LOL Spring Issue 2013 by cliff jenkins

Lions-on-Line (in print)

Artwork by Dana Langenbrunner

Spring Issue 2013

Table of Contents Cover Art by Dana Langenbrunner…………………………………………………... Note from the Faculty Advisor……………………………………………………...5 “Escalations,” Poem by Sara Kaehler……………………………………………….7 “I am Me,” Essay by Faith Lynd, Honorable Mention in 17th Annual Writing Contest…………………………………………………………………….......9 “Sometimes Mornings Suck,” Fiction by Zachary A. McCoy…………………….11 Artwork by Dana Langenbrunner………………………………………………….14 “Legs and Mirrors and Four in the Morning,” Poem by Rachel Knue, Honorable Mention in 17th Annual Writing Contest……………………………….........15 “The Power of My Subconscious,” Fiction by Megan Erdman……………………18 “Inherent” Fiction by Kent Mendoza, Honorable Mention in 17th Annual Writing Contest……………………………………………………………………….20 Artwork by Dana Langenbrunner………………………………………………….24 “Leaves,” Poem by Audrey Wanstrath, Honorable Mention in 17th Annual Writing Contest………………….……………………………………………………25 “The Fallen Soldier,” Poem by Emily Berning……………………………………26 “Absinthe, Carnies, & the Lost Children,” Fiction by Matthew Kohlmorgen…….27 Artwork by Jamie Grauvogel………………………………………………………34 “Some body some day,” Poem by Zachary McCoy……………………………….35 “Judge of the Hearts of Men,” Fiction by Ethan Myers, Winner in 17th Annual Writing Contest ………………………….......................................................36 Artwork by Sara Kaehler…………………………………………………………..40 “Someone Must Drive the Getaway Car,” Poem by Brittney Dorton, Winner in the 17th Annual Writing Contest………………………………………….…41 “A Beautiful Viewpoint,” Essay by Claire Suetholz, Winner in the 17th Annual Writing Contest………………………………………………………………43 Artwork by Dana Langenbrunner.............................................................................45 “Losantiville,” Poem by Sara Kaehler……………………………………………..46 Submission Guidelines…………………………………………………………….49

Note from the Faculty Advisor This is a very special issue of Lions-on-Line, because in this issue we’ve chosen to feature a selection of the prize-winning poetry, fiction, and personal essays from the Mount’s very own 10th Grade High School Writing Contest, a contest that has just celebrated its 17th anniversary. Nine sophomores in high school were honored at an Awards Ceremony at the end of March 2013 for their award-winning work. The Mount received in excess of 100 submissions in the genres of poetry, fiction, and personal essay. In each category, a first prize was awarded as well as two honorable mentions. Winners were chosen by a panel of student judges and faculty coordinators from the Mount’s English and Communication Studies departments. This is only the third time that Lions-on-Line has chosen to publish work generated by the contest and we hope that you will enjoy the extraordinary words of our youngest contributors. On the pages that follow, you will find award winning personal essays by First Place Winner, Claire Suetholz of Notre Dame Academy, and Honorable Mention, Faith Lynd of Mount Notre Dame; fiction by First Place Winner, Ethan Myers of Cincinnati Christian, and Honorable Mention, Kent Mendoza of Anderson; and poetry by First Place Winner, Brittney Dorton of Mount Notre Dame, and Honorable Mentions, Rachel Knue of Notre Dame Academy and Audrey Wanstrath of Mother of Mercy. Katie Kloska of Notre Dame Academy was award Honorable Mention in the personal essay category and Andi Christopher of Mariemont was awarded Honorable Mention in fiction, though Katie and Andi did not submit their work for publication. The College of Mount St. Joseph received submissions from area high school students attending Anderson High School, Boonville High School, Cincinnati Christian School, Colerain High School, Covington Catholic High School, East Central High School, Goshen High School, Kings High School, Lebanon High School, Madeira High School, Mariemont High School, Mother of Mercy High School, Mount Notre Dame High School, Norwood High School, Notre Dame Academy, St. Xavier High School, Seton High School, The Summit Country Day School and Taylor High School.

Escalations Poem by Sara Kaehler There is a plate. There is a plate & it is breaking. There is a plate that you are breaking over my head. You’re in the kitchen throwing our wedding china Onto the floor, At the walls, Towards the door frame where I’m standing, Begging you to stop destroying every memento That we ever loved one another. This is how I remember irrational you. There is the fire escape. There is the fire escape coated in ice & nighttime. There is the fire escape you’re standing on Naked, Screaming & crying & threatening to jump. I’m asking a stranger for a boost so I can run to you Two steps at a time To cover you with the winter coat your mother gave me The same year I proposed to you. This is how I remember hysterical you. There is a picture. There is a picture on the mantel. There is a picture of you on the mantel, Spinning in the sand at your sister’s beach house. It is before the days when You would throw yourself onto the ground & repeat Over & over & over that you hate me. That was newYou hating me. I would reach out to hold you & try not to show how hurt I was by your words. There was a wild look in your eyes as you howled in agony 7

& an emptiness after your tantrums. I want to remember all the ways youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever looked at me: curiously, lovingly, painfully, & hatefully. There is an oven. There is a sink. The oven coughs up smoke While the sink overflows & I am holding you on the linoleum floor. You keep crying that you hate me, That you have never loved me. I even want to remember the way you broke my heart.

I Am Me Essay by Faith Lynd, Honorable Mention in the 17th Annual High School Writing Contest, Mount Notre Dame By the time you’re fifteen years old you aren’t expected to already know your future; you don’t need to know what college you’re going to, or what degree you are going to pursue, or if you want to have children. At fifteen you might have an idea of that, but it isn’t something that all people already know. But, I often find myself wondering, if at fifteen, you have to know who you are, if you really have to know for a fact who you are in this world. Do you? Looking over what I know about myself, I have come to a simple truth: I am me. You’re probably thinking that it doesn’t take a wild journey of self-discovery to figure that out, but it is the truth. I am me. I’m not a very good athlete or a great artist. I’m not tall or blonde or browneyed. I am a ginger; I’m short; I have blue eyes. Of course, it doesn’t take a genius to see this, the things on the outside, but I’m me on the inside too. I tend to overthink, which can hurt or help me depending, I’m sometimes obsessive compulsive, and I’m sometimes insecure. This is me. I’d like to say that I’m selfaware, but the things that I know about myself are not the only things that make me who I am. Me and my life are like a novel, and I’m not even a quarter through. When you’re fifteen you haven’t seen enough of life to make a good inference of what its purpose is. You’ve only just placed your big toe in the sea that is life and you can’t yet grasp its meaning. But, when you’re fifteen it is possible to have developed some beliefs about what its meaning is. I personally believe that life should be lived, and not watched. You can’t just stand on the curb and watch life’s traffic pass you by, you need to step into traffic and move with it. If you aren’t in the traffic then you aren’t living! You aren’t doing what you should be doing; you can’t stand right on the edge of the street forever, waiting for the right time to jump in. You have to dive in right away. One thing I also believe about life is that God is there to help you replace a tire if you break down in the middle of the traffic. God is always there to support you and help you fix things. I know it’s overused, but it’s simply true, God saves. I pray to God and Jesus and I ask them to help me find my way, I beg them to help me get through the rough chapters in life and I think having such a strong Catholic faith helps me. Sometimes over the course of life your story gets intertwined with someone else’s. Even as a fifteen year old this has happened to me countless times. Every time you meet someone they become a part of your story and you become a part of theirs. It’s not always about finding that one best friend, a lot of times it’s about 9

finding a person or a couple of people that you know will be there, in your life, for more than just a page. It’s important, though, to find a person who lets you be you. You are who you are and through my experiences so far I know that if someone doesn’t let me be me then they aren’t worth even a sentence in the novel of my life. Again, by the age of fifteen you can’t possibly be expected to know what your future is. So, like most fifteen year olds I can’t be certain. I have ideas; I want to go to college, I want do something I love and I want to get married to the love of my life and bring more people into this world. But, most importantly, I know that I will be me. That’s all I know for certain for my future; I will be me. Because, well, I am me. This I believe, that I am me and I always will be. Also, I believe that you should live your life, not watch it. These two things are very important to live by, and though sometimes I lack in confidence and sometimes I’m not sure where this road is taking me or how my story ends, I know that someday I will know. I will know what all of this is for, what life’s meaning is, and why I am who I am. So, in the meantime, I will continue to live my life as me. And that’s the only thing that, as a fifteen year old, I need to believe.

Sometimes Mornings Suck Fiction by Zachary A. McCoy It is never pleasant to wake up next to a garbage can filled with one’s own vomit, but that is exactly what AJ is doing this morning. AJ lets out a small groan and Jessica is there to answer. “Having a rough morning buddy?” Only another groan answers. “Yeah, that’ll happen when you take on the record. No one should ever try to take more than twenty one shots of Red Stag in a night AJ. You should know this.” “Wa— ahem—water?” “Sure thing.” Jessica walks out of the bedroom. AJ pushes the moth-eaten quilt off of him and onto the bare futon. The window is open, cold air pushes into the room and lays thickly onto AJ’s sweat soaked forehead. His stomach churns slowly and the back of his throat tastes like a skunk died, three weeks ago, from sun poisoning. Jessica walks back into the room, “Here’s your water. By the way you puked on my floor and I had to lay down a towel so you’re gonna—” AJ takes the water nodding his head. He starts to drink it, washing away some of the regret that alcohol always leaves in his mouth the next morning. Jessica walks out of the room again to wake up AJ’s ride in the next room. The water touches AJ’s stomach and then immediately decides that it has moved into the wrong neighborhood. AJ retches into the bucket adding to last night’s pool of puke with slightly yellow tinted water. Three people get up from the bed that sits in the corner of the room and walk out of the room quietly, “See ya AJ,” says Steve, shirtless and looking like his hair was caught in a vacuum the night before. Anthony stumbles out without a word looking confused and still slightly tipsy. “Feel better bud” spouts Amanda wearing Steve’s shirt. AJ waves to each of his friends as they exit. Jessica scoots past them with AJ’s ride, both smoking cigarettes. AJ takes a sniff and determines that Jessica is back on blacks while his friend is still smoking Camels. One of AJ’s many talents is to tell the brand by smell, it is his party trick to do in a room full of people who all know one of their own. “Time to go cuz.” Jessica helps AJ up and AJ feels the horrible sensation of being sober and up at nine in the morning. “You taking him straight home Cris?” “Yeah I will Jess. This guy can’t handle anything but his own bed right now.” They gave each other a hug goodbye and AJ stumbles past them and down the 11

steps. The living room comes into view and is full with the people he half remembers from the night before. AJ grabs a coat that seems like his. He walks out the door and falls down the stairs. Picking himself up AJ walks, well stumbles, to Cris’ car, an old Buick that usually takes longer to start than to get anywhere. AJ opens the unlocked door and sits quietly waiting in the car. He rolls down the window and pushes his entire head out into the cold air, snow covers the ground in patches. The neighborhood is quiet: an early Sunday; no one would wake up for another hour or two at the house. Cris stoops into the car and begins the process of starting the car. It takes ten minutes of turning the key, praying to God, cussing out the car and hoping beyond hope for it to start, which may be a new record. AJ sits still, not speaking as the wind rushes in from the window and onto his brow. “AJ, I think we need to talk about what happened.” AJ looks over, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides I feel like shit, can’t it wait?” “You seriously can’t remember? Are you (expletive deleted) serious?” “Yeah Cris, I am (expletive deleted) serious. I am also seriously ill and I just want to be quiet and feel this cold air until I can pass out again.” “You (expletive deleted) lost control last night, you were on the table and you were puking all night I had to leave the room it was so gross.” “Steve and Amanda didn’t seem to mind.” “Because they were too busy screwing drunk to notice. You can’t keep doing this bro, you can’t keep getting shitfaced every weekend and expect it to get better, and she isn’t coming back.” “Shut up, Cris.” “No, no one else has the balls to tell you, but she left man, she left and you’re still here and it’s time you moved on.” AJ feels all the old anger pushing past the hurt that he has been trying to wash down with whiskey for weeks. “You didn’t even know her, you didn’t even like her. I think about it every day how she could just off herself like that, leave me behind in this (expletive deleted) town, I know how long it’s been; it’s been six months and I know I only dated her for three but you know what I loved her, I (expletive deleted)—” “You didn’t love her.” “(Expletive deleted) you, Cris. How dare you? I did love her. You never even (expletive deleted) liked her you never talked to her, never wanted us to hang out together, it was always you trying to talk me out of it, out of her and I don’t even know why. I don’t even understand why you could be so—” 12

“Because I (expletive deleted) like you A.J, I like you a lot. I have liked you ever since we met each other in the third grade, and I still like you now even though you’re pissing me off, I don’t know how many times we talked about getting together before that selfish bitch came into the picture and you may have loved her but you also loved me, and I (expletive deleted) love you so there.” Tears begin to stream down Cris’ face as they are pulling up to AJ’s house. “I don’t give a shit Cris, I liked you once, once. Get over it; thanks for the ride.” AJ slams the door and a migraine splits his head open. He walks inside his apartment building, trudges up the stairs, taking his keys out he unlocks the door. Walking inside he gives up on the dream of making it to the bed and falls asleep on the couch. Cris drives away, back home leaving AJ three text messages, two of them are angry, the other is something else.

Artwork by Dana Langenbrunner 14

Legs and Mirrors and Four in the Morning Poem By Rachel Knue, Honorable Mention in the 17th Annual High School Writing Contest, Notre Dame Academy When you just sit on the mattress in your room thinking And even though it's the middle of February Cold Snowing The wind holds a promise of sickness in it You open the window and let the air bite you The bits of frost cutting through your skin and chilling you straight to the bone. Tears are there. They always seem to be. They aren't the sobbing, waterfall tears. Rather the kind that well up in our eyes Not really ready to run down your cheek but still making things blurry A distraction from what you don't want to see. You sit like this for a while Maybe you have music on, I did. Eventually you start silently choking A lone tear makes its way down the side of your nose. You don't do much but sit there and shake. Maybe it was from the crying and choking It's very possible that it was the cold too. After a while you get up and go to your art supplies. Don't turn on the lights, you don't want to see anything. You may guess at what is going to happen. I bet you're wrong. You sit on the chilled tile of the bathroom floor And you begin to paint. 15

You start with your knees. Then the tops of your feet. You certainly don't care if the cheap paint gets on the floor. Or on your clothes. Gives them some personality. Yes, That's what you've always said. After your legs are covered in words and song lyrics and hearts with "X"s through them You work on your arms. Then your stomach Finally your face. It's still dark but you can see where the paint is on you. You can't read it. But you see the shadows. Thinking back you don't know what happened But you liked it. It wasn't quite "fun" But it was an interesting event. Now you find a paintbrush. You go to the first mirror, the smaller one. And write what you think, What you hear, What you don't see. And then a few fingerprints to show you were really here Painting a mirror at four in the morning. When it's covered enough, you move to the other mirror The largest oneAnd you finger paint it. You give it the most meaningful, random smudges 16

That have ever been created. What a night it was. Terrifying and cold at worst, Surreal and emotional at best. You clean the paint brush and put away the paint And then go sit on the mattress in your room. Open the window And shake until you want to paint yourself With words and lyrics and hearts with "X"s through them.

The Power of My Subconscious Fiction by Megan Erdman It’s springtime and we know what that means. Dad sits on his ass while demanding James to cut the grass, Mitch to pick up dog shit, Sam to clean the pool and me—my all-time most favorite job—weeding. It’s not just removing weeds from a little island on the corner of the house. It is getting down and dirty with a grocery bag by your side weeding four beds in the front yard and the flower spread across the pool around back. It’s the first weed job this spring, which is approximately a two to three hour task wasting my lovely Sunday morning. Worst of all, it is cutting into my daily morning tan, plus I just got my nails done yesterday. After being dragged out of bed before even the Kelly Ripa show is on, I throw on some raggedy clothes, fully aware that there is a good possibility I will have a farmer’s tan. I head out to the garage, listening to my brothers groaning and complaining in the distance. Failing to find gardening gloves, I start up my iPod and get to work on those weeds, cursing at the world and bare-handed. An hour later I can hardly tell whether I’m bleeding from the hands under this thick layer of mulch or its just sweat. I have taken a quick break in the backyard garden because this three-foot-tall weed is unmovable. I try hauling this thing from every angle; it’s impossible. A couple minutes pass by and I start whacking at the weed with a gardening shovel which happens to loosen it slightly. I take a deep breath and get a good grip around it. After the third heave I successfully rip it from the Earth. I chuck the weed into the grocery bag before something catches my eye. I come across a silver ring with multi-colored jewels around the band. The ring is quite beautiful even with the mud crusted over it. I wipe most of it off with my shirt and slide it onto my right middle finger. The fit is perfect. I then feel the first breeze all morning as a bead of sweat streams down my face. After eighty more minutes of hard work I have finally finished and I’m aching to hop into the pool. I open the door to the house to throw on my swim suit and my head is filled with many familiar voices: my mom’s, dad’s, and the brothers’. It’s as if they’re talking right next to me. I look around me and see nothing. I think this is a joke but no one is hiding. I’m at a stand-still as Sam walks past me and asks if the Reds won last night. I look at him and say, “No, they lost to the Braves 4-3.” Sam glances at me with a puzzled look and then I realize that I don’t actually remember those words coming 18

from his lips. I head straight to my room still hearing these voices. I pull the ring off and there is silence. This ring can’t be what I think it is, no way. There is no such thing as a mind reader. Is that what I just did? Did I just read Sam’s own thoughts about the Reds game last night? No way. I don’t know if it is a good idea but I put the ring back on my finger and the voices are back. My Dad’s voice is the most clear. I notice him sitting on the couch on his computer as always. I attempt to act normal and slide into the love seat adjacent to the couch. First there are thoughts running through his head about Sportscenter on ESPN and that his Coke is flat. I start to hear someone’s name I’ve never heard before, something about last night with Suzanna. Who the hell is Suzanna? Should I take this ring off? Do I even wanna hear this? I try and listen to my Dad’s thought,s hoping that he didn’t do what I think he did. My Dad goes on thinking, “I hope Suzanna hasn’t left any voicemails on my phone. Hell if I know how to check those…I can’t wait to go back to the hotel for another great night this weekend.” Hold up. Dad was supposed to be at the Firehouse last night pulling a 36hour shift. He is not a cheater. Do I keep listening? Then my Dad thinks, “She looked so good in that tiny black dress and those…” I pull off the ring and fling it across the room. I bolt off the love seat and stare down my Dad. I walk straight up to him and say, “Are you serious? Who the hell is Suzanne?” He is speechless. My Dad grabs my arm and says, “Wait a minute, Ali… What are you talking about?” I run straight to my room as fast as I can and slam the door shut. I lay on my bed and grab a pillow to cry in. I sit there for what feels like hours with a bad pain in my stomach. I am soon fast asleep. I wake up in a sweat and make my way to the living room. Kelly Ripa is on TV and my Dad is telling James to cut the grass. I looked at the time and it is morning again.

Inherent Fiction by Kent Mendoza, Honorable Mention in the 17th Annual High School Writing Contest, Anderson Nothing has ever made anyone lose his conviction in the world as much as losing faith in his own identity. My childhood as a slave, as short as it was, was far better than a lot, and swaddled me in a sense of warm security that I should not have had. This made it all the more painful to jump into the cold reality of who I really was. I had to learn what it meant to be a slave and who I was at the same time. It shattered my self-perception and made me make one of the most major choices in my life. I was born Ezra Thomas, and grew up on Willows Hill, a tobacco plantation in Charleston, South Carolina. I had my mother’s last name, since no one knew who my father was. My mother was sold quickly after I was born. This meant I lived with Mamma Jane. Mamma Jane was too old to work in the fields, so she was put in charge of looking after the children during the day, when their parents went to work in the fields. She was wrinkled and irritable, but wise. I loved her. My master, Horace Duncan, was not a cruel man, and never took to beating the slaves for the fun of it. This does not mean that he liked, or even respected the slaves. Above all, he loved his money. His wife, Lavinia, was an angry, pinched woman who could not stand Negroes in her presence. For some reason, she always seemed to be especially mad at me, and would glare whenever she watched me when I played with the other children. As a child, I had it much easier than I would later on. Starting around three or four, I would do chores around the manor, sweeping, raking, driving animals or carrying water to the field hands. I was born accepting my duties, feeling that was natural. When I turned seven, I would also run errands and look after my master’s two children, Aaron and Dahlia. During my spare time, I would play with the other children, both white and Negro, in my master’s garden, playing marbles and mumble pegs or wrestling with the boys, while the girls would have their rag dolls and tea parties. I knew that I was different than the owners, looking at my skin, the color of the clay silt in the fields, but I never consciously realized my inferiority. None of the children did, and we would all play together. I was only reminded of that when I would see Ms. Lavinia looking in malevolent disgust at me, and would wonder why. My real problems began when I was about twelve. Few slaves knew their actual ages. My master had a log of the slaves. For our plantation, twelve was the 20

age when children would start to do adult work. We would go up to the barn where the tools were stored and supplies were handed out to slaves twice a year. It was also where food was handed out. Each person got a peck of corn each week. My memories of the place are all tinged with a sort of desperate material desire. I was assigned to housework. This was a surprise to me, since my master generally put those who could not do field work or those he favored there. Usually, Master Duncan would have the house slaves be the women he watched closely in the field. Getting this easy position earned me the animosity of some of my former play mates. However, Ms. Lavinia made sure I was miserable every minute I was working. Never have I experienced a fear of the unpredictable as I did being a house servant for the Duncans. Master Duncan was a local politician, so he had many guests. This also put extra responsibility on the slaves, since the Duncans needed everything perfect to maintain their reputation. However, Ms. Lavinia was the main antagonist in my life. She went out of her way to ensure I was suffering. She would make other slaves trade their hardest jobs with me, so I ended up cleaning the chimney, cleaning up the kitchen and dining room every meal, cleaning the stables, weeding in the gardens and anything else she could find for me. Whenever anything was missing in the house, I was the assumed cause, and was disciplined accordingly. During my numerous whippings, I could always find two sets of eyes on me, the serpentine jade eyes of Ms. Lavinia, and Master Horace’s impassive grey eyes. Master Horace never personally had me punished, but would do nothing to stop Ms. Lavinia from berating me. She was always watching, ready to pounce on my every action. Mamma Jane was wary of Ms. Lavinia. She did not even want me to complain to anyone because there were rumors that the masters would encourage some slaves to be spies, and report gossip to their masters. We would get into heated discussions late at night, as we lay on the creaky floorboards, under rags and threadbare blankets, since we had no beds. Mamma Jane wanted me to just ignore Ms. Lavinia and try to ingratiate myself, but I knew I would not last. I started to look more closely at why she hated me. One day, Ms. Lavinia was being especially malicious, threatening to beat me for leaving crumbs on the tablecloth when I was cleaning up for some guests the next day. I suddenly interrupted her, which was a transgression in itself. “Why do you hate me?” “I, I…” She stood there floundering, and looked at Master Horace, who looked down, looking ashamed for some reason. Then she looked at me again. I felt 21

sort of naked under her gaze, like she knew more about me than I did. Trembling, she hoarsely whispered “Get out of here.” I did not understand. I had walked into the manor fully expecting a vicious beating and the satisfaction of being able to unsettle Miss Lavinia. Now, however, I only felt a swirl of questions in my head thicker than any summer day. Why wasn’t I beaten? What made me different to her? Why would Master Horace be ashamed? Then I understood. I tore back to the dilapidated shed I lived in to find Mamma Jane with some toddlers that she looked after during the day. She jumped in surprise. “Who’s my father?” She jumped again. She sputtered for a moment, and protested that she did not know. An uncomfortable silence filled the shack to the brim. “It’s Master Horace isn’t it?” She deflated. “Yes.” It was the reason my mother was sold. I felt betrayed. How could my own father stand and watch as his wife beat me? How could he let me be whipped daily? In the slave community, kinship, and loyalty to that kinship was not only important, but vital. It is what keeps us sane and human. Parents would travel miles at night to see their children. Freedmen always came back to buy their family. My own father didn’t even acknowledge me. I cried that night alone, without parents. The next day, I was informed that I was now a field worker. As I approached the tobacco fields in the shimmery air that thrummed with crickets and mosquitoes, I found Ned Dumont grinning down at me, a whip in hand. He told me that Ms. Lavinia asked him to keep a special eye on me. I was put to work, hoeing the dry earth as the other slaves sang slow, sad songs. Ned beat all the slaves, with a gleam in his eye as he disciplined them for imaginary mistakes. He made sure to break me in, beating me repeatedly until I worked at a satisfactory pace. As this was happening, I wondered what made me a field hand, while the Duncan children were free. Why was I being punished for being a Negro? Why was I being punished for being a bastard? I had no control over either. I learned then what it meant to be a slave; it meant to not be in control of your life. I decided then that I would fight fate. That night, Master Horace was entertaining the Governor of South Carolina himself. Ned left me to find another slave to antagonize. Prickles of anticipation pulsed in waves from my stomach. The world seemed to be slightly off-tilt. I had always done everything I could to please my masters. I wanted to be the obedient slave. Pleasing Ms. Lavinia was always a challenge, so I grew to strive for it. Now, they had truly done something unpardonable. They had violated the bonds of family, both of them. Master Horace left me fatherless and Lavinia sold my mother. 22

I stole towards the huge white manor, glowing warmly from within. The bullfrogs in the nearby pond croaked up a choir. Dusk was starting to creep in, and the yellow-orange light from the windows blurred in streaks through my watering eyes. I reached the oak door of the house. Up until now, I had been determined to carry out my play, but now I faltered. A cool breeze started to blow. Did I really understand the consequences of what I was doing? I could easily have a much worse fate put upon me than being a field worker. Yet, my betrayer was on the other side of the door. I burst through the door, to the absolute shock of the dining guests. I went up to Master Horace. “Hello Father, did you introduce your guests to me?” He was speechless. He sat there, at the head of the table, gaping, with small beads of sweat starting to form on his brow. The guests just sat and looked shocked to see a slave so impudent. Lavinia had a strange look of vindication flash over her vulpine face before it twisted back into contempt. Ned crept in, looking extremely agitated until his eyes fell on me. He dragged me by the collar of my shirt. I was thrown into the pig sty. “The animals belong in the pen,” he hissed. By the end of the night, I didn’t have any skin left on my back, and about half as many teeth as before. The next day I was sold. The traders cuffed me by the hands and feet. I had been to the Saturday market a couple of times to buy groceries with the cook. I felt like a goat, being inspected and probed by potential customers. I saw a little girl, no older than little Master Aaron, look dazed, when she was sold apart from her mother, and burst into tears when she finally understood that she was being separated from her family. Mamma Jane was sobbing nearby, and I felt a deep wave of regret wash over me for forgetting her. I was sold to another plantation in Virginia, where I was still miserable and humiliated, yet I had controlled my destiny for the first time. I had felt what it was like to be free.

Artwork by Dana Langenbrunner

Leaves Poem by Audrey Wanstrath, Honorable Mention in the 17th Annual High School Writing Contest, Mother of Mercy A thought provoking cluster, Of orange and gold colors, Frivolously floats to the ground. Upon the sweet days of autumn, They are lost but not forgotten. Leaving a soft, crunching sound. To many this may appear, Normal for the time of year, But to me there is so much more. The soldiers who died, Give the rest of the forest life, And are remembered for their bravery in the windy war. What can we learn from these heroes? Many things, you just have to search. Like how sometimes gravity brings us down, And hitting the ground is going to hurt. The beauty that is shown in these fighters, Is that really; they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fight at all. They simply let go of the place they call home, And smoothly to the floor; they fall. How calmly they fall, side by side. Taking true â&#x20AC;&#x153;Until death do us part.â&#x20AC;? More romantic than a groom and bride. More angelic than a piece of art. As time goes, the wilderness grows, Crumbling the veterans to pieces. The rest of the land is able to survive, Because of a love that never ceases. Then eventually the elderly trees, Become old men as their youth recedes, They let out a final aching speech, Saying thanks for their lives. In the memory of leaves. 25

The Fallen Soldier Poem by Emily Berning Sitting alone in the empty house, Beer cans scattered on the floor, Trying desperately to stay awake So the memories won’t haunt my dreams. The days move by so slowly, As I walk around in a daze. The nights are my worst enemy As I drink myself to sleep. I cannot go outside anymore As to avoid the question That pierces my soul “What was it like over there?” Thinking about The screams of the fallen Hearing the cries for help Seeing my best friend die again And the invisible enemy In a crowded market All I can answer is this, “Imagine getting up everyday Not knowing if you’ll make it back. Imagine looking at the people next to you And knowing they might be The person who saves you Or the person who dies in front of you But either way They will change your life, forever. ” And now as I walk into my small house, The screams still flood my memory. So I turn on all of the lights And sit in a hard chair As I listen to the rain, Pounding loudly on the roof 26

Absinthe, Carnies, & The Lost Children Fiction by Matthew Kohlmorgen Often enough a person will arrive at a place in their life that is never as inviting as the moment that they are in. It is a standalone truth of life that too many has-beens and wannabes understand all too well. Youth is the time for inspiration and aspiration; there is no time to be a has-been or a wannabe, it is all fresh. But, youth has a way of backfiring on the sublimity of aspiration: one day you are young and, in what seems like a second in the wind, you are middle aged watching your life and dreams age with a receding hairline and sagging ass. You know that when you notice this phenomenon, your youth has left you; it is as dead as your sex drive. Two youthful bohemians lie naked under an oak tree, accompanied only by thousands of fireflies lightly illuminating the field and the voices of drunken cheers and party music a hundred yards away. Silently, as if to hide their affection, both contemplated their own futures. If they were to end up together then they would both consider themselves lucky, but truthfully, neither of them were ready to end up with anyone just yet. There were no smiles, no romantic stares into each other’s eyes, no cuddling; she just lay on his chest, back turned, staring at the lake absorbing her surroundings. He lazily allowed his arm to sling over her left shoulder, to mock the intention of holding her whilst remaining cool. He would move only slightly to touch her left breast. He would smirk when he could because he knew that she didn’t notice, at least she didn’t allow him to know that she did. It went on like that for an hour until he grabbed his noticeably artificial leather jacket and pulled out a pack of Morely cigarettes and a box of matches. Straight out of an S.E. Hinton novel, she thought. The match popped and the soft darkness was rudely interrupted by the light of the match. He lit his cigarette with his last match and threw the matchbox into the lake just a few feet away. “Littering? So unbecoming,” she twisted her head forcing a distance between them, flirting with the effort to escape his chest; he was amused. “I’ll make sure to be more aware of my carbon footprint from now on.” With a large, victorious smirk he took a long drag and exhaled a large wind of smoke. She tried to act un-amused but gave in to the charm. She grabbed the cigarette from his mouth and took a long drag of her own leaving nothing but a grey line of burning ash on the filter. One drag on the butt of the death-stick and she practically used the entire cigarette, Lungs of a beast, he thought. She was definitely a carnie. “Who’ll save the world if not us” she said a bit more soberly. “Who says it needs saving? I like the world the way it is” 27

“There is plenty to save it from” “Like what Wonder Woman?” “For starters, assholes like you!” she flicked the cigarette onto chest, the embers of the ash still red and spreading in midair to his face. She took his clothes in an attempt to leave him naked on the lawn, laughing and quick on his feet; he quickly began to pour what little whiskey was left in the bottle on her hemp skirt. Immediately she dropped his clothes and tackled him to the ground, pursuing the bottle. “That’s blasphemy!” “Your poor skirt.” “Screw the skirt; I meant the whiskey,” he refused to give up the bottle; there was at least a mouthful left. Both knew whoever got the final sip would be in control. Neither would relinquish such an ecstasy easily. Preston threw the bottle a few feet to prolong the conflict. They wrestled on the ground like gladiators as they fought over the bottle. Drunk, naked, and aroused they ferociously enjoyed every minute of it. Annabel managed to get Preston onto his back and pinned his hands down on the long uncut field grass. On top of Preston she grabbed the bottle a few feet away making sure to keep one hand locked on his shoulder and used her free hand to twist off the cap. “I guess this is my prize.” She tilted her head back and with one gulp she consumed the rest of the bottle. Jesus she is unreal, he thought as she downed the rest of the bottle. With the actions she took she would be dangerous to any chain-smoking lush, but her body and appearance completely contradicted her actions. By appearances she was healthy, gorgeous and smelled like a French whore, which wasn’t bad considering the company kept around her. As her throat burned from the alcohol she registered Preston and his prize. “Again, already?” She quickly stood up. “I’m not a piece of meat you know,” she said, whimsically scoffing at him. “You’re the one who instigated this, hypocrite,” he threw the empty carton at her and she flicked it away with a wave of her hand. He made his move and moved in like an animal moves in for its prey. She ran slowly, he came up behind her and gripped her body. She moaned softly as he bit her neck. She took his hand, moved it up her leg and without warning kicked the leg that pivoted his balance and pushed him violently into lake. He crashed into the shallow wake, splashed around in an attempt to gain some measure of composure in the water until he finally managed to stand. “Once is enough for me; I wasn’t impressed,” she lied. Not sure whether she was lying he picked up the part of his ego still intact and faced his attacker and 28

denier. He pulled his long wet hair out of his eyes and laughed. “That was for my skirt,” she extended her hand to help him ease up the muddy bank. He grabbed her arm with both hands and pulled her into the water with him. She crashed, possibly worse, and gasped loudly. “You, you basterd!” she meant it, but like Preston, Annabel was amused and aware of the charm in the situation. She, with longer hair than Preston, moved her own hair out of her face to turn and kiss him. It was a long kiss, the moon reflecting on the water. The smell of the party’s large bonfire reached them and they didn’t care. She bit his lip hard enough to break skin and have him pull away at the immediate pain. They began to wade back to the bank and they climbed on shore. “Damn, my lip is bleeding.” “Don’t be such a pussy,” she scoffed and she continued to laugh while she rang out her hair. Soaked, both of them decide to put on their clothing, unmoved by the knowledge that their clothes would stick to their bodies. Preston, always fashionable, dressed in a sky blue t-shirt, a v-neck-something his friends teased him for, complimented by a pair of white fitted linen pants paired with his sandals. His hair was something to admire and envy, perfectly long and full of volume. He had dark green eyes that Annabel found all too invigorating. He was well built and aware of his body, neither too tall nor too short. He admired Annabel’s profile, beautiful red hair, not tall at all, but her body wouldn’t compliment any more height. Her skin looked perfectly porcelain and her teeth were wildly white and fixed, unusual for a carnie. It was probably her gimmick at the carnival: see the chain-smoking carnie who can inhale an entire cigarette in one drag and down a bottle of whiskey in one attempt. It would make for exciting headlines, all whilst maintaining an elegance that put some well-dieted gymnast to shame. She put on her shirt, which wasn’t much of a shirt: royal purple that revealed her entire back and the lower half of her chiseled stomach, along with a blue skirt that tied around her waist, revealing her right leg. She grabbed his shirt tugging at him to rush to the party. Apparently it had only just begun; his alarm was contrasted by excitement. The drinking had begun nearly four hours ago, enough time for him and Annabel to find plenty of privacy. They made their way to the field that hosted the carnival. The operating hours were over; it was late but the fest that was full of booths and tents had been transformed. Lanterns and streamers hung on cables across the “street” of attractions. A miniature stage had been built at the entrance for fiddlers and singers. The entire location was brimming with marijuana smoke, alcohol, music and festivity. “What are we celebrating?” 29

“There doesn’t have to be a reason does there?” She yelled in his ear over the music and he nodded to the fair point. But, they were celebrating. It happened whenever they reached the last day of a festival. They were festive, that was the point and they would never forget it. There was a mob of dancers, all undulating with the music: exotic, erotic, classy, alternative, whatever a person’s vice or poison, this atmosphere was un-judging. Before Annabel could say a word she disappeared into the mob and Preston saw two attractive girls approach him from both sides. Before he could protest, he had already been grabbed and pulled into the swarm of dancers. It was odd and felt suffocating; he didn’t dance and never aspired to, what’s more he was unable to adapt to the chaos that ensued on the dirt floor. To Preston this number was choreographed chaos, everyone doing their own dance, to their own rhythm and yet oddly the mass was completely in sync. He was caught in a whirlpool of vice, people touching one another, drinking wildly, sharing their bottles and joints. He was being tossed around from person to person and woman to woman. His mouth had reached three women already and at one point, he thought he felt facial hair. He was drunk and didn’t know whether it was something to care about. All the dancers and lip-locked partners appeared in a drunken haze and disappeared just as fast. Finally the intoxication began to catch up with him. The buzz, the warmth, the numbness of his face; all complimentary, everyone was on his level, or he was on their level. Finally, he was utterly welcome, unbridled to be what everyone else was without the fear of dishonest conformity weighing on his conscience. He left the crowd of dancers that were kicking their legs and skirts in the air. From afar it looked like an abstract painting that moved. Large skirts of color waving in the air, almost resembling an American Can-Can dance. It was fascinating. The music of the acoustic musicians deafened his ears as they played behind him, old rusty saxophones, trumpets, guitars, a violin and a cheap drum set. Jazz in the boonies of New Orleans, what could be better? He saw a woman next to him, old, almost ancient looking, as if she had been alive for a hundred years. She was smoking a cigarette through a hole in her neck and there was an oxygen tank next to her. He tried not to stare; she snapped her head violently to look at him, staring so deeply into his eyes that he could have shivered if he didn’t know he could outrun her. “Mind if I have one?” he asked stoically. She grimaced and snorted through her nose. She threw the half-finished cigarette on the ground, replaced her oxygen and waddled away in a method that only a mummy should. Preston knelt down to pick the cigarette up. He inspected it, put it in his mouth and dragged the cigarette to light the ember once more, why 30

waste it? He thought to himself. He finished the cigarette in three short puffs. The gentlemen next to him passed around a blunt that had an aroma that overpowered the cigarette in Preston’s hand. Everyone moved to the rhythm of the music in one way or another. Bottles were passed around to drink; glasses were nowhere in sight. The only illumination that was available was the light from the oversized bon fire that was only a few feet away from those that were dancing and playing instruments. Preston scanned the crowd for Annabel. Nothing. He was woozy from the alcohol, second hand reefer, and lack of water. Losing his stability he took a step back to give his ringing ears a rest from the annoying snare behind him. Annabel crept up behind him with a bottle of her own, jumping on his back and wrapping her arms around him. He pretended not to be overwhelmed by the suddenness of her weight, but in reality it nearly toppled him over. She took a swig of the bottle and made a face that reacted to an apparent bitterness. “Take a drink, it’ll make you wiser,” she laughed drunk and smiling. It was a label he had never seen before. She released him and moved in front of him obstructing his view of the tantric dances in front of him. She handed him the bottle, pivoting her leg again and again revealing that her own balance was getting jumbled. It made Preston unnerved. After all, she could certainly hold her alcohol so she must have taken in an extreme amount to throw her equilibrium off. “What is it?” He squinted to read the French writing on an ornately adorned label: La Nouvelle Orleans de Absinthe Suppierer. “Absinthe? Doesn’t that make you hallucinate?” She rolled her eyes and genuinely looked as if she were going to punch him. She balled her fist at the ready for the possibility if he said anything as wildly stupid as that comment ever again. “No!” She shouted over the music and grabbed the bottle as if his touch would bastardize the drink itself, “It un-inhibits you, allows to think like you never think and feel the way you never thought you’d feel. On top of what little you have already drunk it should be absolutely perfect.” She was serious and sassy at the same time. Calling him a lightweight without actually saying it was another blow to his ego. He took the bottle and the second the absinthe touched his tongue he pulled the bottle away from his lips. They pursed tight and he closed his eyes in a way that looked like they would never open again. Scornful amounts of laugher permeated over the music, Annabel and a few musicians mocked him at his inability to swallow the immensely bitter spirit in his mouth. He managed to get the liquid past his palate and gulp with everything he had. He keeled over to prepare for the liquid to make a return trip. “You are such a lightweight,” she took another swig holding 31

the bottle in true boho fashion. “But then again it is supposed we were supposed to add water, so I guess we’ll cut you a break”. “Thanks, I guess,” he said, breathing heavily as if the encounter with the absinthe was the hardest thing he had ever done; he felt a sense of pride that he kept it down. “It tastes like I swallowed a licorice bar” “Very good, it is made with anise and is worth its salt in alcohol. They call it the artists’ drink. Oh and who could forget the famous green fairy,” she flew her hands up and made several ghostly sounds, attempting a mock mystique. Ultimately, it ended up just being a silly rendition of ghoulish sounds. He remembered that she said it was supposed to be diluted with water and this interested him. The artists’ drink, it was worth looking into. “What does it taste like with water?” She smirked and grabbed his damp shirt tightly pulling him toward her modest tent in between two trailers. At first glance he believed that this scene belonged in a 1980’s horror flick with a masked man waiting in the trees that were right behind them. The heat of the fire began to die as they moved further away, the light became darker and their skin became cooler. Their clothes and hair smelled of burning wood, burning pot, and liquor, a perfect evening for a lush with nothing better to do in Louisiana. Inside the tent she took a bottle of water and a wine glass out of her small hamper. She poured a less than modest amount into the glass. The spirit itself was green, emerald-like and had a translucence to it that actually interested Preston. The water being poured into it turned the emerald green into a white opaque shade. “Ready?” she smiled slyly without looking at him. She put her nose up to the glass and took a deep breath, admiring the smell. She gracefully placed the bottle on the floor and corked it. She took a sip herself, a break from her usual method of chugging and gulping alcohol, this was a drink that required class. Without method and ritual the purpose of adding water is nearly useless, the aesthetic is part of the charm and effect. She handed it to Preston and he was cautious. His palate was still burning immensely from the last attack of the green fairy. He smelled the opalescent drink resting in the glass and it was different. Phenomenally different than what he had tried from the very same bottle only a few moments earlier. He sipped the drink, prepared his mouth and mind for a shock of repulsive anise and a punch of hot alcohol. He swallowed the drink. It was bitter and pleasant and it tasted refreshing, washing all the whiskey and nicotine out of his mouth. It was sweet, bitter, cool and perfect. “He is in love,” his head shot up it took him a moment to register the phrase. She chuckled and approached him again. She took the glass and sipped the 32

absinthe, he followed suit. They sipped the spirit lightly together and lamented when the glass was empty. Discarding the glass she took her hand and softly caressed his face. She traveled her hand down his body and his hand traveled up her own. They were both inebriated enough to be uninhibited, yet lucid enough to know what they each wanted. The sounds of the party were dying as men and women passed out in their trailers, on the ground and musicians stopped playing to drink their own desires. Some were exasperating the happiness they already felt, others were drinking to become happy, less but assuredly present individuals were drinking to forget their problems. They drank the whiskey, rum, and hooch from the bottles, passing them around with no thought to one’s own. Selfishness didn’t exist here except in a lonely beige tent. Their legs began to entangle, their mouths were locked on one another and their clothes were off as quickly as they were before. The night carried on like this, for hours the world did not exist outside the modest size of this un-reputable carnival festival. They had only one world, theirs. Amidst the wild crowd, Annabel grabbed Preston’s neck aggressively, almost painfully, and kissed him, biting his lower lip as she pulled away. His lip began to bleed once more. He didn’t complain this time. It wasn’t perfect, but who needed perfect?

Artwork by Jamie Grauvogel

Some body some day Poem by Zachary A. McCoy I grow weary of the waking working world & all those textbook words. I am tired of the tired ways of tiny men who try to stand too damn tall. Their backs hunch over should-be forgotten works of old poets who don’t stand up to modern masters. There is no celebration for new poets who still breathe life into a dying form. They’re no Chaucer or Bukwoski or Will I Am Shakespeare or any of those old dead farts. They’re still nobody and they’ll be nobody until they die.

Judge of the Hearts of Men Fiction by Ethan Myers, First Place in the 17th Annual High School Writing Contest, Cincinnati Christian February 23, 1781 Easton, Pennsylvania James Morgan clutched his coat tightly with one hand. The chill wind cut through his clothes, making his knee ache, as old war wounds often do. His other arm wrapped inside gripped a pistol, loaded and ready to fire. He fought to reach the door, barely making any headway against the biting gale. At last he stood upon the threshold. His gaze moved swiftly along the stone façade of the house. Five windows looked sternly down upon him from beneath the gabled roof, whose four chimneys blew smoke nearly horizontally into the wind. The final rays of light from the dying day struck the sheet of smoke, creating a scene that would cause most men to stop and look on in awe. But James Morgan was not like most men. He reached out a wind-burned fist and rapped three times upon the white wood face of the door. As he waited there in the cold, he imagined he heard the sound of footsteps, the scraping of a latch being drawn back, perhaps the rattle of an old man fumbling with the door knob, but in truth the only sound that reached James Morgan was that of the wind pounding ferociously against his ear drums. At last the door was pulled open, and there before him stood a man who was not hunched over with age. His demeanor was not one of debility. He stood nearly a whole head taller than James Morgan, and looked him in the eye with the peaceful determination that was befitting of a man who had signed perhaps the most audacious resolution thus far in history. Surely this was George Taylor. “Mr. Taylor?” “Yes?” The blast from James Morgan’s pistol threw Taylor to the floor with a thunderous noise that shook the entire house. Pulling his coat tightly around him again, James Morgan reached in, closed the door, and without even a glance behind him, strode down the lane. As he reached the road, he turned, and following it uneasily along the edge, he made his way to the meeting place. It was a quarter past ten when at last he stood in the lamplight just outside the tavern’s entrance. It threw out an eerie glow upon the street, a ghoulish luminescence that would make most men feel a turning in their gut. But James Morgan felt nothing. He put a calm, steady hand into his coat pocket 36

and drew out a slip of paper. Turning it about so that it caught one of the long streaks of lamplight, he read it once again, quietly, to himself. My dear Mr. Morgan, It is an unfortunate business that brings us together. I fear that in the sight of God, the betrayal of one man is a poor defense for the undertaking of such great sin, yet for the sake of this nation I would brave Hell itself. But I am told you care little for reason, therefore I shall be frank. The first man to whom I must send you is one Mr. George Taylor. He lives alone, and has grown feeble with years, or so I am told. But bear caution, for he was a true man, and bore a resolution befitting of a man of his stature. Once you are through, go to the tavern in which you were first contacted. You shall then receive further instruction. Ever Yours, G.W. Carefully, James Morgan folded the paper and tucked it back into his pocket. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled open the door to the tavern and stepped inside. The haze of tobacco smoke that hung in the air would have made a man unaccustomed to it cough and wheeze, his lungs burning. His eyes would grow red, tears falling unbidden to the floor. James Morgan’s eyes, however remained green. A peaceful, calming green. The color of sunshine on pine trees. The color of fresh grass after a spring rain. For, James Morgan was not a man unaccustomed to this place. Many a night he had spent at a table in the corner. He could see that table now. At it sat a man whose face was shrouded in shadow. He wore a long black coat out of which protruded a single long-fingered left hand. On the little finger of this hand was a small gold signet ring. The owner of the hand was a man of great size, and on his head he wore a tri-cornered hat. Slowly, James Morgan approached the table. For the first time since his days as a soldier he felt the harsh pinch of fear. It passed swiftly, as all emotions did for James Morgan, and, pulling the chair back against the wall, he sat at an angle to the man in the corner. “Mr. Morgan. I was pleased to hear that your meeting went well.” The man in the shadows turned, and for a moment James Morgan caught a glimpse of a strong, curved nose, and a pair of firm eyebrows overhanging a pair of deep-set eyes. “It’s quite a bloody wake our General Arnold and these treacherous companions of his have left, is it not?” Deftly, James Morgan nodded, growing impatient with this large, soft-spoken shadow. 37

“Ah, but you are a man of action. Here is your next name, then, Mr. Morgan: James Caldwell. You will find Caldwell in Elizabethtown. I have others ensuring that he stays quiet for the time being. I suggest you establish some type of cover once you reach Elizabethtown. You can take your time, but do not mishandle this job. Any connections made between your work and my office would be most…embarrassing.” November 24, 1781 Elizabethtown, New Jersey The eyes of a sentry swept slowly across the dock. In their relentless course of scrutiny, they fell upon many similar guards asleep at their posts or daydreaming. But not this one. No, for this one was not on the lookout for petty crime. A merchant’s outraged cries and insistence on the pursuit of a shoplifter or other such miscreant did little to affect the demeanor of this sentinel. This sentry was James Morgan, and he was looking for a man. At last, there came a man who was, by all appearances, a simple clergyman of perhaps sixty years, stepping down from a sloop with the joyful gait of one bound for a house call. He carried a package, which James Morgan had arranged for him to receive. In the eyes of the public, he was nothing but a smuggler dismounting his ship. James Morgan moved closer. If he refused to cooperate with authorities, what choice would a poor sentry have? “You there! Hold!” James Morgan’s voice caused Caldwell to halt. Turning, he made reply. The bustle of the dock turned his words into a set of sounds that, even to the most keen of ears, would have no more meaning than the sounds which a baby makes when alerted to something unusually fascinating. James Morgan motioned for Caldwell to come closer, his finger twitching as he shifted the weight of his musket slightly. “Forgive me, master sentry, I was simply retrieving a package.” Caldwell’s face bore all the innocent kindness one might expect from a man in his field, a mask that could disguise even the most poisonous of hearts, but James Morgan was not moved to compassion. “My master bids you welcome, James Caldwell, and has resolved that you should be made aware of the debt which you owe to him.” James Morgan’s green eyes twinkled. Already he knew the course, which the conversation must take, and the end to which it would lead.

“My gentle sir, you must be mistaken! I know not your master, but I know most certainly that I am beholden to no man! What is the price to which your master lays claim?” “I have your bill here, Reverend,” James Morgan lifted his musket. He brought it to his shoulder, his finger brushing the cool metal of the trigger, “Behold; the price of treason.” The musket fired once. A single shot shattered the cool sea air, and a musket ball tore into the heart of James Caldwell. The dock’s less observant guards were now fully awake. They made their man quickly, and taking James Morgan by the arms led him to face their captain. A rumor was ignited, and quickly spread that it was for monetary gain that Morgan had killed Reverend Caldwell. And it was amidst these rumors that he was hanged for murder on January 29, 1782. When the hangman asked for his final words, James Morgan remained silent. But as the noose was tied about his neck, a woman cried out from the crowd, “How can your heart be so black?” In reply he uttered a single phrase, “God alone is the judge of the hearts of men.”

Artwork by Sara Kaehler 40

Someone Must Drive the Getaway Car Poem by Brittney Dorton, First Place in the 17th Annual High School Writing Contest, Mount Notre Dame Someone must drive the getaway car and hold the rope. The world is full of saving graces Charging in like lightning They make the close call Put together the puzzle, swoop in And rescue us as the clock strikes twelve. They are a presence to behold sending Ripples through people who take one look and say â&#x20AC;&#x153;That is someone to remember.â&#x20AC;? The world is full of these shockwaves. And yet, there has always been a need for someone To shout encouragement, talk to the press Stand behind and smile. The sidekick The best friend The second rate savior. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride. The world is full of Sherlocks and Harrys and Bruces and Kirks. And each would be lost without Johns or Rons or Robins or Spocks. And yet I cannot help but wish To be Just once For a day, for a minute, for a moment The one to solve the riddle Or end the war Or save the day. I would settle to turn a head Be worth a second glance Start a spark. 41

For the hero packs up their glory The universe in a little blue box And goes off, on to continue another adventure when For the sidekick the first never ended. And the journeys fade into memories Left behind, waiting, every loyal. For every hero needs someone To clean up the mess To share in the victory And pick up the pieces when the plan falls apart. Yet just once Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to be the hero.

A Beautiful Viewpoint Essay by Claire Suetholz, First Place in the 17th Annual High School Writing Contest, Notre Dame Academy It took my looking down at the metal grids beneath my feet to grasp it: I’m really here. After all those classes of daydreaming about the second I would lay foot on the stiletto-stomped sidewalks, I had made it. Looking past the complex geometric structures, I’m stricken with exactly how lucky I am to be here. Not just lucky, but truly blessed. To others, that tight feeling in my leg from the redundancy of the motions would be a sign of pain or tiring, but to me it’s fulfillment and proof, enough proof to bring a quick smile to my lips. Blessed as can be, I still don’t know what I expect on my way to the top. Is it the view? The experience? That’s not what the eight hour plane ride and ten long minutes of climbing have been for, though. Could a person really waste all this time and energy for solely the view? With each step, I understand that this is more than some physical feat to me, although that’s all it seems to be to my family and the other visitors. Privately, it’s internal. I see the hundreds of people above and below me. My vision tunnels inward to my thoughts and the people seem much more distant. I’m alone in my mind, but not the lonely kind of alone. The contemplative kind. Great artists do their best work in their ideal settings, whether it be a silent studio, a garden, or a street corner. As if I were an artist, this was my setting. Maybe this is a necessary destination that tourists pass through, but I don’t look at it that way. Awaiting them at the top is a nice Christmas card photo backdrop. Is that all I expect to find? I peer out the intricate black designs once more. What I see so far is significantly more than the place I’d only dreamed of experiencing; I’m looking at the rest of the dreams I plan to fulfill. I’m not sure if simply being here makes me confirm my own goals to myself or if crossing one item, my arrival here, off my list makes my mind fast-forward to the next one, but something was changing me. One more flight left. I hold my breath. I wonder if this is the only time I’ll step in this precise spot, or if I’ll eventually return. What am I going to do when I get there? Just take it in, I answer myself. I look down and see that I’ve reached the last stair. Then I look out. I simultaneously let out my breath as it’s taken away by what I see. It’s more than any image I could have conjured up in my head. The perfect green is like a hallway with no doors, leading directly to the objective. Everything I have ever 43

hoped for or wished for is lying on one of those now microscopic streets, waiting for me to return to the ground and step foot on it, conquering it. I mentally zoom in from above on one of the buildings, picturing my own store along the vintage sidewalk, containing racks and racks of my own couture designs. As the beauty returns my breath, I decide to make a pact with my myself: Claire, if you ever give up on these dreams that have now become your goals, picture where you are standing right now. Don’t forget how you got there. Call to mind how being in this city, especially being able to look down on it, collectively, made you feel. Remember how you walked into all those beautiful stores for something much more lasting than just an overpriced handbag. Think about how you couldn’t even talk to the people on the streets, but you knew you belonged there. Remember that? That’s what’s going to happen when you reach your dreams. You may not be able to communicate why you want what you want with other people, but you’ll know. And once you achieve what you set out to, you’ll be able to look down on how truly blessed you were, just like you are right now. Only, then, you’ll see the dreams you’ve accomplished instead of the dreams you were still dreaming. “Claire, get in the picture!” interrupted my dad, with Paris below us in the background.

Artwork by Dana Langenbrunner 45

Losantiville Poem by Sara Kaehler Amidst the chaos of the parish festival, somehow your eyes found mine. It’s hard to remember anything more lovely than the smell of cheap beer, clothes too hot for the Midwest heat, or a sea of strangers, because that was day I saw your skin for the first time. You made me thirsty for more than just water & when you asked my name, I couldn’t say a single word. There are infinite ways to tell the gas station story, every word falling short of describing how the I-75 sign made your eyes light up. Similarly, there are infinite reasons why the water bottle I bought while you told the cashier she looked so lovely remained unopened. Instead of drinking, you touched my skin & driving towards the night was just driving into the Midwest. My backyard, with tall blades of grass, was our own Midwest beach. Laundry limp on the line, neighbors never said a word about how often we’d get drunk on beer the color of your skin. I’d fill the baby pool; you’d complain about sun in your eyes. If there was no way you could see me, would I still be lovely & even if I weren’t, was it safe to soak in Ohio River water? I can’t walk around my neighborhood, trees dripping water from the night before, without being reminded of our Midwest antics. There is the bench where you told me I looked lovely; here is where you lit cigarette after cigarette without a word. We held hands jaywalking in a swarm of cars, closed our eyes & kissed outside the Laundromat, counted freckles on our skin. Entwined on my bed, the whirring fan cooled our exposed skin. I coaxed you into removing your shirt, you fine drink of water, but mine had slid off with ease, because that look in your eyes can possess. Again, we were victim to that notorious Midwest heat, only panting, not speaking- I kept waiting for that word 46

& I needed to hear it. I need to hear that you love me. Wide awake, I listen to you slur about a girl more lovely than me—I wonder if you’ve kissed her lips or touched her skin. I hang up. You’re too drunk now; I can’t understand a word anymore. All I can do is go downstairs for a glass of water before trying to fall back asleep. There’s no fun in the Midwest & I’m too sober to recall how you described my dusty eyes. You always had a lovely way to explain turning wine to water, spotting constellations on skin, drawing maps of the Midwest. However, every word I find describes your cabin fever eyes.

Submission Details Initiated in January 2005, Lions-on-Line is a literary collection of works by the College of Mount St. Joseph students and alumni published online with the cooperation of the English Department. Lions-on-Line is published online twice yearly, during the fall and spring semesters. When our budget allows, Lions-on-Line goes “in print”. We take submissions during all twelve months of the year. If you are currently a student or a graduate of the College of Mount St. Joseph and you would like to see your work published, you may submit your work to LOL simply by emailing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction or digital artwork to LOL@mail.msj.edu. For full submission guidelines, consult our website. Lions-on-Line is always looking for new staff members! If you’re interested in joining Lions-on-Line, please contact the faculty advisor, Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. at the following email address: elizabeth_mason@mail.msj.edu.

Editors and Staff Poetry Editor:

Kristina Brodbeck

Creative Nonfiction/ Fiction Editor:

Zachary A. McCoy

Art Editor/Treasurer:

Sara Kaehler

Assistant Editors:

Emily Berning Corey Burdine Lauren DiMenna Matthew Kohlmorgen

Faculty Advisor:

Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D.