RENEW

NORTH GREENVILLE UNIVERSITY’S

THE MOUNTAIN LAUREL 2015

RENEW VOLUME 51

The Mountain Laurel Staff 2015 Editor-in-Chief Hannah Smith Art Editors Heather Bodine Naomi King Poetry Editor Alyson Queen Business Manager Emily H. Clark

Faculty/professional workshop consultants Dr. Greg Bruce Mrs. Sonja Coppenbarger Art workshop consultant Emily Bain Poetry Consultants Anna M. Crosby Ella Snyder

Public Relations Manager Jennifer McDonald The Mountain Laurel Staff Elizabeth Latzka Josiah E. Wright Tyler Casamassa Estelle Erdmann Joshua Springs(Spring 2015) Taylor Williamson (Spring 2015) Faculty Advisers Art – Ms. Hayley Douglas Literature – Dr. Deborah DeCiantis

North Greenville University is accredited by the Commission of Colleges of the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools to award Associate Degrees, Baccalaureate Degrees, and Master Degrees. Contact the Commision on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097 or call 404-679-4500 for questions about the accreditation of North Greenville University.

RENEW

The Mountain Laurel North Greenville University P.O. Box 1892 7801 North Tigerville Road Tigerville, SC 29688 (864) 977-7000 www.ngu.edu Enrollment 2581 http://ngumountainlaurel.wordpress.com http://issuu.com/themountainlaurel

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Table of Contents Letter from the Editors

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REACH

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You Diagram My Sentences Your Tongue, My Ears My Disarray Ears That Do Not Hear The Pond Uva Technologies Stick Figurings Learning to Live The Flood Natural Beauty Cold Broken Clock From the Land of Dust Union Joy The Choice Collapse Sacrificial Quietness Hemlock Grey Interior Euphoria Storefront Frame Ode to NGU

RENEW

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6 6 7 7 8 10 13 14 15 16 16 17 17 18 18 19 19 20 20 21 22 22 23 23 24

Be Still and Know I am God Desert Pharisees Untitled One More in the Family Plot Decay 6 Degradation Bon Nonage Bridal Prayer The Old Days Field of Wander

24 25 25 26 26 27 28 28 29 29

SUSTAIN

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Still Life with Jar and Vase Crickets Texture Weeds Preachers Preach Suits and Ties The Year We Did Have Classic How to Express Progress The Most Memorable Day of My Life: As Told by a Cat You Got Me The Unexpectd Catastrophe Inherent in the Exploration of Youthful Imagination in the Adult Mind Ducks

31 31 32 33 34 35 36 36 37 38 38 39 40

41 42 44

FLOURISH

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Where Apples Taste Best Bloom Where You’re Planted All of a Sudden Hatching Rose Hakuna Matata Why Hello Thoughts on Taking My Teeth Out

45 46 47 48 49 50 50 51 52 52 53 53 54 54 55 56 57 58

60 60 61 61 62 64 65

Hide and Seek Before the Storm Cadence Strength Light of the World True Love The Agápe Feast What a Savior!

Hallelujah Flow Let My Love White Lace Bruised, Not Broken 3/6/14 Rain Tulips The Night Biding the Twilight Hush A Wood at Dawn Oceanic Here Comes the Sun

66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 74 75 75 76 78 79 79 80 80 81 82 83 83

Judges Mission Statement Selection Process Yellow Contributing Writers Contributing Artists Design Credit

84 85 85 86 87 88 88

The Mountain Laurel 2015 Supplement

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ENEW

Unfailing Bad Fortune God Loves Us, But He Also Wants Us, and I Have Recently Been Wondering Why An Address to a Winged Beast Monologue of a Coffee Table Art Poem The White Reaper Vitality Lace Temples Ireland ; Discord A Painting Rabbit Trails Facebook Status Updates Jewelled Scribbles Roses and the Skyline Adelboden Why Do I Write Selah

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Letter from the Editors

Green. Life. Abide. These words flash through my mind as I reflect on existence. I have always loved the motto “Thrive, don’t just survive!” but how true it really is. Every individual hungers for a full and rich life. At the very essence of our being is the desire, yes, even the need, to live in utter joy and abandon. We reach, grasping for threads of that life we have been told is possible but cannot quite get hold of. Most days we simply want to be sustained, to have the mental and physical strength to stand, eat, and sleep, weaving back and forth on an uncertain balance that could tilt precariously at any moment. However, those days do come when we flourish. Life is a drink of clear, cold water, and the more we drink, the more we thirst, and the more we realize what we have been missing. We settle for the reaching and sustaining even as Christ bends down and extends to us the cup, abundant and full, and every moment is a choice to take and drink of life.

Hannah K. Smith, Editor-in-Chief

The age of *electracy has magnified the individual, using digital items identified with a precursor lowercase “i.” and devices designed with self-facing cameras. One current obsession is gaining likes and favorites on various social media. “However, at the same time, electracy can allow focus to shift from the individual to the community. Social networking has the potential to connect people from opposite ends of the Earth. News of a catastrophe or triumph in one country can travel the world in a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

The Bible describes the community of believers as a body in which each member is a part. The body cannot function correctly unless every member does its job, even if it gets no glory for doing it. The same applies to us. We don’t always need the spotlight and 1,000 likes on Facebook. Individuals are important; they can make up for each other’s shortcomings, and in the process create a community of people who help each other grow. “As you read Renew, I hope that you will hear from those who differ from you, build relationships and sustain them, and flourish within your community.

Naomi King * Electracy: digital literacy

“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. . . .”

Life is a bittersweet mixture of falling down on the pavement with bare knees and chasing scrapes down with a spoonful of honey. The vices and quirks we all have represent the core of life - our humanity. I strive, as both editor and poetic contributor, to edify by pointing to the simple yet complex beauty of human experience; to transcend limited perception in order to make The Mountain Laurel a safe place for those who leave their fingerprints on its pages. May this journal always be a temple for weary travelers to recall the times they got back up from the pavement and the sweetness of the first spoonful of honey.

Alyson Queen

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REACH

Renewal. One word, seven letters. Through our process this year, renewal came both to our book and to myself. We’ve been through each of the stages outlined in the book, working towards flourishing in this printed copy you are reading now.

In much the same way, I’ve worked through struggles in the past year that reflect my own growth. In much the same way that flowering is not the final stage, as seeds sprout, are planted, and grow anew, throughout my life, I’ll face new struggles to overcome and also grow from them. If readers take anything from this, I hope it’s that while the going may seem tough, if you reach further, one day, you will flourish.

Heather Bodine

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You Diagram My Sentences by Celeste Hawkins Colmenares You diagram my sentences putting words on top of other words, out of place and out of order.

Don’t forget to underline – but the little adjectives slant below the border like extra appendages, ending in mid-air, an unfinished stair.

You add on, turn the cycles to comets and street maps.

We’re lost in argument and conversation, where lines intersect and we interject the synapse sparks of speech.

Sometimes, I ask you, let’s just turn off all the signals and hear me hear you.

REACH

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Your Tongue, My Ears 2nd

by Jenna Haase

Poetry

You say you will talk my ears off ?

Well I will listen your tongue out.

And then we two, With ears and tongues too few, What ever will we do?

My Disarray by Jennifer McDonald Do you ever feel clumsy?

Having never told them why,

I’m sure you all have,

There were white specks on their shirt,

You don’t mean to be awkward,

In the dining hall that night.

But it sure triggers a laugh.

This happens to me quite often, I’m not entirely sure why, In the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe?

Thankfully I’m not all that shy.

Charcoal, 18 in x 24 in

I’ve tripped and I’ve fallen, Even landed flat on my face, Stared at people without realizing, Made them feel quite out of place.

I remember this one time, You will not believe, I splattered someone’s back With a dollop of sour cream.

My face flushed red, I wasn’t sure what to do, So I didn’t say a word, Hoping they never knew.

Now I feel so guilty,

Ears That Do Not Hear

by Naomi King

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The Pond

by Julia Klukow

3rd Fiction

It happened on a Tuesday, early winter, twelve years ago. For our first ice-skating outing of the season, I wrapped two scarves around my head and neck, covering my face so only my eyes and the bridge of my nose showed.

Tommy wore two fuzzy beanies and Father’s old ski goggles.

I laughed as Tommy jumped out the back door, blundering down the porch steps. He tried to spit at me, but stopped when I told him his saliva would freeze his mouth sealed. I laughed, and he chased me all the way to the pond, promising to push me onto thin ice.

Two inches of freshly fallen snow lay over the pond’s untouched surface. Tommy’s head jerked as if he had heard something. I looked around.

Seeing nothing, I pulled Tommy’s legs onto my lap to buckle his boots correctly. He made no protest, just sat, his chapped lips parted and red nose dripping tiny icicles. His vacant stare began to unsettle me.

To lighten the mood, I asked, “You didn’t see Maria Smith, did you?” Many times, Mother had told us the ghost story of a girl who sneaked out to skate alone one night.

According to the story, Maria lost her way and wandered around woods she had once considered as familiar as a best friend. Little Maria grew colder and colder, for she had left her coat in her parents’ room. Each part of Maria’s body froze in turn: first, her hands, so she could not feel her way home in the dark. Then her nose, so she could not smell the fireplace smoke. Her eyes froze next, so she could not see where she was going, followed by her legs, so that she had to crawl along the icy forest floor. When her head froze, she could not think of what to do. Finally, her heart turned to ice, thick and stiff, and she no longer cared to find her home.

Mother said Maria roamed the woods day and night, looking for lonely children to accompany her. I knew Maria was only a legend, a warning against leaving home alone, but Tommy had always cornered me after each telling and asked in a whisper, “Is Maria real?”

I finished the story and Tommy’s skates, tapping his laces twice for good luck. “Ready?”

Even as I spoke, I knew we would not be skating that day. His face was the color of the frozen pond, and he sucked in his cheeks, which he did when he was thinking deeply.

“Tommy?” My voice shook.

He did not answer but slowly rose to his feet and started walking past me. His first steps rocked his little body as he tested the new blades. I giggled a little, then stopped.

Standing about twenty feet away, arms stretched out toward us, was a girl covered in ice. Her body was blue, her skin pale as the morning sky, her hair dark like the midnight; her eyes feasted on Tommy as she gave him a small, sad smile.

“No, Tommy!” I yelled. My words echoed across the pond.

REACH

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REACH

But he did not listen. He walked toward her beckoning embrace. I jumped up and raced to him. I grabbed him, pinned his arms to his sides, and shouted in his ear. He tried to shake me off, but I would not let him go. His name was all I managed to stutter until—

Pain thundered down my leg. In shock, I gasped and dropped my arms.

Tommy ran toward Maria. I looked at my leg and screamed. Tommy had slammed his skate blade into it, tearing the flesh from my right knee to my foot.

Crimson poured onto the snow around my feet. Bone gleamed through the tatters of skin. My head spun and my stomach retched: vomit plopped into the pools of blood on the snow.

But—Tommy! I whipped my head up in time to see the tassel on top of his beanie cap bobbing as his head dipped below the surface of the frozen pond. He had followed Maria down a perfect circle cut in the center of the ice. He would die within seconds.

What could I do to help him? Nothing. Nothing.

I seized a fistful of the scarves around my head and screamed again. My eerie screech bounced off the trees circling the lake and echoed. The only thought in my chaotic consciousness was “Get home.”

With adrenaline pumping, I staggered home. Where was home? Had I missed the house? Never had it been so far…. Maria! Maria must be tricking my mind.

Hurry—hurry—I heard footsteps behind me. Maria? Maria! Behind me! I stumbled on as fast as I could.

Maria flung her icy fingers around my ankles and tried to pull me back to the pond.

Forgetting my sliced foot, I trampled on her wrists, pounding the blades on them.

She let go and I shoved my way through the snow. If I could just get to the house—

Yes! There—I saw hope! Smoke puffed from our chimney.

“Mother.” I sobbed. “Mother!”

The back door banged. Mother scooped me in her arms and hustled to the kitchen. I cried into her shoulder.

“How, child? How?” She asked me over and over, stroking wet hair from my face.

I tried to tell her what had happened, but words were like bubbles in my mouth. They popped when they reached my lips and came out as nothing but dribble down my chin.

“T-T-Tommy!” I finally got out. “He’s—he’s—” The sentence died when I glanced at the table. There in his robe and slippers, oatmeal dripping from the corners of his mouth, sat Tommy.

“What about Tommy?” Mother asked.

“But—but Maria?”

“What have you done to yourself, child?”

I looked down. My blue fingers were frozen to the laces of my skates. The blades dangled above my knee, dripping big, dark splotches on my pants.

The only reason I had not passed out was that the blood had iced over in the cold and numbed my legs, for both were shredded strips of ragged skin that flapped when I moved them.

I never went to the pond again.

9

Uva Technologies

by Joshua Mulvaney

10

REACH

“Here at Uva, we’ve developed a groundbreaking product that will reshape the entire industry.”

Not again, Jameston thought. Same message every year. New product, new idea. Bull.

The screen fluttered through introductory images to the new product. Well designed, but nothing he hadn’t seen before. Tech improvements every year. Even the idea of a new idea was hackneyed and trivial.

Here we go again. At least the pay was good.

As an advertising consultant, his job was to take the new idea revealed and present it to the public with the force of a rhinoceros in a bowling alley. Normally, he would have known about this project months earlier and worked with developers to decide how to market the product properly to the right market segment.

Not this time.

This project was supposedly something special. Developers had kept it secret for the entire experimentation process. While not abnormal, what was uncommon was how absolutely locked down the project was. Usually, at least a slither of information slipped through the cracks.

Yet again, not this time.

Jameston heard whispering and recognized the voices. One was CEO of the distribution company that would be shipping the product, Devia Incorporated. The other would benefit most from this groundbreaking product: the CEO of Uva Technologies. He was less involved in product development than he admitted, but he shoveled in the revenue like a starved pig.

Jameston could tell they were excited about the product’s commercial opportunities, but he figured neither had a clue what it was.

“And so, I introduce to you: the Uva BioOne.” Two well-dressed patrons brought out a small orb and placed it on the glass display case in the center of the stage.

It was a curious looking device, nothing more than a glass sphere. No visible microchips or moving parts, no electronics of any kind. Its simplicity commanded attention; what it did was anyone’s guess. Nevertheless, the auditorium erupted in applause.

Uva’s renowned product spokesperson, Yuri Petrovich, raised a hand.The crowd of business execs and tech tycoons calmed and became silent.

“This is unlike anything you have seen before. How many times have we heard that phrase?”

Interesting start. At least Petrovich was a class A showman.

“This room is filled with some of the brightest minds and sharpest creative intellects on our planet. You’ve seen and heard everything. You’ve watched as the tech industry evolved from two-ton calculators to the personal computer of the 90s, seen the rise of the World Wide Web in the 2000s, the social media boom in the 10s, initiation of the Grid in the 20s, and the Intrasphere systems of the 30s and 40s. As one man said, ‘There is nothing new under the sun.’”

REACH

Petrovich paused, placing a hand on the orb. “Gentlemen, ladies: You haven’t seen anything.”

As he withdrew his hand, an entire digital display splintered from the surface of the orb into a solar system of information. A firework show of code, shapes, and a thousand bits of digital symbols filled the stage, casting a flurry of vibrant colors on the stunned faces of the audience. The images and symbols organized themselves into several hundred individual yet identical graphic entities.

Each entity was a brain. Each brain was surrounded by thousands of pieces of digital data.

Petrovich watched the audience’s reaction with pleasure. No Hollywood film had kept them on the edge of their seats for twenty years, but now they pounded the backs of the seats in front of them and salivated before this technological deity.

“This device is the answer to every problem we’ve struggled with for the past half century. What has that problem been?”

Petrovich eyed the audience with a mysterious glance.

“Secrecy. Each individual still holds his own secrets. No matter how far we go or how much we accomplish in the tech world, the individuals who buy our products can still contain their secrets. They have mastered the ability to present a strong front, to develop a persona on social media that hides their real selves. The more outlets they have to share, the fewer people know who they really are. This product will change all of that.”

Jameston caught himself drooling. This was well beyond what he’d expected when he’d walked into the building.

He felt his blood pumping a little faster than usual.

“We’ve all had biochips since the 20s. Utilizing a revolutionary form of biotechnology, this device accesses the neural processes in any individual connected to the Grid. The BioOne reads neural impulses filtered through the biochips and discovers a person’s thoughts. Neural impulses from each individual travel via bioelectric signals through the BioOne to the Uva biochip into the brain. In short, the BioOne immediately connects a person’s thoughts to the Grid.”

The audience gasped, absorbing this information like a child with an ice cream cone.

“Now, who would want this product you might ask? Why would people want their secrets revealed to the world?

Here at Uva, we believe that the desire to know others’ secrets will triumph over fear of having one’s own secrets known.

“How valuable is a secret? A secret is everything. Take it away and you’ve stolen the only untouchable item of an individual’s identity. However, if you give someone the opportunity to uncover secrets, we believe people will sell anything to gain them, including their own identities.

“Let me demonstrate. In my introduction, I noticed particularly negative thoughts from one of our own advertising consultants. Mr. Craig Jameston?”

His heart sank into his socks.

“I’m here,” he said firmly in an attempt to cover his obvious terror.

“No need to be afraid -- we’re all professionals here. Do stand up for us.”

There was no arguing. The audience was so smitten with Petrovich, he knew better than to displease the flock.

Grabbing the seat in front of him, he white-knuckled himself to a standing position.

“Mr. Jameston, the BioOne read that you were expecting a much less impressive project.”

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Uva Technologies, cont.

“No sir, I am always impressed with what Uva develops.”

“You would lie to me?”

“No...I..”

“Are you impressed with our new product?”

Jameston nearly wet himself. All eyes were on him.

“Of course. It’s spectacular. Totally original.”

“Then I suppose that makes your job a lot easier, doesn’t it?”

Biting words. Such caustic subtlety. Petrovich was a devil when he wanted to be. He’d make a frightening CEO if he didn’t so enjoy the spotlight.

“Now, Mr. Jameston, I currently have access to every thought and memory in your experience. If I spent enough time, I could learn just about everything about you in a relatively short time: I could unlock your darkest secrets.”

Jameston felt like passing out but couldn’t, because he feared what Petrovich might say after he did.

“If I recall, when you walked into this auditorium you were thinking about a certain piece of information vitally important to your career. What if I were to tell you I had that secret in my possession? I do, actually. I’ve worked with the person you were trying to contact. I know exactly what you want, and I can give it to you.”

Jameston felt divided. His whole universe was being laid out before the most powerful men and women in the world, and he was helpless. Yet, he wanted this information with everything in him. He’d spent three years trying to obtain it, with no luck.

“There is a catch. I also know something about your past. A certain run of bad luck that might put you in bad report among your coworkers. It would seem you are not the spotless professional you pretend to be. Oh, don’t worry, you aren’t the only one here.

“What if I were to offer a choice? You tell your coworkers your secret past, and I’ll give you the information you desire.”

Jameston was breathing heavily.

“Is everything I have said true?”

The place was silent. Every pupil was pinned on his lips. Did he dare lie?

“Yes...everything...”

“What would you choose?”

“I’d...I’d prefer not to decide at this time...”

“Nor would we force you to. This is merely a demonstration. Thank you, Mr. Jameston.”

Jameston took his seat. He felt as though all the spectators were laughing at him. In reality, they were terrified.

Never had these executives and businessmen felt so naked. No safe room, no armed bodyguards, no island resort or Swiss bank account could protect them from this invasion of the mind; Uva had burned everyone’s clothes. He could taste the outrage in the air. The future of this device depended on how many people in this audience were blinded by the dollar. He knew that every person in this room wanted to get out. Now. But nobody dared to move.

Petrovich just smiled.

REACH

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Graphite, 13 in x 18 in

Stick Figurings

by Rachel Remington

3rd Art 13

Learning to Live

by Sterling Simmons

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REACH

The bench was an ugly dark, green color. It seemed to mock my distaste for it by wooing me to sit down. So I gave in. I looked at my watch. Quarter past 6. I looked down the road. No cars. No buses. No people. I tried to calm my nerves by watching the light rustling of leaves playing through the air like children running from each other.

They were completely engrossed with the windy affairs of Mother Nature, who was completely engrossed with the affairs of her job. This feminine spirit had no time for laughter. No time for her children. These days everyone had to work because work provided food and food provided life. But Mother Nature’s children played. Those leaves played as if they knew tomorrow they would be dead—lying upon the ground all dried up and trampled upon by the feet of uncaring men in tailored business suits with leather suitcases, too busy to notice the lives they ended. But I noticed. I looked up. Two cars. One bus.

One person.

A woman walked down the sidewalk toward me. She had hair like mine, skin like mine, eyes like mine (except with a fierce fire that mine did not possess), and she walked with an overwhelming sense of life. When floods came, she could just look down at their waves with those blazing, fiery eyes and watch them evaporate as she walked through their misty carcasses without remorse. I knew nothing could stop her from living—not death, and definitely not me.

The woman had a bag on her back, its strap across her shoulder. She wore a red collarless shirt with an elaborate floral print and no sleeves, exposing her lean, muscular arms - the signs

2nd Fiction

of a working woman. Her dark black pants seemed to hug her legs as they reached her ankles, covering a small tattoo. On her feet were black heels. She stopped and looked down at me. I thought she looked different from this morning but said nothing.

“Finally here?” I said.

“Yeah. I said that I’d be here, right?” She put her bag down at my feet and sat down. Pulling out a small silver tube, she began applying lipstick, then more makeup around her eyes. It was strange seeing her do this in public, adding powder and eyeliner.

“You know you’re beautiful without it,” I said.

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” she said. “I work for a living. I’m not like those other women who slave in the morning to put this stuff on. I’m a working woman. We don’t need makeup to tell us if we’re beautiful. I’m just seeing if I can still do it.”

With makeup, her face seemed different. I noticed the creases that were now hidden. Her eyes were no longer tired but seductive, her cheeks red. Strangely, she seemed older. Instead of hiding things, makeup revealed, almost told of a past filled with men’s pleasure.

“You said you would be here at 5:30. It’s 6:30!”

She glared at me, but I turned so I wouldn’t see. The sun was beginning to set, and the sky blazed with fire.

“Mr. Holseger just wanted to speak with me before I left work so I missed the bus. But I’m here, ain’t I?” she exclaimed. “For someone your age, you worry too much.”

“Do you have that extra jacket I bought you in your bags? It’s getting cold and I left my jacket at work.” she said, knowing my only jacket was the one I had on.

“No, it’s at the house because I figured I

on her shoulders,which sank with the burden.

“Baby, life is hard sometimes. And sometimes you got to do what’s necessary to make money. You got to learn how to survive. You got to learn how to live.”

She took my hands in hers and held them tight.

The next day at about 6:30 in the evening Mama started working in town. Always at night. Always with business men. Always when their children and wives hoped daddy would come home. The first night Mama told me it was necessary. Since then, her breaths have grown shallower and her eyes dimmer. I wonder whether Mama has ever really lived.

Honorable Art Mention

The Flood

by Naomi King

Linocut, 8 in x 7 in

wouldn’t need it. But I do have on this blue jacket surrounding my body and keeping me warm,” I retorted, purposely fanning her fury.

We sat in silence as Mother Nature began to take on more of her earthly duties, tossing strips of wind towards the aging beauty and me as if we were the universe’s trash can. She seemed frustrated. The winds blew softly, then suddenly threatened to blow the breath out of us.

Without saying anything, I took off my jacket and held it out to her. I could tell she was worn out. She grasped it gratefully and draped it about her shoulders.

My anger was dying down. Her body moved closer to mine, and I felt her head rest on my shoulder. My arm slid across her shoulders and we sat there watching leaves run across the sidewalk. I admired their carefree play.

After about five minutes we got up and walked.

As the wind blew, the trees’ small siblings looked like flames, their orange, yellow, and red bodies shivering with excitement or fear. It seemed silly to me that leaves would have anything to fear. Maybe they feared their mother’s winds? Maybe they were afraid they would be swept away by those cruel bursts of air? Maybe they feared the shiny, polished black shoes of business men which were constantly moving, constantly running towards the next business call, paycheck, or promotion.

After all, children often fear what they do not understand, and these children did not understand the complexities of real life.

We stopped walking. I needed to ask her now.

“Mama, how are we going to get food now?” I asked.

“Why do you worry so much?” she said sharply.

“You’re a child. Your life ain’t supposed to be filled with worrying! We’re gonna do fine. I’ll make sure of it. Ain’t nobody firing me gonna stop us!”

“But Mama, how are we supposed to live?”

Tears welled up. Even the leaves seemed to fall silent.

Mama paused with the weight of motherhood hanging

15

Cold

Photography

Natural Beauty by Kristin Clardy

by Elizabeth Latzka

The cold air was so dry that it burned my lungs to inhale. The wind slapped my face and stabbed through my layers. The moon’s beams reflected off the snow as I trudged through. My heavy boots crunched through the kneedeep snow. The wind carried more than just the cold— it carried a sound that made my stomach drop. I heard a low, long howl.

I lost all sensation of cold as fear rose hot through my body. My head began to spin and my limbs started to shake. I began to run as fast I could through the snow, never looking back because I knew what was behind me. The howl came again, this time repeated by a dozen companions. I ran as fast as I could toward the woods. The howls grew louder. A frozen branch slapped me in the face. I ran. I could hear scores of padded feet snapping icy twigs and leaving footprints on the snowy floor. My heart beat faster and my head spun even more. I ran. I could feel the warm breath melting the snow off my boots. A moist jaw snapped just behind my knee. A tree root grabbed my ankle and threw me to the ground.

A dozen panting forms surrounded me. I felt saliva drip on my neck. I knew how they killed their prey, I knew my neck was about to be torn. Suddenly, a twig snapped a few feet in front of me. My pursuers averted their attention for a moment to the source of the noise. They ran. I pushed myself off the ground and looked in front of me. My heart stopped. I would have preferred the wolves.

REACH

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Broken Clock

by Javin Taylor

At midnight’s toll we hear the ring of the broken clock as it tries to sing. Rain drops against the broken glass of a windowpane in a frame long since rotted. The stone that made a path for our walk is washed away by the rumbling of thunder; the strikes of lightning our only light as we listen to the broken clock that ticks away our moments and breaths. We hear none but its chime; rolling thunder and bright flashes fill our ears and eyes – hiding the path that has been marked – and we become lost in the shadowed world where we now fumble. Despite our trials to escape its hold, we only fail, and each tick that comes feels more like a coffin nail. On our adventure, the traveling road that slips away, we feel the icy water bite our flesh, and our hearts grow cold. Final breaths are nightmares that creep upon us while our blindness and deafness overthrow everything else. The clock strikes again, and the song finally ends – I bid you goodnight, sweet, bitter, delight.

From the Land of Dust Honorable Mention

by David Nelson

Poetry

This land is a dry place, now.

The monsoon is coming.

I swear I can feel it – A monstrous mass of sky-water finally finding the furrows of the Earth.

I await your presence.

Here in this dust I pray for blessings for rain.

Here in this land where all time happens at once.

The children are still dying.

In this land where death is merely the next step in the cycle, I still have not seen a mother Who does not weep for her dead child.

Clouds flow over the mountains Like water.

-Crawling waterfalls and rivers cut in the sky – Earth and Sky mimic each other in their constant dance.

My ear to the ground I listen for your footsteps “Terminus non est”

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(They have not learned to escape their fate) A storm is coming

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Union

by Melia Quinn I am not a conquest.

My body is a war-torn no-man’s land we all learned

Joy

about in 5th grade, built on a Rock that never gives way.

I burnt myself to ashes up to my elbows, scar tissue like a white flag.

These three red drops and two blue lines are not a protest (my pain is not a protest, stop firing Rubber bullets)

Prismacolor and Graphite, 10 in x 13 in

by Katie Stollger

I am not topless in the streets of California, I am a girl with a crooked nose and green eyes (stop punching holes in my lungs

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with your smoke)

The Choice

Darkness is a choice To revel in the pain To dwell among sin and death To hide at the sound of the Master’s voice To taste of fruit and not to bear How much agony to force one to forsake Him for Whom all must be forsaken A tear shed in defiant remorse... ...Yes, darkness is a choice...

But if darkness is a choice, then light must be as well Ripping, burning, tearing Searing through the darkness Blood has been spilled, flesh has been torn Nails meet divine love Crushing hell, murdering a death with a power no longer in his clutches A glory streams through, a Savior exalted A stone is rolled, and a Love breaks through Hope blooms forth, for light is a choice

Light is a choice For Light is the One, the Three in One God and man reconciled From Golgotha to the grave...

To Easter morn!

In glory and splendor, a light bursts forth Light is a choice On bended knee, with kneeling heart...

Yes, Light is a choice

Collapse

by Heather Bodine

I watch the world fall apart. Fire, wars, chaos. It all falls around me, never quite touching. A burn here and there, but nothing more. I am an outsider, cast aside, the world not caring. I am a bystander, watching it all happen, hearing the screams, feeling the trembling of the earth as it slowly breaks. Tears fall from the eyes of the innocent, of the lost. Yet here I still stand, my face expressionless.

Terror should clutch me, rip me apart, tear me to pieces, burn me into ashes. Anguish should take hold, reduce me to a shell of who I once was, squeeze every bit of moisture from my body. But it does not. At the very least, anger should consume me, sear my veins, cause me to add to the chaos around me. But my face remains impassive as I stroll along the sidelines of the shattered world. The world has fallen, and I feel nothing.

REACH

by Hannah Henderson

Darkness is a choice To traverse among the shadows To flee from the light One hundred eighty-six thousand meters per second How swiftly must one travel to outrun the day?

How much fear, how much guilt To make one flee from the warmth To flee from the beauty To flee from the joy...

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Sacrificial

by Courtney Jerman Watercolor pencils, 11 in x 8 in

When our cream and cotton-flower romance Curdled and withered away, I told you that I understood That God almighty himself Knocked me down from your shelf, And who was I to decide Just a simple girl, otherwise?

Who was I, in my sackcloth and ashes, to say That you, my best friend, were contracted to stay?

When you, decked in your camo and navy blue-gray, Packed all your bags before boarding a plane With a ticket to somewhere, anywhere but here, I understood.

What could I do besides utter soft lies When you played the cat, I a mouse in your eyes, As if my heart were some trivial prize to be won In a meaningless game of hide and go seek Or red light green light?

When Simon-said I was selfish to object, I understood.

Quietness

by Estelle Erdmann REACH

20

Why do these tears land on shadows alone, Holding reasons unwound and unbearably sound, Stamped and sealed by lips in a bitter, cold kiss On my mask, impassively brave As the answer I gave, Like a parrot repeating the phrase, “I understood,�

But I never could.

Hemlock by Brandon Dry

The sweat beaded on Henry’s brow. The past weeks had been tiring on him and had gotten increasingly worse over the last few days. He didn’t have the energy he once had, and it almost seemed that he was losing control of his own body. His moves had become sluggish, and recently even his breathing had become more difficult. His hoarse voice called out “Sara....Sar...[cough]...Sarah!”

Though he was now much more dependent on his wife, Sarah, he didn’t show her any more appreciation than usual, and his weakness did little to dull his temper. Sarah had always put up with Henry’s anger issues, but the past few months had proven much worse than she ever imagined.

Sarah glanced at a picture of herself and Henry on the oak dresser and caught her reflection in the cracked glass. She could see that the bruises had finally become faint as Henry hadn’t held the strength to get out of the chair, much less take his frustration out on her.

Sarah walked cautiously into the room where Henry was resting and saw his feeble attempts to remove himself from the chair, but to no avail. With all the energy he could muster, he shouted, “Didn’t you hear me cal....[cough] calling you? You just.... [gasp] leave me in here all alone? Why don’t you think for once?”

Sarah couldn’t fight the instinct to shrink back even though she knew he had no strength left. She regained her composure, responding in a gentle and timid voice, “I’m sorry, Henry. I just ran to the other room for a minute and didn’t think...”

Henry interrupted “That’s right.... [gasping] you didn’t think.”

Sarah flinched and closed her eyes at the remark but continued, “What can I get you?”

1st Fiction

the soup in and noticed the red-crusted pot by the sink.

She quickly moved to the sink, muttering something under her breath. She scrubbed the red filth out of the pan and sloshed the red liquid on the floor. The green flecks in the light caught her eye. A look of sadness took over her face as she emptied the last remnant of last night’s soup from the pot. Sarah poured the contents of the can into the pot.

She added less water than normal, to keep the thickness of the soup, and rested it on the burner. Sarah moved to the bottom cupboard and removed a small bag which now was only a quarter of the way full of leaves. She was careful not to touch them as she removed four individual leaves and pulled a knife from the drawer to dice them. She added the first leaf, which became lost in the thick soup. The second and third leaves began to change the yellow tint of the soup ever so slightly, but the fourth made a noticeable difference.

Sarah’s eyes went wide in a panic. Surely Henry would see this and ask what she had done to the soup. She began to stir the soup, as it seemed almost unwilling to come to a boil.

She inched the temperature of the burner up, attempting to warm the soup more quickly, but only succeeded in burning the bottom of the pot. As she turned the temperature back down, the smell of the fire filled the room and she could hear muffled words of anger from the next room. The pot finally came to a boil and she poured the dense liquid into a bowl. The soup’s green tint had become less apparent in the dark room.

Henry only responded with a scowl and cleared his throat as he summoned the strength to eat. Sarah walked back to the kitchen to clean the soup that had sloshed onto the floor. She got on her hands and knees and began to scrub the stains away. She heard the bowl fall to the floor in the next room. As she heard it crack, she looked down to see her hands were stained red.

Sarah moved to the kitchen. The table had become cluttered with mail and late notices since Henry had been effectively limited to bed rest. She reached for the stove and ignited the pilot. She looked around for a pot to put

REACH EACH

Henry’s raspy voice came back. “Go make some of that soup.... and not the tomato, I had that yesterday.”

20 21

Grey Interior

by Melia Quinn

Condensation drip drip

“Shush.”

dripping down fogged-up glass just like last August

But it’s not the same.

2:55 a.m. glowing so sharply

like fangs

like his teeth marks

on your neck,

dragging you underneath “Babe.”

Photography

Covers, making believe love.

Laying down, letting yourself become a haunted house with flood damage

again.

Euphoria

by Will Paul McDonald

22

Storefront

Photography

by Sharon Burke

My heart has set up shop on a Corner; It feels the breeze that gushes up both streets.

My heart rebels against exacted Borders.

“To straddle lines,” it says, “means no retreat.”

My heart peeks through windows East and West.

It sees both sides of day: sunrise, Sunset.

My heart displays its wares judiciously, To appease the passerby from either Way. But does my heart know, to receive guests,

Frame

by Emily Younginer

REACH

It must limit itself to one address?

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Ode to North Greenville

by Brandon Dry

High upon the lofty hills Your face is worn and weathered.

Never short of peaceful thrills to which memories are tethered.

We see many symbols and statues of people But they merely point to our Chapel's lit steeple These are important to our campus of course but don't stare at stone and be filled with remorse.

They are but statues that get weathered and worn they won’t preach to the lost that rise early each morn.

Photography

There are lost even here, that travel in swarm But with our eyes only on statues we miss others’ storms.

Be Still and Know I am God

by Ashley LaPierre

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Desert Pharisees

by Dante Wilcox Oil on canvas, 9 in x 12 in

Plod along weary wayfarer Plot the end of your villain’s reign Walk forever in your desert Just sing your songs of law and plague Wreck the homage to your fathers Drown the poor within their abodes Build the temples in your desert Praise the righteousness of your bones Did you not hear the meek rabbi His pleading words to self-betray No, you were still in your desert Ignoring water as you prayed Stars have lined the sky above us To shine as though they were not night Down upon you in your desert Appearing to all those with sight Come to me my dear friend, brother Let’s adorn our hearts with love Leaving behind in your desert Efforts to find water in mud

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Untitled

by Kelsey Shannon

The River Styx we will soon find When we arrive, what will you say All you’ve known is in your desert Only dust and unwieldy clay

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One More in the Family Plot Photography

by Courtney Jerman

Mama carved pumpkins in autumn As I marveled from my place At our rickety kitchen table.

She gave me a bucket And let me play doctor, Mushing pungent, discarded guts between my fingers.

When I grew taller, she lent me her knife Which I used to cut half-haunted faces From their thick, waxy skins.

I always imagined those phantoms of fall Came alive when we light their stout candles To protect me and Mama from harm, But they couldn’t save Mama from the frost, From that choking, ice air Which briskly extinguished her flame.

Snapping, cruel, cold; rapping, stone men Came calling to drag her away As my stunned, silent screams rang loudly in their wake.

Now I carve the pumpkins in autumn As if I were scraping myself Clean of her deafening memories.

Decay 6 by Heather Bodine REACH

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Unctuous seeds are the rejected pains of my broken heart And on Mama’s porch, my fire flickers, dimly, Through the frozen façade I’ve displayed.

2nd Art Degradation Yarn, 6 ft x 2 ft

by Matthew Ausley

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Bon Nonage

by Sharon Burke

Photography

Bridal Prayer

by Heather Bodine

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Snap, crackle, pop: And childhood’s gone.

Besides the freckles; And the fears that morph from Toothy shadows into Looming, learing doubts, And no lippy pout can weasel an escape.

Bleary, squinted eyes from childish sleep Eventually adjust, But first you might Stub a toe.

Band-Aids must have lost their magic touch.

In the game of life You’re “It,” For real.

Life has tagged you; time to chase a Dream.

Complications seem To pile Like building blocks; A tower you’d prefer if someone knocked.

The downy, hooded comforts while a child, Keep warm a tiny, living, beating heart.

A heart ticking With purpose That outshines the nightlight’s glow.

So, let’s open the blinds; Guardrails down, coats zipped up – It’s time.

The Old Days by Dante Wilcox

Fieldbyof Wander Mackenzie Wray

Photography

REACH

Did you see that poor old tin can chair

where the old man used to sit?

I once walked by with my umbrella

just to dwell for a bit.

Well if you’d been there then you’d have seen

a faint shadow in the seat; Perhaps a mere stain or cast by birds

that would soon be someone’s meat.

A little girl from around the bend

stopped a bit to say, “Hello.”

I said, “Hello,” in return And perhaps that was when my rhythm died For I was silent. ... ...

I wish you had been there I also saw, like, a hundred birds

knowing now they were the shades Casting shadows on forgotten sets

passed after the glory fades.

Do you, um, want to go there with me

and try to recall the dreams Of that old man who sat all alone

while he soaked in the light’s streams?

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SUSTAIN

Still Life with Jar and Vase

by Katie Stollger

Time is Just a roll of packing tape We use to box up each day Into smaller, more manageable Memories that are shelved and slowly forgotten.

And that shelf is built on realizing you're Already living a memory.

Maybe yours, maybe someone else's.

Oil on canvas, 18 in x 14 in

Crickets

by Alyson Queen Like when grandchildren line up beside the dining room table so Memaw can kill all the Imaginary crickets In their hair, just as she did for you when you were Sleeping over in scratchy sheets beside the night stand where she kept broken crayons and jumbo coloring books.

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Texture

by Olivia Schmal

Photography

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Weeds

by Anna M. Crosby

SUSTAIN

Photography

33

Preachers Preach

Nowadays preachers preach, Declaring, “I see Jesus saying, In the word of God, that prosperity is yours for the taking.”

What about when Jesus said Not to lay up your treasures on earth Because your treasures in heaven matter most?

Or when Jesus said, “No man can serve two masters”?

Or when Jesus said, “It will be hard for a rich man to enter heaven”?

You seek after gold As if it can save your soul.

Gold is physical and cannot meet the needs Of a spiritually-minded man, Do not be deceived.

by Sterling Simmons

We listen to preachers preaching, To preachers who preach: Expecting a mighty word to be received and You say that with persistence We lend him the deep soothing sound of an organ playing, I can speak into existence Unknowingly lending credence to that which we should take heed, That I am the head and not the tail, Thus becoming organ donors to one who needs our validation.

That I am above and not beneath, We must be careful to whom we lend our hearts That I am the lender and not the borrower.

Because organ donors don’t get organs back.

But let us think: were those promises in Deuteronomy really given to me?

You can give him your heart, but remember Or were they given to a nation that God punished beyond belief ?

You are a piece of art, marred You really want me to claim the blessings and ignore the sacrifices of our savior?

By the dark strokes of sin, what he abhors.

You want me to make God’s grace dependent upon my faith and good behavior?

Yet this blood makes you white, a color he adores.

This god alone, only he can restore.

Jesus didn’t have to come on earth for God to bless Preachers who preach, Examine the prophets who were poor.

Were the prophets not exercising their faith?

Or did they just not understand a false truth That God always blesses a life of obedience With cars, health, money, and clothes?

You say the prophets in the Old Testament, Jesus hadn’t come yet, so they couldn’t walk In the fullness of blessing.

That’s like saying the Old Testament prophets were Teachers who couldn’t graduate to Expo markers So they just used chalk.

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His servants with riches, wealth, and health.

Truth is, God blesses whom he desires to bless To say anything more or less than this testimony Is to dilute God’s sovereignty with muddled truth of False prosperity, and man’s own perception and image of God, Which is already faulty.

Preachers who preach, You will not buy my belief.

You have been called to preach sermons that will reach Into the unsaved man’s heart and teach him the way to salvation.

Instead, you speak sermons that reach into men’s pockets, Promising them the whole world while they lose their souls.

Preach the Gospel centered on the teachings of Christ as the whole, Who taught that it is better to give than receive, Not that we are to give so that we may receive.

If you really love your church, faithfully teach and examine everything You say on the basis of the Bible, not just a verse here and a verse there.

Stand firm, stay strong.

“For in due season you shall reap if you faint not.”

And yes, preachers that preach, that verse was in context, Unlike the verses you preach to your sheep.

3rd

Nonfiction

Suits and Ties

by Emily Drake

SUSTAIN

For once, our noisy car was quiet. No one spoke. My third-grade heart stopped as I heard the man on the radio. Momma’s eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror.

The second World Trade Center had just been hit.

“Momma?” my little brother Benjamin inquired.

“What happened?” his twin, Jonathan, turned his brown eyes up toward her.

I breathed hard. I was just old enough to understand.

“Some planes just crashed into two buildings in New York City. A lot of people are very hurt,” she said gently.

“Well, it must have been an accident!” Jonathan exclaimed.

“Sweetheart, I’m afraid it couldn’t have been if it happened twice.”

The rest of the ride was silent. Momma hugged us a little harder when she dropped us off at school that morning.

I remember watching the news at school and seeing smoking buildings fall. Something twisted inside me to see those strong buildings crumble like the blocks of a Jenga tower. I was familiar with big, strong buildings like that. Our little elementary school sat 25 miles west of the great city of Chicago.

The classroom was still. Most of our daddies worked in the big buildings downtown. Rumors were they evacuated the Big City.

Even though we were young, we sensed the darkness of that clear-skied day. The fear of what could happen to our great city of Chicago was in each of our minds, but no one dared speak of it. We just prayed.

The teachers were distracted, but it didn’t matter much. The students were all calm anyway.

When the final bell rang for classes to end, something was very different.

There were no joyous shouts of praise.

Just silence.

And all of our daddies, in suits and ties, waiting for us in the pick-up line.

35

you’re

by Hannah Reynolds

The Year We Did Have

all I want.

I think about you, laugh just to know I’m going suddenly, directly to you. You said you count storms just to mark the Day long ago.

Rest lightly ... the year we did have SUSTAIN

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Classic by Kristin Clardy

was not that old.

Photography

Honorable PoetryMention

How to Express Progress

by Sharon Burke

Shifted, Slick and chill like sliding down a pew.

Misplaced Adrift a twirling compass rose.

Transferred, Like dust dancing in forced relocation.

Frantic, Like the docile dove’s alarmed ascent.

Nudged; A friendly elbow in the ribs.

Stirred By a mountain top crescendo crumbling silent.

Progress defined: How tyrant Time tallies his gold.

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37

ed to please his new owners! Disgusted though I was, I had to admire him slightly. I said slightly. Okay, never mind—just forget I said anything about it! But honestly, it wasn’t just an act or a method of getting food from the Table of the Humans; he genuinely wanted to show his new family how much he appreciated them. Really, what kind of self-respecting cat would wag about the room, attempting to please those pesky humans? Sure, they give me food and water and a place to sleep and comfy sofas on which to take long naps, but that’s their job! (Yes— their job, even though the eldest female of the family, aka the only one in whom I have detected the slightest hint of intelligence, told me it was because of something called grace…)

The last aspect of that initial experience with Jack that sticks most firmly in my mind is his utter helplessness. He was scared of me. Was I complaining?

Gracious, no! However, it did strike me as odd that he did not even attempt to confront me. He was actually scared!

And I felt responsible. Don’t ask me why, but somehow, in that instant, I became aware of a sense of responsibility for the mush-brained mutt. I knew that I had quite a job ahead of me if I must keep the clueless dog. And was I right. So was every aspect of Jack’s arrival deplorable?

Perhaps…perhaps not. His tail was fun to play with, and I must say that I did enjoy the look of fear in his eyes when he saw me approach to bat at his long, fluffy tail. And who knows? Maybe we will become friends someday…

No, I didn’t say definitely—I said maybe. But maybe is better than never…

You Got Me

by Emily Younginer

Photography

The Most Memorable Day of My Life: As Told By a Cat

by Hannah Henderson

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It was an ordinary day. It wasn’t like I had any reason to suspect anything; I’m the perfect pet. I’m gorgeous, intelligent, gorgeous, fun to play with, and gorgeous. I mean, really.

I’m the complete package…except for being nice. But being nice is highly overrated. It’s not exactly a crime to prefer independence to being squished by some clumsy giant who thinks it’s fun to snuggle furry felines. I am not a toy: I am a free cat.

At least, that’s what I thought…until he walked in.

Perhaps I should have said wriggled, chirped, and stank in. I must admit that I have never in my life been as horrified as when that disgusting creature entered this house. My house. My halls. My sofa. Wait, my sofa?!

“Jack, get down from there!!”

“Awww, isn’t he cute, though?”

“I know, right?! Aren’t you adorable? Aren’t you?

Aren’t you? Yes sir!”

“He’s just so sweet! Good boy!”

I could not believe the dialogue taking place in my living room. They were acting like maniacs. For him. Yes, you heard me: they were rolling on the floor, laughing, talking “baby talk” to that slobbering, whining, smelly creature. You might know him better as a dog…a dog named Jack. I have always been aware of my superiority to the canine species, but never before had I been so convinced of that essential fact.

He was…he was…a home wrecker!

Now, before you read further, you should know something about me. I am a perfectionist (except when I eat, but it’s not like those ridiculous humans don’t spill stuff, too).

I bathe frequently; my hair is always perfect, lustrous, and in order. I smell clean, and I present a very impressive image, if I say so myself. The creature (excuse me—Jack) did not. His hair was out of order, he grunted like a pig, and don’t even get me started on his stench. I knew that we would never be friends.

But did the humans agree with me? Apparently not. And that’s the ridiculous thing—they actually liked him. However, I am straying from my point. That evening, I became even more shocked. The dog was to sleep indoors… upstairs! This was simply insulting. As I watched the awkward creature, who for some peculiar reason enjoyed ambling about with his mouth wide open and tongue hanging out, it hit me. I was no longer the center of attention. The universe no longer revolved around Heather Henderson, aka the queenly beauty who had ruled this kingdom from the moment she had stepped paw in the house nearly two years ago. This was an outrage.

The next thing I noticed was that he did whatever he was told to do, whenever he was told to do it (as long as he understood the commands). He actually want-

The Unexpected Catastrophe Inherent in the Exploration

SUSTAIN

of Youthful Imagination in the Adult Mind

OUCH!

by Josiah E. Wright

“Call me Arthur, or I am the next king of Avalon.”

“All right Johnny, settle down.”

“No! Too late; I am now the next king of Avalon.”

“Darn it! Does that mean I have to be the princess?”

“Ewwww no. That means I would have to be your dad.”

“Fine, I will be your economic advisor.”

“Who needs economics? Avalon is perfect, a paradise; the equivalent of a Taco Bell chicken quesorrito that wasn’t reheated in the microwave before you grabbed it from the drive-through window.”

“Okay, mister; I will . . . ummmm . . . I’ll be the sultan.”

“Nope! Way too much like a king.”

“Treasurer?”

“Too much like a pirate.”

“Clown jester?”

“Too much a Stephen King novel.”

“Butler?”

“Too gothic manga.”

“Military leader!”

“Ummm, it’s a paradise.”

“Musician?!”

“Led Zeppelin’s already claimed that spot.”

“MASTER CHEF?!”

“Look, I’m going to be feasting on Taco Bell gorditas for three days of the week and Starbucks white chocolate lattes the rest of the time (“Gag”), so that spot’s taken.”

“You know Starbucks isn’t cool anymore.”

“Yeah right. Psh.”

“So what in the name of Camelot do I get to be!!!!!?”

“I heard janitorial services requires a new director of aquatic bowl maintenance.” “. . . Whoopdee do; you know what, call me Hanna-Barbera or I’m king of Asgard.”

“Wait . . . call you what. Oh I got. . .”

“I’m king of Asgard!”

“Son of an ice giant, you’re good.”

“And now, I’m off to my kingdom . . . goodbye.”

“NO, WAIT!”

Little feet popped out of the trapdoor. Red converses the size of a pine cone stepped down the plankwood steps nailed into the rough tree bark. The feet were followed by short stockinged legs, followed by a pink polka-dot dress, followed by golden locks. They seemed to bounce as she bounded down the steps, determined to fulfill her role as Queen of Asgard.

The little boy, not yet five years old, popped his head out only to tumble out of the low-set tree house and into the pine needles below. As he stood up next to the girl, needles were sticking out of his head like a porcupine or maybe a Madonna halo: nope, we’ll go with a porcupine.

“You know . . . if you’re queen of Asgard, that means I get to be Thor.”

“Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine. . . you always have to win, don’t you?”

They ran through the woods ready to fulfill their destiny, their hearts boundless, their futures unbridled. They were so young, yet so joyous—then a tree fell on their dreams.

39

Ducks

by Tyler Casamassa

Photo Manipulation

40

Unfailing

by Christina Corneroli

In my heart, the whole world is clouded over and all my havens drained of life-- all I see is black and white.

Such is the feeling of crushed presentiment. Forever-dreamy-- forever my heart feeding me false hope, I can barely fight.

I will trust in You, because You’ve always been faithful.

I will hold my peace and You will heal my heart with love unfailing.

Comfort me in my uneasiness-- words will never reach me.

Jesus, I can’t make sense of these suffocating thoughts.

If I need to forget, give me the ability.

If I need to remember-- give me strength. My heart feels cheap now, but You say You want it still.

I have no pride to bear, but Your presence in me.

I have no security or hope, but in Your promises.

Don’t let me withdraw in selfishness, but take my hand and lead me.

You’ve promised good to me and said You’ll never leave me all alone.

Hurt feels a lot like loneliness- so show Yourself. Don’t let me fall into heedless misery.

These moments feel like they’ll last forever, but You’ve shown Your compassion in trouble worse than this and I’ve forgotten everyday.

I’ll probably forget this too, but God, I can’t see that far ahead.

SUSTAIN

Is this to make me understand? So I never think I’m above this hurt that hurts so many?

You have better things ahead-- but I can’t help feeling like I know best.

Thank You for the time You gave me. Just know that now I’m sad, and I don’t want to be.

Help me to believe what You say, that You love me, and in You is rest.

Jesus, You are light piercing my darkness and my overwhelming hope in sadness.

41

Bad Fortune

by Leah Meahl

I’ve read about the experiences in the Bible when people encountered angels and the instances when Jesus and his followers expelled demons from people, but I never realized how real they were until one fall day on a normal drive back to school. My roommate Jessie and I decided to run errands in town to stock up on exam necessities like coffee and highlighters. On our way back to school, up the narrow, wooded road, my roommate exclaimed, “Oh hey a psychic reader!” We approached a large sign with a crystal ball painted under the words, “Get Your Fortune Told Today!” I had seen the sign a million times before, but once I left the sign behind me, I erased the memory without a care.

“Pull over!” Jessie shouted. Startled, I slowed and pulled off to the side of the road.

“Why do you want to visit some creepy psychic?” I asked, noticing a familiar sparkle in Jessie’s hazel eyes.

“Why not? It’s nearly Halloween so the season is practically begging us to venture into creepy territory. Let’s go!”

That sparkle in her eye always awakened her sense of adventure, which would eventually lead her into trouble. Often, it would be trouble that I would have to get her out of. Outside, I gazed at the dingy, ranch-style home.

The ground was covered in a thick layer of large oak leaves that crunched under Jessie’s feet. I was reluctant to move.

Even though matters of the paranormal fascinated me, I was always cautious about what powers I got mixed up with.

I grew up knowing that the only suitable form of paranormal communication was prayer to my God. I knew it would be nearly impossible to talk Jessie out of such foolishness, so I followed her to the door. Walking to the front steps felt like walking down a dark alley, just waiting for something to jump out at me.

The house met many of my stereotypical expectations. Dark curtains shielded the light from the living-room.

The only illumination came from clusters of candles spread around the room. Amethyst, quartz, and jade crystals hung about the ceiling like chandeliers. Astrological symbols accompanied the artwork on the walls. Pungent incense filled our nostrils as soon as we entered the room. The shadows danced to the soft, ambient music playing from a hidden location.

As soon as I set foot in the room, the atmosphere completely shifted. It grew worse as a weight began to press upon my entire body. I didn’t realize such a boulder could be placed on my chest while I was still standing. My moral compass began to stray from North and settle on the table in the corner of the room. The round wooden table was covered in a dark red cloth, and in the center was a crystal ball.

“I didn’t realize crystal balls were actually a thing,” Jessie smirked. The uneasiness in my stomach intensified with the increasing pressure on my chest. I felt as if I were in a room where the walls were closing in with the intention of suffocating me. This feeling caused me to wonder briefly if I secretly suffered from claustrophobia, but before I could inform Jessie, a robed woman came around the corner.

“Welcome!” she said, holding two steaming teacups as if she had been expecting us at this dull time of the day. Handing us the cups, she said, “My name is Madame Leona. Thank you for your presence in my home.” Madame Leona didn’t have the cloth turban on her head as I had expected; instead, she wore a flowy skirt and blouse ensemble.

She reminded me of a hippie more than a mystical fortune teller. I noticed the harshness of her makeup and eyed the tattoos that disappeared under her sleeves. Jewelry must be a fortune teller’s best friend, because she was decked out with large hooped earrings and a dozen bangles that clinked together on her wrists with every subtle movement.

SUSTAIN

42

SUSTAIN

Jessie said something like,“We’ve come to get our fortunes read,” while I smiled sheepishly as I tried to shake the chilling vibe I felt. After the introductions, Madame Leona led us to the table. As we took our seats, I couldn’t help noticing the excitement in Jessie’s curious smile. I could only imagine the frightened deer-in-the-headlights expression I failed to conceal. How I wished at that moment that I could trade my anxiety for Jessie’s cavalier attitude.

Madame Leona grabbed our hands tightly, and I became quite aware of how sweaty my hands had become.

She closed her eyes and focused with an unusual intensity. I could hear a faint mumbling coming from behind her lips as if she were sleep-talking. Jessie’s smile only widened. Maybe she thought this was some funny hoax. Had she even considered the slightest spiritual consequences? Leona let go of our hands abruptly and fixed her gaze on me.

My heart completely missed a beat as I listened to what she had to say.

“I see a light as powerful as a blazing fire, but I see attempts to extinguish it.” Before I could ask what it meant, the candles on the table flickered violently until they went out. My spine straightened as the hairs on the back of my neck stood erect. I felt what could only be described as breathing down my neck, but I knew that no one stood behind me. The fall wind howled with intensity against the windows. Glass vases tumbled from their pedestals, piercing the room with their shatters. Jessie stood up at this point, trying to decide if this was part of the show. She screamed as our teacups shattered on the table, their contents soaking through the table cloth that now resembled blood. I was unable to move from my seat as I continued to feel hot breath creep beneath my collar. I felt as if an enormous bear overshadowed me and if I made the slightest movement, I would surely be mauled.

Madame Leona’s eyes never left me; they grew more and more concerned as the chaos ensued. A popping sound like a cracking knuckle made me jump in my seat. Just then, I saw a crack forming at the foundation of the crystal ball. Tree branches began beating against the house as if they were trying to get in, and I could have sworn I heard my name swallowed in the midst of each gust. The crack in the crystal ball stretched upwards like a magic beanstalk. This startled Madame Leona, who shouted, “It’s going to shatter!”

Everyone hit the ground except me. I felt beads of sweat form on my brow as the staleness of the air began to choke the life out of me. Before I drowned in shards, I cried, “In the Lord Jesus’ name, protect us!”

The wind immediately quieted to a gentle breeze, and the labyrinth of cracks in the crystal ball froze in their place. In the stillness, everyone’s breathing could be heard. I looked around the room and noticed that all of the dark drapes had been torn, illuminating the room with a piercing light. Jessie’s smile had completely vanished.

Suddenly feeling light and overcome with peace, I stood, took Jessie by the arm, and led her out the door, leaving Madame Leona incredulous, huddled in the corner.

43

God Loves Us, But He Also Wants Us And I Have Recently Been Pondering Why

by Tiffany Webb The night I met God I knew that I was the youngest of all the stars.

I could see

all of the leaves

all at once.

This was not yesterday.

And He tells me I’m a new creation but you tell me – what’s life been like since you died?

Today I’m a child of low noon,

of high mood, of buried ostrich feathers and carrots and paper corner scraps.

A blood moon baby, I wouldn’t wonder.

SUSTAIN

44

So if you find me, if you see any light, if you hear the thoughts

which are the words

which are my life, carve your space. Stay.

I am the most idolatrous holy place.

An Address to a Winged Beast

by Naomi King

My dear friend,

I had been watching you all year. Every day, I watched you move gracefully across to and fro against the backdrop of the sunset. Often I’ve wondered what you communicate to your comrades in your excited, high-pitched voice.

Now I can say that you most likely say to your peers, “Look out!”—or perhaps even, “Get out of my way!” At least, that’s what I think you were saying to me as you projected yourself in my direction that night. Tell me, how did you manage to find your way into my cozy dwelling place? How did you find yourself separated from your family and friends? What about my space attracted you?

Most importantly, where did you learn your manners?! You had fifteen square feet of space to explore, yet you charged right in my direction without warning, shrieking violently, threatening to cause damage if we were to briefly exchange body heat. Yes, I dodged, but did you show any hint of hesitation?

No, sir, you did not. One would think that a creature of community would know and practice common courtesy. Okay, so maybe I was a little shocked, and I responded to your exclamation with an exclamation of my own, but that was not an invitation for you to return for a conversation! Once again you charged at me, ignoring the open space around me to make a connection. I’m not sure how you were raised, but I learned as a child about a concept called personal space. If you can’t respect that, then I am afraid we can no longer associate with each other. Ah! You are again aiming for face-to-face contact. I’m sorry, my winged friend, but I am a woman of my word and I must go – no! you cannot convince me to return.

Please don’t approach me. Go find rest somewhere else.

Oh, I see… you don’t have a place to rest.

SUSTAIN

Oh, my dear friend, I apologize for my harsh behavior. No–I won’t come back. You were rude! I hope that you can find rest, though. It was exciting to see you up close, to get to know you more personally. It was an unforgettable experience. Will we meet again? Well… I’m not so sure – Yes, I know I said I enjoyed seeing you, but you were so rude! Some relationships just won’t work out. I’m sorry. But know this:

Every time the sun sets,

every time I hear the songs of your comrades,

every time I see your silhouette in the sky,

every time I enter this fifteen-square-foot room,

I will think of our encounter

and I will smile.

Yours truly, Mara

45

1st Art

46Photograph by Harrison Caldwell

Monologue of a Coffee Table

by Tucker Barnes

You put your full weight on me, your stinky feet.

And for what? To be slightly more comfortable? Or to hold me down.

As if you know the heights that I can fly to.

And you know, that if I ever reach them... I’d never come back.

The possibilities you don’t see will forever haunt you.

What you don’t know is that when you leave this pathetic room you call a home, I soar higher than

SUSTAIN

any Eagle you’ve ever seen before.

47

by Dante Wilcox

The White Reaper

I saw the coming of the white reaper From the midst of the clouded peaks Hard hands and soft eyes As he swung his blade to and fro The cynics hid blindly in their sanctuaries But the children frolicked in the fields A head shorter than their predicted futures Laughing in the white light For packs of coyotes could not breach With their keening cries and claws Some of the young were already old Standing by the fringe of the grass Lamenting for the dead sisters Warmly beckoning for open eyes I was a follower munching on leaves Given hands to ransom broken bones Pouring asphalt and nailing up walls In that old barn tucked away in the wind But I was still lidded from the things to come Only given a name from the end of the trail And feet with which to walk I did not know I would be lost In a different way than before Without agenda and creed Only the tools to keep moving And to carve little deer from the boards That once held up my own clouded rooftops For the hungry will inherit the fields Nestled among Elysium’s memory I saw the coming of the white reaper And my fear of him made me love

SUSTAIN

48

1st Poetry

Photography

Vitality 3

SUSTAIN

by Heather Bodine

49

Temples

by Tiffany Webb

wanderer, are you awake?

I’m sure you would be. (why wouldn’t you be? there are twenty-eight of you inside of your head and I don’t think they sleep) let me tell you about prayer. we’ve got exactly twelve steps to go and we are ticking out of time. the mason just came down and he says we’re gonna build a house, so go cut the weight off of your maps, hippie. now I’ve lain on the ground with bricks on my chest to watch them sink through to the floor because you learn that you can live forever in the general vicinity of where you have been. now we are building a ghost town, ‘cause when you nicotine wheeze I can hear your lungs the mega chest city moves and your breath sounds like “someone used to live here. someone still does.”

3rd Poetry SUSTAIN

50

Lace

by Emily Younginer Photography

by Anna Rogers SUSTAIN

Ireland

Acrylic on canvas

51

Photography

;

by Alyson Queen

No one ever told me I wasn’t good enough Yet the words have been carved on every rib in the cage by my own bare hands.

I am the one who poisons the blooms of joy in my heart. I mock the blossoms with flowering weeds, a deceitful, tough beauty to kill.

Discord 1

by Heather Bodine

An ocean is inside me.

Flatlining, a horizon in my eyes but no matter how much I cry, salt is still in the wounds.

I am my enemy.

A chasm, good and evil, straight down the spine, across which I have built a bridge on criticisms and compliments.

I am a question, but always overthinking the answer.

Driving into the night, screaming I don’t want to be perfect anymore.

But despite my hurricane, more than I want to decay myself, I want to preserve the whole of you.

SUSTAIN

52

Your love overcomes me and I am able to forgive the bruises I’ve beaten upon myself.

A Painting

by Hannah Henderson

Nature is a painting, etched on the canvas of God Waiting, begging to be captured by the heart, by the soul A sketch, a photo, a poem A memory, a wave of joy that rushes over one With the hope, the gratitude that it will never fully fade It is a simple prayer of thanks offered from the created to the Creator The brook laps gently against its banks Gurgling, sparkling with fresh hope Giggling as with a secret joy to life Beckoning one to drink and discover the delight of new life The tree waves a gentle greeting, or tips a dainty curtsy to the traveler As though it wishes to impart a wisdom that only the oak can reveal The weeping willow nods its dainty curls The reeds bend and sway At the command of the sentinel called wind, never disobeyed And the sun, which gives light and warmth to the day Gently kisses me with its rays Then playfully hides behind another tree Only to jump out and tickle my face the next instant It brushes its gentle, delicate fingers through my hair As the breeze whispers one last, velvety farewell

Rabbitby Trails Rachel Dew

53

Oil on canvas, 11 in x 14 in

2nd Facebook Status Updates Nonfiction

by Claire Neal Caught in the Act

Today, I was in Michael’s making my way through a bounty of scrapbooking ribbons when I heard a mom rather frantically looking for her young daughter. As I looked down the aisle, I saw a girl contently looking at the stickers while licking each wrapper and the wall. Rather than walking over to the mother and quietly informing her of her daughter’s location, I chose to say rather loudly, “HEY! She’s over here licking the WALL!” where almost everyone in that part of the store could hear. Way to play it cool, Claire, way to play it cool.

Work Violations So every Gap employee has to wear a headset at all times while on the floor. Today I was working the cash register. I took the customers’ money, gave them their change, and slammed the drawer shut, which could then be opened only by a manager. I began to walk briskly down the counter to get them a coupon, when my walkie was ripped from my ear. The force caused me to be flung face first into a pile of sweaters on the counter, where I was then trapped. My headset cord was stuck in the titanium register, and I (humiliated) and the customer (laughing) had to call a manager to come extract me from a painful mess. Retail is its own monster, people. There’s a first for everything.

Photography Spiders Are Ew This morning when I was making a bulletin board in White Hall, a spider crawled down onto the corner of the board, very near to my hand. Instead of walking away, I took my stapler, opened it, and began screaming like a maniac as I smashed the stapler into the board repeatedly.

I tried to staple a spider to a wall. And it ran away. And I was left ashamed to remove about twenty staples from the wall with the staple remover.

What is life?

SUSTAIN

54

Jewelled Scribbles

by Rachel Remington

Roses and the Skyline

Photography

SUSTAIN

by Rion Caughman

55

Adelboden

by Estelle Erdmann

SUSTAIN

56

Linocut, 5 in x 7 in

Why do I write?

Honorable PoetryMention

by Samantha Monteith

I write because I must, Because just surviving isn’t enough.

To free the mind through words and rhymes, To change perspective and lose track of time.

To set ablaze the soul and give flight to dreams, To elicit hope no matter how dismal at times the world may seem.

To invoke anger and perhaps cause controversy.

Words are swollen with potential once written down, And evolve into a smile–what once was a frown.

I write because I feel.

And life is nothing without passion and zeal.

To release the emotions locked in my head, To remind myself that my heart isn’t dead.

To say that which my timorous spirit can’t.

To escape an oft dull and dreary reality.

To imagine the world as I wish it to be.

Words are eternal arrows, piercing time & space, Etching their impact upon the universe’s face.

Why do I write?

Because I don’t want to survive I want to live, And to live is to, of yourself, perpetually give.

SUSTAIN

I write because I dream.

Of the sun’s smashing beams.

Of many a peculiar thing indeed, To travel paths unknown sowing seeds.

To grow intellectually and emotionally.

To reach a zenith of moral maturity.

To liberate the demons of my mind.

To explore and to see what I might find.

Words are silver kisses, that moonbeams throw, Down upon us mere mortals living below.

57

Selah 58

by Olivia Schmal

Photography

Flourish

59

Where Apples Taste Best

by Ben Capell Where apples taste best, I can see the paths through the valley.

I can’t see across the whole range, but enough to effectively change.

The One who hands out freely from His orchard knows my path through the valley.

He’s with me whether sour or sweet.

I’m guided every hour we meet.

When I wander through valleys deep He leads me back to where apples taste best.

Bloom Where You’re Planted

60

by Rachel Remington

Photography

You left your poetry in a bedside drawer for too long, and the ink began to dry up and gray, fading, fading, fading, like a falling star no one could wish on — spray paint dashes, sketches drooping further and further down into dark sky, nearing oblivion.

Linocut, 5 in x 5 in

All of a Sudden

by Celeste Hawkins Colmenares

Hatching byRose Mariah Sloan

When I found it, barely sparking, dying out, and breathed back into it — like gasoline to fire — an electric current ripped through.

There was a combustion, a big bang.

FLOURISH

Destruction and creation met again in that forgotten room.

61

Hakuna Matata

62

by Ashley LaPierre

Photography

63

64 Linocut, 5in x 8 in

Why Hello

by Heather Bodinedine

by Christina Pierscinski

Thoughts on Taking My Teeth Out Caretakers escort me to the toilet, and I swear on the way.

Then, the shower.

The drain clogs up with my gray hair.

I’m breaking down, decomposing.

But I like to think, on days when my mind is strong again, I like to think that for every part I lose, it’s there, up there on some construction site.

I’m being built, bone by bone, like a Lego house.

And when the last of me, this rickety frame that’s left, at least, falls in, gives out, there I am, standing, more me than I ever was — all the broken fixtures remade into new substance.

FLOURISH

by Celeste Hawkins Colmenares

I take my teeth out, dunk them into a cup on my nightstand, half water and half denture cleaner.

65

Hide and Seek

1st

Nonfiction

by Emily Drake

Our rock stood to my shoulders in 1997. Gray and speckled white, with seashell fossils throughout, it was our fortress, our base, our ship. Battles were fought and won there: mermaids were saved, pirates were killed, dragons slain.

It seemed to shrink year after year, or maybe I just grew taller. But in ’97, it was the perfect hiding place. I shrunk behind our fortress. My tiny hands trapped the giggles into my mouth.

No one will find me here!

I settled into my hiding place and observed my surroundings. The Missouri breeze cooled the hot July afternoon. The little bodies of my brothers and cousins peeked out from behind trees and bushes.

My cousin’s counting faded into the distance as imagination took over.

The breeze blew through the lush green grass and became the waves of the ocean. The storm raged on the ocean waters, and I, the princess of the sea, was thrown overboard! I clung to the fortress, now the side of my ship, and waited for my rescuer.

Dreams of dashing dukes danced through my head. He would save me from the thrashing waves and we would ride off into the sunset…after we reached the shore, of course.

To my astonishment, I heard a voice: “Here I come!”

Could it be? My heart skipped. A hand grabbed mine from above the ship.

“I found you!”

I looked up hopefully into the face of my handsome duke, only to be disappointed to see that the face peering back at me was my cousin’s.

I was “It.”

FLOURISH

66

Photography

Before the Storm

FLOURISH

by Emily Younginer

67

Cadence 5

by Heather Bodine

Photography

FLOURISH

68

FLOURISH

Prismacolor and Graphite, 10 in x 13 in

Honorable Art Mention

Strength

by Katie Stollger

69

24 69

Light of the World

by Ashley LaPierre

70

Photography

I have rushed out to meet turbulent waters And they have greeted me, And embraced me, And kissed me.

To be surrounded by fluidity – In absence of stability – Seems a dream far from reality But such disorder can be here Within this loving sea.

Its fringes of white foam brush my legs but The hairs on them do not stand on edge.

They float waywardly in the caressing embrace of cold waters.

They are lost in abundance of affection – this grey, Dark, Heart bursts.

Dominating love.

Hair follicles become filled with electrons.

And I have been swept off my feet.

Every cell is brushed by atoms which Taken into the arms of a savior.

Attach my verb breath.

She wraps her waves around my back These electrons – they float with fluidity – Her wet hands lock themselves across my chest, Without stability.

Feeling the beating heart beneath.

Nostrils are emptied of air, filled with love.

Love overwhelms.

Oxygen is raptured from hyperventilating lungs And fire fills them.

The water outside – the water which greeted me, Embraced me, And loved me – Has transfigured.

But still I love it.

And this fiery mist loves me.

It licks me into its mouth gaping wider Than the abyss of love that swallowed me.

It consumes my body in voracious flames Desperate to show me that their passion shall never be quenched.

I have been loved twice over in life and death.

And I am now in true love eternally.

True Love

FLOURISH

by Sterling Simmons

71

Photography

The Agápe Feast

by Camilla Marcoux

Oh contrary soul, oh self-centered thing, Fall down before your bloodstained King.

Frightened eyes, don’t you see The Savior? He wins.

The price has been paid.

He’s ransomed your sins.

How strange this forgiveness, But how wonderful, too!

Just as if you’ve never sinned, Made as though you are new.

Soon down becomes up, And night turns to day, “Lost for good” now is merely, “Had once gone astray.”

Let’s celebrate!’

What an unthinkable thing!

A Servant and yet, at the same time, a King.

Sinner made slave, slave made son, Made brother, heir, and beloved one.

The least is the greatest, the greatest still least.

Come small one, kneel, at the Agápe feast.

Tulips FLOURISH

72

by Jennifer McDonald

What a Savior!

by Joshua Springs

FLOURISH

FLOURISH

Here I am: so young in life, yet so weak and frail. I was living the life, I had all of my plans laid out: but here I am, trapped in this mess. No matter how hard I try to pull myself out, I cannot break the grips of this trap. The further forward I pull, the harder I get snapped back into place, ending up more trapped than before. I cannot break what has kept me trapped; there is no more hope.

I look across, and I see it: the mastermind behind this plan. He wants to destroy me; he lives for it. I watch as he moves towards me, inching ever closer to my location in the trap. He is getting closer, and my heart starts pounding louder and louder. I think about the life that I never got the chance to live: the girls I will never meet, the children I will never have, the places I will never see. The thousand could-have-been lives flash before my eyes and I watch my adversary come closer to me.

At the moment I give up all hope, believing that my life will end, I see something that I have never seen before: something from above is intervening on my behalf. It stretches out, and my enemy runs away scared. The aid from above comes down, lifts me from the trap, and sets me back on safe ground. I look up to this mysterious force and thank it for its help. I have no clue what to call it, but I know that I will never forget this moment.

------------------------------ “Hey, there is a praying mantis stuck in a spider web,” Josiah says as I swing in front of the chapel. He reaches out, knocks away the spider, and gets the mantis out of the web.

“I wonder what that looked like from the mantis’s perspective,” I inquire, my swinging uninterrupted by the rescue effort. “I think I can write a short story about that.”

“No, you can’t,” he taunts.

24 73

Hallelujah

by Alyson Queen

Fill me up so That I can overflow And pour out like the Bittersweet blood-water from Your side.

I am a broken jar Shattered on the walk back From the well.

Always thirsting, Melt me, make me into something new, A box for incense, a bottle for myrrh, But My brokenness cuts all who try to piece me back together, I draw drops of life from their fingers, perfect beads of crimson, sweat forming on the brow.

Flow

Photography

by Emily Younginer

For you are the only one that can make me smooth, soft, like the mud that squishes between childhood toes sunken in Jordan’s cool clay.

You are the only one that can quench my thirst, still my hunger, you are the breath in my lungs.

The mountain air cleanses my soul, yet I stray from Zion and hold the company of pigs and wolves. And still you reach down into the darkness for me. In the palm of your hand, I weep for I am so unworthy.

I know mercy. His name is Jesus. I know grace; his name is Christ.

Within your highest courts I dance for freedom, for I am utterly free.

I taste the wedding wine, the finest Flowing forth from the deepest celestial cellars.

I dance with the risen Bridegroom.

For I am his, and hallelujah, He is mine.

FLOURISH

74

Let My Love

by Dakota McElhinny

The seasons of life Are filled with springs, But you of all Are the prettiest thing.

Let me hold you And get lost in your smile.

Let me love you As a bard to a lyre.

I see the stars In a street of dreams.

(Oh me, oh my) Your beauty gleams.

Let winds come down And fill your spirit.

Let rain kiss one Who is so dearest.

There’s a lifetime to save Don’t let love slip away.

Forever and always I’m here to stay.

Within the darkness You are always my light.

So with you here, I know I’m all right.

Let my love fill you As spring fills fall.

As mountains in the ocean As snow that falls.

As lilacs in fields As those who are together.

Let my love fill you Forever and ever.

White Lace

by Mackenzie Wray

Photography

75

Bruised, Not Broken

by Hannah K. Smith

FLOURISH

23 76

FLOURISH

Bacon sandwiches always reminded her of her college roommate from many years ago. Best friends since babyhood, they had been inseparable. That is, until the boy walked into the scene, took a memorable bow, and waltzed her friend away.

Strange how the suffocating pain of those days, weeks, and months could still pierce her soul. The ache was dull now, after fifty-odd years, but Lucy still thought of that best friend, Anna, and the sweet friendship they had. As the permeating aroma of frying bacon wafted through the kitchen, she remembered her friend cooking bacon in the microwave, a poor college student rationing each piece until desperation drove her to Wal-Mart once again.

Even now, as an old woman bent over a stove, the smallest things triggered memories from years ago. A young man in his camouflage attire immediately brought to mind the way Anna, despite being from the North, had embraced Southern culture.

Anna had been obsessed with owning a pick-up truck. Lucy wondered whether that dream had ever been fulfilled; when they parted ways after Lucy graduated, Anna still had not achieved that greatness.

Where had the time gone? After graduation, Lucy had quickly gotten a job as a seventh-grade teacher in a middle school several hours away. She wanted space to escape the pain. Instead, she only intensified it. Those were hard years, adjusting to teaching and feeling the loneliness of seeming abandonment. In retrospect, she realized what a fool she had been to give up Anna, assuming they could never be friends with a guy in the picture. The feeling of regret was just painful as the feeling of rejection from so many years ago. Sadly, when at last she came to her senses and tried to make contact with Anna, her friend had moved away. Though Lucy had learned to deal with the heartache, that deep friendship could never be recovered.

The timer dinged and jolted Lucy out of her reverie. As she opened the oven door, a wave of heat produced an instant sweat from her forehead, and she lifted the homemade bread out of the oven. Oh, how Anna had enjoyed some good bread.

Dumping the loaf onto the cooling rack, Lucy recalled the number of care packages, containing special, homemade honey-wheat bread, which Anna received from her grandmother up North. Anna generously shared the treat, so any day was a good day when a package arrived. A gentle crackle and whoosh filled the silence in the room as Lucy pushed the serrated knife time and again through the toasted shell and into the soft loaf.

Lucy had been busy all morning since climbing out of bed at sunrise. She had always known she worked best in the morning and had spent a lifetime proving that point to herself and only herself. At twenty-two, she had lived alone, a wounded young woman wanting simply to hide. At thirty-five, she had accepted the harsh reality that her lifelong nightmare would come true: she would never be a wife, never a mother. Consumed by her sense of rejection, she had rejected others and lost all chance of really living. The years moved along, not trudging, not flying, just walking. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. She found herself stuck in a routine that would last to her deathbed. At this point, she was too tired to start over.

The creamy white mayonnaise spread perfectly onto the still-warm bread, and Lucy carefully aligned the bacon, making sure to fill all the empty space. She couldn’t stand for there to be any part left empty, any part uncovered. That sandwich was her life. Not the life she had imagined for herself or even, she realized, the vibrant life God had planned for her. No, the neat, perfectly aligned, protected life that she had constructed to shield herself from further hurt. She had built up a seamless wall with no cracks that would leave any part uncovered. And it had worked. She had guarded her heart well. So well, in fact, that she held even God at arm’s distance, a comfortable part of her day. She gave Him the privilege of being first in her sequence of daily events but would not allow anything more personal or permeating than that. She knew He could and would do uncomfortable things if she let Him. But she had decided a long time ago that she would not give Him that. She had done it once, her life had crumbled to pieces, and she had been left broken and bleeding. That was not happening again.

Honorable Mention Fiction

FLOURISH LOURISH

The sandwich had been flavorful: bread perfectly moist and bacon ideally crispy. It could not get better than that.

Washing the dishes, her sole plate and cup, she allowed her hands to rest in the silky soapiness of the warm water. Eyes glazed over, reflecting the past, she stared out the window on her peaceful little neighborhood. The occasional vehicle passed slowly, and a few children took advantage of the remaining summer warmth, riding their bikes up and down the street. A black pick-up truck rolled to a stop across the street, and a strange feeling filled her. Quickly, she moved to the front and back doors, sliding the bolts she had put in place when she first moved in. She felt afraid–not terrified, but stirred by a disturbing sense of anticipation.

A light knock sounded. Her heart skipped a beat, wondering who might be outside. She had an overwhelming suspicion that this person could change her life. Her bare feet, the only part of herself she left exposed, shuffled slowly to the door. The bolt scraped as she slid it back, and the lock clicked as she slowly turned the knob.

A woman stood on the front step, her young face looking hopefully up at Lucy with an intense gaze that left her wanting to look away. Lucy couldn’t help noticing her attire: a camouflage shirt, sturdy yet stylish brown cowboy boots, and colorful, sparkling earrings. She could tell the woman had a personality to match those sparkles. She was Anna…only not really. That was impossible.

After several moments of simply staring at each other, an excited grin began to inch its way across the young woman’s face.

“It’s you! It’s really you!” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!”

Lucy tilted her head, her eyebrows pushing together and emphasizing the old childhood scar that lay ingrained in the middle of her forehead.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Have you been looking for me?”

The young woman beamed and explained. “You don’t know me, but my grandmother is Anna.”

Lucy’s mouth parted and her grip on the doorknob slipped. Before she could formulate words, however, the woman spoke again.

“I’ve come to get you. Nana is waiting. She won’t go until she sees you.”

“Go where?” Lucy’s puzzlement only grew.

A shadow darkened the beautiful girl’s face, deepening the brown of her eyes. She sighed, and her voice lowered. “Nana is dying.”

-- Lucy entered the room, almost tip-toeing, uncertain. The young woman led the way, stepping to the side of the bed and laying a soft hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. The woman’s eyes fluttered open at the gentle touch, and her steady gaze settled on Lucy. Her lips turned up in a satisfied smile, and her wrinkled hand motioned Lucy forward. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lucy took the fragile hand between her own. For the first time in forever, she met the gaze of a friend and uttered a silent apology for her own foolishness. The returning gaze forgave before even being asked, and Lucy discovered that the bond she thought had been broken had only been bruised. Healing came as the two weathered hands clasped. Evening sunlight splashed through the open windows while a more lasting warmth splashed through the doors of Lucy’s once-again open heart.

24 77

3/6/14

by Alyson Queen

I want to write you a love song but the wind outside is making me cold, chilling my bones a winter; permafrost but underneath the ground is alive.

I want to grow you a garden of pine, a shelter of shade and sweet-smelling sap; a calming cup of tea, writing poetry while in a coma of caffeine.

Yet, I tend to forget you are in the song, in the clickety-clack of typewriter keys, that you remain in the memories in the memory of me.

For you, you are an everything. Not just a something, but a something and so much more.

The first laugh after heartbreak, a cracked door.

The stone to sharpen my dull sword.

Maybe a lover, but for the first time a friend.

Though there are miles of mascara stains and doubts as dark as blotted ink, after the moon has circled the sky, each phase more elusive than one before we shall see a harvest. the strength to keep swimming until our lungs are filled full and we sink.

Whether losing ourselves to be found or, forbid, condemned for our sin, maybe if not now, we’ll still begin again.

The angels still sing love songs of alleluia praise God, praise God, Amen.

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Rain

by Samantha Monteith

The peaceful, cool mist hangs above–an opaque canopy.

Wild heather & thyme blossom and grow.

Still, you evoke a wild, terrific show: The power of the rumbling clouds, The prestige of mountains–bold & proud.

Blue ponds, once placid, Reflect the delicate, charcoal sky, Undulating with the ripples of dragonflies Who swiftly dash & dart by.

The merry tulips & daffodils dance & laugh, As you sprinkle them softly in their first Spring bath.

Birds delightedly chirp of desire & birth, As they flit about making their new hearth.

Sweet, spring rain, upon me fall down!

For in you–new life is found!

The scars of an angry, bitter past, Forgotten. Clean. Washed away at last.

As the rain grants Earth a fresh start, So you, my dear, kindle my heart.

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From the azure sky you fall, Spiraling down heaven’s drain.

Pure, silver tears, Coming to renew the earth again.

Landing on desiccated ground– The soul drinks & sighs, As if precious elixir Were falling from the sky.

Each tender drop, Like a warm, timid kiss, Heals the cracked, barren land, And elicits bliss.

The grays & browns of winter, Now distant & strange.

You: the bearer of hope, The catalyst of change.

You entice the sprouts & saplings to peek forth!

Now glorious greens cloak the Earth’s bare skin, Embracing her with your kind, soft balm.

Love arises! A new pastel world to begin!

So fragile, yet so strong, Life erupts in harmonious alacrity!

You paint the world in your gentile mercy.

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The Night Starry nights may come and go, As shadows pass both high and low.

Beneath the moon and pale sky, Where breezes whisper passing by.

by Bethany McCause

Grass is blown without a care, Across the chilly cool night air.

Silence then must take its toll, As if to still an anguished soul.

Naught is heard but from a brook, Where first the moonbeams gazes look.

Softly fades the light of day, From this dark field, now bleak and gray.

With this fading of the light, All tears are hidden from thy sight.

Hear the dreams which hold to thee, Ascending now to one day be.

Biding the Twilight

by Rachel Remington

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Dreams to follow in Christ’s path, Now flood thy heart in anguished wrath.

To be with one and believe, For Christ, God’s son, will not deceive.

Christ’s call now clings to thy soul, And will not with the morning dull.

Dreams have stirred from deep inside, As field doth loom both far and wide.

Christ’s call did take loving hold, Which Christ himself would soon unfold.

For amidst the dark and all, On this bleak night, one heard Christ’s call.

Photography

Hush

by Julia Klukow

Hush, child. You are alone, but not lonely so long as you remember I am here. The cries you cannot whisper, I hear. How precious is your heartbeat to me, for I feel each. For every feeble footfall, I hold your tiny hands. I marvel at the delicate simplicity of your soft nails, yet to be hardened by a life of trials. I know the battles you will face and the struggles that will shred your heart. Each of your tender tears I have in a bottle, and I count them and kiss them. I have shed two for one of yours, for the pains that agonize you pierce my side, my head, and my hands.

Why walk in the path of worry? There your dreams are dead leaves, crushed as you stumble along. Come to my woods. In them, you may explore the caves, the cliffs, and the canopies of the trees. You will tussle with the mountain lions and bears and grow stronger.

I have watched you make bridges so you could conquer rivers. Remember that I gave you the wood. The times you forget that you did not collect the supplies yourself, I will send my faithful gardener, Storm, to remind you.

When he enters the forest, you hide in a cave. You do not realize that my hand covers the mouth of the cave—most times. Sometimes I let Storm gnash his teeth at you. Once or twice, I let his shears nip at you. The night he caught you by surprise and clipped your ankle—I sent the hound who lay by your side through the night and licked your wound. You were scared, so you kicked him. He growled at you, but he knew you needed him. In the morning, I called him back to me, and you wept when you woke and he was gone.

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One day, you will see all has been for your benefit, not to harm you.

Storm might return, the hound as well, but I will always be with you, protecting you, pruning you. Come have an adventure, little one. My forest is large, lush, and for you. Wander in my woods without fear, for I will never let you be lost.

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The Wood At Dawn

by Hannah Henderson

It is misty as I peer through my window that is Frosted by winter’s sweet kiss.

It catches a ray of sunlight, the first this morning, But the beam swiftly dashes behind a tree Like a shy child, uncertain of her wobbly legs.

I etch my initials onto the window pane and Prepare for my daily stroll in the woods.

All is quiet at dawn; The woods are peaceful as I tiptoe across The fresh, green carpet, caressed by the morning dew.

My ears catch the faint rustle of leaves above me.

I glance upwards; my old, faithful friend, the oak tree, Gently bows to me, its sturdy, gnarled limbs Beckoning me to enter his magical, wooded kingdom.

The crunch of leaves beneath my eager bare feet is My first greeting. The next is a gentle breeze That is carried by the trees, like a secret— It ceases for a moment, as the trees pause to confer amongst themselves, Then it is off again: the birch whispers it to the pine.

I stand here, soaking it all in.

My spirit is lifted with the wind.

I whisper a prayer of thanks for my blessings.

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Here Comes the Sun

by Rachel Remington

Oceanic

by Rachel Dew

Photography

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As I stand, bare feet shifting with the sand, stray strands pulled back with my hand, breeze breaking the beating sun, waves breaking into a run, then slowing to a soft pace, a subtle grace, a slight graze, my feet are lost in small whirlwinds of sand and salt, the sound of sea drowns out thought, man’s great constructions of plank and bow, seem slight of stature with furrowed brow, deep stare, is that a vessel beyond the glare? So tiny, so small–barely a speck. To think–so easy a wayward wave can shipwreck. So tiny are men when placed at sea, so salty the spray that assaults me, so easily I could be pulled away, so hard to fight to stand where I stay. The Water Wakes, it rises, it grows, to a peak of beauty then downward it grows it rushes towards me and then loses steam, then another peak shines in the distance with gleam, so quickly they come, so quickly they fade, an endless beauty, an endless parade, one after another roaring for attention, then as they sink lower they barely merit mention. Always on the verge–to raise, or to purge, each of these are beautiful, as the ups and downs merge. Amazing the way that opposites combine–to create a stunning beauty–to display something divine.

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Judges Nonfiction

Kim Peterson, writer-at-large for Bethel College (Indiana), is a freelance writer and editor as well as a conference speaker.

She launched her writing career with a local newspaper during high school, later pursuing a journalism minor at Grace College and earning a master’s degree in print communication from Wheaton College.

Her writing has appeared in anthologies including Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul and Rocking Chair Reader: Family Gatherings; her articles and book reviews are published in such newspapers and magazines as CBA Retailers+Resources, Warsaw Times Union, Light & Life, Evangel, The Secret Place, and Seeks, and articles for young readers in AppleSeeds, Cobblestone, and Encounter. She currently contributes to the “In Season” column at CHEFS Catalog online.

At Bethel College, Peterson has assisted students and alumni in publication of more than three dozen books and numerous newspaper and magazine articles. As a mentor for the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writers Guild, she guided numerous aspiring writers who sold articles to interested editors. She loves to write, but the most exciting part of her ministry has been devoted to mentoring other writers and helping them achieve their writing goals.

Poetry

Charity Yost Reed graduated with a degree in English from North Greenville University, Class of 2010. Since receiving an MFA in Creative Writing of Poetry from Ashland University (2013), she has taught freshman English and Poetry Writing at Anderson University in Anderson, South Carolina. On her blog Tree of Grace, she writes about the value of college education, living in the country, and being the mom of twin boys.

Fiction

Terri Carter, a South Carolina native, earned a BA in English, Secondary Education from North Greenville University in 2011, where she graduated Summa Cum Laude and was published in The Mountain Laurel four times. She now holds a MA in English from Gardner-Webb University in Boiling Springs, North Carolina, where she worked as a graduate assistant and writing tutor in the university’s Writing Center. She began working as an adjunct instructor in 2014 and currently holds the position of full-time English Instructor and lead teacher of two developmental courses at Florence-Darlington Technical College in Florence, South Carolina, where she teaches courses in composition and literature. Carter is also a member of Sigma Tau Delta, Alpha Upsilon Alpha, and South Carolina Technical Education Association.

Art

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Tiffany Thomas is a native of Florence, South Carolina. Born in 1985, she was raised on a farm and experienced the ups and downs of living a farm life. She incorporates her childhood into her paintings by using bright colors, which are associated with playfulness, and collage paintings with reclaimed wood that her family discarded from old houses, buildings and dumpsters.

Her clay of choice is translucent porcelain, fired with colorful stains and glazes. Her ceramic work focuses on an array of designs, from cups and mugs to light fixtures and table pieces. All of her pieces are hand carved.

Tiffany has exhibited in numerous shows such as the South Carolina Arts Commission Gala, The North Carolina Museum of Art, Art of the Auction, Spartanburg Juried Competition, The Heritage Festival, and The Pee Dee Regional Art Competition. She is active in the Florence community. In 2013, she was asked to judge the children’s division of Art Fields. She also sells her ceramics at festivals, art fairs and local boutiques.

Tiffany graduated from Francis Marion University in 2012 with a degree in Visual Arts with concentrations in ceramics and painting.

Mission Statement The purpose of The Mountain Laurel is to produce a collection of prose, poetry and visual art that is both technically sound in craftsmanship and creative in content. In pursuing this purpose, the goal of The Mountain Laurel is to reflect the creativity of God by exhibiting works that capture universal human experience. The first act of God recorded is the act of creation; The Mountain Laurel strives to demonstrate the creative power with which God has endowed humans.

In creating, the Christian artist faces the difficulty of portraying human experience and conveying the truths of Christianity honestly, whether implicitly or explicitly. To do so, the artist must represent not only beauties, but also consequences of the fallen world, including evil actions and behaviors, because evil is part of reality. In the same way, the artist must be consistent with the moral truths of scripture, which include concepts of a moral universe, struggle between right and wrong, and the flawed nature of both good and evil characters in need of redemption. Imbedded within these concepts are moments of grace where a character within the work of art can choose to accept redemption offered, delight in truth and beauty, or empathize with those experiencing suffering and pain. By utilizing these concepts, the artist is able to mirror such stories and poetry as the book of Job, The Psalms, and The Song of Solomon. In short, Christian art is not Christian because it refers to the Bible and teaches morality; it is Christian because it faithfully communicates through artistic media the nature of God, His creation, and the experience of humanity in a world it was not made for. It is this art that we offer to readers of The Mountain Laurel, with our prayer that God will use this publication to encourage, inspire, and restore.

Selection Process 2015

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The Mountain Laurel student editors and staff evaluated each selection, using a blind judging process in accordance with specific criteria.

For literary submissions, staff members looked for creativity, diversity, continuity, appropriate use of grammar, prowess in the work’s genre (poetry, fiction, nonfiction), and the writer’s command of the English language. For visual art submissions, staff members not only looked for creativity and diversity but also for the artist’s expertise in capturing an image, the appealing use of color and design, and inner meaning beyond the viewer’s first impression. With all submissions, staff members determined whether the work was suitable according to the standards of North Greenville University.

After reading/ viewing all submissions, student editors and staff rated each on a scale of 1 to 3. Pieces marked 1 portrayed the best qualities of each genre, while pieces marked 2 or 3 exhibited varying degrees of improvement needed. Selections published are those that received the best marks and required few essential changes.

Pieces honored with 1st, 2nd, 3rd, place or Honorable Mention were evaluated by judges without current North Greenville University affiliation. Knowledgeable in their respective field (art, poetry, fiction, nonfiction), judges selected works for recognition. Judges received coded literary or visual art files devoid of artist names, and judged according to their own established standards.

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Yellow by Emily Younginer

Photography

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Barnes, Tucker 47 Sophomore, Outdoor Leadership Bodine, Heather 19 Senior, Studio Art Burke, Sharon 23, 28, 37 Senior, Elementary Education Capell, Ben 60 Sophomore, Environmental Biology Colmenares, Celeste Hawkins 6, 61, 65 Alumna (2011) Corneroli, Christina 41 Junior, Biology

King, Naomi 45 Senior, Studio Art Klukow, Julia 8-9, 81 Sophomore, English Latzka, Elizabeth 16 Junior, English Marcoux, Camilla 72 Sophomore, Intercultural Studies McCause, Bethany 80 Junior, English McDonald, Jennifer 7 Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies McElhinny, Dakota 75 Senior, Sports Management Meahl, Leah 42-43 Junior, Interdisciplinary Studies Monteith, Samantha 57, 79 Senior, History Mulvaney, Joshua 10-12 Junior, Broadcast Media Neal, Claire 54 Senior, English Secondary Education Nelson, David 17 Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies Queen, Alyson 31, 52, 74, 78 Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies Quinn, Melia 12, 22 Junior, Interdisciplinary Studies Reynolds, Hannah 36 Alumna (2013) Simmons, Sterling 14-15, 34, 71 Senior, Elementary Education Smith, Hannah K. 76-77 Senior, English Secondary Education Springs, Joshua 73 Junior, Interdisciplinary Studies Taylor, Javin 17 Sophomore Interdisciplinary Studies Webb, Tiffany 44, 50 Senior, Psychology Wilcox, Dante 25, 29, 48 Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies Wright, Josiah E. 39 Freshman, English Bold indicates award winner Italic indicates graduate

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Contributing Writers

Dew, Rachel 83 Senior, Studio Art Drake, Emily 35, 66 Senior, English Dry, Brandon 21, 24 Junior, English Haase, Jenna 6 Junior, Interdisciplinary Studies Henderson, Hannah 19, 38, 53, 82 Sophomore, Interdisciplinary Studies Jerman, Courtney 20, 26 Sophomore, English Secondary Education

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Contributing Artists Ausley, Matthew 27, Senior, Studio Art Bodine, Heather 26, 28, 49, 52, 68, Senior, Studio Art Caldwell, Harrison 46, Sophomore, Outdoor Leadership Casamassa, Tyler 40, Junior, Studio Art Caughman, Rion 55, Junior, Church Music Clardy, Kristin 16, 36, Freshman, Studio Art Crosby, Anna M. 33, Freshman, Theatre Dew, Rachel 53, Senior, Studio Art Erdmann, Estelle 20, 56, Junior, Studio Art King, Naomi 7, 15, Senior, Studio Art LaPierre, Ashley 24, 62-63, 70, Senior, Elementary Education McDonald, Jennifer 72, Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies McDonald, Will Paul 22, Freshman, Studio Art Pierscinski, Christina 64, Senior, Studio Art Remington, Rachel 13, 54, 60, 80, 83, Junior, Biology Rogers, Anna 51, Sophomore, Studio Art Schmal, Olivia 32, 58, Senior, Biology Shannon, Kelsey 25, Freshman, Interdisciplinary Studies Sloan, Mariah 61, Sophomore, Contemporary Worship Arts and Leadership Stollger, Katie 18, 31, 69, Junior, Studio Art Wray, Mackenzie 29, 75, Senior, Studio Art Younginer, Emily 23, 38, 50, 67, 74, 86, Senior, Psychology

Design Credit

Naomi King 1-16 Estelle Erdmann 17-32 Tyler Casamassa 33-48, 49-64, Folio Art Heather Bodine 65-80, 81-88 FLOURISH

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Bold indicates award winner

The Mountain Laurel

RENEW

Volume 51

Supplement Featuring

North Greenville University Tigerville, SC themountainlaurel@ngu.edu

RenĂŠe Chastain Matthew Ausley & Emily Platt

Ten Years Known by Renée Chastain

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Senior Interdisciplinary Studies

“Jason, I told you I wasn’t going to be proof-reading essays like this. There’s a writing center for a reason,” I said, knowing that I was about to give in.

We had been friends since meeting on an elementary school playground ten years ago. He was my brother, my best friend.

“Renee, c’mon, I don’t have time to take it there. It won’t take long,” he said, calling my bluff.

“Fine,” I huffed, snatching the short essay from his hands, “Do you have a pen?”

Without a word he pulled his pen from his shirt collar, where he had kept it for as long as I could remember.

The sun beamed through the branches of the large magnolia tree we sat under, its rays fractured by the leaves and scattered along the ground like a spider’s web. Leaning against the tree trunk, I took my first glance at his essay and was instantly caught up in a memory. ***

We were in high school then. He attended Easley while I was at Pickens. Since we no longer went to the same school, we kept our friendship alive by talking on the phone.

In one of these routine conversations, Jason told me that he had decided to move schools. He planned on attending the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. In order to complete his application, which he was already scrambling to do at the last minute as usual, he had to compose an essay.

Writing an essay was no small task for my dyslexic friend. Words danced before his eyes, their letters changing endlessly. The stark white of an empty page or a blank computer screen taunted him as he tried to snatch up the puzzle pieces that made up his words. Every time he began to type his thoughts, he was mocked by those angry red lines, a constant reminder of his inability to spell.

He needed my help to write the essay, and I readily agreed, even though I knew that it would be a challenge. Soon, he was sitting at my kitchen table staring blankly at the computer screen, void of ideas and the knowledge of how to begin.

My mind raced, thinking of ways to help him. So I started talking, trying to get him at least to speak his ideas in hopes that maybe he could transfer them to paper. It worked, but it wasn’t easy. He wrote slowly and his essay was short. Trying to encourage him to add details to his thoughts was like trying to pull teeth without Novocaine.

Exhausted and frustrated, I was more than ready for him to leave, and he did, with a few mumbled thanks and not another word.

I’m doing great, thanks for asking.

While Jason was a good friend, I wondered if he really valued me as a person. Sometimes he just rushed in and out of my life, staying only long enough for me to help him. But I pushed these doubts aside. I answered his desperate phone calls and always agreed to help.

I was his friend— no matter what. *** I had not read Jason’s writing since that day, and my reminiscing smile quickly turned into beaming pride.

“Is it looking better?” he asked, fishing for the compliment that I knew he needed.

“Yeah, so far. I mean, you still have some issues to work out, but you’ve come a long way since that

Governor’s School paper.”

He grinned smugly, proud of himself.

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We both were leaning against different sides of the strong and majestic magnolia. My head was down as I continued to edit his essay. But my mind was someplace else. News bounced around in my head, waiting to be told, but I wasn’t sure how to say it.

“So,” I began, giving it my best attempt. “So, I like this guy…”

“Yeah,” he replied nonchalantly, “Who is he?”

“Well, he doesn’t exactly go to school here.”

“Oh, well where’d you meet him?” he asked.

“At church.” I replied.

“Well, that’s always good.”

“Yeah…” I mumbled, mentally preparing myself for the big one. “Yeah, you see, um, he’s a deacon in my church, and a fireman, and he’s a bit,” I paused, choosing the next word with care, “older than me.”

“Huh, how much older?”

Here it comes.

I braced myself, prepared to hear another shocked reaction, another hasty judgment, and another assurance of my stupidity.

“Ten years,” I forced out.

I never could have imagined his response. He was laughing.

“That’s such a Renee thing to do,” he said amidst his wheezing snickers.

I cocked my head, preparing to defend myself.

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“Well, that’s just you, I mean, when have you ever done anything the way other people do?” he replied. His eyes twinkled, daring me to disagree, knowing that his surprising statement had dismantled my arguments.

I relaxed. It was true.

“He sounds like a great guy,” Jason said, “You should go for it.” I looked over at him as if I had never truly seen him before.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, you should,” he assured me.

Smiling, I leaned against that sturdy old magnolia, feeling it support me just as Jason had. In that moment, it didn’t matter that everyone else was against me. The feeling of being understood and of being known was enough to encourage me to keep following the path I felt was right.

“Are you done yet?” he asked impatiently.

“Almost. Hey, calm down. I don’t have to help you.”

“Ughh,” he sighed.

My pen scribbled out a few more notes, scratching through words, adding commas, and scrawling tips for proof-reading in the margins.

“Here,” I said, handing him the essay.

“How bad was it?” he asked, before he dared to look at the abundance of black ink coating the page.

“Not too bad,” I paused, enjoying watching him squirm as he awaited the rest of my answer.

“Your main problem is that you are too wordy.” A crooked smile crossed my lips as I glanced over at him.

“Haha,” he chuckled, “Imagine that.”

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Untitled

Wood, 10in x 10in x 36in

by Matthew Ausley Senior Studio Art

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Condemning words spew forth from this fountain, Fed by self-righteousness and pride That twists truth into selfish lies.

I stand resolute, stone in hand, Ready to batter the woman Without giving thought to the man.

I scoff and I growl, and I think I am better, Until one with the countenance of angels And heaven’s authority Quietly speaks.

“He who has not sinned, Let him throw the first stone.”

I grimaced and held fast to the weight, Yearning to place it on her shoulders.

Go and Sin No More

by Renée Chastain Senior Interdisciplinary Studies

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But then I saw the same stone, Suspended above my head, Waiting to crush me with a fatal blow.

One by one, we dropped our boulders.

The earth trembled and shook Under the sound of relentless, Scandalous, Grace.

And as I looked at the one Whom my soul loved, yet failed, I saw my sin shackled fast to his wrists, As he bore my stones.

Yet still he commanded me, “Go— and sin no more.”

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Renée Nicole

A name is a root. A whole system, actually. It is a deep part of you, something you didn’t choose. But you grow in it, and it grows with you, nourishing you, giving you a sense of place and a label so that you do not simply wither away. ***

I can picture it now, or at least I can imagine my parents awaiting the delivery of their first child. I came into this world screaming, making it know my presence. And they gave me a name that demands that I do it all again.

RENÉE. It means reborn.

It carries with it a beautiful illustration, a promise. The essence of Christianity lies in that word, our peace, hope, and joy. We enter our new lives helpless. Babes feeding on milk. And we grow.

Reborn. As on June 21st, 2001 when God welcomed me into His family, snatching me from the clutches of death and filling my lungs with life.

I fully became myself and my name became my banner, proclaiming the truth of salvation, hoping that all might know the rebirth of water and of the Spirit. ***

As toddlers learn to walk, they fall. Such is the Christian life. I wobbled forward on feeble legs, desperately trying to travel in the way of the one who says, “Follow me.” But one day I fell to the hard, cold concrete. I was alone in the dark, and there seemed to be no one to help me up.

Sobs streamed from my deep blue eyes that grew red with weariness. Hope died as I fell into the darkness of the underground, forsaking light and all that I knew. Red cuts marred my skin and began to glow, and for a second I wondered why. Why am I here at all? But a still small voice answered my unspoken call and brought a pinprick of hope.

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by RenĂŠe Chastain

Senior, Interdisciplinary Studies

NICOLE. Victorious people. It is my least favorite name, but somehow it transformed in that moment of darkness and became a battle cry. To this day it speaks of that war I have already fought and reminds me of the battle scars that never seem to fade. I near victory step by step as I begin walking again in His way, feeling him free me from the bonds of self-hate, insecurity, and fear, giving me strength to conquer each day. ***

A little girl looks up at a tree, her red hair tossed in the breeze. A bare, strong trunk fades into dozens of green-tipped branches that stretch to new heights. I have always loved trees. They remind me of strength, stability, all the things that I lack. My legs have learned how to walk, but my heart is twisted and plagued with fear as life tries to force me under the covers as I hide from the monsters under my bed. I long to be a tree, and this longing seems to be embedded in who I am.

CHASTAIN. One who lives under the Chestnut tree. CHASTAIN speaks of my deepest roots, the ones no one chose for me. A destiny that was handed to me by a history of French women and men. A story of a victorious people who fought for rebirth in the Reformation. A dynasty of good men, and a depth of evil to match.

A history of untold secrets and whispers of past abuse.

A name that belongs to my Dad.

The name winds through me like a vine. In some places it flowers, bringing beauty and strength, in others it twists around my heart, choking and seeking to kill who I am and who I am becoming.

I long to keep the flowers and pull the weeds. And one day I will, when I choose to tie myself to another, to take on a new name.

And CHASTAIN will be as fading smoke, still present but lacking the power to burn.

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Drowning

Film Photography, 8in x 10in

by Emily Platt

Senior Interdisciplinary Studies

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The Mountain Laurel 2015 Sponsors Art Department, North Greenville University English Department, North Greenville University Mass Communications Department, North Greenville University (Video, TV Vision 48, WNGR Radio 95.5, The Vibe, The Vision, The Aurora) Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, 300 North Pleasantburg Dr. Greenville, SC 864-232-8250 Moe’s Southwest Grill, 6005 Wade Hampton Blvd. Taylors, SC Dr. David Haynie (Professor of Christian Studies)

Colophon Font: Linowrite 18 pt, 30 pt, 36 pt, 48 pt, 72 pt, 80pt; U.S. 101 14 pt, 18 pt, 24 pt,

42 pt; Garamond 10 pt, 11pt, 12 pt, 16 pt, 18 pt; Garamond Bold 12 pt,

16 pt, 18pt, 24 pt, 36 pt, 48 pt; Garamond Italic 12pt, 18pt, 24pt, 36pt Pages: 8 by 8 88 pages: 56 1/1 80# matte, 32 4/4 80# glossy Cover Stock: 100# Clasic Linen, 13 pt Binding: Perfect Bind and trim Cover art: drawing design by Naomi King Colored Pencil Divider Art: photography by Heather Bodine Layout: Adobe InDesign CS 6 Printing: Jostens Clarksville, TN Copyright 2015 by North Greenville University All rights reserved by the individual authors and artists