Lions-on-Line (in print)
Chicago Rhythm by Lisa Bradow
Winter Issue 2011
Table of Contents Lisa Bradow Nicholas Caudill Nichole Williams Erin Bueker Amber Krimmer Alyssa Richter Corey Straus Chris Blum Emilie Helman Madeline Conroy Corey Straus Stephen Doyel Stephen Doyel Marvin Brooks Christina Larison Grant Nolte Erin Bueker Robin Hoerth Ebenezer Arthur Colton Chicketti Sherman Hartley Elizabeth Bible Jacob Stentz Matt Rose Emilie Helman Kristina Corry Marvin Brooks Julie Metzger Emilie Helman Corey Straus Nichole Williams Jennifer Von Gries
Chicago Rhythm Cover “Talking” 5 “To Peter” 6 “In Dreams” 7 One Small Vase 8 “Swings” 9 Reds 18 “Terrifying Love” 19 Photograph 21 “After the Grand Perhaps” 22 “An Empty Space in My Heart…” 23 “Seasons No Reasons” 24 “Pure” 25 “At My Last Breath” 26 Petal to Petal 27 “Heirloom” 28 “Evening Storm” 36 Continuation 37 “I Live in Pain” 38 “The Eleventh” 40 “I Am From There” 42 Ripples of Change 44 “Welcome to College, You’ll Find it Here” 45 “Creation” 46 Photograph 49 “Let Me Take a Seat While You Tell…” 50 “He No Longer Wants Me” 52 “The Healing in Forgiveness” 53 Photograph 58 “Love Song” 59 “Then and Now” 60 “The New Me” 61 3
Talking By Nicholas Caudill The mouths are still moving even after the TV is muted and I haven’t written in a month. A few ideas had been running like 30 second news loops, but the impact now is thin, wispy, indefinable. I imagine the reporter telling me get lost in the words, but what does he know about finding a voice? No teleprompter no cue cards, no script can lead me to a poem. A “goodnight America” at the end of the broadcast, to the people gathered around the screens talking about nothing but 30 second news loops. Their mouths are still moving, talking, but I keep my voice muted and I haven’t written in a month and a day.
To Peter By Nichole Williams "Second star to the right and straight on till morning." This is what you told me, even though you had no idea. You built me a house so I would be safe. We danced and laughed and had a grand time. I wish I could stay. Even when you forget me, I'll still tell your story. You showed me I could really fly. I'll certainly remember running with my wolf and "cavorting with otters." The water rose up around us and you saved me. Skipping rocks and playing games will never be the same. I offered you kisses returned as thimbles. Neverland will always be my paradise; I seek it in my dreams. I'll be sure to miss you forever my wonderful friend.
In Dreams By Erin Bueker In a deep and peaceful sleep There is no such thing as fear. In a deep and peaceful sleep I can see a life full of cheer. In a deep and peaceful sleep The stress seems to melt away. In a deep and peaceful sleep All thought goes astray. The weight that bears me down Is no longer a burden of mine. The pain that I feel deep inside Ceases to exist and I rest as a weary vine. In a deep and peaceful sleep I can be anything Iâ€™ve wanted to be. In a deep and peaceful sleep There he stands who loves me for me. In a deep and peaceful sleep I am invincible.
One Small Vase by Amber Krimmer acrylic paint over collage with tape 8
Swings By Alyssa Richter "Mom I'm going to the park!" I yelled from two floors below as I grabbed my keys and a bottle of water from the fridge. "Wait, when will you be home Alyssa?" "By six, in time for dinner," I replied, annoyed by the delay. It was the first day of summer and I didn't want to waste a second. I threw the car into reverse, opened the sun roof, and turned the radio to B105, which happened to be playing my favorite Tim McGraw song, "Live Like You Were Dying". When I arrived at the park ten minutes later, the game was already underway. "Get your ass down here, Alyssa!" Nathan exclaimed as he spiked the ball into a player's face on the opposing team. "ACE IN YOUR FACE!" The game was intense but on the last play Larry missed a diving attempt and we lost. Kevin muttered something negative under his breath as we shook hands with the victors. "We'll get 'em next week guys!" reassured Kyle, the captain and motivator of the team. I echoed that thought in my mind since the competitive athlete in me absolutely hated losing, even if it was just a sand volleyball game at the park. "Hey Alyssa, we're going to Whitey's if you wanna tag along," yelled Owen. "Ok…yeah…I might catch up with you guys later, okay?" I wandered aimlessly over to the swings, exhausted and sweaty, and sat down on one. Just how I remember them…I thought to myself. It's funny how some things stay the same after 9
so much time while others change so drastically. I swung higher and higher, the cool breeze kissing my forehead. It feels good to be on top of the world. As I looked around from my lofty perch, I caught the eye of a little boy across the playground pretending to be a monkey. He was wearing an Indigo-colored shirt and jean shorts with a pair of light-up sneakers. He smiled at me and waved. I waved back. After he tired of yelling "ooo eee" countless times, he walked over to the swing next to mine and jumped on. He pumped his legs, going higher and higher, occasionally looking over to smile at me. I could tell he was trying to go as high as me. When we were finally in sync, he broke the silence. "Hi, I'm Mikey! I'm eight years old." He was missing most of his teeth and had freckles scattered all over his face. His bright red hair was streaked with golden highlights. But something in his green eyes looked much older than eight. "Hey…I'm Alyssa," I replied. "Are you here to play on the playground too?" he asked. "No, actually my friends and I are in the sand volleyball league here every week. We just lost our first game so I'm a little bummed…I hate losing." "Yeah…me too. But you can't win every game. If you won every game you wouldn't really learn anything." "Very true," I concurred, wondering to myself where this little kid came by such insight. "Well…I've gotta run," I continued, "I'm meeting the team at Whitey’s!" 10
"Will you be here next week?" asked Mikey. "Yup. I'll be here every Thursday until August or so." "Okay, see you next week!" Mikey yelled as he headed for the twisty slide. As I arrived at Whitey's, the thought of a juicy Whitecastle lifted my spirits. The week passed quickly as I kept busy with work and soccer conditioning. Thursday night rolled around and I found myself at the park for another great game of sandy v-ball. After an easy win, I spotted Mikey watching as I packed up my belongings. "Hey Alyssa!" Mikey exclaimed as he wandered over to me. "Awesome game, you're really good!" "Thanksâ€Śit's Mikey right?" "Yes, do you want to go swing with me?" Dusk was falling. "Sureâ€ŚI guess I can since I don't have anything else planned for tonight." We sat down on the swings, swaying slowly at first and eventually flying high above the tree tops, the world below. "I like the moon," he said, gazing up at the sky pumping his legs. "Yeah, it's crazy to think there's an American flag up there," I replied. "Oh yeah! I learned about that in school! Someday I will fly up there, I promise." I smiled at him and looked back up at the moon. "My daddy named my brother after an astronaut, Neil Armstrong; he went to that moon up there." Silence. I was flying, and Mikey was up there with me. 11
"Do you like the real world, Alyssa?" he asked. I was confused. Real world? "Like…the show…or the earth?" I inquired. "I mean like…reality." I thought about this for a second, puzzled as to why a kid so young would talk about something like reality. Sometimes I don't know if I do like the real world; reality can be so confusing, so painful, so... "Well, I don't know, sometimes I think pretend things are better," I said as I left my reverie. "Me too." He smiled at me. "Sometimes I'm an astronaut, a firefighter, a movie star." Me too, I thought…me too. He continued, "Do you like Saturdays?" "Yep." "Sundays?" "I guess." "Mondays?" "Well…no, not really," I replied, "I…actually…not at all." He stared at me as if just the IDEA of not liking a day of the week was insane. "I do, I like every day I get to be alive." I just let it sink in. "I wish I could be like you." I laughed, partly surprised at the words that had just escaped my mouth. He smiled up at me and just kept swinging contently. Then it 12
was quiet. Mikey's mom came and took him home. I just swung there a while longer, watching my bare feet touch the sky. ******************************************************************* The summer passed quicker than I wanted it to, and each Thursday night I found myself on the blue swing talking to Mikey about life, love, and everything in between. I don't know why I felt so connected to this little kid. After all, Mikey was only eight years old…how could he possibly relate to an eighteen year old girl? But there was something about him that I just couldn't explain to my friends when they asked where I went after volleyball games. The week before my last volleyball game of the summer, I was twirling on the swing when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around only to be greeted by a pair of crystal green eyes and a big grin. "Hey buddy!" "Hey Alyssa, did you win your game?" he said as he took his usual place on the swing next to me. "Yeah we actually did this time!" "Cool. Do you want to meet my mom today?" he asked. "Okay…sure. Where is she?" Mikey took me by the hand and led me to a woman on a nearby bench. Previously I had only seen her from a distance. She looked about thirty-five years old with dishwater blonde hair and blue eyes. A few delicate wrinkles complemented her pale skin; the years of mothering two crazy boys had obviously taken their toll. "Hi I'm Alyssa," I said as I offered my hand.
"Hi, I'm Susan Sparks! It's so nice to finally meet you! Mikey has talked a lot about his friend Kate that he met at the park. He told me that you play soccer and volleyball." "Yeah, I've been playing soccer since I was six and I'm in the sand volleyball league up here on Thursday evenings." "Well that's neat! Mikey plays, too, as I'm sure he's already told you!" "Yes he has. Maybe I can come to one of his games sometime?" "That would be great! Wouldn't you like that Mikey?" she smiled, looking at him. He nodded his head in agreement as he fidgeted with the bark chips on the ground. Spotting his little brother, he raced off to the monkey bars. We watched them play for a few minutes. "Has Mikey told you about his condition?" his mother said in a low tone. "No…why?" I looked over at her, confused. "Well…Mikey has Leukemia." A shock went through my body. We had covered many topics but never this one. Why had he not told me this before? I wondered. "Oh wow…he never mentioned anything about that," I said in disbelief. "Is he okay? Is he receiving treatment?" "Well…yes, he actually has a specific type of Leukemia called acute lymphatic leukemia. He just got done with inductional chemotherapy and is receiving some chemotherapy drugs…it's been a difficult road, but we've managed so far." 14
"I had no ideaâ€ŚI will definitely keep him in my thoughts." "Thanks, that really means a lot, Alyssa. Wellâ€ŚI guess we better get going, it's getting kind of late." "Yeah, it was great to meet you!" Mikey's mother called for him and he came over to say goodbye. "Next Thursday is my last volleyball game Mikey," I said sadly. "It is? Well you'll still be here every Thursday to swing, right Alyssa?" "Yeah Mikey, I'll swing with you next week after my game, okay? I promise." "Okay, bye!" As I drove home that night, I thought about Mikey and the new information I had learned about him that day. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to go through all of that pain at only eight years old. The following Thursday came and we finished off a great season with a win. I decided to go swimming at Maria's house with everyone after because summer was coming to a close and there wouldn't be many more opportunities. I convinced myself that Mikey wouldn't care because he would be there next week and probably every week after that. What's wrong with hanging out with my friends after the last game? I asked myself. It was only several hours afterwards when I heard a song on the radio that I started to feel guilty. But I've broken all my promises to you
I've broken all my promises to you Why do you do this to me? The following Thursday around 7:00 PM I showed up at the park to continue the weekly ritual of chats on the swings with Mikey. He was nowhere to be found. I waited and waited, but he never came. It began to rain so I slowly trudged back to my car. I figured he was just mad at me because I had ditched him the week before. I reassured myself that he would be there the next week. But several weeks passed and still there was no Mikey. I couldn't understand why he would just stop coming without giving me some sort of explanation. Did something happen to Mikey? Did the family move? I wondered if I would ever find out. School started up againâ€Śmy senior year. I filled my time doing other thingsâ€Śschool, work, soccer, friends, college searches. The long months of winter passed, and the melting snow eventually gave way to the budding flowers of spring. One day in May as I was sprawled on the couch reading The Indigo Children, my mother coaxed me to go out of the house and get a breath of fresh air. So, I went. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn't feel like wasting time arguing with my mother. I got in the car and drove. Ten minutes later I found myself at the park on my favorite swing. For some reason I glanced to my right and noticed at the top of the hill a sign that had not been there last year. I brought my swing to a halt and walked up to the sign, accompanied by a picture of a little boy. What I read that day changed me forever. IN MEMORY OF MIKEY SPARKS: A BOY WHO LAUGHED OFTEN AND LOVED DEEPLY. A BOY WHO SHARED HIS LIFE WITH OTHERS
WHILE HELPING OTHERS DISCOVER THE MEANING OF THEIR OWN. March 14, 1999-August 30, 2007 As I made my way back to the swings I remembered things about Mikey that I had never paid much attention to before: minute details, like the way that one strand of hair would always fall in his face when the wind blew or how the straps of his yellow sandals would always slip off his feet. And I understood why that little boy had such insight about life and why I had been so drawn to him. The pleasure of swinging had re-entered my soul. And I just swung there...watching my bare feet touch the sky, as a single tear kissed my cheek.
Reds by Corey Straus digital photograph
Terrifying Love By Chris Blum The glass is clear, the air is cold As my heart calls your name A chill of fear, a word not bold With a weakness so untamed Though my mind rambles day and night My mouth can’t say a thing I find myself, in an inner fight For that unreachable thing… Your love, there is no way to sing Your love, even so to it I cling And in the field’s golden harvest Or in the night’s drowning rain Your love…how could I ever attain? The fog will pass, the sun will rise And you become so clear The greenest grass, before me lies Reminding me of you, dear Yet still I dread your sweetest glance And flee from your bright heart Oh what is it, about your romance, That tears my security apart? Your love, there is no way to sing Your love, even so to it I cling And in the field’s golden harvest 19
Or in the night’s drowning rain Your love…how could I ever attain? Oh you terrify me darling, And I cannot help but hide But please look through my timid weakness, And see the love for you inside… Your love, there is no way to sing Your love, even so to it I cling And in the field’s golden harvest Or in the night’s drowning rain Your love…how could I ever attain? Your love…could I one day attain?
Photograph by Emilie Helman
After the Grand Perhaps By Madeline Conroy Nothing, Something? Weâ€™ll never know But still many events could arise From the minds Of anyone. Perhaps something great will come An empty sky or a nap? I was confused He will eat a burrito She will go shopping Perhaps a whimsical decision will be made A random spark A risk that one day I will regret How often will we do what we say? Perhaps this perhaps is a waste, Nothing will ever happen To me if I live in this perhaps world I will do as I please.
An Empty Space Within My Heart Unfixable By Corey Straus An empty space within my heart is unfixable without the love of a true being. Weak and empty is what my heart is. The beats get more and more faint everyday. Will someone hear it any time soon? It moans like that of a cry in the night. Hospitalized in your soul and I want it back, It deserves to beat with passion. No doctor can heal it because all of the pieces Are scattered all over. The only cure that can mend it is you. Will you be my remedy?
Season No Reasons By Stephen Doyel The world around me is changing But to what remains unseen Itâ€™s like a vicious cycle Spawn upon and kept unclean The machine keeps at its hustle All awhile trying to deceive Only to realize the change in season Broken slumber awakes the beast
Pure By Stephen Doyel The beauty within exudes from her skin From her head to her toes God's grace overflows yet she has not a clue that he is coming unglued for the love in his heart was opened from the start.
At My Last Breath By Marvin Brooks Intoxicated from a lovers’ high I’m drowning in a scent of dead roses. I breathe a musical: one that would only play at a funeral. After the death of my happiness Dirt cements my nose; I cough up carnations as a result. Exhaustingly dying, I’m a lover’s soul.
Petal to Petal by Christina Larison acrylic paint over collage with tape
Heirloom By Grant Nolte July 17th, 2083 I “Have fun with it, bug,” his father said. Gus could do nothing but beam at the smooth, white, two foot long cylindrical jet engine in his hands. The painted metal shell was cold in his palms. A newly thirteen-year-old toothy smile was spread across his face, but he still looked at this engine, puzzled. It was just an engine; no wings, no way to attach it to anything, the only obstruction of its surface were two translucent, white, concave pads at the median of the engine’s shell on either side. “Be careful with it though,” his father said, “your Great Grandfather built it almost fifty years ago.” “How does it work?” Gus asked, his voice cracking with excitement and puberty. His father reached down and pressed his index finger to a point on the top panel that glowed light blue. Immediately, the mechanics inside resonated a high pitched but quiet ring. The air intake fan on the front began to rotate slowly; still, even with all the moving parts within, the thing did not shake or vibrate. It was a seamless and simple design; beautiful, and to an aviation obsessive like Gus, a treasure. “Can it fly?” asked Gus, “Oh yeah, it can fly,” his father said, “How? There’s no airfoil or stabilizer to make it capable.” “That was your Great Grandfather’s secret. He never told anyone. He gave it to my dad, who gave it to me, as I’m giving it to you,” his father said grinning, creasing age lines all over his face, “All I can tell you is that the pads on the sides scan your DNA and recognize you as his descendant. It will only function for those of the Starne family. The rest is up to you to discover.” “Do you know its secret?” Gus asked, turning the engine over in his hands curiously, “It’s up to you to figure it out. Take it with you and get ready; we’ll be 28
leaving for Grandma and Grandpa’s soon,” Gus’s father placed a large, calloused hand atop his head and patted gently,” “Thanks, dad.” “You’re welcome.” “I love you.” “I love you too. I always have and I always will,” he said as he kissed Gus’s forehead, stood, and left the living room. Gus sat for a moment on the white couch and examined the engine more. The thing still whirred in his hands. The power light still glowed softly, and now so did the pads. He held it right-side-up with a hand on each pad. Can I bind it to something? He thought, and immediately his hands were fastened to the sides. Gus’s eyes grew wide and he gasped. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he yelled in panic. It was as though his hands were instantly glued to the device. He screamed louder still as he tried franticly to tear his hands free. In moments, his father tore down the stairs from upstairs and into the living room, his green button-down shirt half open with open wrists. Gus looked to him, desperate and terrified. “Dad, it stuck to my hands! How do I get it off?!” his father could do nothing but smile, “You asked it to bind, didn’t you?” “No, I never said anything! Help me, dad, how do I get it off?!” he bellowed, shaking his arms and the engine violently. “Alright alright, Gus, chill. Just ask it to unbind.” “Unbind!” Gus screamed angrily, and immediately, his hands came free and the engine dropped into his lap. Gus stared dumbfounded, his heart raced, his chest heaving, “What was that? What the heck is this thing, dad?!” “The pads on the sides are ‘Gecko Sites’.” “Gecko sites?” “It was a technology developed years ago by the military. Your Great Grandpa designed it.” “It binds things?” asked Gus, “Well, you know how geckos have pads on their feet, right?” “Yeah, suction cups so they can climb stuff.” 29
“That’s what people thought for the longest time,” his father said, “but geckos can climb rough surfaces like brick or stone, and suction cups wouldn’t help them climb that, would they?” “No, they wouldn’t,” said Gus, “At the beginning of the 21st century, scientists found that gecko feet weren’t suction cups, they’re the sites of millions of tiny molecular bonds that stick them to any surface.” “Really?” “They used that technology so tanks could actually climb cliff faces and steep hills. They also used it in space so astronauts could walk on the hulls of ships.” “That’s awesome,” said Gus excitedly. “Cool, huh? Those pads on the engine are the same thing. You can bind it to anything with just a thought or word. Now go get ready like I told you. You can play with that later.” Butterflies took flight in Gus’s stomach. This engine was fascinating. What else could it do? His father went back upstairs. Gus examined the device more and finally pressed his left index finger to the power light. The air intake fan slowed and finally stopped; the ringing dropped in pitch as the engine powered down. Gus sighed, enamored and ecstatic. Tucking the engine under his arm, he proceeded upstairs to dress for the visit to his grandparents’. After arguing with a stressed mother, he finally managed to put the engine down and get dressed. Gus and his parents finally collected their things and stood before their warp gate. Many people still swore by aircraft and other transportation, but warp was still the quickest: A threshold to anywhere. There was no longer the arduous trek to get from place to place; one needed only step into the next room. “Alright, the bills are off; the dogs got their breakfast; Joe, am I forgetting anything?” “Carol, will you stop? It’s just a trip to your parents’. We’re taking the Door, just come back if you forget something,” said Gus’s father, his mother seemed to ignore him, “Gus, why don’t you do another button on your collar, you’ll look nicer.” Gus fastened another button on the blue polo shirt. It didn’t look any nicer. 30
He was a tall and lanky boy and clothes for much larger people were all that fit him. The shirt draped over him like a sheet; it tucked into khaki slacks that, themselves, were too large for him, the waist bunched around his hips under a belt with extra holes punched in it. The black loafers on his feet were the only things that fit snugly, size elevens. They were too small for him, but twelves were too big. “You ready, bug?” asked his father. Gus nodded. He stood in the front hall waiting as his parents threw on their dress jackets. He turned the engine over in his hand obsessively as his father smoothed the breast of his dinner coat. “I think I’m ready; let’s go,” said his mother, sighing heavily. His father stepped over to a panel on the jamb of the front door. Pressing his finger to a tiny glowing power icon on the face, the screen instantly lit up. The oak door and its crackled glass window slid into the wall under its own power. Morning Cincinnati air billowed in, carrying the smell of fresh cut grass. He punched more commands into the control panel of the warp gate and in seconds, their garage and front yard and its massive maple tree dissolved into the front hall of Gus’s grandparents’ home. “Alright, let’s go,” said his father. Pressing one final button on the control panel, a small bell icon flashed onto the screen and faded away soon after. His grandmother turned into the hall from what he knew was their kitchen wearing a smile, black jacket with a white blouse, black slacks with her favorite shoes. Gus followed his parents through the warp gate. The moment they stepped into the front hall, Gus’s nose was filled with the rich smells of old wood and cinnamon. Instantly, his mouth grew saturated and his stomach cramped with hunger. His grandmother was making her signature snickerdoodles. Gus loved them since he was young. He could remember being six, seven, eight years old; he would step in the door with his parents and the smell would permeate the room as they heated in the oven. Most people of the age used molecular replicators or preprepared meals. His grandmother still maintained sixty-year-old methods of cooking: cooking from scratch, measuring ingredients, using convection ovens and microwaves. The government restricted produce markets to control national health, but his grandmother still managed to get “real” food: real butter and sugar, organic eggs and dairy. She would never say how. “Hey, mom,” said Gus’s mother with a light sigh. 31
“Hi, honey. And how are you, darlin’? Happy birthday,” she said to Gus, reaching up with her arms outstretched to hug him. “Hi, Gramma,” said Gus. He met her arms and hugged her shyly, simply wrapping his arms around her middle and locking his fingers behind. Gus’s grandfather entered the room moments later. The conversation that followed was the typical chit-chat of a visit: the usual interrogation about school, discussing what Gus had gotten that day for gifts. The living room was lit somewhat by several table-top lamps, but the majority of the light came through the force field window that offered a bright, free view of the Fort Lauderdale coastline. His grandparents’ house was nestled on a manmade island off the coast. The adults soon moved on to their own subject of catching up; Gus shuffled out of the living room. He grabbed the jet engine from the front hall and as he passed through the kitchen, he came upon his grandfather’s gallery. Old artifacts and antiques were everywhere. They lined the walls and ceiling. Medieval swords and pole arms, bows and axes and shields, old rock climbing equipment, fishing poles, tackle and lures, and pioneer camping accoutrement. The left-most wall was a single, continuous gun rack: pioneer muskets and flintlocks with rich, urethane walnut and curly maple stocks, European matchlocks, various early 21st century firearms. In the middle of everything was his grandfather’s prized gun: his Winchester Model ’94. The wood stock and foregrip were a muted brown, well aged wood. The black finish of the barrel and loading lever were well oiled and gleamed under the gun’s own display light. Above it all, the wall was hung with pistols. It was a timeline done in guns. An oak 1940s icebox, a walnut table with an antique chess set, and some of Gus’s grandfather’s own carpentry were arranged all over the room. An old American Indian fishing boat was suspended from the high ceiling. The mass of it was formidable, the room felt much smaller than it was. Gus had been through here many times, he took little time to admire the collection. The pinewood panel floor creaked as he walked through toward the door to the backyard. The day was cool, especially for a July, Florida afternoon. Gus looked out over the bright, blue Atlantic horizon. Sunlight flashed like strobes off of the waves. A strong breeze blew in that held the hair off of Gus’s face. He pressed a finger to the sleek top panel of the engine. The power light instantly ignited, the air 32
intake fan started rotating, the device rang as the inner workings came to life. “Bind,” he said, and the Gecko pads glued to his hands. Gus pulled gently, but his hands were fastened. He smirked. What else can this thing do, what’s your secret? He thought. Can you let go of one of my hands? Release my left hand. Gus’s left hand came free. He choked down a cry of excitement. He pressed and poked the newly freed hand around the surface of the engine in search of more: a hidden button, a control panel? He paced around the backyard for some time experimenting with the engine, scouring it for secrets, but to no avail. There was no way to make the engine do anything beyond activate. It seemed to be nothing more than an elaborate paper weight. Gus finally resorted to his imagination. He bound the engine to his left hand and held his arms out to either side. Turning his hands horizontal, the air intake fan faced forward. He bent over slightly and walked across the back lawn slowly. “Copy, Home Tower, runway one six. Bird One cleared for taxi,” he said, starting and finishing with emulated radio static. Reaching the edge of the lawn, Gus stopped momentarily and looked over the cliff to the waves that broke against the island’s foundation of sediment. Continuing, he turned around. The lawn stretched out in front of him. He stopped, “Bird One holding position and awaiting clearance,” he stood silent for a moment before continuing, “Bird One, you are cleared for takeoff... Copy, Home Tower, cleared for takeoff... Good hunting, Bird One.” Gus emulated jet sounds by passing wind between his teeth and lower lip as he leapt into a sprint across the yard. Instantly, the panels of the engine popped open. Gus stopped and gasped as he stared at the engine that was still fastened to his hand. There were no mechanics under the panels; they open into sheer black space. Suddenly, white metal plating poured from the openings which then proceeded to engulf his arm. Gus gasped, but did not panic. He did not scream. The mass of metal plating began to align itself along Gus’s arm and continued to spread past his shoulder and down his body. Gus’s mind raced with endless questions. Where was all of this coming from, what was it. He then realized that the black abyss was a small warp gate. Titanium ligaments and servo motors aligned at Gus’s joints. White metal covered everything almost seamlessly. His blue polo shirt and khakis were replaced by sleek, curved metal angles. The plates 33
and mechanics continued to unfold in shapeless torrents from the tiny engine. They slid across Gus’s thin frame as if it were a living thing itself, so precise, so perfect and calculated. Everything began to lock together, final bits of metal slithered down his form and fastened to openings along his calves and forearms. They unfurled like wings of a newborn insect. Gus turned his head, which was still free of what was apparently mechanical armor, and looked. Two-foot-long airfoils extended downward and slanted back diagonally off of his calves like tail stabilizers, foot-long ones stretched out similarly from his forearms. A large piece rose off of his upper back that housed the suit’s life support system; a convex portion at the tip of it. One final mass of metal found its way to his head and molded around it. A titanium frame bordered his face and more wrapped around the back of his head and around his neck. Hydraulic titanium joints and hinges hugged his neck. Finally, more bits of white metal molded around the titanium framework, knitting itself together around his shoulders. Electronics layered around his head: microphones and respiration tubes mounted themselves to the frame in front of his mouth, padded headphones rested over his ears. Round accents settled over the headphones on the exterior of the helmet. Antennae and radar verticals jutted up and swooped back from the accents. A domed metal plate rested over Gus’s face and forehead. Daylight shot in his eyes like beams through the tiny eyelets at the base of the dome piece. He felt two more metal pieces slide into place against his cheeks. There was a quiet hiss as external atmospheric protection engaged; the suit’s artificial life support finally pumped cool, breathable air slowly inside. Gus’s entire body was encased in a metallic body suit like what he had seen in old movies from the early days of the 21st century. He still thought computer generated pictures in those corny old films could not compare to the real technology. It was a bit claustrophobic, but secure, safe. Gus moved around a bit. He examined the armor on his arms, lifted his feet and bent his knees. The armor was snug, but he could still move as freely as he could wearing nothing. He jumped a bit when a holographic Heads-Up Display flashed into view. A three dimensional diagram of the suit showed as the suit itself ran a self-diagnostic. Green ticks appeared next to a list of systems and functions that disappeared shortly after as the suit prepared itself. Gus gawked in awe at the complexity of the suit’s design. This was the secret 34
of the engine, but he couldn’t fathom what finally activated it. He remembered that the engine established a mental link to the user. Could it be that it interpreted his pretending to be in an aircraft as a command to unlock the suit? The suit diagnostic finished and disappeared. Gus tried to see through the tiny eyelets but couldn’t. In that instant, the front domed plate of the helmet seemed to dissolve to reveal the Florida afternoon again. A hologram. Other statistics faded into view around it: compass, attitude, altitude, barometric pressure, external temperature, radar, land and air speed, the suit’s air reserve status and diagnostics. Gus fought back his awe and excitement. He stepped forward a bit and looked at the engine, the key to it all. It was still fastened to his hand. Suddenly, a notice lit up on the HUD that showed a shape like that of the engine and gave instruction to fasten it to the back portion of the suit. Raising the engine, he pointed the exhaust port downward. The Gecko panel fit into place perfectly. Gus thought, Unbind from my hand, bind to the suit. His hand came free and the engine remained fastened to the back of the suit. The whir of the engine rose in pitch and volume. Gus continued slowly toward the edge of the yard. Gulls cawing and crashing waves sounded through the headphones as if he were hearing it unabated. I want to fly. Instantly, the engine throttle kicked still higher, Gus felt the weight on his feet diminish. Go! Gus sprinted and jumped off the edge. Water twenty feet below was churned up into a spray from the thrust, his body jerked as he soared into the air. The suit’s knee and elbow joints stiffened for stability, but Gus could still move somewhat. The engine roared as he careened across the Atlantic water. It was a test run, but Gus doubted he’d be back before nightfall.
Evening Storm By Erin Bueker Silence softly speaks In the stillness of the night. The wind breaks the Eveningâ€™s whispers. The tree branches creak with The flow of the storm. Leaves rustle across the forestâ€™s floor. Water splashes And rain falls softly upon the dirt. Lightning flashes In the blackness of the sky. Thunder roars And shakes the leaves off the branches. Slowly the storm seizes And again. Silence softly speaks In the stillness of the night.
Continuation by Robin Hoerth oil paint on gessoed paper 37
I Live in Pain By Ebenezer Arthur I live in pain, it’s constant It never goes away Though sometimes it seems the sun does shine It’s just another gloomy day. The clouds may part for minutes; my hopes may start to rise But cruel fate and destiny come and with their evil plans contrive To bring me down again. I look about for happiness I seek a little peace A little joy and laughter I get but just a tease For sooner than I start to laugh The sorrow and the pain, Come back to take that joy away With spite and with disdain My heart is broken again, again My life is at its end From here I’ll be a zombie Alive but ever dead I have no will to go on Yet go on I must still ‘Cause my life is mine no longer But others my soul steal Alive, alive but yet I’m dead I live, I live, it’s all in my head My life poured out when my heart broke Spilt into space, dispersed as smoke 38
O wretched man that lives this life Of love lost, gone, of wounds and strife Of dreams that fade with every breath Of hope of life that ends in death I cry, I cry, I wander, lost In places no man should ever accost I float, I float on the winds of fate A timeless waif till the storm abate And I lie in peace no man can take For its forever, end forever and on that lake Of eternal peace my soul will float To its final resting place And find true love in my stormy boat Finally say â€œpeace be stillâ€?.
The Eleventh By Colton Chicketti We will always remember that day in September. We will always remember that day in September. Another beautiful day turned into a dusty haze. In a day we will always remember, burning and turning, never letting us forget. It’s never going to quit, that stone blue day in September. It sits at the bottom of our nation’s heart, like a soul- ripping ember. As memories start to fade, people ask me where was I on that day I was in 5th grade, it was a Tuesday. I sat in class and saw those towers get smashed and gutted I still have the same questions as I do from the past When I saw New York flooded with a wall of stone Seeing all the pain of loved ones never returning home We will always remember that day in September. We will always remember that day in September. People start to ask where was God on that day? Why did he just let those people slip away? Was he just busy stuck in heaven on 9/11? As for me I was eleven. And what I saw on that day on the TV made me believe That the devil lives in us all. Think about that the next time you walk in the mall. He is just waiting for us to fall. Just waiting to pull us six feet under, it’s not just a deep slumber. It’s all the hate and pain of the world put in One The devil is God’s fallen son. We will always remember that day in September. We will always remember that day in September He’s not trying to find me. He lives inside me. He follows me, wherever I go. 40
Blackness always trying to show, backing my flow. There is always a shadow on my footsteps, heavy on my feet, making me stutter and repeat. The evil drips down my spine as I try to unwind and think about this thing called time. My mom tells me I need to get into a better frame of mind. But after what I see in the world around me, it imprisons me, never letting me break free, destroying any faith leaving it in a waste. The devil gets one more taste of the power that’s within, with every sin. He is laughing at me because he always wins in the end…. Will we always remember that day in September? As for me, it’s a scar on my heart, a hole in my soul. The first day I saw devil and wasn’t told. I was only a eleven years old and remember it like it was yesterday Because I look at in every day in my eyes, as I see through the lies. We will always remember that day in September. We will always remember that day in September.
I Am From There By Sherman Hartley “I am from there”* a place called Pine Knot, Kentucky. You have never heard of it. Why would’ve you? Nothing exists in Pine Knot. Not even the old buildings I grew up around. The ice cream shop, The grocery store, And my uncle Darty’s one-pump gas station that only served leaded gasoline, but always with a smile. My school is gone. My house is too. Replaced by some fancy new school paid for by the State, but that no one really uses. The only thing left are the railroad tracks that used to run in front of my house. I remember running to them after the coal train passed by. My sister and I would collect the fallen pieces as we could not afford to buy our own. And it was much easier than cutting wood to burn because we were so little, and Daddy’s mind had long gone since the war. 42
No, you’ve never heard of Pine Knot because nothing’s there. Except me! It’s as real as picking up and going home.
*This opening line pays tribute to the poem, “Kentucky,” by Pauletta Hansel 43
Ripples of Change by Elizabeth Bible photograph
Welcome to College, You’ll Find it Here By Jacob Stentz Who were you yesterday? It doesn’t matter Today is a new day A new way to escape, whom you once were. A new, bright, and interesting life ahead Empty and fresh, your old self you may shed A chance to be who you want to be This is the first time you are actually free Be yourself, there is no mold No preconceived notions of the old Decide how you want to be Then grasp it and never let it flee Opportunity is here Embrace it free of all fear The new places The many fresh faces A clean slate An unfixed fate Establish an identity and who you are, Create your image and let no one mar Do not settle for common place, Nor bog down by society’s reckless pace Remain steadfast, to whom you’ve become, Shielding yourself from all humdrum With wide eye’s and opened mind, The answers you seek, you’ll surely find What you seek, is not yet uncovered Is not taught, but only discovered Close your eyes yet open mind and heart For within is where one should start 45
Creation By Matt Rose Death is like an acid... it decomposes everything that is soluble with it... fame, power, wealth...they say life is not fair and imperfect...death equalizes all. But beyond that, there is something insoluble, and it must be the real meaning of life. Something that has evolved beyond death… Before time, before matter, even before the very first atom ever split, all that existed was a simple Garden. The Garden was old and dying but eagerly waiting to give birth to new life. And within it, lived a mother and a child. The child was a very young and bright individual. This little youngster was always full of energy, full of such life and hope. He made sure to always take care of his mother and for the Garden. Everyday he would tend to the plants and vegetation. He would nurture and love them more than himself. He loved every being that came to life. He was the perfect son any mother could ask for. The mother; centerpiece of creation, was growing very old and withered. She had very few seeds left. Mother needed just one seed to carry on her destiny; to nourish this empty void with life. And this child was her final seed. All of her other children abandoned her. Filled with rebellion and self-indulgence, they created their own destinies and their own rules. These children ignored mother and walked down their own path. There was no hope for these children. One after another, brought destruction and chaos. The all wise mother was starting to lose faith. Brokenhearted from her selfish children, she gave her one last seed in devotion to the garden and named it Yahweh. As Yahweh grew, he learned more about creation, more about the plants, the garden, and with the help of Mother, he was growing wiser as well. More than Mother could ever hope for. One day the child decided to ask Mother: “What happens if I turn out to be like all the other Children?” Mother told him “Oh my dear young one. You have too much of a heart to make the mistake your brothers and sisters made. Look at how much this garden has grown and flourished. You love without hesitation. Your love for these creatures, for this garden, is all I ever asked from my children”. “Mother, why couldn’t my brothers get along and tend to the 46
Garden?” “Well son, I guess my children have many different ways of thinking. When we make mistakes we have the ability to do something about it and make better choices the next time. They didn’t learn from their mistakes. That makes you smarter than the rest of them.” Mother smiled at the child and Yahweh giggled back and replied “What if I don’t always know the right path to take?” “Child, as long as you keep your vision clear and true, you will see the future. Remember when you were trimming flowers and you gazed upon a spider and a butterfly. You loved both the spider and the butterfly. You wanted to save the butterfly so the spider wouldn’t eat it, and you remember what happened?” The child replied in a sad and soft whisper: “He died from starvation”. “Exactly, you need to let these creatures make their own decisions. You can’t control every situation. To love something you have to let them make their own decisions. And only be there for them with guidance. That is why you’re here with me tending this lovely Garden and why you succeeded where your siblings had failed”. Yahweh smiled happily, and carried on playing in the Garden. As the child grew smarter and wiser, Mother knew it was time for her to say goodbye to Yahweh and the Garden. As Yahweh was finishing up tending to some little sproutlings, he sensed something was wrong with Mother. He dropped his pale and dashed to Mother’s aid. He felt Mother’s soft cold and clammy hands. “Mother you’re dying”. Yahweh cried. “Son this is meant to be. With life comes death. All existence must have a beginning and end. But this doesn’t have to be the end for me. Live on for me Yahweh. Your memories of me and your lessons will reflect upon our creations”. “Mother please don’t leave! I don’t want to be alone.” cried Yahweh. “Remember to always love. Remember what I taught you. I will always love you Yahweh”. “Mother! No!...Please don’t leave me”. Yahweh started shaking Mother’s body but she had gone cold. Yahweh fell flat on his feet crying, now alone. As he left Mother’s side the Garden suddenly began to shake. The atmosphere began to crack and the plants began to wilt. Mother’s body began glowing. Yahweh scared, rushed out the garden into the vast dark emptiness for the first time. As he gazed at the collapsing Garden, Mother’s body had turned into a glow so magnificent that it shined the empty void with infinite distance. Mother’s body surged into a giant cloud of light. Yahweh stared in amazement as Mother exploded with energy. Lights and fire flew in all directions, creating new Gardens 47
for Yahweh to Cultivate. At this moment, Yahweh stood there without saying a single word in perfect Harmony… smiling. “Thank you Mother”…
Photograph by Emilie Helman
Let Me Take a Seat While You Tell Me About Myself By Kristina Corry I understand your pain, Mom said The day I came home from school Icy from where they threw the ice At the fat kid who never fit in Ok, Mom, let me take a seat here
To them, that was me But I never knew me, at least I did not know who they thought me to be I only knew who I really was, something they could never see
I understand your illness, the shrink said Really? this is an illness? I donâ€™t believe you So I will chose not to hear you tune you out, Keep smiling, let you think your Ph.D. isnâ€™t worth shit Because this is not pain, this is not an illness This is the parasite that sucks joy from every part of life It makes me hate you, and me So I will take a seat while you explain to me, why I am me 50
I do not need to hear that you understand, That you care, that you love me All I need is silence Please be quiet.
I do not understand this pain, this burden, this illness, whatever you call it He said the night that he was down on one knee with a diamond ring And I will not try because I do not want to I see that there is more to you Okay, Iâ€™m going to stand up now
Is it possible that I am finally understanding this? No, never will I understand who I am Or why I looked at bones in the mirror and saw fat The pain of hating my self Or the pain of the Fingers down my throat again starving again freezing again dead inside again
But at least I can finally hear the silence,
The absence of consumption. 51
He No Longer Wants Me By Marvin Brooks I sit in darkness, silent, Waiting for light to cascade, But outside these eyelids Tears drench this page of my life. Maybe someday he'll come back again.
I burn photos with my stares, Reliving moments when we were happy, Back when our two heartbeats equaled a pair Before he divided himself from me.
I lived with a man until I had no heartbeat. He left me with the echo of footsteps, Gasping on the floor, pathetically.
As he had no remorse, this disease needed a cure. In a shallow goodbye, he took my life.
With these photos, I burned inside.
The Healing in Forgiveness By Julie Metzger There is healing in forgiveness, but one must look deep within herself. It is amazing how a feeling of deep and bitter anger can hold you back from true happiness. I will never forget sitting in Mt. Airy Methodist Church in March of 1995 and talking with Rev. Don Crist. He asked, “Why are you not angry?” I told him I was not angry. I believe now, he knew that I was, and was trying to get me to acknowledge my “anger.” It would take years of “unconditional love” before I would understand what anger was doing to my life. Frederic Luskin, a Stanford researcher, defines forgiveness as “the moment to moment experience of peace and understanding that occurs when an injured party’s suffering is reduced by the process of transforming a grievance they have held against an offending party.” Peace and understanding would begin, for me, June 12, 1994 (the day that I met my husband, John) and would become a part of my journey. The injured parties are my mother and I, the offending party would be the life circumstances that would bring us years of destruction. Forgiveness is not forgetting. It is not a pardon, excuse or the acceptance of unacceptable behavior. Forgiveness is a process and one that can set you free. It is a long process and a lot of hard work, but it can break patterns that would otherwise interfere with future relationships. I have always been surprised that I did not go down the road of drug and alcohol abuse or that I didn’t suffer psychological effects. But, who is to say that I have not? I can assure you of this, the destruction I faced as a child and teenager has played a huge part in who I have become today. My biological mother told everyone she knew that I died at birth and then placed me up for adoption. She never once held me. My parents adopted me for reasons revolving around my mother’s health and my father’s desire for a daughter after having two natural sons. My mother, born in September 1939, was diagnosed with polio at 18 months. They called it the summer plague, because it seemed to be most active in the warmest months. It has never been proven, but it was thought that my mother contracted polio in one of two ways: from either swimming in the Ohio River or swimming at Coney Island during the summer of 1940. Today not many people 53
speak about polio. Its legacy remains and it is estimated that 600,000 polio survivors live in the U.S. My mother, one of those survivors, is still alive today. Polio was only the beginning of her struggle, her journey through abandonment and loss, which would roll in like a freight train right into my life. This is why my suffering and my grievances would begin at such a young age. They also did for her. My earliest memories of destruction began around the age of four. At the age of 16, when I tried to take my own life, I began to grieve. Don’t get me wrong; I was suffering at a really young age, but I didn’t understand what I was going through back then. I was in complete distress, but wouldn’t come to acknowledge it and cry out for help until I was 16. It would be after failing to take my own life that the resentment and the grudges would begin to set in. From the age of 16 until my 30s, I would talk about negative emotions and events. All I could do was tell my story. It was all about me, all about the “How could she?”; “Why did she?”; and “How could my father let her?” “Why am I so different?”; “Why don’t they love me?” were all questions I would ask myself for years. Looking back I can see where my mother might have asked these same questions too. My mother would spend seven years, most of her young life, in recovery at Louisville Children’s Hospital. She would be away from her family and never really develop relationships besides the nurses at the hospital. I can only imagine the abandonment she must have felt. Many polio survivors still shudder at memories of being separated from their parents for rehabilitation. But my mom’s parents would visit her when they could and as often as they could. Her father worked for the railroad and farmed. Her mother and siblings helped with the farm, canning fruits and vegetables, and helped around the house. My mother was fourth in a family of 13 brothers and sisters. I can’t even imagine coning home at the age of eight, crippled and trying to get to know seven siblings that I’d only seen through a hospital window. My mother underwent many years of surgeries, procedures, and rehabilitation. Even when I was growing up, she suffered devastating illnesses: hip replacements and breast cancer are just a few examples of the countless times she would endure physical healing and mental anguish. Throughout the years when my mother was 54
hospitalized and I took care of her, our relationship was strained. Our family counselors concluded that our destructive relationship was caused by the jealousy and resentment my mother had for me because I had “two good legs.” I was healthy and very active. A pattern of anger and resentment developed and it would take all that I had to break the emotional steel link that bound us together. In June of 1994 I met my husband, John, and life began to show me how “unconditional love” can heal. It was then that I could start to trust, begin to accept and allow forgiveness. My mother did not attend our wedding and said it would never last, but after 15 years of marriage, I see that God was just giving me an unexpected gift that I needed more than I knew. I wonder I my mother saw my father in that way when they met. My father too was great model of “unconditional love.” He would say to me, “I really never noticed that your mom walked with a limp.” My father always kissed her, hugged her, and was always affectionate with her. He loved her! John, my husband, was more than just a gift. He was also the strength I needed to breathe and he was and still is what keeps my heart beating. I know that sounds crazy, but the anger was tearing me apart. On the outside, I appeared to be OK, but on the inside, I was dead. I only told my story to John once, but lived it with him every day. After the birth of my two sons, it became more apparent that the anger inside of me needed to be set free. John would allow me to release that anger, resentment, and all of my grudges through his patience, kindness, love and understanding. Anyone who meets him knows those qualities about him. He never judged me, hated me, resented me or begrudged me. He simply loved me, unconditionally, the same way my father loved my mother. John is peace and understanding. He is one of the best gifts God has ever given me. I hope that my mother thought the same of my father, as I see him as her rescuer and I know that she misses him deeply. In September 2003, my father passed away and for the next two and a half years, I would witness the way people viewed my mother change in ways I never thought possible. I too changed my views. I felt like, for once in my entire life, people saw her for who she truly was. But it was not something I wished on them. One defining moment of healing for me occurred when I was talking on the phone with my brother after my father’s death. I was extremely upset, not about the loss, 55
but about how my mother alienated my father from me. I was upset at his funeral, except for my relatives, people who knew him through life and through business never knew he had a daughter. I felt like I did not exist and I blamed my mother. While on the phone, my brother said this to me: “She is my mother; I love her. I might not always agree with her words and actions, but I love her. She is who she is and after years of knowing her and knowing she will not change, ever, I have to accept that she is who she is and love her.” I wish my brother knew how much those words impacted me and also helped me in my journey to forgiveness. In the summer of 2006, I finally realized I had forgiven my mother. Mother Theresa said, “If we really want to love, we must learn to forgive.” I guess after years of anger and resentment, the biggest part of me really wanted to love. I had been feeling the love from my husband, John, and my children. I knew that they loved me unconditionally. John took me for who I was, who I would become and for whom I still am becoming. I tell him all the time that he has made me the person I am today. He always tells me that I am crazy. God brought John into my life when I needed to feel love, to hear love, to see love. I needed to know what it was like to experience “unconditional love.” It made me strong, it helped me to forgive, it gave me freedom and it brought me to God. I know this is going to sound crazy, but when I look at my husband, I see God! I see what is meant by “God is Love,” Psalms 147:3: He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. I was broken, in more ways than one, but my wounds have been healed and I have forgiven. The experience of forgiveness is no doubt profound. It can change you physically and emotionally. It can mend our tattered existence and empower us to move forward with hope. It can put us on a spiritual path toward God. I am on a journey. I have forgiven, but I have not forgotten. I am still learning more and more about forgiving, healing, and unconditional love, but now in other areas of my life. I am not fully convinced my mother has experienced the journey of forgiveness. I am not even sure she knows what it feels like to heal physically, mentally, or spiritually, as I feel she has really never been given the opportunity. But, maybe that is what God wanted me to see in her, experience in her and rejoice in her. That she is a woman of strength, courage and resiliency, that her story and my story are so intertwined and that it is up to me to trust that I have 56
broken through the steel chain that bound us and that we are now both free.
Photograph by Emilie Helman
Love Song By Corey Straus Listen: The sweet sounds coming from your heart, beating like a drum. Letâ€™s make music my body on your body, like musical notes on a staff. Let it flow through your spirit. Can you feel it? Whispers in my ear sounds sweet like a love song, voices raising octaves, moans coming from your mouth linger in the air: visions of treble clefs, bass clefs, whole notes, half notes. Let the beat from your heart flow with the beat from my heart and together letâ€™s make a love song.
Then and Now By Nichole Williams We met and our worlds collided You consumed my thoughts My heart beat wildly even when you only looked in my direction My skin tingled every time you touched me When we kissed my lips ached for more I gave you my heart without realizing it Being your lady sounded promising That was then...this is now… Yours is the face I see when I close my eyes When I dream you’re with me When I wake you’re gone Each time I see you my heart races I shed tears when you’re not around I crave your touch like oxygen My heart belongs to you It’s broken but I will still love you with all the pieces...
The New Me By Jennifer Von Gries From a box of old photographs, I recognize my old self. I see the one I once loved, I see the one I now hate. As I see memories arise, Tears start covering my face. I see a park with a playground, I see him pushing me on a swing. My memories freeze, As I picture our first kiss. I ask myself why, Why do I care? He pushed, he shoved, he hit; Did I really deserve this? Looking through this box of old photographs, I recognize my old self. Disappointed with shame, I come back to reality. I like the new me, New and free. 61
By looking through these old photographs, I am able to forget the past. The boy who put me though tears, Slowly begins to disappear. I close this box full of old photographs, Open a new one right beside and it to fill with laughter and love. I see my future, With a husband, kids, and a family. I see, ME.
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: firstname.lastname@example.org.
Editors and Staff Poetry Editor:
Jennifer Von Gries
Marvin Brooks Stephen Doyel Emilie Helman
Megan Hinckley Erin Rineair
Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D.
This is a literary magazine out of the College of Mount St. Joseph in Cincinnati, OH.