older, maybe a year older than Charles. I didn’t remember much of him when we left, but I did remember pieces of his personality. The way he took care of his parents when they got sick was admirable. Though I was closer to his younger sister, I always admired him. “Franz, are you going to kiss me or not?” I asked playfully. It didn’t take long before he answered without words. This was new for me. I was almost fifteen, and though I had about a month or two left, I felt much older than I really was. Yet, I didn’t really know if I felt anything for him or if I was simply wanting a way out of Mutter’s life. After a moment or two, he took my hand and ran back to the house. Before he could kiss me again, I heard Mutter’s voice. Suddenly, Franz faded away as Mutter backed me into the wall, saying I betrayed her. Bringing Franz and his sister to the house meant I didn’t love her and that I was abandoning her. Though I tried to protest that it wasn’t true, she screamed and cut off my hair until there was nothing left. Then, an ax appeared in her hand, and she swung in with all her might, meeting with my flesh. ... Suddenly, my eyes opened, and I sat up in bed, screaming at the top of my lungs. I had no idea why I was screaming, but it must have been some horrifying nightmare. No one came to see if I was alright, so I wondered what was going on. The sun was out, and it looked to be almost noon. I had no idea why I had slept so long or why no one came to wake me. Going to the window, I looked out to see Charles doing laundry by himself. Lorenz played in the grass with imaginary figures. When I called out, Charles seemed to ignore it, as if angry that I wasn’t helping him. Lorenz, however, looked up at me with

bright eyes. He got up in excitement and started hollering my name. Charles quickly grabbed him and told him it was just his imagination. Pointing to the window, he said no one was there. Backing away, I believed it was a dream. It had to be. It couldn’t be true. It simply wasn’t. “Charles can’t see you. The fact that Lorenz can is a miracle to me.” An unfamiliar voice said from behind me. Spinning around, I noticed a tall man, maybe only thirty or so, but he seemed recognizable. As I went through my memory, I began to recognize the face. A face that had been dead since I was very young. This was Papa. “Papa?” Nodding his head, he came to my side. We both noticed that Lorenz could see him too, but Charles refused to listen to any more nonsense that someone was in my window. “Why can’t he see me? What happened?” Papa sighed. “You died last night, Asia. I wish I could tell you how, but I really don’t know. They sent me to make your passage into Heaven easier.” Laughing at him, I refused to believe it. My only words were that this had to be some kind of crazy dream. He kept telling me that it wasn’t a dream, that everything I was seeing was true, but I wouldn’t believe him. How could I be dead if I had no memory of dying? The idea of it was preposterous. When I tried opening the door, I had no grasp; I couldn’t move through it or even turn the handle. I couldn’t leave. I wasn’t going to get out. Was I to be an eternal prisoner in this room? Was there nothing left for me? Sinking to the ground, I began to cry. After a moment or two, Papa hugged me. He was aware of my frustrations. Did he have this same experience when he died? Was he not aware of his death until someone came to tell him? It had been years since that fateful day when a postman gave us the letter that said Papa was dead. I was only about six at the time and I was barely capable of understanding what was going on. What was I to do? After I had worn out my tears, Papa looked at me. He sighed. “Asia, there’s something your mother didn’t tell you. It’s about the three of you.” He looked down, as if ashamed of himself. “When I met your mother, I was already a married man in Vienna. It was an arranged marriage to a woman who I had already split from. We had one son from our wedding, but she had left and gone to live with her parents, taking my son with her. When I met your mother, I

tried to obtain a divorce from my wife, but she wouldn’t have it.” He paused as he walked over to the window. “I took your mother to Salzburg. She believed we were married, but I knew the truth. I treated her as my wife, and we lived together, but she never knew, and I never wanted any of you to ever know you were illegitimate. Your mother got the house, but I put it in my will that it would go to my first son. It went to Charles, but then it didn’t.” Holding myself, I turned away. It was horrifying; nothing was as it seemed. There is nothing more horrifying than when you have to die in order to learn you’re illegitimate. My father spent my first few years lying to us, and then Mutter spent my final years lying to us. Oh, how I wanted to throw something at him, but I couldn’t touch anything anymore, which only made things more frustrating for me. Screaming, I rocked myself in comfort. My father held me as though I was a little child again, though I had ceased being a child when he died. Though I screamed at him to leave me alone, I couldn’t bear to have him gone. It was such a mix of emotions. After all, I was dead, and so was he. It seemed only Lorenz was able to see me, but unlike me, he was still alive. He was alive but not well. Oh, how I wanted that again. My adolescent life was horrible, but I still wanted to live. I wanted to hold my baby brother in my arms, and I wanted to see Franz, though I didn’t really know why. Suddenly, the door opened, and Mutter entered the room, putting a box on my bed. She didn’t see either of us and started shuffling through her pockets as she started searching for something. Before she found whatever it was that she was looking for, I turned to the door and sprinted out. My father yelled for me, but I ignored him. Somehow, I managed to make it down the stairs and to the backdoor. Neither of my brothers noticed me as I made my way to them. Lorenz was too lost in his mind, and Charles simply stared at my window, probably watching Mutter. We were hidden there because we shouldn’t have existed. My brothers didn’t know we were illegitimate. They didn’t know, and now they were going to die too. Now that I was gone, Lorenz’s candle would cease, followed by Charles. There was no existence left for me, but I had to make sure they didn’t meet the same fate I did. There was the small matter of learning what my fate actually was. I remember reading Liesl’s letter, saying she and Franz would be here in a week, and then there was nothing but black after. She was going to get them out, even if I couldn’t, but I

couldn’t help but cry. If they met the same fate as me before Liesl or Franz got there, my afterlife would be wasted. Then I knew. Mutter had a box when she unlocked my room. Whatever was in that box could help them get out. It would unravel my fate. Yet, Lorenz was the only one who could see me. He was my key to unlocking what happened. “Boys, I made you something. Please come in the house.” Lorenz immediately ran in, though he couldn’t help but glance at me briefly. Charles, however, begrudgingly finished his chores before making his way to the house. He didn’t even notice me watching him. Oh, how I wanted to scream for his attention! Death was nothing but a pain. I had almost no control, and I was basically gone. There was no coming back from life, and no one would ever hear or see me again. My body was gone. I was no longer on the same plane as my brothers. It was as if that never really existed. Following them into the house, I watched from the doorframe as Mutter served them fresh meat. She looked slightly pale as she served it but said nothing. When the food was ready, she had my brothers say their prayers before leaving for the day. My brothers happily devoured the meat before going back to everyday life. Charles began his chores again, and Lorenz began searching for me. At that, my heart began to ache for him. ... Two miserable days went by. My father kept trying to encourage me to continue on with him to Heaven, but I wasn’t finished yet. Lorenz had gotten sick again, and Charles wasn’t much healthier. Lorenz called out for me many times, and I tried to comfort him the best I could, though there was little I could do anymore. While Charles was out in the garden trying to find something new to feed Lorenz, I stayed by his side and sang to him. I did my best to hold in my tears, fearing he would learn that I really was dead. Though I stayed at his bedside, I stopped singing the moment Charles entered the room. He looked as though he was about to die. I couldn’t bear to see either of them die when my soul couldn’t move on. I could feel their pain, and I could see their hopes and dreams were crushed. Papa stood next to me. “Come along, my child. There is nothing else to see here.” When he tried to lead me away, I smacked his hand away and approached my breathing brothers eagerly. Lorenz began to cry, unsure of himself. He kept asking Charles for me, but he

looked at me as he said it. I knew he wanted me to hold him, but it was too late for me. Yet, I had to ensure it wasn’t too late for him. “Asia left us, Lorenz. Mutter said so, alright? It’s been four days now. We’ve got to get by without her.” At that, I felt puzzled. Hadn’t it been only three nights since my mysterious death? Looking over at me, Lorenz began to protest. “But Charles. She’s right there. I see her! She and some man are watching us, and they’re both crying. Charles, please just look at the window.” My brother did look, but only for a brief second. Turning back to Lorenz, he shook his head. “There’s no one there.” Lorenz cried as he pointed at me. My job as mother should have been done, but Lorenz still needed me. No matter what, he needed me more than anything else. For some reason, I smiled softly. Approaching him, I shushed him to the best of my ability and sang for a moment or two before speaking. “Lorenz, I need you to tell Charles to open my door for me, please. There’s something in there that I need, but I can’t get it anymore.” “Asia!” Papa hissed. “We do not allow the living to do our bidding.” Both Lorenz and I ignored him. Lorenz looked at me before speaking to Charles: “We need to see Asia’s room. She needs something in there! Please, Charles!” “I’m not going in there!” My brother nearly screamed. “She abandoned us, Lorenz. She’s never coming back!” ... In the middle of the night, Lorenz got up and left his room. Sitting with my arms around my legs, I looked up as I saw him leave. Trying my door, he pulled and pulled with the little strength he had. Yet he couldn’t. Papa told him to stop, but before he could say more, Charles left his room to find Lorenz. For a moment or two, Charles held Lorenz back, telling him that he needed to stop. Then, for a brief moment, his eyes widened as he looked in my direction, almost as though he saw me. At that, he let Lorenz go. Charles then got some wire to pick at the lock. He had Lorenz ensure that Mutter wasn’t behind us as he worked his way through the lock. It finally opened, revealing the most horrifying thing I would ever find. Charles closed the door behind us at that moment to ensure Lorenz

wouldn’t see my skeleton. The skeleton on the bed, laid out as if waiting for sleep, looked as though it had been dead for months. It smelled like death and was cleaned of everything. Though I was horrified to see my decaying skeleton, it took me a moment or two to realize what I was really looking at. Their lunch. Mutter did what she had to do to get rid of any evidence that the skeleton was mine. I turned away in horror. My father again held me as I cried. Mutter wanted to kill us, just as I feared. Now, she was hiding the evidence through us. Lorenz screamed outside the door. I couldn’t see what was going on, but I could only assume it was Mutter. Slamming open the door, she looked at Charles with such hatred. All I wanted to do was scream at her. How could she? Papa watched her with horror and sadness. It seemed like even he couldn’t quite comprehend it. At that moment, Lorenz screamed, understanding that the bed held my skeleton and I was really dead. Yet, my thoughts were on her. She was going to kill them, just like she killed me. It came back to me. She hadn’t killed me the night she found the letter, but she didn’t know that. My body was broken, and I spilled blood after my head slammed into the bedpost. At first glance, she would’ve assumed I was dead. Without a thought, she dragged my half-dead body down the stairs. My body hit the stairs just loud enough to wake Lorenz, who started screaming bloody murder. As I began to wake up, she hit my head again, this time with the intent to kill. Yet, I was alive, but unconscious. Later, I began to dream of Franz and how different we each were and his kiss, something I would never have again. Yet as I dreamt the whole dream again, I woke to Mutter chopping off my hair and cutting me with the ax, just as I dreamed. The ending wasn’t a dream. It was happening in real-time. Anguish filled me until the second I died. Where it was remains unknown to me. But the existence of my last memory on that plane of existence was the last thing I would ever know. ... Death is a funny thing. It’s such a strange feeling, almost as though you’re alive but eternally cold and eternally divided. It’s never a welcoming feeling, and one I would advise you never to experience if possible. Yet, I know it’s unavoidable. After all, God made human beings as mortals of this plane of existence.

Rage filled my body as Mutter started beating Charles. Letting go of my father, I felt a presence stronger than anything I felt since my death. Screaming, I saw both Mutter and Charles look at me with such horror and shock written across their faces as all the energy I had left filled me. My soul was now in their plane, approaching Mutter with such speed. Without a thought, I tackled her to the wall, and with one push, I threw her body through the closed window. And just like that, Mutter crumbled into the ground with a loud crunch. Just as Mutter killed me, I killed her. Even as Papa finally takes me with him to Heaven, I look back at my time on Earth. It was such a dismal existence, but one I would never change. ... I watched her grave as the rain fell. Franz and I buried Asia an hour ago. Mutter was left in the house after we burned it. After everything she did, we never wanted to remember her again. Lorenz said that he had heard everything Asia had reported about the sins Mutter had committed. I didn’t quite believe him, but after Asia’s ghost shoved Mutter out the window, I can’t doubt it anymore. There was nothing we could do after burying her. Liesl held Lorenz as Franz drove the carriage away. We were to never see the house again; Asia’s grave was the only thing in sight.

Samantha Katlyn Herbst studies Professional Writing and Music at Bridgewater College

Awakening John Burdette

An avante-garde aerodyne scorches past the Milky Way; Opened presence1, the smell of bacon. 1

Or presents, an opened box.

John Burdette studies English and Professional Writing at Bridgewater College

His Astre: Part 1 Samantha Katlyn Herbst

Life isn’t as colorful or romantic as the fairytales say it is. Essentially, most days are a clear gray. Though most children have a normal childhood, there are those with a crazy or demented one. Mine was of the latter. After all, it did start out pretty normal, at least for me. I was my father’s favorite. I charmed him like no other and he rewarded me with gift after gift. My four siblings would be forced to watch as he gave me presents at least once every other day. Though most of them were simple ones that were never wrapped, it was the thought behind them that mattered most to me, and drove my siblings up the wall with jealousy. In return, I loved him; I adored him. In my eyes, my father could do no wrong. For Daddy loved me best. .... It was the summer of 1963. We lived a moderate life in the suburbs of Pennsylvania. Not much happened there, but I wish things had remained that way. At the time, however, I didn’t suspect a thing. My mind was still innocent and happy. Despite knowing my parents were beginning to have financial trouble, I was naïve to it and thought of nothing but joy. That morning, I nearly jumped out of bed in euphoria. Since I was my father’s favorite, I was the only one of my siblings who didn’t have to share a bedroom. That, of course, spread animosity between us, but I didn’t care. Beaming with anticipation, I took the rollers out of my hair and pulled my fingers through it. Pleased, I put on my favorite dress. Twirling in front of my reflection, I beamed brighter than I ever had before. Not only did Daddy love me best, but I had a date. After the party, the two of us were planning on sneaking out to celebrate; he might ask to go steady. Downstairs, my mother placed blueberry pancakes in front of me and barely got out “Good morning” before turning away from me. While I ate with glee, the rest of my family stared at me hungrily, longing for what my father refused to give them; what he would give me in a heartbeat. They all had portions of oatmeal, just as my father had ordered the day before, and every day before that. I was simply glad to be my Daddy’s favorite child and that was all that mattered to me. I had four siblings. My older brother was a year older than me. Then I had another brother about two years younger. After him, my youngest brother was ten; finally, my only sister was seven. Little did I know, sitting across from them, the very family I had grown to love in my sixteen years would soon be shattered in a matter of hours. In a strange way, it was my fault I lost everything I loved. Even my mother, my father’s only confidante in life, had no idea what lay in store for our family, or for her. Soon, my father entered the dining room with the morning paper and sat down at the head of the table. My siblings, who feared him, slowly slid away, as they did every morning when he sat down at the

table. The father who loved only me despised them; beatings were a common occurrence, but I was the only one, including my mother, who never faced his harsh hand. Even still, a grin stretched across my face as he put the paper down to greet me. “How’s my birthday girl?” He asked pleasantly. My siblings watched with great anticipation. After all, I could convince him to do anything, even beat them. Laughing, I stared at him with admiration, not realizing what was lying beneath. “I’m so excited, Daddy! What is the surprise?” “Not now, Mon Astre.” With that, he kissed my forehead, and waited for my mother to place his pancakes in front of him. “You have to wait until tonight.” He went to work like usual and I was left to contemplate what kind of surprise had to wait until that night. Hundreds of gift ideas crossed my mind, but the one he gave me later that night never would have entered my mind in a million years. His Mon Astre was about to grow up in a single instant. Although my brothers closest in age to me had a dislike for me, my youngest siblings seemed to adorn my arms every minute my mother wasn’t in their eyesight. They might have been jealous of me, but their adoration for me overcame any reminder of their resentfulness. That fact alone made my other brothers even more envious and enraged. They tried to tease me about it for a while, but once Daddy beat them, they never did so again. That afternoon, my mother made dinner as she always did, and greeted my father warmly. Even then, however, I knew something was wrong. My father, though bright and energetic around my mother and I, was dismal and vexed with my siblings, and I knew they did nothing wrong. My party that night was just as I had expected it: exciting. Surprisingly, I was asked to go steady during the party. Knowing my father was too busy dealing with other things, I said yes, pleased that he asked me much sooner than I had expected. Though I had told my mother shortly after I said yes, I was afraid of telling my father, at least for the time being. Yet it was near the end of the party that the most memorable event occurred, one that would haunt me for the rest of my life, and not in a good way. What good could come out of the most horrifying incident of my life? When my father pulled my mother aside, I decided to follow, hoping, as a child does before Christmas, to get a peek at the surprise before I was supposed to. In a room away from the party, they whispered behind a locked door. Putting my ear against the lock, I tried to block out the noise of the party. “Now, tell me what her surprise is. Why must you keep everything so secretive? I thought you trusted me.” “I am surprised at you, my dear.” My father said laughing. “I thought you would’ve guessed already.” I knew my mother shook her head because my father’s tone became short, something he rarely

did with her. “Mon Astre will pick which one of her siblings will continue to live; the rest will not live to see tomorrow.” For a moment, my mother was silent. “What?” At that, I stopped listening as my eyes widened in horror. Hoping for a brief moment that he was kidding, I continued to listen, though my fears were merely reconfirmed. I wasn’t sure if I felt sick or infuriated at the idea of his present. All but one of my siblings were going to die. And I had to choose which one was going to live. .... Explaining my father’s reasoning wouldn’t be too difficult, no matter how deranged and sadistic the explications were. My parents were struggling financially by the time I turned sixteen, so he needed fewer mouths to feed, which meant he could only afford four of us. Why he had to kill them instead of simply sending them out to relatives elsewhere, or having my mother get a job since we were old enough to take care of ourselves, was outright bizarre. Even as his favorite, I knew I had to betray him. Shortly after I stopped listening, I found my brothers to desperately try to tell them about the seemingly impossible fate that lay before them. We were away from the crowd, but not too far to raise suspicion. “You have to listen to me. What I’m about to tell you won’t seem real, but it is very real indeed. Daddy’s going to kill you, and he wants me to choose who will live. Just hear me out, okay? We need to figure out how to get out of here.” For a moment, they both stared at me. Then they burst out in laughter. Neither believed me, as I suspected they would. “Do you think we’re stupid?” My oldest brother said, his voice like razors. “You might be his favorite, but he would never just kill us off. He may be abusive and not entirely right in the head, but he wouldn’t go that far.” He laughed at me and walked away. My younger brother, however, became serious when we were alone. Looking up at me, he frowned. “Are you sure? Maybe you misheard something else.” I was about to speak when we saw my mother leaving the hallway, close to tears. When she saw our youngest brother standing to the side, she burst into tears and fled. He then turned to me. “I see your point, but what are we supposed to do?” How was I supposed to know? I couldn’t betray my father, the person who loved me the most. Yet I couldn’t sit back and watch my siblings die at his hands, probably in a brutal and obscene way. It was a horrifying decision for a child to make! No matter what, I’d have to choose my siblings, even if it meant facing my father’s wrath for the first time in my life. It was at that moment that I knew: I probably wasn’t going to live past my sixteenth birthday if it meant saving my siblings.

“I have to choose one of you, right?” He nodded, not sure where I was going with my question. Yet, somehow, I decided to try another device before I even brought up the most horrifying idea. “We could call the cops.” He shook his head. “It’s your word against his. Who do you think they’re going to believe?” Sighing, I looked at the party. “We need to hide them. He’s only going to let two of his children live.” My brother’s eyes widened in horror as I spoke. “If it means sacrificing ourselves to make sure they can live, then so be it. I’ll gladly give up my life for theirs.” “And let them live with that sociopath?!” He said a little too loudly. A few people turned their heads, but thought little of it. Still, I wonder why they thought nothing of an outburst such as his. He spoke again, much quieter than before. “What about Mother? Are we going to let her suffer as well?” Suddenly, an idea flashed through my mind. Once it had finished forming, I looked up at him. “Or we can get him caught.” .... “My feet hurt! I want to stop now! I want to stop!” My sister started dragging her feet and complaining nearly thirty minutes into our walk. My youngest brother, however, was silent and obedient, as if he knew what would happen if he wasn’t. While my father was being distracted by my brothers (both of whom I finally managed to convince), I was leading my younger siblings to what I assumed was safety. Looming in front of us was the old schoolhouse from long before my time. Though it was falling into disrepair in the years since it was last used, I knew my father would never find them there. It was to be their safe haven. Opening the door, I hurried them inside. Trying not to cry, I placed a hand on both of their shoulders and smiled. Somehow, I made my words into sweet honey. “If one of us doesn’t come to fetch you by morning, find a house to call the cops. Okay?” My brother understood perfectly; I had a feeling he understood that something evil was at work when our mother cried as she glanced at him earlier that night. He nodded and stood tall, hoping to make me aware of how brave he was. My sister just stared at me, not really sure what to make of her surroundings or my words. Placing some blankets on the floor, I kissed both of their foreheads as I calmly tucked them in. “Try to get some sleep. I’m really sorry about this, but it can’t be helped.” Holding back my tears became increasingly difficult. Pulling back, I smiled at them. “Remember. We’re playing the quiet game tonight. If you make a sound, you lose.” Though I said it more for my sister’s benefit, my brother nodded as well. I cried as I sprinted back to the house. He was going to kill me. There would be no one to find my siblings tomorrow morning; they were virtually on their own. Wiping away the tears on my face, I made sure it didn’t look like I had just cried.

A knock came at my door, followed by my father a few minutes after I snuck back in. I ran to him as always, hoping he wouldn’t suspect my betrayal. He smiled at me, telling me he knew nothing, and led me to the basement. “Your mother’s helping with the surprise, my darling.” Knowing his back was turned to me, I shivered. Who knows what he did to convince her to partake in such a monstrous act. Turning on the lights, I saw both my brothers tied to chairs with their mouths covered. My father laughed at their torment, just as he did after he beat them. “Here’s your surprise, Mon Astre. You get to choose which one of your siblings gets to live. As soon as your mother brings down the others, you can pick. Then you can watch the others die.” “Yes, Daddy.” About a minute after I spoke those words, my mother came down, nearly in tears. “They aren’t in their room. I can’t find them anywhere.” Then she looked at me, as if something else had happened. It wouldn’t have shocked me if she saw my steady at my bedroom window waiting for me to answer. If I wasn’t my father’s favorite, and if he knew that I had already discovered his heinous crime, he would’ve realized it was me. Staring at my mother, he started screaming at her. On the steps, he started beating her down until she was dead. It reminded me of one of my childhood books, where a criminal beat his lover to death after she betrayed him. Seeing his fists dripping with blood, I closed my eyes, thanking the Lord the younger two hadn’t seen it. Taking out an ax, he cut her into pieces and put each piece into a bag. Though I wanted to scream and cry out, I couldn’t think anymore. My mother was dead. Her blood splattered my lucky dress and contaminated my black hair. It was horrifying to watch, but I refused to look away as I began to untie my brothers. Noticing my movement, he wiped his forehead and smiled at me, as though nothing happened. “What’s my birthday girl doing?” I had untied my younger brother by the time he finished asking the question. Moving in front of them while my older brother was untied, I gulped. “She had to die, Mon Astre. She had failed me in her simple task. Now move aside. It’s time for your brothers to die.” Trying not to cry, I shook my head. “Stop it, Daddy! Stop it, please!” When my brother was untied, I moved toward my father, despite my fear. My older brother approached the stairs first. That was his biggest, and last, mistake. The knife in my father’s pocket found a home in his neck. I finally screamed: for my poor mother–for my foolish brother. Within seconds, he was just as dead as my mother and blood pooled across the floor. My other brother went for the door outside. Before my father could lunge at him, I shrieked at him: “Daddy! I was the one who hid them! And when you eventually kill me, they’ll be long gone.”

Slowly walking backward up the stairs, I watched him. My father’s eyes were on me alone, allowing my brother to slip out the door unseen. He was going to call the police while I had our father distracted. “I made sure you would never find them again! And you know what, Daddy? I no longer love you. If you thought this atrocity was a gift, you were wrong. I hope you burn for all eternity!” At that, my father screeched, and I ran through the house to get to the front door, trying to avoid his merciless blade. He followed me, leaving my brother alone, just as I hoped. Even still, every bone in my body screamed to get out of there, but I had to choose to ignore it. I was going to die. Running down the street, I could hear him knock over trash cans as he got closer to me. I started screaming for help. Whether anyone heard me still makes me wonder. Behind me, I heard someone tackle my father. Unable to move any further, I dropped to the ground in sheer exhaustion. My steady tried his best to slow my father down. Looking up at me, he told me to run. Unable to, I burst into tears as my father stabbed my steady’s side; I wasn’t even sure if he was still breathing. Rising, I continued screaming and crying as I sprinted down the street. I knocked on the door of a house with the lights on. I could hear my father getting closer behind me. They weren’t going to make it; I wasn’t going to make it. I was going to be found dead or bleeding out on their doorstep in less than a minute. The door opened as he reached me. The lady stared as my father stabbed my chest, barely missing my heart.

Samantha Katlyn Herbst studies Professional Writing and Music at Bridgewater College

Incandescent Katie Yoder

Katie Yoder studies Political Science, Spanish Language, and Art at Bridgewater College

A Beautiful Dream Jewelia Rodriguez

It’s overwhelming, and painful to breathe In, out In, out Stress and pain It all comes at once Looking at your life. Looking at your beautiful soul Being in your presence A weight is lifted off my shoulders I can breathe again, I know I’ll be okay It’s a beautiful dream looking at your life Your will. The obstacles you’ve overcome Looking at where you are, That's where I want to be

Jewelia Rodriguez studies Computer Science at Bridgewater College

His Astre: Part 2 Samantha Katlyn Herbst

“Breathe in. You can do it.” Over the next twenty minutes, I faded in and out of consciousness. Brief sentences could be heard, but I couldn’t see. I just wanted to die. I did what I had to. I saved all but one of my siblings. It would be better if I was dead; after all, I failed to save him and my mother, even though I tried. I was a disgrace! I knew I deserved to die. Yet, I didn’t, no matter how much I wanted to. They wanted to let me live. They didn’t care that I longed to die. By the time I awoke, my body wasn’t painful or drugged. My body was in a hospital bed, covered with stitches, and my stomach stabbed with hunger. The last thing I recalled was Daddy stabbing me. I didn’t know what happened next. That woman must have called an ambulance, and they must have arrived on time. What happened to my steady? What happened to Daddy? At Daddy’s memory, the heartbeat monitor increased until it was unrecognizable between one beat and another. It was loud enough to alert the nurse on duty, who rushed in. She spoke as she tried to stabilize me, but I don’t think I heard. By the time I was fully aware, my younger brother was there. Unaware that I was awake, he talked about our siblings. He also mentioned that my steady recovered. My brother spoke reassuringly, but I didn’t believe him. After all, I was in the hospital because Daddy was a psycho. He was only telling me about them to make sure I willingly held on. If Daddy was still on the loose, me living would be a death sentence to all. I let go. ... Electricity shook through my being. My body lurched up, giving way to a heartbeat. Air once again filled my lungs and my eyes opened slightly to a room full of nurses and a doctor. Gasping for air, I watched as they sighed with relief. Their patient lived. Soon, they called my younger brother in and watched as he tried to hug my nearly lifeless body. I was limp and barely breathing as he hugged me. Why did they want me to live? If I lived, Daddy would do anything to finally finish me. I was already dead, whether I died tonight or tomorrow morning, so why put me through more misery? Why make me suffer instead of letting me go peacefully before he struck again? It would be better to let me go. That night, I was aware enough to take in my surroundings. A tube with nutrients and painkillers fed into my arm. Since no one knew that I wanted to die, I pulled out the tube. Let me be with my mother and older brother. Let me die.

No matter what I did, they kept bringing me back. Once they realized I was suicidal, they strapped my arms down and kept me heavily drugged, so I just gave up. When I recovered, they held the funerals. A week after their murders, my mother and older brother were buried. My grandparents took us in. No one spoke, leaving a deathly chill in the air. Though I didn’t know what happened to Daddy, I didn’t voice the question. Did I want to know? After everything, would he dare to go after me if he was still on the loose? While my remaining family chatted quietly over dinner, I ate in silence, refusing to lift my eyes even when asked a question. I still didn’t understand why I was allowed to live, but I knew I couldn’t fight it. No one knew what I was harboring. They separated us. My sister and I were put in the bedroom by the stairwell, Meanwhile, my remaining brothers were in the bedroom next to my grandparents. Though I told them I didn’t want to be alone at night, they argued that I wasn’t alone: that I had my sister. I was never sure if they ever really knew what I meant. I loved my baby sister dearly, but she didn’t know what had happened, as grateful as I was of that. For a few restless hours, I tried to sleep without luck. So I took my sister, who didn’t wake when I held her, and carried her to our brothers’ room. Though I hesitated once I arrived, I knocked softly on the door, hoping to not wake my grandparents. It may have been improper, but I didn’t care anymore. My life was already shattered, so what would it matter if I didn’t follow what I was taught in childhood? My fourteen-year-old brother opened the door, unsure of his surroundings. Staring at me, he seemed confused. When he saw me holding our sister, he let me in. For the next week, we snuck over once the grandparents were asleep. One night we didn’t get up early. My grandmother opened the door and stood in the doorway without moving. Since I awoke just then, I was paralyzed in fear. We weren’t allowed to sleep next to each other as children. We were older now, almost adults, so her knowing we did what we weren’t allowed to do meant punishment, and not just for the two of us. Closing the door behind her, she tore off the covers in a blinding flash. At that, my siblings got up and hurried out of bed. We stood against the wall as she crossed her arms. “What were you thinking?” She looked at the door and our eyes followed. When I was about to speak, she interrupted me. “Well? Get going before your grandfather sees you.” Holding my sister, I hurried out of there. When I closed the door behind us, my sister gasped. “Why weren’t we hit?” Looking down at her, I shook my head. “Because she knew we needed each other. It’s not our fault we’re damaged.” The violent memories of Daddy flashed before my eyes. All of my siblings being punished for small misdemeanors, especially if they were directed at me.

Her head tilted up. “Isn’t it Daddy’s?” I never answered. Since we were up shortly before our grandfather, we were ready by the time he left his room. I got my sister ready first. For the first time in a long while, I knew something was different. My body had turned sixteen that devastating night, but I aged at least ten years within an hour. I was an adult before my eighteenth birthday. Despite the cruel torture my father put us through, he helped us grow up. My brothers had yet to finish their brutal conversation with my grandmother, so I grabbed the newspaper that morning. As I was about to turn back into the house, my eyes caught the image of Daddy on the front page. I caught my breath in shock; I was right. Taking off the rubber band, I read the lead story: Murderous Father Still on the Loose; One Woman Found Dead. It was just as I feared. He was coming for me. He waited till I was out of the hospital, when security would be lax. After all, I was the reason he killed my mother. If I hadn’t hidden my youngest siblings, she would still be alive. But wouldn’t more of them be dead? Keeping my cool, I entered the house. After I replaced the rubber band before entering the dining room, I placed the paper at my grandfather’s seat, but I acted like nothing was wrong. After all, why would there be? Especially considering the situation. Planning to pull my brother aside after breakfast, I ate the pancakes in silence. A loud knock came at the front door. My grandfather got up to answer it and we all put down our forks to wait for him. Standing at the door, he spoke for a brief minute. Then he called me out. Looking at my family, I gulped and stood to see what he wanted. Everyone stared at me as I left the dining room. Though I didn’t know what he wanted, I was still very nervous. What did I do? It wasn’t like I could go out. It could’ve been the police, telling me they caught my father. When I got there, I blinked in surprise. My grandfather patted my shoulder. “You have five minutes, junior.” “Yes, sir.” When he walked away, the boy kissed my hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to call you before. They wouldn’t let non-family see you in the hospital, and your grandparents told me to wait.” He smiled at me, but I couldn’t help but cry. Nervous that my father was watching this, I held my breath. Daddy couldn’t know about him. He had only just asked me to go steady on my sweet sixteen. Yet, I knew I couldn’t continue seeing him until Daddy was locked away, for good. Being near me was dangerous, and I couldn’t risk getting him killed because of selfish desire. It would be my fault if he was murdered. “Astre,” He said, using the nickname my father gave me as a child. “My friends are taking their dates out to eat tonight. Would you like to join me?”

I bit my lip. Even if he wasn’t watching, Daddy would hear eventually. He’d know. Part of me was glad I hadn’t told him way back then about going steady, but I was afraid he could find out; that he would know that I lied to him. Looking behind him, I hesitated. “Um, not tonight.” He gave me a funny look. “Well, how about tomorrow night?” Feeling like crying, I knew I had to tell him. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this to you. The day they catch my father, I will gladly go with you. Until then, I can’t risk your life. You cannot be involved in my mess. Believe me, saying no is the hardest thing. I’m really sorry. Once this is over, everything will go back to normal, and we can go steady. Till then, I can’t.” Understanding, he nodded and made no signs of protest. After all, he knew I wasn’t breaking it off because I actually wanted to. I said a silent prayer before entering the dining room. My grandfather asked when my date was. Glaring at him, I spoke the truth. Everyone stared at me when I made my announcement. “What were you thinking?” My brother asked after we cleared the table. “You can’t tell them that. I get why you did it, but they want you to move on.” Looking at him, I frowned. “You know Daddy’s still on the run, don’t you?” When the blood drained from his face, I knew. “So you’ve all been keeping this from me, so I’d recover faster or something? Wouldn’t it be smarter to tell me, so I’d at least be prepared?” “You don’t get it do you? The police have been watching every block for over a week now. Telling you would be pointless.” “I need you to hide them.” I said carefully, eyeing my younger siblings as they sat in front of the black-and-white television set. “Take them far away when you know no one else is watching; then meet me by the bakery in town.” When he asked what I was planning, I shook at that thought. “I’m going to set a trap.” ... While I ensured everyone knew I wasn’t going to be home, my brother hid our younger siblings away. Armed with a knife, I waited outside the bakery, with at least a dozen officers in the shadows. It was getting dark, so I knew he’d be awaiting the moment to finally take me out. The sun just set when I heard one of the undercover policemen scream. Refusing to move, I knew he had met Daddy. The other officers ran to their fallen brother’s aid without a thought, leaving me all alone. It was then that I knew: he knew about my trap. Footsteps approached from the opposite direction. Without any backup to protect me, I ran. Though I had the knife hidden, I wasn’t stupid enough to use it as anything but defense. I didn’t know how to use it, but somehow he did, and he wasn’t going to use it for anything the least bit pleasant.

As he started chasing after me, I knew I was dead. This was what I had been longing for nearly a fortnight ago. Now, I wanted more than anything to live. I wanted to see the sun; I wanted to see my siblings; I wanted to be with my steady. Though I longed to see my mother and older brother again, I knew I had to live on. “Mon Astre!” He cried. He said my nickname over and over, just as he did when I was Daddy’s little girl. The name made me want to run to him, to be his little girl again, but I kept going. This was no longer the father who wanted to give me presents or loved me. This was a killing machine who wanted me to be buried alongside the fallen. He had killed at least four people in a month, maybe even more. This was no longer beloved Daddy. Suddenly he laughed. “Mon Astre, I killed him. That boy you were forcing yourself not to see. I killed him and his friends earlier this evening. All for your sake, Mon Astre. I killed them as your gift. Now they’re all headless figures on their parents’ front porches. Just as I killed my mother and father less than an hour ago.” At that, I screamed. It was a loud scream that reverberated across the dark alleyways and bounced off the businesses and homes. Though my grandparents’ home was getting closer, I didn’t think I was going to make it. As I continued to scream, I knew it would be enough to alert someone. The screams only seemed to make him angrier. I made it to the door. Finding the keys in my pocket, with barely enough time left, I opened it quickly and slammed it shut. I locked it as quickly as I could, just as he reached the door. He pounded endlessly and screamed my real name. Turning around, I realized within an instant that the house smelled of death. If what he said was true, then he either placed his victims here or he killed them here. Abruptly, I saw a shadow. As I was about to scream, my brother covered my mouth. “Are you nuts?” He hissed. “Do you want him to know where we are?” As I relaxed, he pulled away. “When did you get here?” He shrugged. “Not that long ago. I’m wondering where our grandparents are. I was planning on warning them, but the electric isn’t working anywhere.” To demonstrate his point, he flicked the light switch a few times, and nothing happened. “Even the phone line is dead. I tried to call the police, but the cords were cut.” Without thinking about it, I began walking up the stairs. He followed, almost unwillingly, and kept glancing behind him as Daddy kept pounding on the door. He told me I was crazy, but I wouldn’t listen. I opened our grandparents’ door without thinking it through. Their room was unlocked and empty, but it wasn’t until I closed the door that the horror emerged before our eyes.

Hanging from the back of the door, both of our grandparents’ headless bodies were tied together in an eternal embrace. Screaming, I fell, barely able to crawl out of the room. My brother began throwing up in the hallway, and downstairs I noticed my father was silent. I heard what sounded like the backdoor opening at some point, but I could barely register it. Leaning against my door, it opened, and I fell. I barely gained my senses when I saw the world upside down. There, lined up on my bed, were three heads, with eyes and mouths open to a look of shock. They were my grandparents, and my steady. At that I stumbled out the door, and my brother saw them. I fell down the stairs at that moment and he watched me, frozen to his spot. When I managed to stand with the help of the railing, my father grabbed me from behind and took out his knife. He didn’t notice my brother as he slashed at my stitches. The wound reopened and blood began to spill onto the carpet. With the little energy I had left, I grabbed the knife from my sleeve and stabbed his stomach. Screaming, he stumbled back for a moment before taking out the knife and letting it clatter. He then raised his knife and slashed out. My brother was quicker. Without a thought, he shot our father. We watched Daddy stumble before staring at my brother with hatred. He hated his own children; we saw that within his eyes as the bullets from my brother’s gun brought him down. We both watched as our father died on the floor of the house he was raised in, the blood creating a dark pool around him. Losing the last of my energy, I fell. There was nothing left. I was having difficulty breathing as my brother carried me to a car. I faded in and out of consciousness as we entered the hospital. If he hadn’t been there, I would’ve died. All the doctors told me so. The entire time I was in the hospital, I was mute. Both of us needed endless psychiatric care and we were in and out of mental hospitals for a year. Though the four of us grew up, we never made it past my sixteenth year. We were forever trapped in the internal nightmare. After all, we lost everything just to finally win.

Samantha Katlyn Herbst studies Professional Writing and Music at Bridgewater College

Maryanne Meredyth Rankin

From the midnight visits from dad, a gift for my sixth birthday that kept taking until my sixteenth, that never left me with a dry eye or your sympathy as sleep wrapped around me like a safety blanket, To the night of my senior prom, when my pageant queen arms weren’t strong enough to fight off my high school sweetheart, and my screams were lost in your silence, To rising with the sun on a bed of grass, littered with beer cans and red solo cups, no bra or memory, only the Greek letters staring back at me, like your eyes, in disappointment, To lying alone and unconscious in the back of the faded blue pickup truck, my skin splattered with purple and red, after I picked the wrong answer to you and him, To when I stopped for a drink before emptying our medicine cabinet and met Nyssa… And maybe you’re upset that she’s not a man, but I got married, Mother, all the same.1 And maybe this time I can wake up whole.

White, Gail. “My Personal Recollections of Not Being Asked to the Prom.” Creative Writing: Four Genres in Brief, edited by David Starkey, Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2022, pp. 20-21.

Meredyth Rankin studies English at Bridgewater College

The Dream of a Mother Jasmine Jones

Always since I was a young girl, I knew that I wanted to be a mother. My baby whose hair would curl, and my baby who I could smother with all my love — and give it love like no other. Being a devoted caregiver to my children is all I desire, seeing them so happy and filled with joy. My love for them would be as warm as a burning fire, and spending time with them is something I will always enjoy. Aspiring to give my future children a life better than my own and I will make sure that they know they are one of a kind. They’ll forever be embedded in their mother’s heart, so they will never be alone, and they will always know that they are on my mind. The feeling of that warm and loving embrace, ensuring that they are protected with my love. Their soft cheeks on which a kiss I will place, and after receiving those miracles, I will surely thank the Lord up above.

Jasmine Jones studies English at Bridgewater College

My Darling Elizabeth Burzumato

June 7th My darling, I graduated from high school today as the Salutatorian of our class. Ben says I would have made Valedictorian if I hadn't needed to take so much time off from school last semester. I wouldn't have minded not coming in first, except that the Salutatorian has to give the speech. I had decided that the best way to survive this town was to just stay invisible until I could get out, but this morning I had to stand in front of every single person I know. As I spoke about bravery and integrity, I was almost deafened by the sounds of whispered rumors and stifled laughter. Mom left as soon as the ceremony was over;she still can’t handle being around the gossip. Ben and my dad were happy to pretend none of it was happening but, honestly, I just wanted the whole day to be over. Only three more months until I can put this town in my rearview mirror. I’m going to a beautiful little private college three states away. Nobody knows me there, and I can finally start over. All my love, Jessie

November 26th My darling, I just finished my first semester of college! I almost got straight A’s; my mom even told me she was proud of me. Ben came to visit a few weeks ago; it was the first time we’d seen each other in months. Things felt different, not how they used to be. Introducing him to my new friends wasn't what I thought it would be. He just doesn’t belong here. Ben lives and breathes our hometown, and I guess I didn’t realize how much I had changed in just a few months. He wants me to forget about you. Every time I bring you up, he changes the subject. None of my new friends know about you, and I just wanted to talk to someone who might understand. But he wouldn’t hear it. When he left, we decided it was best to put our relationship on pause. I think

I’ll always love him, but we aren't home for each other anymore. I hope you find someone someday who makes you feel the way he used to make me feel. It is the most special thing in the world when it is real. All my love, Jessie

September 4th My darling, I am officially an English major. I started working for the school newspaper, and I absolutely fell in love. I think this might be what I want to do with my life. I met someone too, he’s sweet and smart. I almost told him about you, but my sister told me I need to leave you in my past. She said that’s why I made the decision that I did, so I wouldn't have to tell anyone anything or try to awkwardly explain. So I could just be 18. He wants us to be intimate, but I haven't been with anyone since Ben, not since everything happened. I’m not sure if I’m ready, and I’m not sure how to set that boundary without exposing everything. What should I do, my darling? All my love, Jessie

March 18th My darling, I graduate college in two months. I’m sorry I haven't written in so long. I took my sister's advice and tried to put you in the past. I did the college experience: parties, late nights, lots and lots of homework. But nothing could make me forget about you. That guy I was seeing didn't work out. He said he could tell I was keeping parts of myself from him, and he grew tired of waiting for me to trust him. He was right; I was keeping you to myself, and I didn’t trust him.

However, on the bright side, I have my own column in the newspaper, and I’ve been accepted into a master’s program in Scotland. They think my writing has potential. I can’t wait to go. All my love, Jessie

October 4th

My darling, Grad school is so hard. I have never written this much in my whole life. I guess that’s what I get for pursuing a degree in writing, though. I was working on a short fiction assignment and got total writer's block; suddenly, I was thinking about you. I miss you so much; it feels silly to say it, but I do. Ben got married today. We haven't spoken in years. I’m happy for him, though;he got what he’s always wanted: a simple life in our hometown and a bride to share it with. I never told anyone this, but he asked me to marry him when we found out about you. I just wasn't ready to give up on the idea of college and getting out. There are so many things I want to do with my life, and they weren't going to be possible if I stayed and got married at 18. I can’t bring myself to regret my decision, but I can’t bring myself to forget about you, either. All my love, Jessie

May 6th My darling, I graduated today with an MFA in writing. I stood next to the love of my life, Paul, as we tossed our caps. He is absolutely wonderful, it's only been a year, but I can tell he’s my forever. He is a writer too, science fiction too. Gosh, he’s such a nerd! I’m absolutely crazy about him. I told him about you; he was very patient and kind and asked questions without an ounce of judgment. He was the first person that I’ve told the truth since leaving my hometown.

It felt absolutely amazing. He said he’d love to meet you someday, and I said I would too. I got a job working for a travel magazine so Paul and I are going to adventure around for a few years. I feel like I am finally right where I want to be, and it’s because of you. You lit a fire in me, my darling. You gave me a reason not to settle for less than everything I wanted. I gave you up so that I could have a shot at achieving my dreams, and I knew that I owed it to you to do just that. Thank you for giving me a reason not to give up. I will love you forever, Jessie

Elizabeth Burzumato studies Professional Writing at Bridgewater College

Growing Pains Caroline Green

Caroline Green studies Digital Media Arts and Communications at Bridgewater College

Cat Woman Fish Pamela Rae Zuidema

Pamela R. Zuidema haunts her family in Harrisonburg, Virginia

Dreamscape Caroline Green

Caroline Green studies Digital Media Arts and Communications at Bridgewater College

The Playground Kiya Whitaker

Bree and I seemed more like siblings than friends. It helped that I lived right next door to her, and our bedroom windows sat across from each other. We’d communicate through them before we had phones, sometimes shouting things or using whiteboards when we didn’t want to get caught staying up past bedtime. During the summer, we had adventures around the yard or down the street, often taking my dog Barnaby along with us in case of danger. In the summer right before fifth grade, we found the playground. It was the year of the heat wave, the one which made the whole town so damn stuffy. The only thing you could do was lie on your bed with a thousand fans staring at you, or kneel before the sprinklers in the yard, crawling to follow them as they turned. My parents never liked it when we did that, once wishing to preserve the appearance of our yard before opting to preserve their wallets when the sun became too difficult to combat. Most yards in the neighborhood went from a vibrant green to a dull, brownish yellow. There weren’t any more flowers to attract bugs, which I was grateful for, except for the lawn of Mr. Crowe. He had a sprawling garden of various brightly colored fruits and flowers, and the sprinklers were always going. He lived alone in the biggest house on our street, usually wearing a dark coat and wide-brimmed hat, despite the heat. Most strikingly was his hair: long and white, even though he looked middle-aged at most. I remember Bree and I taking Barnaby out for a walk, and we stopped at Mr. Crowe’s place, hearing the soft patter of sprinkler water. I almost licked my lips at the sight of it too, and I could tell Bree was thinking the same thing. “C’mon, just this once,” she said to me. Before I could protest, she dragged Barnaby’s leash into the opened gate of the yard. We only danced in the mist for a couple of seconds when the creaky screen door of Mr. Crowe’s house slammed open and made us go still. “Can I help you?” he asked calmly. “We’re just… trying to cool off,” I answered. “Looking for something to do?”

Bree and I exchanged a look before smiling. He sat in the chair on his porch and stuck a finger outward. I thought he was pointing for us to leave, but as I followed the direction of his hand, I noticed the rugged trail in the woods. Most used it for forest walks, and sometimes my parents took Barnaby out there. I don’t think Bree and I had ever been before that day. “There’s an old park at the end of the road. Down the trail on the left. Far down.” “A park?” Bree said. He nodded. “I’m sure you’ll find something interesting down there.” I assumed he wanted to get rid of us, so we didn’t accidentally ruin anything in the yard. Bree and I didn’t question it, deciding to explore a new mystery. It wasn’t too long of a walk into the woods, but the hanging branches and debris covering the walkway stalled us since I was terrified of anything clinging to me. Most of all, ticks. When we finally left the woods, we came to a chain link fence with a clearing on the other side. In that clearing was a trailer park, though it seemed abandoned. Bree found an opening in the fence big enough for us to walk through, and while she went inside, I didn’t move. “Are you sure we should do this?” I asked her, clutching Barnaby’s leash so she couldn’t grab it. “Mr. Crowe wouldn’t send us anywhere dangerous, right?” Right. For a kid, that made sense. Why would an adult tell me something wrong? Or send me somewhere that might get me hurt? I didn’t know him well, but he was my neighbor, and my parents spoke to him a couple of times, so it made sense to trust him. I followed Bree, and the first thing we noticed were all the TVs lying around, of various ages, sizes, and models. Some were in good condition –clean in-store condition– while others had seen better days. None of them could turn on or had any wires for an outlet. A lot of the trailers came with strange quirks. One had wooden planks boarding all the windows and doors, and a terrible odor coming from it, like something rotten. We made sure to avoid it. Another seemed to be a giant magnet, as coins, utensils, paper clips, and other metallic objects stuck to its surface. The other trailers also leaned toward it slightly. There was one with mangled road signs sticking in its dirt lawn and another that was upside down. At the center of

this place was a pit, maybe one or two feet deep. It had nothing of interest, so we didn’t bother it. We decided to play around, making up ghost stories to explain this mysterious, new “playground.” As the sun set, we took our questions back to Mr. Crowe, still sitting quietly on his front porch. “What is that place?” I asked him. “Is it safe?” He looked at me with a smile, his eyes shielded by his hat. “Of course it is. I used to play there all the time when I was a kid. Now, it’s yours. Go keep yourselves busy.” And that was all we got from him. Maybe he knew just as much about the place as we did, which was nothing, or he was keeping something from us. It didn’t stop us from going back, or for Bree to convince me to go back with her. We decided to clear the trail that led there so we could ride our bikes and save time. Then, we’d have adventures with Barnaby, sometimes bringing things to use as props —an empty water gun, a plastic bucket, a frisbee that Bree threw too far, landing out of sight. We searched every inch of the playground, following Barnaby’s barks to the pit… which was empty. In frustration, Bree kicked some nearby stones into it, and it seemed to grumble before thin, slimy, black tendrils, almost like worms, wrapped themselves around the stones. They sunk the stones into the dirt, deepening the pit just a little. Bree and I looked at each other with bewildered expressions, before hers shifted to awe. She wanted to keep feeding it… whatever “it” was. While she ran off in search of something else to toss in, I stared at the pit, scrunching my face in disgust. Barnaby nudged against my leg while Bree returned with much larger stones. When she threw them in, they landed with a soft squelch, as if the ground were damp. Then, those worms returned and sucked the stones into the ground, once again expanding the pit. Bree asked for my help, and together we attempted to drag one of the broken TVs in. But something held it in place. There were wires after all, but they dug deep into the ground. While I held the TV up, Bree stomped on the wire, disconnecting it from the TV. Strangely, the wire slid into the dirt, almost like a worm… It seemed all the TVs had something connecting them to the ground, but we opted to use the broken ones. Over time, the worms in the pit were ready for whatever we tossed in, now reaching out and dragging the TVs in before they could touch the ground. The sight of them

made me squirm. As I reached for another TV, Bree noticed the road signs and had us use those instead. She thought that because they were bigger, it would satisfy the pit more. They were farther from the pit and slid out of the ground easily. Before, the worms took the TVs whole, but this time, they crumpled and bent the signs’ pole before sucking the entire thing in. I think we had made the pit about another foot or two deep, maybe even a bit wider too, as the walls sloped a little more. More worms also gathered. I couldn’t peel my eyes away as they stood taller, flailing violently. Some of the ground beneath me slid away, and I almost fell in. Thankfully, Bree was able to catch me, and I stumbled away from the pit with a loud cry. I guess the look on my face finally convinced her to call it quits. We rode back home, and surprisingly, she suggested staying away from the playground. But that was not our last visit. It was the night of a fierce storm, and I woke up to Barnaby barking before he was cut off. When I went downstairs to check on him, he was gone, and the front door lay wide open. On the ground, leading out into the night, was a black trail of something wet. My stomach stirred, and I rushed upstairs to tell my parents. They weren’t eager to head out into the pouring rain after waking up in the middle of the night, but they went anyway. They told me to stay inside, but I was convinced Barnaby’s disappearance had something to do with the pit. The worms. What else could explain that trail? I went to my window and knocked, waking up Bree, and used a whiteboard to tell her what I was thinking. We threw on our raincoats and boots, grabbed some flashlights, and headed for the woods. As I suspected, the black trail led back to the playground. I even noticed paw prints stamped beside it: my worry turned to rage. The journey was slippery, but I didn’t care as much when I fell into the mud a couple of times. When we arrived, something felt different. For one, all the TVs were on, blaring static. The trailers rattled and shook with the wind and rain, and a low rumble, or maybe more of a growl, could be felt through the ground. I knew where it came from. The pit’s walls were covered in hundreds of dark worms, and the bottom was no longer visible –now a void that slowly filled with rainwater. I shouted desperately for Barnaby, begging the pit to set him free, cursing it, then promising to feed it whatever it wanted. At that, all the TVs switched to an error screen, accompanied by the screeching tone that always made me panic. While I jumped, Bree fell completely still, her eyes blank. She grabbed

me, ignoring my screams as her nails dug into my arms, and shoved me into the pit. I tried to grab the dirt walls to stop my fall, but it wasn’t dirt, just rows and rows of worms. My grip slipped and I plunged into the puddle at the bottom, falling back as the worms reached for me. I couldn’t do a thing, so I screamed at Bree, but she only stood there and watched me. Then I felt the worms on me… and I started to sink… I kicked violently, my movements only hastening my descent into the pit. I could feel the worms wrapping themselves around me, trying to dig into my skin. My screams worsened as I clawed at myself, tearing out clumps of black mush and blood. By the time my legs were entirely sunken in, I felt helpless, taking one last look up at Bree to see that she was gone. Instead, there was someone else I couldn’t make out peering down at me. They held something bright and red at their side: a torch that somehow burned despite the rain. The stranger descended into the pit with me, landing without a grunt or cry, and swung the fire around. I started to feel a weight lift from me as the ground around my legs and feet receded. The worms quickly crawled away, burrowing into the dirt walls of the pit. As they all vanished, there was a low rumble again from the underground, almost like a gurgle, but I wasted no time trying to climb back up. The stranger gave me a boost and then scaled the walls after me, leaving the torch behind. The pit cowered away from the fire, which continued to burn. At the surface, I noticed the TVs were silent, their screens burst with shattered glass all over the ground. Bree lay close by, and I had to be careful making my way over to her. Barnaby stood at her side, licking her face, his fur soaked in rain but also covered in dark patches. I gave him my raincoat and tended to Bree, slowly awakening. When she saw me, she started crying, wrapping her arms around me, and apologizing between sobs. I cried with her, but the stranger cut us off. The rain made it hard to see, but I recognized him. “You kids alright?” Mr. Crowe said. I nodded at him to say thanks, my throat raw. We returned home to see a police car on our street and hurried to our parents. We told them everything, about the playground, the pit, the fall, explaining the dirt and scratches all over me. The police agreed to check out the area, suggesting we all head home for the night. Despite what we said, my mom focused on the fact that Mr. Crowe put us in danger, even if it was unintentional, even though he saved us. She forbade Bree and I from going near him or the playground again.

That night, I took a long, hot bath, scrubbing until my skin burned and checking every inch of my body once I was dry. I still had scars from where the worms attempted to dig into me. I checked my bed thoroughly for them before going to sleep, and that became a habit every night until I moved out. I also often woke up from nightmares. I’m sure you know the kind– bursting into fits of scratching and screaming. It was hard to go back to sleep as I could never shake off the feeling that something was on me, crawling from my scars. Bree’s still weird about TV static and even more panicky than I ever was whenever there’s a weather or amber alert. When discussing everything later, Bree wasn’t sure what came over her when she pushed me. She couldn’t control herself and felt paralyzed watching me struggle in the pit until Mr. Crowe broke the TV screens. I could tell she felt awful about it and I didn’t have a hard time forgiving her. My mother refused to tell me what the police updated them on, and Bree’s parents did the same. I doubted there was anything to find, or that they believed us about any of it. Ghost TVs, a living hole, evil worms? It sounded like a bunch of things kids imagine… or have nightmares about. The police spent a lot of time asking us questions about Mr. Crowe, and whether he ever said or did anything that made us uncomfortable. We told them the truth, and even after that, our parents grilled us further. When our stories didn’t change, they switched to educating us on the dangers of trusting strangers. I appreciate their concern, and I always understood it, but if it weren’t for Mr. Crowe, I don’t think I’d still be alive. Or Bree. She and I wanted to give him our thanks, but we rarely saw him outside his house or on the porch after that, not even working in the garden. But it was always taken care of. There were always bees nearby. School started soon after everything happened, and we tried our best to move on, but so many questions remained. What was that place? Did Mr. Crowe know anything more? Why did Barnaby disappear that night? (I still believe it was the worms) The thoughts ran through my mind, but I could never find the courage to go back there. Neither could Bree. We always assumed we’d go back one day, maybe not to find anything, but to conquer an old childhood fear. I never thought it’d be today. It’s been over a decade since that summer. Bree and I don’t speak as much anymore, and we moved from our childhood homes after high school. I never truly forgot what happened, on account of the nightmares and the garish scars, but when I got word from my mother that Mr.

Crowe passed away, it all flooded back with stark clarity. She told me the house erupted in flames one night and the police found Mr. Crowe still lying in bed. Through gossip, she overheard that his body wasn’t as charred as it should’ve been, so the police were able to find something thick and black stuck in his throat. My mind thought of the pit. The worms. The autopsy reported more of this strange, “organic matter” lodged within his body, but the police ruled the death as asphyxiation. They didn’t investigate further. Strangely enough, another heatwave was taking place, and right before the night of his death, it stormed again. I called Bree and we had this unspoken understanding about what to do next. An understanding that led us to pack our bags and return to where we grew up– to that dreadful place. We’ve armed ourselves with matches, lighters, hunting knives, and shovels, cutting a path through the wooded trail and a doorway into the new fence. We ignore the new “private property, no trespassing” sign, and when we get to the old playground, we realize we came overprepared. Everything is gone. The trailers, the TVs, and the pit itself, filled in with new earth. We know where it’s supposed to be, but we aren’t sure if it’s really gone. Bree and I stare at each other, clutching our shovels tightly. “Are you sure we should do this?” she asks me.

Kiya Whitaker studies Digital Media Arts at Bridgewater College

Braveheart

Caroline Green

Caroline Green studies Digital Media Arts and Communications at Bridgewater College

Assless Chaps, Number 2 Stanley Galloway

I dreamed I was a cowboy Rudolph, the brindled elk, wheezing under me bright-nosed, leather-tailed across a land of hills and money unbacked by any government hungry for asparagus sprouting in the bog or doughnuts glazed and calling eat me through the dawn where I awoke without my boots and hat and assless chaps to cardinal song.

Stan Galloway teaches English at Bridgewater College

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2024 Student Editorial Board

Katelin Carter, Editor-in-Chief Katelin is a senior Political Science and Professional Writing with a minor in Social Work at Bridgewater College.

Meredith Scheiner, Senior Editor Meredith is a Sophomore Professional Writing major with a double minor in Communications and Philosophy/Religious Studies at Bridgewater College.

Gabe Miller, Social Media Director Gabe is a Sophomore History major at Bridgewater College.

Jessica Lawson, Creative Director Jessica is a junior Digital Media Arts major and Professional Writing minor at Bridgewater College.

Jadon Goldsmith, Promotional Coordinator Jadon is a junior studies Professional Writing with a minor Economics at Bridgewater College.

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Bridgewater College Department of English www.bridgewater.edu/english