The Mountain Laurel, Volume 53, Facets

A Letter from the Editors

Humans, like cut diamonds, are multi-faceted. This year’s edition of The Mountain Laurel seeks to reach the core of who we truly are. Just as a diamond has many facets but is one whole, all of our sides make up our entire being.

The reflection of light which produces the stunning quality of a diamond would be impossible without Shadows. Hidden in the darkness are the struggles and faults we fear to display. Like coal buried in the earth, our hearts often harbor fear, anger, guilt, pride, greed, and lust. Like coal dust, these can spread, staining everything within and without.

However, given enough time, coal that is put under intense pressure and heat can transform into a diamond. The rough diamond, just pulled from the earth, has Transparency.

Just as much of a diamond’s beauty is found in its clarity, so can the beauty of humanity be fully appreciated when we pull away the layers and reveal who we are at our purest core. The flaws we acknowledge are sifted through the fingers of God, exposing and removing our filth while bringing our gifts to the surface.

The final section is a finely cut diamond, which has been meticulously cut down to remove impurities and shaped to have maximum Radiance. Diamonds do not create light, but they act as a conduit, reflecting the light that shines on them. As diamonds carved by our Creator, we shine the light of kindness, love, justice, encouragement, and hope that will not be crushed in the face of darkness.

Kendra Freeman, Managing Editor Linnea Stevens, Art Editor

The Mountain Laurel

facets North Greenville University

2017

P. O. Box 1892 7801 N. Tigerville Rd. Tigerville, SC 29688 (864) 977-7000 Enrollment: 2537 www.ngu.edu ngumountainlaurel.wordpress.com

Table of Contents

Transparency

Shadows

Art *Never Let Me Go, Heather Anne Edwards 5 9/11, Sydney Kramm 6 Bones of The Catacombs, Hannah Henderson 7 Gateway To..., Hannah Henderson 11 Audience of None, Linnea Stevens 12 Arizona’s Next Top Model, Margaret Milteer 14 Lone Wolf, Kat Fricault 15 Broken Dreams, R.J. Horton 16 Flower Child, Kat Fricault 18 Seashore Ballet, Rachel Remington 20 Childhood Abandoned, Linnea Stevens 23 Disposable Fashions, Linnea Stevens 24 *Organic-Non-Organic, Heather Anne Edwards 25 Putting Lipstick On a Corpse, Linnea Stevens 26 Henry Miller, Timothy Andrews 29 Don’t Lose Hope, R.J. Horton 30 Lotus, Kat Fricault 31 *Beseeching, Katelyn Galyean 32 Fiction The Great War, Hannah Bridges *George and the Paper Napkins, Sarah Hope Carlson *Just a Face, Karley Conklin

8-9 21-23 28-29

Non-Fiction Into the Storm, Laura Dyer 13 Repercussions of Childhood Dreams, Courtney Jerman Madeira 17 Poetry A Room Exists, Kendra Freeman 5 Wistful Winds, Dawson Petersen 6 Raging Silence, Jenny Hitt 7 A Tree Grows, Hannah E. Miller 10 Lack, Hannah E. Miller 10 Song of the Dragon, Karley Conklin 14 God Help the Girl, Gloria Biggers 15 Mother, Laura Dyer 19 Two Feet, Sarah Hope Carlson 20 Ode to Existence, Dawson Petersen 26 *Stepmother, Laura Dyer 27 Church Feet, Jori Edgington 30 Halloween, Meagan Longwell 31 *Insomnia, Laura Dyer 32 Girl Scout, Jori Edgington 32 *Standing on the Edge, Gloria Biggers 33

4

Art Broken Together, R.J. Horton 35 London’s Eye, Hannah Henderson 37 Lost Locks of the Heart, Hannah Henderson 38-39 *Peace586, Brandon Seabrook Nelson 41 *Dragonfly, Margaret Milteer 42 Wrinkles in the Wake (of Memories), Hannah E. Miller 43 Whimsical Volcano, Mariah Sloan 46 Beauty from the Storm, Casey Mikell 46 *Recollection, Will Paul McDonald 47 *Awakening the Beast, R.J. Horton 48 A Night on the Town, Abigail Moore 49 The Mask, Abigail Moore 52 *Student in the Raw, Timothy Andrews 53 *Loving Arms, Kristin Clardy 54 Violet Night, Hannah Henderson 55 Sparks Fly, Margaret Milteer 55 Contrarian, Timothy Andrews 57 Fiction The Order of Things, Sarah Hope Carlson

56-57

Non-Fiction *A White Suburban Girl Being in the Middle of a Race War, Melia Quinn

40-41 *Hold On, Laura Dyer 45 *Overlapping Lines, Lowri Gowing 50-51 My Favorite Place, Nisa Navarro 56 Poetry Una Carta Honesta / An Honest Letter, Sorrell V. Brock 35 May I Never See, Jenny Hitt 36-37 Love and Loss, Dawson Petersen

39 Haiku, Curtis Turpin 42 Memoria in Aeterna, Laura Dyer 43 *shadow of a doubt, Melia Quinn 44 Fragmented Remains, Shaun Stokes 48 Shut the Window There, Gloria Biggers 49 Nameless Poem, Sarah Hope Carlson 52 words or Word, Dawson Petersen 53 Free, Jori Edgington 57

Radiance Art Three Roads Diverged, Hannah Henderson 59 Notre Dame at Night, Hannah Henderson 60 Crooked Path, Hannah Henderson 61 Fired Up, Katelyn Galyean 62 Joy, Will Paul McDonald 63 Big Cat, Kat Fricault 64 Orange Bloom, Rebecca Pack 64 Sunny Cruise, Kylie Rock 65 Leaves of Green, Mariah Sloan 66 Mimosa Pudica - A Self Portrait, Sarah Vann 67 Splinters, Julia Klukow 69 *Take-Off, Kristin Clardy 70 Shameless Bamboo Snob, Rachel Remington 70 Robin Hood, Estelle Erdmann 71 *Jim Hawkins, Estelle Erdmann 71 *Denise, Kylie Rock 72 The Mad Hatter, Estelle Erdmann 73 Hope in the Darkness, Heather Anne Edwards 74 Heart of Stone (Ezekiel 36:26), Abigail Moore 77 Scaling the Eiffel, Hannah Henderson 78 Jewel Canopy, Rachel Remington 79 Golden Trees, Kylie Rock 80 Beauteous Form, Julia Klukow 82

Miscellaneous Selection Process/Index 84 Mission Statement/Staff and Credits 85 Judges’ Biographies 86 Judging Results 87 Advertisement 88

Fiction Dim Lights on the Thames, Julia Klukow 60 I Can, I Will, I Am, Kendra Freeman 76-77 *The Night Adventure of Words, Karley Conklin 81-82 Non-Fiction A Riddle, Melia Quinn 66 Poetry The Perennial Sentry, Meagan Longwell 59 Being, Marcus Sundberg 61 Forever Home, Grace Watson 62 Desire, Jenny Hitt 63 To Write What I Know, Lowri Gowing 67 *Ode to Fate, Josiah E. Wright 68-69 Catching Notice, Karley Conklin 75 Sugar-Free, Jori Edgington 75 Head in the Clouds, Karley Conklin 78 *Peace, Jenny Hitt 79 Things That Bring Me Joy, Grace Watson 80 Before Time, Marcus Sundberg 83

5

Who We Hide

shadows

A Room Exists

By Kendra Freeman

A room exists where nothing has a place, And scattered thoughts, like paper, line the walls Where every mirror reveals a different face, While chainèd demons roam forgotten halls.

This room sits under rusty lock and key, A key which grows much rustier with age.

Some call that key a waning memory; When frees no more, it turns to iron cage.

The room resides behind all of our eyes, Yet we have rule o’er all that dusky land Where cages cannot keep us from the ties Which bind us to this world with gentle hand.

The world around us keeps the world behind From forcing us to always hit rewind.

Never Let Me Go*

Heather Anne Edwards Digital Photography

7

Wistful Winds

By Dawson Petersen

Silent storms sail swiftly Past the swift and swallow.

My swallows swiftly sail Down my throat. The throated Swallow fails To find the current that prevails To carry swiftly sobbing sorrows Down my throat and to the morrow.

9/11

Sydney Kramm Mixed Media 18” x 24” 8

Bones of the Catacombs

Hannah Henderson Digital Photography

Raging Silence

By Jenny Hitt

I scream into a vacuum, And no one hears a sound.

I am choked by the gag of silence As thoughts birthed within nebulas of my own galaxy Drive the lash of fear deep into my skin, Tasting bone with the fresh smack of splitting flesh.

Fear festers, oozing white anger

With the force of a thousand freight trains, Crushing ribs against my bleeding heart In suspended agony.

The lump of life heaves, Pressing back with miniscule force— But enough to drive my living on.

A blood-curdling cry scrapes along my throat

And hoisting a darkened halo

And swings its ugly head in a violent thrust against the door,

Above stormy reds and blacks of infected wounds

Clawing for escape.

My torturers hold me down

And all you hear is silence.

9

The Great War

You won’t have to go? Will you?” He looks at his wife. She is staring at him, a dishcloth hanging limply from her hand. He sticks his own worn hands in his pockets.

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “I hope not.”

“I don’t see why America had to get involved in the first place,” she vocalizes hotly, her green eyes flashing. “Europe’s been fighting for almost four years now and all there’s been is death.”

“I know, Sallie, but Germany –“

“Germany, my foot. They were just trying to make us fall for the bait, and we did. We gave ‘em what they wanted.”

“It’ll be all right. It’s just draft registration. It doesn’t mean I’ll be chosen for service. Besides, they say the war’s beginning to die down anyway. It might end tomorrow for all we know.” Sallie glares at him.

“It better, or else I’ll be heading up to Washington to have a word with President Wilson myself.”

“And Washington wouldn’t know what hit ‘em,” he chuckles. “I’ll be back before dinner.” He makes his way toward the door.

“Ed,” Sallie says, more softly this time. He turns.

“Love you.” Ed smiles.

“And you.” ***

Ed readies the buggy, his mind preoccupied with thoughts. Glancing toward the fields, he feels a familiar, gnawing sense of worry wash over him. What would happen if he were drafted? How would his wife and children survive if their only source of income were forced to leave and fight? How would the community fare if all the working men in the community were conscripted to serve their country? The danger and reality of such a concept frightens Ed, and he sends up a quick prayer – only one of many – to God that it will not be so.

Ed rattles away from his own dwelling and picks his brother up at their parents’ house. Excitement written on his face, Clarence strides out the door, his broken arm held close to his body. “You don’t reckon they’ll turn me down on account of this broken arm, do you?” he asks his older brother nervously. Ed hopes to God they will.

The September sun beats down upon them as they arrive at the draft office. Men of all ages line up outside the door, conversing among themselves. The two brothers slip into line. “Fill this out, front and back, and then take it to that table over there,” the draft official tells them when they reach the front of the line. Without a glance toward them, he slides two forms across the table. Ed catches both of them before they fall on the floor.

“Thank you, sir,” he nods, handing Clarence a form.

Side by side they fill them out, the older full of apprehension and the younger only enthusiasm. “Say, Ed,” Clarence asks excitedly, “what should I put down for hair color?” Ed studies his brother’s hair, a shade that could be classified as either brown or blonde, depending on who was asked.

“Just say ‘light,’” he replies, a smile lining his face in spite of himself. Clarence complies, writing “light” as neatly as he can upon the form pressed against the wall, his broken arm holding it awkwardly. Ed follows suit.

He almost envies Clarence’s enthusiasm. If this Great War, as they call it, had occurred when he was twenty, Ed imagines he would have been just as eager to fight.

Life and responsibilities have made him wiser, though, and all he can think about now is the hardships his family will face without him.

The forms complete, they walk to the table opposite them. The official there is more amiable, and he smiles as they approach. “Let’s see what we got here,” he twangs, scanning Ed’s form.

By Hannah Bridges

10

“You got kids?” he asks.

“Yes sir,” Ed responds, “I have five. Two girls and three boys.”

“And are you the only source of income?”

“Yes sir.” Ed wrings his hands nervously as the official stamps Ed’s form and writes some notes. He hands him a slip of paper. “Class III. You’re exempt unless told otherwise.” Ed laughs as relief floods through him.

Clutching the paper proving his exemption in hand, he waits for Clarence’s results. He too is exempt on account of his broken arm, though only temporarily.

Once his arm heals, he must report for duty. Clarence’s eventual departure concerns Ed, but not enough to take away the joy of the moment. He is not going to war.

His family will not be left struggling. He can continue to provide for them and for the community around him.

“It’s a good day, Clarence,” Ed proclaims on the way home. Clarence crosses his arms, looking gloomy at the idea of exemption.

“If you say so.” ***

Two months later, Clarence bursts into Ed’s house at breakfast time. “It’s over! It’s over!” he shouts, stumbling over the threshold. Ed stands up, grabbing the paper from his brother. He locks eyes with his wife, nodding.

“I was so close to going, though,” Clarence remarks later that morning. “So close. Just a week and I would have been off at training.”

“Thank God it ended when it did,” Ed says.

“War isn’t all it’s made out to be. Surely you know that, Clarence.”

“I know it’s not,” Clarence agrees, thoughtful, “I just wanted to do something for my country, you know?”

“I know. But going to war isn’t the only way to

serve your country.” Ed stares absentmindedly toward the fields where ripe stalks of corn reach high toward the heavens.

Their work as farmers is important, just as important as the soldiers’ work -- even more important now as a war-torn world begins to heal and the soldiers come home. “Farming is a war in itself,” Ed realizes aloud. Clarence smiles. Ed stands, stretching.

“Come on, Clarence. We have work to do.”

11

A Tree Grows

Lack

As the light hits the tips of leaves,

The snap of nuts

By Hannah E. Miller

Red as crimson blood, spill The stories held in this field Of lives lost in fighting.

A gun was fired.

Two hearts sink low as A determined soldier falls.

A sacrifice of hearts that never lost hope; That’s where this tree grows.

12

By Hannah E. Miller As they collide With the ground is A secret untold and a Treasure not found.

Gateway To...

Hannah Henderson Digital Photography

13

Audience of None Linnea Stevens Film Photography 8” x 10”

14

Into the Storm

By Laura Dyer

He ignored the warning signs: the drop in temperature, the low, iron-colored clouds. He brushed off his friends’ and family’s concerns, insisting that he would be fine by himself. And as the wind picked up and the first flakes began to fall, he told himself that everything would turn out fine if he just kept ignoring it all and continued pushing forward. By the time he realized he should have heeded everyone else’s advice, it was too late; he was caught in the blizzard. As he walked onward, the cold began to seep through what layers of protection he was wearing, chilling him to the bone and numbing his extremities; he had difficulty trying to keep moving. The snow swirled faster and faster around him, obscuring his vision with an icy white blanket. He knew by now that he needed to escape, but he could not see a way out of the storm. He tried to call for help, but the wind snatched his breath away. Worst of all, he was alone. He had ventured out on his own, and now he was completely cut apart from the rest of the world, trapped in the blinding cold. As he sat shivering, all he could do was pray that someone would be able to rescue him in time because he did not have the ability to save himself. This is the effect that depression has on a person.

As she sinks into a depressed state, she can see the tell-tale signs: she feels overly upset over miniscule things that would never normally bother her, and she senses some sort of darkness rising up inside of her that does not belong.

Her close friends and family know how she struggles, and they can tell that she is beginning to struggle now. They offer their support and let her know that they are ready to listen if she needs to talk, but she shrugs off their concern. As she slowly slides further down into hopelessness, she convinces herself everything will turn out fine in the end if she just keeps pushing on as if nothing is wrong; she does not want to be a bother to everyone around her.

When she finally admits to herself that she does need help, she realizes she has waited too long. Depression has now caught hold of her, and it is not about to let go. Despite the situation, she tries to go about her daily life as if nothing is wrong. But as the depression becomes stronger, she becomes numb and lethargic. She has trouble caring enough about life to get up in the morning or to go to work. She knows she needs to do something to fix her problem, but she cannot find a way out. Everything around her is tainted with depression’s lens, and she cannot see clearly enough to escape. She wants to go back to her friends and ask for help, but depression does not let her. It takes away her motivation to call them and replaces it with the belief that she will only annoy them. This belief causes the most dangerous part of it all: She is alone; therefore, she is easy prey to the damaging thoughts and actions depression can cause. As she huddles under the covers in her bed, afraid of what might happen this time, she can only pray that someone will reach out to her in time. She cannot save herself.

15

Arizona’s Next Top Model Margaret Milteer Digital Photography

Song of the Dragon

By Karley Conklin

The dragon woke, its nostrils flared, Rushed at the hero with its teeth bared.

The knight drew his sword, would not be scared, Though the wind went howling on.

A fearless knight with sword in hand Set off to save the ravaged land.

His spirit soared as he began, With wind howling along.

Iron sword clashed ‘gainst iron scale.

The dragon roared to no avail.

Knight’s weapon lost with flick of tail, With the wind still howling strong.

Traveling night and day he flew ‘Cross countryside of blackened hue, Till smoking cave came into view, The wind howling its song.

Into cave and tunnel he slowly crept, On cold stone floors carefully stepped, Plunged into darkness as cavern bent, As the wind howled on and on.

Then hero fell, sure of his defeat, But suddenly, up with final leap, His dagger strong stabbed the one spot weak, And the beast howled its final song.

There the crimson knife in his hand, the dragon still as stone.

There the gold, num’rous as sand, the treasure all his own.

There, just past, a waking hatchling gave out a little moan.

The wind now dead and gone.

Turning the corner, the hero found The sleeping dragon curled on the ground With treasure lying all around, And the wind still howling on.

“The kingdom’s safe, the deed is done,” The hero said, for he had won.

Now, with his treasure he did run, As armored babe howled on.

16

God Help the Girl

By Gloria Biggers

You ask me to lament and fold in praise.

I have none to mourn to transform into true sublime.

If I am to scream out the pain, I will scorn consolation.

The Wolf howls as the ruby red life abandons him.

He does not require a psalm to entomb his demise.

You ask me to grieve, but if I open my mouth, a growl will replace words.

I don’t want beauty to be found in the ashes.

I desire to burn.

Let the flesh melt without a song.

Pain needs no melody to be sung by the Wolf.

Lone Wolf Kat Fricault Ink and Marker 11.7" x 9.7"

17

Broken Dreams R.J. Horton

Film Photography 8” x 10”

18

Repercussions of Childhood Dreams

By Courtney Jerman Madeira

I look nice today. Ice-water drips from the edges of long, matted hair and pools around my toes on the tile floor. I always take cold showers; they burn calories, or so I am told. Sometimes I wonder how I came to be so rigid, so intense. I wonder why I feel driven like a slave to impress and outperform everyone around me, why being pretty is unacceptable unless my waist sinks in and my bones protrude like molding on a wall. I exhale and manage to distract my mind from these draining, introspective questions with mascara wands and lipstick smears. I hate my size five pants, but I wiggle them over my hips; I hate those things, too. My daughters will never be dancers, never.

I felt always on display, loved nothing more in the world than ballet; having danced for five years, I had nursed the sort of passion for dancing that gives birth to visions of lasting professionalism, especially in the mind of a naïve child like myself. What did I want to be when I grew up? A music-box ballerina.

I am not a dancer now. I have not set foot in a studio for so long that I might not even recognize the difference between a pirouette and a piquet turn. I will be a teacher soon, and I demand perfection from my plans. I push myself beyond hysteria, taking twenty-plus credit hours, forcing myself to compete with the achievements of those students rehearsing for graduation. I am a sophomore; age is irrelevant! I must prove that I am worthy of my position. I must tame the most ferocious and demanding of courses. I must excel at my craft and publish a book before I turn twenty-two. I must juggle a job alongside everything else. I must prove that I do not belong in the background. I must be noteworthy, a glittering swan.

At eleven, I envied Ana most. She had not been assaulted by early-onset puberty as I had, and her spindle-body always kissed the ground first when we practiced the splits. Her glassy blue eyes flashed and her pink lips pursed in concentration while her porcelain limbs floated about from position to position. I suddenly loathed our shimmering tights and bright leotards; I felt

like stuffed sausage skins, and my thighs jiggled when I moved. There was nothing graceful in my appearance, but I felt worse for Jocelyn: skilled, devoted, but hopelessly fat.

Now, I enjoy psychology. My text book tells me that anorexia is most common among “highly intelligent, Caucasian females.” It grants me a sort of sick satisfaction to know that even my faults are impressive.

There are activists protesting “thinspiration” propaganda on pro-fitness blogs, and I cannot say that I blame them.

Still, I know the truth. The only way to shine in this society is to sacrifice yourself on the altar of perfection.

I wanted to be Clara. My company danced The Nutcracker each December, and I only ever aspired to do one thing. I needed to be Clara, not even grown-up Clara who spun with The Sugarplum Fairy and gently turned in the lights as The Toy Soldier lifted her into the air. I only dreamt of earning child-Clara’s role, and I trained for it as if I would never do anything else for as long as I lived. When cold weather came, Mrs. London gave Ana Clara’s part, my part. If I had been smaller or stronger or better, I might have been noticed for my diligent strivings, but I had not tried hard enough. I had not realized that being chubby and imperfect makes one unworthy of recognition, except as a fixture of the set. I wore a rat-costume that year. Our studio closed a month later, and I abandoned my dream.

I do not dwell on the past. I vomit poems into pen marks when my emotions outgrow their restraints, and I reset my own unsteady equilibrium. It is convenient, for sure, that those stanzas and demons make me an artist of sorts in the eyes of this world. I should like to believe that it will remember me for them, but I will not be known as a fire ignited without a match. The truth is that I never intended to write anything at all. I wanted to be a dancer, and my failure met me here.

17

Flower Child

Kat Fricault

18

Ink 11.7” x 9.5”

Mother

By Laura Dyer On the front porch, she sits in her wooden rocking chair, Counting pennies with stitches as she knits another scarf.

Her nimble fingers dance with the needle and the yarn; The morning sun glints brightly off her silver-streaked hair.

I watch her eyes begin to roam the sun-soaked scene – They brighten at the beauty and the beckon of it all: The mountains in fresh dawn-light could be Heaven’s hall.

A smile warms her face, and our world is at peace.

But then she looks out further – beyond the now – Over forests that rise up and stretch and yawn And dusty pink clouds that will vanish with the dawn, And with sudden clarity, I know she is wondering how (As her eyes reach that realm where all dead dreams reside) How she came to this place counting pennies and stitches, Not permitting one scratch at her Creative’s itch.

Her imagination’s encrusted with jewels of all kinds, but kept inside Too long, they’ve grown dusty and dim, and she weeps over them.

But not for long – a creak of her chair on the trodden old floor Brings her down from those heavens – or hell? – and she closes that door.

Her stilled fingers resume the sacrificial beat, and she softly hums – But I know the truth.

19

Two Feet

By Sarah Hope Carlson One foot on land, The sticky sand Crawls into crevices and cracks As feet pound and hack The salty soil, Tilling Filling Socks and shoes with weight Until it halts the gait.

One foot on land Is an anchor in your hand.

One foot in sea Is not enough for me.

Dragged, drugged, drunk on salt, Still, it’s not your fault.

Right, wrong, wrung by waves Thrilling Spilling Over from my soul I jumped in whole.

One foot in sea You’re still too far from me.

One in sea and one on shore; This has become a holy war.

I cannot go to you, But will you come to me?

One if on land, two if in sea Currents choke and throttle, My hand finds a bottle.

One if on land, two if in sea.

One if in sand, two if with me.

One, two.

One, two.

One. 20

Seashore Ballet

Rachel Remington Digital Photography

George and the Paper Napkins

By Sarah Hope Carlson

There are some people you’ll meet in your life who will help you make sense of the world, who will take the chaos of your mind into their own hands and spin it into something wonderfully coherent. George was not one of these people.

When I met him, I was running backward, moving fast toward what I needed while still staring longingly at what I wanted.

You might say he tripped me. He was just sitting in the middle of the road, trying to catch his thoughts. See, George’s thoughts aren’t like other people’s. They don’t stay put inside him. Instead, they run away and hover, haunting and teasing, until he manages to catch them. I ran right into him, and in the blink of an eye, there were two more eyes looking straight into me. At first, I wasn’t sure I liked that. At last, I wasn’t either.

I’d like to say that at this point George and I said “hello” and learned each other’s favorite colors, but that’s not quite what happened, though his is green. Instead, after the fall, we simply sat together. I was still facing backwards, he was still catching thoughts, and we sat together, our knees grazing. We didn’t talk. We didn’t laugh. We just sat.

From time to time, I’d catch one of his thoughts by accident, or he’d grab one of mine, and on truly rare occasions, we might even trade ideas on purpose. George would think through them for me, and I would feel through them for him.

He would write the ideas he caught on napkins. I don’t know how exactly, but he always seemed to have these brown paper napkins at hand. He wrote them down in pen though he claimed pencils were his favorites.

Once George had written an idea down, he ’d give me the napkin, and he’d lose the thought once again. I think he liked the catching of ideas better than the keeping of them.

I was the opposite, so I tucked all the napkins away wherever I could find a place for them. In my pockets, down my sleeves, tied in my hair.

One day, a rather naughty thought escaped George. Unsatisfied with teasing him the way all the others did, this little thought decided it wished to be chased, so for the first time since the day I had met him, George leapt to his feet. At first, he wobbled as sailors do when they are finally set on land again. It was almost as if he’d spent so much time sitting he’d quite forgotten what it was to be upright. Quickly, though, he set himself right, tugged his wrinkled button-down into place, and set course for the lost thought. Unwilling to lose him, I followed.

We walked up hills and down hills, and to George, it was

all the same. The only thing he saw the entire time was the disappearing tail of the thought he wanted to catch. He didn’t see the sparks that flew from it. Shards of light jettisoned from a golden vessel: they landed on the rocks and in the grass, setting the world ablaze with ideas as we walked on. George saw none of it, and I felt all of it.

Most days, George was silent, but on some, he’d tell me stories. He knew quite a lot about the world and how it came to be.

He was particularly well-versed in the history of napkins.

“You see, this,” he explained as he everted an unsuspecting napkin with a quick flick of his wrist, “is where the scribbling began. The men of old invented napkins to pen their histories and fill their archives, but time passed, and things were lost. Few people today remember that napkins were made to hold ink splotches and smudged stories of valor, not mustard stains and sweat puddles.”

With that, he tossed the napkin over his shoulder as one tosses salt that has been spilled: without looking. I dove to catch it as he continued after the mischievous thought once again.

A few days later, we came to a railroad, and George stopped. With a sudden and startling lucidity, he put his ear to the ground near the rusty tracks, and they began to tremble. He leapt up, looked me in the eye, and whispered with the energy only a five-year-old can muster, “Trains.” “Trains?” I asked, but I had lost him. He turned toward the rattling rails and continued to repeat the word. Louder and louder, he chanted until the train pushed by in a glorious cacophony of metal screeches, whistle blows, and human howls. Then, there was only silence. Later, I asked George what it meant, but he seemed puzzled by my query, as if he had somehow forgotten about the train that seemed so very important at the time.

Once the train had disappeared, George recoiled into the hollow quiet that accompanies steadfast focus, and we pressed on, possessed and obsessed with the chase.

The skies did not stay as quiet as George for long. Soon, they began to pound and wail and sob. We walked on for several more miles in the tantrum, the clouds’ salty tears collecting on the lenses of my glasses, lazily slipping off the tips of his hair, and slowly seeping through our shoes and into our socks. We hadn’t spent much time in this miserable state when George’s lungs began to join in the terrible opera with hacks of their own. “It’s just a bit of a chest cold,” he told me, but we stopped for the night in an alcove all the same.

When I awoke the next morning from my muddy rest, George was pacing back and forth at the mouth of the cave. “Lost.

21

No trail. Lost,” he was muttering with angered bewilderment. In our hard and hard-earned slumber, we had lost the trail of the thought. It had not needed to stop and nurse a ragged cough or rest some weary bones and had marched on into the storm without us.

That was the first time I saw George break. Up until then, he had always maintained a quiet control over events, but they had slipped out of his hands this time. It is a hard thing to watch a great man break. For hours, all he did was stare at those vast, old palms, trying to remember what to do with them now that they were empty. I began to think of ways to fill them, but all I had to offer were my own. As far as hands go, they are small and thin, not nearly enough to satisfy a man’s grip. Still, I gave them to him. They were a clumsy and awkward fit. George took them all the same.

Two more days passed in this stunned paralysis, but on the third day, he chuckled. With gleeful urgency, George dropped my hands into my lap and filled his own with dozens of napkins. “You see, sometimes, when you can’t find an idea, you need to use other thoughts to catch it for you.” He made quick work of filling the napkins with words. Then, George handed half of them to me, and together, we folded them into flimsy, brown airplanes.

Once we had created our little fleet, George began to throw them into the wind. Strongly and swiftly, he thrust plane after plane against the sky, but all they did was gently float their way to a muddy grave. Finally, one of the paper planes caught the scent of the lost thought. Off it whizzed, and so did we. We ran and jumped and dodged, the wind slapping our arms and faces. We laughed and howled like wild things. The chase was on again!

After miles and piles of scenery, we found the thought once more. It was even more stunning than I remembered. The plane lunged for it but missed. Circling back to its original position, it tried once more. It failed once more, too. No thought is exactly like another, and this thought would not be tamed by any that was not its own kind. After much ramming, much missing, and much repositioning, the airplane fell to the ground exhausted, much in the same fashion as its siblings had done earlier. Sad to see our little friend so wounded, I gingerly took him into my arms and tucked him away in the pocket closest my heart. When I looked up, George and the thought had already resumed their race. I hastened after them with no small amount of difficulty.

We passed many beautiful things on our run (for it could no longer be referred to as a “walk”), and we passed some ugly, too, but ugly and beautiful alike, they were all missed by the steadfast George, who had eyes only for his thought. Many days were spent in this desperate hunt, for George seemed to feel penance was necessary for the three days he had stopped.

After many moons and many suns had risen and fallen in their custom, however, George took a rest to pay homage to a particularly captivating sunset. We dug our feet deep into the sand,

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as if hoping to make anchors of them. Once we were satisfied of their being sufficiently planted, we dropped our weary bodies onto the salty soil for some well-earned repose. It was then that the show began.

Bolts of orange silk darted across the sky. Tulle lilacs and chiffon periwinkles softened their violence with broad, sheer strokes of their own. Clouds were sliced by the bolder colors and dragged out along the horizon until I could barely recognize in them the same fluffy, cotton swabs that had sprouted in the light blue field earlier that day. It was a sight to behold. Sprinkles and strokes of light, one moment dull and shy, the next raucous and brave, overcame the horizon each in their turn.

When the sun sunk further and the show began to sputter to a halt, George muttered to himself, “It would take 8,586 and a half horizon hops to circle the Earth, and yet we’d never really be able to sit in the eye of that dazzling storm.” His voice was heavy with an unusual sadness. This man grieved for knowledge he could never get.

That was the night I began to notice George’s fraying. He was wearing thin, turning haggard and wildly desperate to catch the lost thought. Eventually, he did. As George waned and wore, the thought seemed to as well. It became slower, less crafty, took longer to choose paths and make turns. It was a sad catching in the end, hardly worth recounting. What is worth telling, though, is what happened after George’s fraying hands finally clasped that brown paper napkin once more.

With a sigh pregnant with satisfaction, he carefully uncupped his hands just enough to peek inside them. The thought seemed to have fainted away with exhaustion and now lay, wrinkled and opened in his grasp. When he read it, he laughed, but the laughter slowly melted into sobs which then turned into nothing more than the labored breaths of a tired soul.

“This… this is what I’ve been chasing?” I could tell from his tone that if he had the strength, George would’ve been yelling it. He tossed the napkin to me. I read it and felt his disappointment flood my own spirit. I glanced back to the ground where he had set himself down to savor his delicious success. He wasn’t sitting up anymore but lying in the dust. He was fading.

“George.” My voice lunged for him as my body wished it could, but his eyes and mind had wandered to the fragments of surroundings he could see from where he lay.

“Spring, is it spring yet? Surely, it must be. Spring is my favorite. The greens and the pinks, so bright. It must be spring.”

“No, George. It’s winter. Spring has come and gone half a dozen times since we began. Did you truly not see it?”

“No, no. Can’t have missed it. It must be spring. The flowers will be blooming, and the grass will come out again. It will all be new and bright again. It must be spring.”

I won’t tell the rest of what he said. With the babble of an old man, George drifted away on a quest I could not follow him on, chasing something greater, I hope, than a brown paper thought.

The napkins had killed George, consumed him and robbed him of his life. Perhaps, he had wanted them to. I found a tree not too far from where he had faded, and one by one, I pulled the thoughts from myself and tied them to its limbs, dug them out of my pockets, untangled them from my hair, carved them out of my palms. By the time I was finished, it was a funny-looking tree, filled with tan-feathered birds.

When I had securely fastened the last of George’s thoughts to the skinny branches, I turned myself around and ran.

Childhood Abandoned Linnea Stevens

Film Photography 8” x 10”

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Disposable Fashions Linnea Stevens Mixed Media 24” x 10”

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OrganicNon-Organic*

Heather Anne Edwards

Mixed Media 31” x 7.5”

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Ode to Existence

By Dawson Petersen

Ice in summer cuts the skin, And hollow laughter folds within These empty eyes and vacuous praise Of all this Universe has made.

Pretty words that sting like bile Will make you stop and stare a while To hear the chiming sounds of song And praise the love that does me wrong.

O gracious Giver of my Soul, You are fair, and very cold.

Your love’s like love which will provide A cause to say this love has died.

Yes, Being, you are bright and cruel, But beauty makes this man a fool.

Putting Lipstick on a Corpse Linnea Stevens

Ink and Charcoal 18” x 24”

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Stepmother

By Laura Dyer

O Mother mine (but not), have you forgotten who you are?

Letting whale bones crush your breath, Denying stretches in silk dress seams – Clutching so desperately to your hollow chest The dead red rose bouquet reeking of blood money conquest; Trapped in your Mirror’s gaze, you have become Time’s jest – Did you think rainbow jewels could stall your crown of grey?

This lonely castle’s keys are clenched within your wrinkled grip, But no satin gloves can salvage slow decay.

You enslave me, but Time escapes such flimsy bonds: My scrubbed-clean windows capture the sparkle your eyes have lost.

False-lashed coquetry won’t carry you far anymore; Velvet-lined luxuries do not become shriveling souls.

But grasp that famed fountain’s waters now, and try to ignore The half-hidden smirks of these fresh-faced beauties all – or – Look in that Mirror again, truthfully now – if you dare: You’re becoming the darkest one of all, O Mother dear (but not).

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Just a Face*

By Karley Conklin

I still remember the day I first saw him.

It was early September, and I was running late for my new job. Somehow I had managed to get lost on what was supposed to be a five-minute walk from my car to the restaurant. The only thought passing through my mind was, “Darn. Darn, darn, darn.”

My steps quickened as I reached the other side of the crosswalk, my nerves wanting me to sprint the rest of the way.

I probably would have started running, had it not been for the glimpse I caught of a man to my right. I paused, half turning for a second look. Sure enough, my eyes had not deceived me.

Sitting on a bench by the stoplight was an elderly black gentleman, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands outstretched. His beard was a mix of grey and white, and his eyes were fixed on some spot on the ground before him. What surprised me about the man, though, was not his tired look, but his choice of headwear. His hat was a simple blue baseball cap, which seemed normal in and of itself, except that there was a lightbulb, an actual lightbulb, attached to the brim.

That morning I wanted to stop and ask him why he wore it. I wanted to know if it meant anything. But a horn blared and I remembered work. Turning on my heel, I left, my mind instantly forgetting him and instead focusing on my job clearing tables near Falls Park. When I passed his bench again at the end of the day, it was empty, and I walked with a shrug.

The next morning, I crossed the street and stopped in my tracks. He was there again.

Not only was he there, but he was sitting perfectly still in the middle of the bench, in the exact position that he had been in the day before. If I hadn’t seen the empty bench last night, I would have sworn he was a statue. I only stopped a moment before time demanded I leave, but something in me stirred.

Every day for the rest of the week I passed him. Always he looked the same, never changing position or expression. Each day I thought to say hello, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I couldn’t bring myself to break the stillness which surrounded the lightbulb man.

Yet, each day I lingered longer and longer near him. I watched as people flowed past in both directions, hardly seeming to notice the man. It was almost as if he was invisible, even with his strange hat.

Once I saw a businessman drop some change in Lightbulb’s hands without ever slowing his stride. Lightbulb didn’t move but continued to sit there with his hands cupped, the coins unacknowledged in his open palms.

Another time I saw a child try to wave to Lightbulb,

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but then the boy was pulled along faster by his mother. Lightbulb almost looked up at the child, but as soon as the boy was gone, the man’s stare returned to the ground.

Those encounters hardened my resolve, until, finally, I decided to talk to him.

So Monday morning I walked straight to his bench.

“Hi,” I said, offering a smile.

He didn’t respond. I cleared my throat and spoke a little louder. “Good morning.”

Lightbulb didn’t even blink. I began to wonder if he was deaf.

I stepped away and waved as I passed him. He showed no sign of seeing me. Blind and deaf perhaps? I shook my head, but then I heard a gravelly voice.

“Good mornin’.”

I turned back to him and Lightbulb’s gaze flicked back to his feet.

The next day I tried again. This time I sat down next to Lightbulb. He didn’t react, but I didn’t expect him to. “Good morning.”

Slowly, he turned his head to face me. His eyes narrowed slightly, but the corner of his mouth pushed up. “Mornin’.”

I talked about the weather for a few minutes and he grunted and nodded here and there in response. When I got up to leave, he waved to me, then returned his gaze to the pavement.

My mind played through the encounter as I walked to work. As I cleaned tables, thoughts of him kept a smile etched on my face. Somehow knowing that Lightbulb heard me made my day.

Wednesday, I came and noticed something different about the way he was sitting. Lightbulb had moved from the middle of the bench to the end. There was now more room for me to sit next to him.

Come Friday, his hands weren’t stretched out. His eyes were focused higher, and he saw me before I reached him. He waved and let out his low “Mornin’.”

I smiled and sat. After I mentioned the weather, I saw his focus shift to a pigeon on a nearby table.

“It’s sort of funny,” I said. “My dad and I used to come here when I was little. We’d eat at those tables just so we could throw breadcrumbs to the birds.”

Lightbulb bobbed his head. “Dat’s good. Those pidgeon’s, they need to eat too, ya know.”

I smiled my agreement and then had to leave for work.

Saturday morning when I came, I was surprised to see that Lightbulb wasn’t on his bench. My eyes darted frantically, surprised

he wasn’t there and searching for where he might be. I relaxed when I spotted him sitting over at the table where we saw the pigeon the day before.

“You were right. Good place to eat, these tables,” he said as he munched a muffin.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, it’s a pretty nice spot.” I watched him eat for a minute, then broke the quiet. “You know, I never did properly introduce myself. My name’s Korla.”

“Korla? I like dat. Very pretty name.”

“Thanks. I rather like it myself.” I grinned. “Can I ask what your name is?”

He wiped his face on a napkin. “Most folks call me Eddie.”

Thus my friendship with Eddie began, and it grew quickly over the next two weeks.

I would leave home earlier and chat with him longer.

Often I brought muffins or donuts to share with Eddie as we talked about the weather and traffic. We discussed people and pets, and lions all the way in Africa. We debated stances on current events and foreign policies, and argued whether or not blue raspberry was a legitimate flavor. (I quickly discovered that Eddie was prone to get off topic.)

I would tell him of work, and he told me about what he saw while sitting on his bench. (Apparently, there was a particularly curious squirrel that he was in the process of taming. He gave me a full report of his progress each day.)

Then one morning, I decided to finally ask him about the hat and what the light bulb meant.

He tilted his head in response. “What’s it mean? It’s a bulb.

Don’t mean nothin’.”

“But why do you wear it?”

He shrugged. “I’m waitin’ fer the light to turn on.” And with that he turned his attention to his squirrel, leaving me to decipher what he meant.

Henry Miller Timothy Andrews Linocut Print 6.5” x 6.5”

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Church Feet

By Jori Edgington

Don’t Lose Hope R.J. Horton Charcoal 9” x 12”

Wash your feet.

Don’t forget your toes.

Pick a dress: Too low, no.

Too short, abort.

Too drab, But don’t be a Rahab.

Brush your hair.

Choose shoes to match.

Heels, you’ll be high enough To hear God whisper Don’t forget the blush: Soft rose flush.

Makeup, but don’t lie.

Grab a pew—they’re comfortable.

A sea of white faces, Unmoved The Shepherd passes through.

Clean feet hanging: Red nails, They painted.

But Jesus had dirty feet.

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Halloween

By Meagan Longwell Monsters roam freely With kings and queens.

Lost boys and fairies Pause to see Cartoon smiles, painted real, Masking truth beneath.

Lotus

Kat Fricault Ink 11.7� x 9.5�

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Insomnia

Girl Scout

Leaves flutter bitterly, swept by coldness into motion Ever-green limbs are greyed by night Moonlit dance of impending death – Swirling solitude, frenzied stretch to rest, Branches leaping shaking shuddering Towards each other Aspen and pine Never meet Together whisper sleek shrieking song (sleep) Rise and fall In a hopeless war with the wind.

Boys build big fires; Girls sew hats and sell cookies.

Lost, I froze that night.

By Laura Dyer

Where have the dryads gone?

Beseeching*

Katelyn Galyean Digital Photography 32

By Jori Edgington

Standing on the Edge*

By Gloria Biggers Piercing questions asked, like miners splintering stone.

The inky fathoms of oneself, a glimmer of light shining through the cracks.

Hope smells like rain to the desperate.

I shouted into the abyss with greedy expectancy; Echoes acknowledged me.

Their voices whimpered and sighed.

I could not make out the words, unheard snippets of truth.

I had hoped for fluorescent transcendence.

Drip, Drop, Drip.

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Who We Are

transparency

Una Carta Honesta

An Honest Letter

Señorita, En un mondo de pobres y mentirosos, ¿Cómo puede mirar me en los ojos?

En un mundo donde todo termina, con la excepción del mar, ¿Cómo podría creer un hombre, cuando le dice solamente su voz quiere recordar?

En un mondo de fugaz, ¿Con quién piensas de pasar su tiempo?

Porque en un mundo tan malo y tan enojado, se tiene razón para no creer ninguno En un mundo de dinero y un idioma sin amor, ¿Cómo podría verme como más que un buen señor?

En un mundo de oscuridad y sin fuego, ¿Cómo no podría ver que su belleza es una luz?

En un mondo de pobres y mentirosos, Ojalá que me mires cuando le digo: ‘No hay otra mujer con un corazón como el tuyo’.

Miss, In a world of poor men and liars, how could you look me in the eyes?

In a world where everything ends, with the exception of the sea, How could you believe a man when he tells you that he only wants to remember your voice?

In a world of brevity, with whom do you plan to spend your time?

Because in a world so bad and so angry, one is right not to believe anyone; In a world of money and a language without love, How could you see me as more than just a good guy?

In a world of obscurity and without fire, how could you not see that your beauty is a light?

In a world of poor men and liars, I hope that you look at me in my eyes when I tell you: “There is not another woman with a heart like yours.”

By Sorrell V. Brock

Translation:

Broken Together R.J. Horton Film Photography 8” x 10”

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May I Never See

By Jenny Hitt

I saw your face on the news today; Sunken eyes framed by dark smudges Glassed over, staring without seeing, Glazed by shame and anger at the world, Maybe even God. Mouth set in a grim line That ends in hollow cheeks on either side.

Face tight and revealing, Captured in a contortion of deep pain Though you are trying to look brave.

Hair disheveled as though the storms in your soul Have broken loose And swept you up in the fury.

Baggy shirt in a color that doesn’t match your eyes Hangs from your shoulders In no attempt to hide the dark, fading ink— Marks of self-expression born in passion of the night.

Harsh lighting seems to draw out Every imperfection in your physique.

It is a picture of brutal honesty— 36

What you feel on the inside Is what we see on the out…

Your crimes flash boldly beneath your name— A name that now forever bears The weight of condemnation Whenever it escapes on a breath, Too heavy to fly.

The man with the “neutral” voice Proclaims your wrongdoings, And they hang briefly in chilling air Before dropping like lead weights, Dragging you down beneath An unforgiving ocean of sorrow.

You have been labeled, accused, and condemned.

Is it true?

Yes. Some of it, maybe all of it.

Though the truth of what drove you to this place Is never merely black and white.

You have done wrong.

Punishment is yours to reap.

But may I never see you for those things alone; May I never see first a felon;

May I never look down from pompous heights For that face is really my own.

May I never see the end of a story, Destruction beyond repair, The lost cause of a hopeless soul‌ May I always see A face hairsbreadth from redemption; A face that may one day Behold Jesus by my side.

I saw your face on the news tonight And I looked into the eyes of my sister.

London’s Eye Hannah Henderson Digital Photography

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38

Love and Loss

By Dawson Petersen Am I wrong To see God in your eyes?

To feel him on your skin And love him in your thighs?

Praise God for pain and heartache.

They help the heart to grow To know the true religion: Pain with love in tow.

Love: I love you fully, With all my beating heart.

Pain for I will lose you, And then my love will start.

Lost Locks of the Heart Hannah Henderson Digital Photography

39

A White Suburban Girl Being in the Middle of a Race War*

By Melia Quinn

From the moment I had erupted into existence in the early 90’s, I was the typical homeschooled, Southern Baptist child raised in the Bible Belt of the United States.

We were republicans, we didn’t believe in the Holy Spirit, in drinking wine, or in anything miraculous at all. Every guy I knew by the time I was sixteen had speckled, toasted-coconut skin and drove a truck with nasally country music blaring out the open windows. The guns they owned were safe because their daddies were lawyers as well as members of the NRA. That’s the kind of man my parents would have given up their 401k for me to be with, but those boys never wanted anything to do with me because I didn’t look like the 2001 version of Britney Spears. To them, I was Ryan’s Asian-looking little sister and nothing more. I almost killed myself carving and sweating my body down so one of those boys wouldn’t be repulsed when (if) he gave me a side hug after youth group. However, my complexion was too dark, my hair was too curly, and my thighs were too thick for any future frat-guy-type to have asked me on a date by the time I graduated from high school. ***

Michael Brown was fatally shot by a police officer in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014, and that’s all that’s really known for sure. However, it’s the stories of eye witnesses claiming they saw him on his knees, hands up, eyes and mouth screaming, “Don’t shoot!” that powers a nation full of rage and anguish. The reality of his empty body left out on the hot asphalt for hours was not the first

40

casualty, but it was the catalyst of a new uprising against race-related police brutality, fueled by cold blood.

Social media exploded. #BlackLivesMatter countered by #AllLivesMatter, blogs written by wives of police officers, crap-quality videos of American flags being burned were released and shared, black mothers cried out for the lives of their sons, Facebook philosophers and lawyers spontaneously generated, and the occasional white businessman claimed that racism was no longer a problem because it wasn’t for him.

And then there was me. ***

Since my freshman year of college, when I began dating my first boyfriend, I’ve had to keep much of my personal life a secret from my family. I thought they would be excited for me, ecstatic even. (I wouldn’t die alone! A man thought I was pretty enough to want to hold my hand and pay for my dinner!) But his nose was strong and his skin was the color of warm toffee, and that simply would not do. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone from back home who I was dating, or that I was dating anyone at all, because my parents were scared of what their friends and our relatives would say.

The tension only continued to escalate as the years passed. Eventually, I broke up with my first boyfriend and started dating another football player. He was black as well, but his skin was darker, like the sky during a full moon, and his eyes were bright like glass when he looked down at me from underneath his dreads. He was the strongest person I had ever met despite having nothing, but that was not enough to redeem him in my parents’ eyes. The culture is so different; it’ll never work out. What will your grandpar-

ents say? You’re going to tear our family apart; is that what you want? You’ve tainted yourself; a white man will never want you now. But they didn’t understand that he was the first person ever to tell me I was beautiful, and he made me love all the parts of myself that I had been taught my entire life to hate. He became my family, and I made his struggles and pain my own. *** My older brother was finishing up his degree in Criminal Justice about the same time the riots in Baltimore were getting bad. It seemed that every day on the news there was another story about a rogue cop or about how a gang in Chicago or New York had murdered police in their squad cars. But Ryan had wanted to be a police officer for as long as I can remember, and nothing was going to deter him. I was scared for him. I was scared for my boyfriend. I knew how quickly and easily it could be either one of them splayed out on the street.

I understand the cry of the young police officer’s wife because in a way it is my own; Please just do what he asks. Please don’t hurt my brother! But even more so, I understand the cry of the black mother because, simply statistically speaking, I am more likely to feel its sting; Please just see him. He’s not dangerous, he’s human. He’s just like you. Please pause, please be careful! Please don’t kill my boyfriend!

How do I choose?

Peace586*

Brandon Seabrook Nelson Pencil 11” x 14”

Ryan was accepted into the Police Academy in Columbia, South Carolina during the fall of 2015. My mom worried herself sick over him. Every day that passed, her only son was one day closer to being out on the streets. She often lashed out at me, with the small amount of patience she regarded me and my choices all but worn down. Melia, this has to stop. Are you really going to pick him over your own brother? But it was never like that for me. I knew how my family felt about black people because that’s what I was brought up to believe: separate, but equal (but not really equal). I also knew how my boyfriend felt; I knew how much discrimination and racism he had already experienced at the hands of white people and white cops. I was caught in the middle of two worlds.

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Haikus

By Curtis Turpin

A bumbling bee,

Dragonfly*

Tries by window to be free,

Margaret Milteer Digital Photography

Only to find pane.

La Poesía, Oh what irony,

Idioma del amor,

To save the bumbling bee,

No la funciona.

death lies in its sting.

(Translation) Poetry, Language of love, It doesn’t work.

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Memoria in Aeterna † (April 17, 2010)

By Laura Dyer

Your favorite, they told me – soft yellow, lush petals, rich fragrance – Piled onto that sleek, shiny box, one for you, and one for me – again and again and again.

Repetitious words, gentle murmurs, hesitating hands – But none were as beautiful as your old, wrinkled ones had been.

The halting scratch, the Appalachian twang a thousand times more lovely than their whispered pity.

Your favorite, they told me – faded yellow, shriveled petals, dusty fragrance – Resting, lonely, old and withering, crumbling slowly.

Years will carry it gently into oblivion – a sigh here, a crack there, melting into dust – Gone, just like you.

Wrinkles in the Wake (Of Memories) Hannah Miller Digital Photography

But never forgotten. † In Eternal Remembrance 43

shadow of a doubt*

By Melia Quinn

my heart feels a lot like the moon, pitching the roaring tides with its figure full, dimples wide and deep. i too am waiting for the signal to blush blood red, to halt time and space so abruptly. my throat is a pillar, a white smokestack at daybreak. every breath, a potential earthquake; every rung of of my ribcage, my own San Andreas expanding and compressing, brown paper bag-breathing, steamrolling violent fault lines. retribution for all my sins, my palms dripped like a South Asian typhoon. i bathed in the Amazon, baptized in the Pacific. i healed the blind in your name, i laid prostrate on the floor and sang your praises, i wept and begged and prayed that you would not forsake me. i rose to heaven on a cloud. unrepentant, shook my fists at God and demanded to know: did you erase my name?

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Hold On*

By Laura Dyer

I shrug on my mom’s old brown leather jacket, still slightly too big for me after all these years, and feel the silky lining rustling softly around my arms as I work up the zipper. Stepping out the front door onto the porch, I put on the helmet, red and black and decorated with scratches and the smears of mosquitos who met with an untimely death. I skip down the porch stairs to the driveway, tugging on Dad’s worn leather gloves, black and red and patched with duct tape. The helmet’s cushiony interior crushes my hair into the nape of my neck. The snug fit makes my neck itch, but I don’t mind: in front of me, my dad is sitting on his motorcycle, its engine rumbling impatiently. I swing my leg over the back of the sleek red Honda, settle into the seat, and mirror my dad’s thumbs-up. With a quick rev of the engine, we’re riding off into the sunset.

As we weave our way through my small town’s streets, the cool evening breeze rushes around me; the scent of a fresh summer night is intoxicating. Sometimes, if I tilt my head just right, the wind coming through my helmet sings. I can just barely make out the crickets’ chorus through the roar of the engine. We reach the outskirts of town; the winding roads cut through the open land that has replaced all the houses. Dad opens up the engine a little bit more, and we lean smooth and low through the curves of the roads, every turn bringing a new rush of adrenaline. Here on the back of Dad’s bike, surging up hills and gliding down them, powering through every twist of the road, I am on my own personal rollercoaster. No restraints confine me on tonight’s ride, though. I feel as free and as wild as the summer wind that surrounds me. Only stop signs and slow drivers delay our fun, but they never hold us back for long.

As the daylight continues to fail, we begin to make our way back home. I think our ride is ending now, but instead, Dad heads toward the mall, which is surrounded by an oval-shaped connector street. He reaches back and tugs at my arm; he wants me to move

my hands from the handlebars on the back and reach around him instead. He’s done this before, usually with an accompanying “Hold on!” Once he knows I’m tightly secured, he punches the throttle. The wind’s icy claws tear at my back as we pick up speed and tilt around the bend in our make-believe racetrack, and every muscle in my body is clenched around the bike and my dad. I feel the tiniest twinge of fear along with the adrenaline pumping through me, but I don’t care. I close my eyes, and I’m flying.

Soon, too soon, we catch up to the car that had been a good distance in front of us, and the moment is over. We meander back towards the house; we’ve been gone long enough that the sky has been painted deep indigo by the time we reach home. My mom has left the light on over the garage doors for us, and it sweeps golden over the driveway pavement. We pull into the back of the garage; I hop off, Dad cuts the engine, and tonight’s four-cylinder symphony is complete. I take off the gloves, freeing my fingers to work at the helmet’s straps under my chin. I shake my hair loose as I remove the helmet, and then I slide the heavy leather jacket off my shoulders. I smell like leather and engine exhaust, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Dad is taking off his gear, too. We make eye contact, and he gives me his traditional nod and grin; I smile in return.

“Did you have fun?” he asks me unnecessarily; he knows I did.

“Always,” I reply. He nods with satisfaction, and we walk back to the house together.

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Whimsical Volcano Mariah Sloan Mixed Media 15” x 16.25”

Beauty from the Storm

Casey Mikell Digital Photography

46

Recollection* Will Paul McDonald Digital Photography

47

Fragmented Remains

By Shaun Stokes

Leaves crunch under Two-ton boxes that Wheel about on Roads made for Machines.

The heat in the air says September when November’s come upon Us. Nature crumples before man — Their machine led orchestra of Mobility and ease creates Frag-men-ted remains of the World that God gave.

Big cities with sky-scraping Trees with reflecting windows proclaim The advent of Industry — Sales reps grovel in their Well-to-do ministry, and Everyone’s buying this new Stock.

No one surmises that the Heat that rises, The ice that drops, Winter that’s not, is a By-product of Conglomerate affairs and Smoke in the air from All the desires of Man. 48

Awakening the Beast* R.J.Horton Colored Pencil on Textured Paper 12” x 18”

Shut the Window There

By Gloria Biggers

I care not for the sun and its Radiant GloryThe heat of a thousand blow dryersstrokes my neck.

A single salty drop lazily travels down my back likeFrench lovers making their eternal vows in a rowboat.

Once an active mind, now scrambled farm eggs on a blue plate.

Give me the NightAnd leave the Dayto those who choose to See.

A Night on the Town Abigail Moore

Acrylic 12� x 16�

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Overlapping Lines*

By Lowri Gowing

I squat on the Astro-Turf just outside the white lines that mark the edge of both my school’s soccer field and their new women’s lacrosse field. The soft rubber pellets that cover the field dig into my fingers as I try to keep my balance, waiting to sub in to practice.

The team is tiny, but I still have to wait. Our other goalie stands in front of the goal—the coaches and “real” lax players call it the cage. Three orange metal pipes form its top and sides, creating what I think is a six-foot square, much smaller than what I was used to in soccer. Two flat, orange bars extend backwards from the base of the square, making the triangle that holds the dense white netting in place.

The goal is surrounded by a circle about ten yards in front of where I wait. The circle, called the crease, is about three times as wide as the cage.

I briefly imagine the crease as a fold in the field. It probably wouldn’t make much difference in gameplay.

No attackers are allowed to run through it or even reach their sticks inside my bubble of protection. I used to roll my eyes at that idea, but now that I’ve played for two years, it makes sense. I have enough bruises anyway without attackers running into me.

Sydney digs a ball out of the back of the net and flings it up-field towards the center circle. She steps out of the crease and back toward the end-line, signaling my turn. I move into the goal, and the field players set up for the draw, our very own jump-ball/ kick-off hybrid.

Two girls (one in red and one in white) stand on the painted Crusader head in the center of the field. They twist towards each other so the backs of their sticks’ heads (the net part) meet, trapping a ball between them. Just outside the eighteen-meter center circle, two more red-and- white pairs lean in towards the ball. If I were one of the girls on the circle, I’d 50

probably start opposite my teammate, so we’d have both sides covered. Somehow, they always get stuck right next to each other.

On either side of the center circle runs one of two lines that divide the field lengthwise into thirds.

Only the closer of the two restraining lines holds back any players. Our team’s too small to use the whole field even when the coaches practice with us.

Someone says “tweet,” and the ball is flung into the air. Both teams fumble with it until an attack player finally exits the mob with the little yellow sphere nestled in her stick’s head. As she starts moving towards me, both teams automatically set up around the two arcs in front of me.

The base of the twelve-meter arc is an extension of the goal line, forming a semi-circle that the attack players generally stay outside of except to cut or drive to cage. The sides of the eight-meter extend from the crease and form a 45-degree angle with the base of the twelve. The defense players line up along the smaller arc, ponytails towards me, watching the ball and yelling the ball’s location just in case anyone forgets what is happening.

An attacker drives forward and is stopped, resulting in a call against the defense. The attacker cradles the ball in her stick and leans over the closest of five evenly-spaced hash marks on the arc of the eight-meter. I realize how much the people who invented Lacrosse must hate rectangles. The only rectangular lines there, other than the field itself, belong to the soccer goalie box that should have been erased when our season started. In soccer, goalkeepers can use their hands anywhere inside that box. I miss having that much room.

The shot goes in before I’m ready, so I dig the ball out of the cage and send it back up field for the draw.

After practice, I help my sweaty teammates move the cage off the turf and take the time to shake the little black beads that turf leaves everywhere out of my clothing before packing everything away. By the time I’ve put all my equipment back in the locker room, everyone else has left.

I spot a yellow sphere on the other side of the huge black net that separates the field from our locker room and take my time walking around to pick it up.

For once, I don’t have anywhere better to be. The ball is nestled in the back corner of a soccer goal kept right on the edge of the field. As I push up the netting, I duck my head instinctively to keep my ponytail from getting caught in the goal’s wide hexagons. As I let the net back down, I realize that I didn’t need to duck. My hair is braided. Ponytails don’t fit under the helmet I have to wear now as a lacrosse goalie.

I drop off the ball in our trailer and pull my hair out of its braid and into a ponytail. I savor the crunch of dry grass under my shoes as I head back to the dorm. About halfway there, I pick up the pace and start to jog just to feel the swish of a ponytail against the back of my neck.

Photo Credit: Jo Gowing 51

Nameless Poem

By Sarah Hope Carlson Lethal.

There’s no such thing as an innocent.

We shine so bright we scorch.

You cannot stare directly at the sun.

Fatal.

We scream so loud we shatter, Nothing more than shards of glass.

Toxic.

We love so hard we hate.

Everything we touch turns to gold.

There’s no such thing as an innocent.

The Mask Abigail Moore

Watercolor 22” x 24”

52

words or Word 1, 2

By Dawson Petersen

‘Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus3 Just to take him. At whose word?

Don’t you see this all is lust?

Lust is the back before the bust.

Too eager having heard That ‘tis so sweet to trust in Jesus— It runs away with us.

Jesus said a stranger thing. Have you heard?

Don’t you see this all is lust?

Don’t lay your treasure on earth where rust Destroys.4 His words the words deterred— Of ‘tis so sweet to trust in Jesus.

Paul: name the lord, ne’er turn to dust2 In John’s beginning was the Word5 Don’t you see this all is lust?

Abraham was saved by trust6 Not in the Lamb but in its shepherd.

‘Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus— But don’t you see this all is lust?

1. Matt. 6:14 2. Rom. 10:13 3. Louisa M.R. Stead 4. Matt 6:26 5. John 1:1 6. Rom. 4:3

Student in the Raw* Timothy Andrews

Linocut Print 6.75” x 4.5”

Author’s Statement: One night I found myself humming the old hymn 'Tis so Sweet to Trust in Jesus' when a question popped into my head: how do you trust someone you can neither see nor speak to? Or perhaps more accurately: What does that trust even mean, what is it in? The short answer is that it requires a medium--someone who can convey to you what it is you should be trusting (much like a prophet is expected to do for God). This poem is sort of a deconstruction of that trust and an examination of the difficulty of finding (and verifying) such a medium.” – Dawson Petersen

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Art

Loving Arms* Kristin Clardy

Digital Photography

54

Violet Night

Hannah Henderson Digital Photography

Sparks Fly

Margaret Milteer Digital Photography 55

The Order of Things

By Sarah Hope Carlson

The troubadour was old and fraying, but there wasn’t a single sad thing about him. His snowy beard was cleanly cut, and his icy eyes were soft. There was nothing careless or desperate about the way he looked. His bones were thinning and dimming, but his fingers were still brimming with tunes. When I walked by, he was plucking the twangy strings in a sweet rendition of Over the Rainbow. His smile was velvety, gentle, and free for the taking, just like his music.

A few trails over, there were more smiles to collect. There was the Hispanic boy standing victoriously on top of the huge pile of rocks above the waterfall, the wind in the blue, billowing sails of his oversized t-shirt. Only eleven years old, I thought to myself, and already King of the World.

There was the Matryoshka doll trailing the couple and their child through the park, looking quite out of place. She wore a bright, teal tunic with a richly woven apron of yellow, red, and white, and a black scarf around her head with flowers embroidered on its edges. Of course, she wasn’t actually a Russian nesting doll, but she looked like one, so large, bright, and old, surely, she held many different versions of herself inside. Then again, maybe, we all are Matryoshka dolls.

Of all the interesting, smiling people to be found in the park that Sunday afternoon, we were not among them. We met by appointment at 1 o’clock on the little red bench halfway between the stage and the pond. When I got there, it was damp and empty. I reluctantly sat down and felt the delicate fabric of my favourite skirt turn wet and cold beneath me. I sighed. Now, I had forty minutes.

I always made a point of getting to these kinds of things a half hour earlier than agreed upon. He had an equally stubborn resolve to arrive ten minutes late. It was a question of control for both of us. I felt that if I arrived early I could make friends with the meeting place. He didn’t care what the place thought of him.

He cared about the person he was meeting. To him, control was in making them wait for him, being the last to arrive and the first to depart.

Forty minutes. I sat on the soggy bench, feeling the strange contrast of the chill working its way up my torso and the sunshine beating its way down from my head, and tried to make friends with the park. How does one befriend a place? The same way one befriends a person: first, you must observe.

I’d never seen so many people here before. It took me a while to take them all in. There was a bridge just ahead chock-full of teenagers with selfie sticks and giggles, a few more-weathered faces strolling calmly along, and a man with a moleskine journal and a

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Bible. I always wonder about people with journals. It’s hard not to.

What kind of thoughts do they deem important enough to scratch into those leather-bound pages? What kind of people inspire them enough to merit being jotted down in ink?

Two little girls rushed past the Moleskine Man with gleeful urgency. Of different ages, they were dressed as twins in green, paisley-patterned play outfits with blue ribbons trailing behind them.

They looked like two little Von Trapps running around in their curtain clothes. I half expected them to burst into song should they be lucky enough to find a kind-looking novice.

Second, you must be a blessing. I slung my backpack off my shoulders and plunged head-first into it. I dug and shoved and rummaged around in it until I resurfaced with the fast-disintegrating brown paper bag I kept my bread crumbs in. With little accuracy but much good intention, I tossed the white doughy bits to the ducks toddling around the pond’s shore. You’d think an angel would have a better aim, I chuckled to myself. No such luck.

With places, these two steps are usually enough to create a pretty stable relationship. Befriending people, on the other hand, might require you to repeat them several, or several hundred, times.

My forty minutes were up. Punctual in his tardiness, he materialized on the other side of the bench with a smug smile of pride at his dramatic entrance. “You know you’re not supposed to do that,” I dutifully chastised him. I really wouldn’t have cared much except that it was against the rules. Rules could be very silly sometimes, but someone wished them to be respected, so I took care to set him right each time he broke one. “Someone might see you.”

“You know as well as I do how pointless that rule is. Hardly anyone sees angels these days. We’re practically extinct to them.”

I sighed like a mother exasperated with her mischievous child. Still, I couldn’t help but derive a little amusement from his free spirit.

“What’s the update, boss?” He asked with an impish twinkle in his hazel eyes.

That’s right. He had hazel eyes, almost-ginger hair, and the whisper of a beard ran along his jaw, perfectly human-looking.

I sighed again. This time, it was a genuine, discouraged discard of breath. “The update is not good. Josh broke up with Beth a month ago, and she’s still mourning him. Sandy’s grandmother had a stroke. David’s loan for school fell through two days before move-in day. Joanne has been to the ER several times over the past few weeks for a collapsed lung. Joseph has heart problems, but he refuses to worry about them. Sarah overcompensates for his lack of concern with fretting of her own. It seems just about everyone is over-worked, over-tired, and over-stressed.”

“That sucks. Things aren’t much better on my end. One of Katy’s friends committed suicide Sunday, and it’s starting to sound appealing to her, too. Mike’s parents are getting a divorce.

Kara spent the weekend in the hospital because she kept coughing

up blood and couldn’t keep food down...” His voice ran away from him.

It had been a long time since I’d seen him this crestfallen.

His fingers kneaded his forehead like stubborn dough, but as he took his hands away and stared at their tips, there was no fluffy white dusting of flour on them, just skin.

Silence fell hard and quick, and we could not lift it. He leaned into it, propping his elbows on his knees, dropping his face into his hands. I pulled away from it, my back searching for the support of the park bench. The Silence was too strong. It grabbed onto my heart and squeezed. It stuffed itself down my throat and choked.

I wanted to cough, but Silence wouldn’t let me. Thoughts bumped against the walls of it, trying to find a silver lining, but it only grew denser.

Silence touched everything. The children turned grey, the voices turned white, and we were black. It was as though the

world had short-circuited. We were stuck, but we were being pulled, sucked into a black hole of figures, greyed in and greyed out.

Sorrow and Silence bled into each other, and we were stained in their screaming red. The world was too heavy, too harsh.

Then, a wail cut through the humid fog of quiet. A child had fallen. Her brown braids shook angrily behind her as she ran to her mother. A periwinkle ribbon slipped from her hair and fell sweetly on the dewy grass as its little owner hurled herself into the motherly embrace. The woman cooed and whispered to her child as she wiped her tears and kissed her forehead. In a few short minutes, the crying stopped and so did the Silence.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. On the second try, I was more successful. “‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.’”

Contrarian

Timothy Andrews Digital Illustration

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Who We Want to Be

Radiance

The Perennial Sentry

By Meagan Longwell

Shadows cast onto half-melted snow banks Are shattered by rays of winter sun light.

A mighty ever-green laden in white Stands watch over snowmen, who’ve not yet shrank.

The snow men lift coal eyes as if in thanks To the one who keeps them from awful plight.

The timeless tree, standing at a great height, Looks, too, after the frozen riverbank.

And too soon comes the spring time and her sun Melting the ones which the unchanging tree Kept safely through winter. Now overcome, The mighty evergreen, bested by spring, In dissidence sits silently, undone Until winter returns with his keeping.

Three Roads Diverged

Hannah Henderson Digital Photography 59

Notre Dame at Night

Hannah Henderson Digital Photography

Dim Lights on the Thames

By Julia Klukow

I catch a bus at Westminster late on a Wednesday night.

Nudging my way to the top of the double-decker, I settle in a seat near the front window. Curled on my lap is a paper from home. All I see through the window is darkness….

Depressed teens try to take control of their lives by ending them. Mothers forget their responsibilities and neglect–yes, even murder–their children. Fathers steal from their families energy, time, and love, giving these things instead to that which shall soon turn to ash. For a rush of pleasure, men abuse women. Shoved down the throats of children who have not eaten in days are facts, statistics, and words so they can answer a test.

The broken are crushed by ridicule. The fool silences the wise man’s voice. The lazy demands the hard worker’s pay. The faithful are mocked by the faithless. The infant is dashed to pieces.

The poor are sent away. The one who stands for anything is dragged down and stoned by the many who disagree. Is this justice? Is this peace?

All I see through the window is darkness.

But in the darkness— Can one hope for more? Can one believe that the groaning world will give birth? Dare one believe humanity might become more?

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Fear, hatred, aggression, anger, lust for power–even as I close my eyes, I still see the darkness. There is no answer, none I can uncover when I ponder human nature.

Who of us will save us? Who of us can? Hearts that shatter at man’s kindest chatter—how will these hold up humanity? None does good—No, not one.

The bus I sit in has not moved. I wonder what the delay might be. Only the low hum of the motor reminds me that there is a world around me. I open my eyes and turn again to the window.

Now I see dimly as I peer through the finger-smudged glass of the bus window. A glowing circle of red reminds me where the Eye rests across the Thames. When I stood below it, the Eye stared me down, shrinking me under its massive gaze. When I stood inside one of its bubbles, I hovered above it, observing the slug-like vehicles and ant-sized humans underneath me. Now I sit in a bus across from it, and all I see are its lights. Do I see all things like this?

Through a fractured mirror, I see evil, but reflection is only possible because light illuminates the object. It does not produce light; rather, the object reflects it. I see darkness because of light.

Is what I am seeing, I wonder as I step off the bus at Shepherd’s Bush, not darkness, but Light at work? That I can see at all—is that not grace?

Being

By Marcus Sundberg Sometimes being is simply steaming.

The mountains elapse in the rear view and the fields of the Dust Bowl grow Closer and closer as the sight of the Earth’s waters blossom in midday.

The pictures that pass the window of this train drop bombs of beauty On every traveler who catches their brevity.

The essence of life does not dwell in the journey, As many place their dreams in.

Rather, it sits with the One in the boxcar Who revels in the images alongside you.

Crooked Path

Hannah Henderson Digital Photography 61

Forever Home

By Grace Watson

Majestic mountains Horizon captivating All of time stands still

Fired Up

Katelyn Galyean

Digital Photography 62

Joy Will Paul McDonald Digital Photography

Desire

By Jenny Hitt To rip my prisoned soul from fleshly frame one day; To burn all tarnished things with piercing flame one day.

We search for you, oh truth, with dark and piercing eyes.

The absence of your comfort, please explain one day.

God of heaven and earth, commune with mortal man; Give reason not to doubt—release that pain one day.

For true love’s kiss is the heart forever longing— A beautiful dream, for you to know my name one day.

A heart without a lover is a lonely one indeed.

Shoot it with the arrow—no longer lame one day.

Crow bird cries over lack of peace beneath the stars.

He mourns the troubled souls who will be slain one day.

Then leaps the heart to heights unknown, only to fall…

Hope ever choked until we go insane one day.

I am Jenny, restless pilgrim of Earth’s wastelands —Welcome home—oh to hear the sweet refrain one day.

63

Orange Bloom

Rebecca Pack

Big Cat

Kat Fricault

Ink and Marker 11.7” x 9.7”

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Batik 11” x 14”

Sunny Cruise Kylie Rock Batik 24” x 18”

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A Riddle

I am a poet. My earliest teenage memories are of afternoons, evenings, and nights spent barricaded

By Melia Quinn with a bruised composition notebook spread open and a #2 Ticonderoga pencil in my hand. In those early

I am a wanderer. days, everything I wrote was centered around a damaged

I’ve called several other states and countries and damsel and a proud prince falling in love with her and continents my home. During the summer, when I’m taking her away to a kingdom by the ocean. I was that living with my parents for three months in a row, the damsel until college, when I realized that no man was soles of my feet itch from standing in one spot for too going to save me. long. For proof, I’ve emptied my savings account more Now, I write love sonnets about myself because times than I can count to fund road trips to New York, yes, I am as lovely as any summer’s day. My existence Missouri, Maine, California, and Florida. Even at night, as a woman is a metaphor as deep as creation itself, and sometimes my bones groan in restlessness until I turn the I live unapologetically. Though my words are beautiful key, my heart beating like the roar of an engine, running and pregnant with interior rhymes, they are not the rent steady.

I pay to exist as a woman. I simply am.

The Pacific Ocean knows me best; it’s held my Who am I? body tight in its grip. Hawaii and California made me their own. I went as a Southern Gothic manifested and came back home with hibiscus in my hair, shells around my neck, and a love song for the ages on my lips. I am now more fond of guava and kombucha than I could ever be of a Low-country boil, laid out on a picnic table covered in newspaper.

I am an artist. I once spent an entire summer and the whole next semester with dried phthalo blue paint on my forearms and graphite ingrained in my nail beds. For hours, I sat hunched over a makeshift easel, sketching the outline of a bottle still life and blending in the white with the greys to make shadows and reflections.

Rarely a day goes by when I don’t find myself wishing my hands could capture colors and form the way my eyes see all of the light bending down from Heaven in ways I could never recreate, making my ache for a new, perfected body all the more potent.

I was told once that artists are the closest humans can get to being God. We create beauty out of ashes, David out of the dust of the Earth. And as an artist, I get to see and understand an aspect of the Creator’s heart that not everyone else can experience. I understand how infuriating it can feel to have the pot critiquing the potter.

Mariah Sloan

Leaves of Green Ceramic

66

To Write What I Know

By Lowri Gowing

Mimosa Pudica A Self Portrait Sarah Vann Watercolor 8” x 5”

Why can’t I write About what I know?

About trying too hard or moving too slow?

About missing the things you throw in my face, Or testing your patience, mercy, and grace?

Shouldn’t I write on rejecting your gifts?

Sending them back or throwing those fits That I throw When I don’t get my way?

I ask you These things, but I know what you’d say.

You’d say, “Daughter, I know You know more than just that.

You know how to smile, to write, even sing.

I made you an angel, just minus the wings.

So smile, chin up, lift your pen, and laugh.”

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Ode to Fate*

By Josiah E. Wright

Do not quit your trail through opaque time.

Spinning webs like underfed dark spiders, Jumping in time and space, seeing red stars, wider Than hope or corrupted dreams.

To see you not is a thunderous crime

For the touch of your breath

Is all.

Your guiding hand is on all; a young man of wealth And his midnight dalliance of 1942 Birthed life from his incredulity that few Need love, but so it seems That one life is more than father’s filth,

And your gentle hands

Prevent his self-inflicted fall.

Twenty years you traced that life through sands Of time—Monroe, King Jr., and Kennedy.

All of them his eyes alight could see As well as one small girl whose father, Red-eyed, he shot to kill then died for righteous reprimand.

But your eyes witnessed death

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To protect a girl you called.

And she, I believe, saved many lives from death, Ingeniously mixing a vial of mortal cure (Or some type of mortal sickness to be sure).

Flying to the Savannah, Saudi, South America, Giving away life, without regard to mortal wrath

She wilted under your watchful care

To answer death’s call.

You killed them didn’t you, oh benevolence, In your wicked tumble through galaxies Forgetting the bravest of casualties, A boy, a girl, who saved a million souls Had you believe they died for some relevance;

But I don’t always know, guiding light.

Is it me or just the fall?

Splinters

Julia Klukow Digital Photography

No one can see your guidance as transient.

With one touch on Moses you guarantee A modern nation’s unfortunate proclivity For death and war, madness withal.

But perhaps for a future of love so passionate

Your spinning webs will be seen

As death’s downfall.

Unrepentant fate, you are not bound.

Time nor space shackle your hands, But through past years and future lands I think I see twine of golden light And hear an echo of eternal sound

Your words and grasp speaking, seeing

Guiding all.

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Take-Off*

Kristin Clardy Digital Photography

Shameless Bamboo Snob Rachel Remington Digital Photography 70

Robin Hood

Estelle Erdmann Colored Pencil 11.7” x 16.5”

Jim Hawkins* Estelle Erdmann Colored Pencil 11.7” x 16.5”

71

My Favorite Place

By Nisa Navarro

My favorite childhood memories were from a three-day journey with my mom, dad, and two sisters. This journey would take me to one of my favorite places on the side of a mountain deep in the heart of Mexico, my grandmother’s ranch.

The ranch was quite alive during the beautiful mornings.

Awakened by the crowing of the evil rooster before the sun rose, I quickly dressed, then walked outside. My grandmother would be up before the rooster crowed and greeted me, “Buenos Dias mi linda niña.”

The crisp, cool air nipped at my face and arms, but it was welcomed after the previous scorching day. “Hace frio, hace frio, mi niña,” she would repeat until I put on the sweater she held in her hands. The colorful bees began their long workday before the sun rose as they buzzed around the ranch house. The sun broke across the sand-covered mountains, and the black sky melted into airbrushed colors of purple, orange, and red. As the birds took flight, I felt as if I could take flight myself. The shrills and “clip clop” of the few hundred horses galloping wild and free echoed across the mountains.

The ranch house wasn’t much, but it was home. It stood about ten feet high, poorly made of cement, its two small rooms without electricity and running water. I stayed in one of the rooms, with my air mattress on the floor. Rays of warm sunlight shone through the little holes in the walls, and the calls of the donkey pierced the silent room. In the holes, to my horror, peered many pairs of black eyes, numerous fuzzy legs, and sharp, poisonous fangs waiting to attack. The door, made out of some kind of metal, was a sickly blood color, and there were four square cut outs that resembled a glassless window. Creatures flew through those holes in the door and dive bombed any innocent person within sight.

The tree branches that formed a tent with a tarp as a roof turned out to be the outdoor kitchen, which did not have a door.

The kitchen walls were adorned with homemade shelves littered with brightly colored bowls, plates, and utensils. A cement slab shaped into an open rectangle was the oven, and a black, flat pan that sat over the top opening served as a stove. The scent of wood burning and the crackling of the flames always signaled that food was cooking. One of my favorite meals was pig meat; the exotic spices danced across my tongue, and the meat melted in my mouth.

The peaceful night signaled the end of a long day for some, while it marked the beginning for others. The sun faded

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into the mountains, and the sky melted from orange and red to a deep midnight blue. The stars twinkled and shone brightly; I was so high up on the mountain that it seemed if I reached out, I could grab a beautiful star. The pale, full moon filled the sky and graced the ground with its brilliant rays of clear light. On cloudy nights, when the moon was covered, the mountain was completely pitch black, and I couldn’t see the evil rooster in front of me if I tried. The cows on the opposite side of the mountain all huddled together and settled in for the night. The green, blue, and white-hued scorpions crawled across the sandy floors while the rattlers slithered into their warm dens. The hens called for their little ones and they all shuffled into the coop for protection from the evil things that went bump in the night. As the eerie but beautiful song of a coyote pierced through the calm night, his song, echoed by five other coyotes not too far from the ranch, lulled me to sleep.

My grandmother’s ranch crackled with life that was constantly in motion, and never dull. In this place, I felt the closeness of God and experienced true, unconditional love.

Free (Please See Fine Print)

By Jori Edgington

In love with “free.” (Though vegetarian), I’ll eat free Chick-fil-A. Hotels are great.

Synonym for free? Complimentary Small bottles of shampoo—Explode. All eight.

Old pennies in the fountain, sparkling.

My heart cries out for orphaned wish. No doubt: I rescue (broken dreams). Disheartening, “That’s mine!” boy pleas – It’s free. Not worth the pout.

If not a modern feminist rely On hungered men too eager (feed your hearty appetite). Free food with a good guy.

Indeed is saving where you can so—smart.

Hand raised, the preacher tells me heaven’s free; He didn’t say (my life it’d cost) to see.

The Mad Hatter Estelle Erdmann Colored Pencil 11.7” x 16.5”

Denise* Kylie Rock

Oil on Wood 24”x18” 73

Hope in the Darkness Heather Anne Edwards Digital Photography

74

Catching Notice

Sugar-Free

My eyes peek out the window and turn away, Flicking back a moment later.

Inside the chilly ice cream chest, I wonder what the heat feels as I’ve lived in here for all my life.

I peek out through the sliding glass:

By Karley Conklin

A speck of white in the rain catches my gaze.

There another one. And another.

Lighter, softer flecks float down between the racing droplets.

In the air, the difference between the snow and the rain is hard to spot, Unless you watch.

The flurries fill me with a burst of excitement, Though why should they?

The snow is not so different from the rain.

Both have the same start, made of the same substance, built in the same cloud.

Both have the same end, swallowed by the ground, soaking into the same puddles.

The snow lands as nothing more than added dampness.

By Jori Edgington

A man in early forties stares.

He leans in close, his spit falls out, His stomach sticks out past his feet.

The scoop he grabs and gives a shout, “Moose tracks!” (replaced three times today).

One scoop plop, two scoops slop, three scoops, and shlop. Up next: a girl with pigtails. “Cotton candy!” Resolute, She scoops, Mom stares, she licks and cries, “It’s gross!” The trash now overflows.

“Oh honey, that one’s sugar-free,” She points at me, now indigo.

Poor me, I live beside moose tracks (replaced three times today). “Honey!”

Diabetic lady smiles, “It’s cotton candy, sugar-free!”

But still the snow is different, for that brief moment in the air.

For that journey from start to finish, It traveled differently, peaceful and soft, And that’s what caught my notice.

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I Can, I Will, I Am

By Kendra Freeman

I’ve never actually told him this, but I saw the pain in his eyes the first time they locked with mine as I walked up to the park bench that Monday afternoon.

I’m a perceptive person, sure; but this was different.

I’d never felt so utterly bound and connected to a person. Even the awkward laughs over a first meeting felt somehow tied to a deeper something that neither of us could explain.

We chatted on for close to two hours, ending the meeting only because I had responsibilities awaiting me.

He shot me that enchanting sideways smile, hoisted my backpack on his shoulder, and away we went. Both of us forever changed. From social media message bubble to flesh and blood within a twinkling of an eye.

But I still saw it, still heard it. Pain never really goes away. . .

But perhaps I can ease it.

Watching the mist cascade to the ground from the car after indulging in Japanese food seemed like the best way to end a third date — first, if you don’t count the lunch dates. I could barely breathe as he looked at me like I’d never been looked at before in my life.

He’s it. It’s over.

But why in the world did I feel that way? I’d been on dates before, even had a good time. Something always happened to make a second date not even worth a shot. What changed?

I’d heard his stories, seen the way he tried to veil the depth of his wounds from me. The people from his past had picked off all the good as if it were dead flesh and they the vultures. Once discovering the bad, however, they darted away, never to return.

I ached to reach out and touch him. Not a physical touch, no, but one that would reach his heart and assure him that I’m here to stay.

“I barely know you, but my life already revolves around you,” were the words singing in my heart.

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The sounds coming from the radio seemed to disappear along with all the air in the car as he leaned in ever so slowly. His lips were softer than anything I had ever expected, and so warm. My heart stuttered, stammered. I closed my eyes and let myself relish the moment.

“It’s a hypothesis,” I had teased just moments before. “And every good hypothesis must be testable and repeatable.” Turns out that kiss was both of those things.

As I leaned back, my eyes met his. I saw the pain still, yes. But I also saw the hope.

I will take all the pain away . . . someday.

He buried his face in my stomach after the bout of anger flung out of him in the form of a punch to the car seat. I widened my eyes, not in fear (he would never hurt me in a million years), but from feeling the pain radiating off him and seeping into my bones.

He’d always relegated that pain to a heart that was too big, too open for its own good. It stared out of his eyes like a prisoner confined to solitary.

But it escaped this night, pouring out in a rush that couldn’t quite be contained. My own heart, stone cold underneath my chest from years of trying not to care, suddenly burst to life and reached out to catch the invisible droplets raining from him.

I felt it then. I experienced it in a way that I hadn’t from simply looking at his eyes, hearing it in his voice as he told his stories. Now my soul had taken hold of it and would never let it go.

How had he handled this all on his own?

It was too much for one person to bear. I staggered underneath the weight of just a portion of it.

The tears streamed down my own face as I realized just how great a treasure I had found. This strong man, with his arms around my waist and face buried in my skin, had never revealed this much of his vulnerability. And I suddenly understood why . . .

Resilience. A word that so many shrug off, a quality that so many forget to value. He has that in spades.

Every single day, he plods on, continuing on this path with a burden weighing on his shoulders so heavy that I flinch to think about it. And he does so unshrinkingly, unfailingly. But now, I share his load.

Now, I can truly say “I love you.” Every piece, every

shard, every fragment He is misunderstood, but not – not ever – by me. People laugh him off as easily as an amusing joke.

Why? How can they see the pain, see the hurt, and think him something sinister?

What if only I can see the pain? Do I possess some secret insight into a wounded soul?

Can only I see the resilience that makes this man so wonderful?

Can only I bear this burden with him, for him?

I can. I will.

I am.

Heart of Stone (Ezekiel 36:26) Abigail Moore Watercolor

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Head in the Clouds

By Karley Conklin

Dreams float with dandelion fuzz, Caught in the breeze And carried to the clouds To rest far from reach.

She leaps, heels lifting; Roots resisting, Her heart Remains grounded.

Thoughts seek stars, and Though plans sprout upward, Her soul’s planted in the soil.

Balanced, Stretching skyward with boughs bent, But feet firmly fixed, She sways in the summer breeze; Wishing for tomorrow, Watching for today, Waiting for the time To grow.

Scaling the Eiffel

Hannah Henderson Digital Photography

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Peace*

By Jenny Hitt A sparrow perched alone on a housetop— Exactly what I am tonight, Exactly what I want to be.

Far above the lights of man, My eyes fill with earth and sky.

Orion floats above me; Half the moon casts Reflections of dreamy sunlight, Crafting a quiet companion To sit by my side.

Cool November breezes brush softly Through the tree tops As a silhouetted leaf drifts by.

Directly in my view, A child of heaven plummets, Earthbound, In a marvelous fracture of light Sparking of life beyond the veil.

And for once, a peace settles over me As silent as a moonbeam touching my soul.

For once, the midnight silence Speaks louder than my sound.

And I smile as the breath of stars Whips playfully through my hair.

Jewel Canopy

Rachel Remington Digital Photography

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Things That Bring Me Joy

By Grace Watson

Clear blue sky against burnt orange bricks The smell of tea olive blossoms A good book on a crisp, autumn day An array of colorfully mismatched buttons The scent of pine and sound of laughter A catchy tune stuck in my head Innocence and joy of children The Savior who died in my stead

Golden Trees Kylie Rock Oil 11” x 9”

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The Night Adventure of Words*

By Karley Conklin

Wedged in the middle of a ragged old book in a dusty bookstore lives Flute. Though most words love their cozy spots on their warm pages, Flute is a word who prefers adventure. He loves the dark hours of night when the store closes, and the words can come out to play.

Flute fidgets as he strains to listen, waiting for the sound that signals the end of the day. As soon as the cuckoo clock strikes nine, the store will be closed and dark. He wishes for the thousandth time that he could tell when the lights go out, but it is always dark here in the book. At least until someone opens it, but then he is not allowed to move. (People, of course, can never know that words can climb off pages.)

“Ding. Cu coo. Ding. Cu coo. Ding. Cu coo.”

Immediately, Flute wiggles out of his space, bumping into the words closest to him. He rushes to the end of the page, squeezing in-between the larger words. He pokes out from the covers and checks to make sure the store is empty. Everything is quiet, so Flute scrambles off the paper, plopping onto the wood below. Finally, he’s free to explore. As Flute bounds over the edge of his shelf, sliding down the covers of the books beneath, more words emerge from the pages. Paper crinkles and flutters as the words move away, gathering into groups.

Little and’s slide out and bump together. They stretch their tails and yawn. Flute waves a quick greeting to them. Only one and notices and sleepily returns the wave. Then the and toddles back to her friends, curling up and joining the pile of napping words.

Nearby, the’s cluster and move in a herd, discussing all the words they introduce. Flute watches them a while as they babble together. The the’s seem to do nothing but gossip at first. Then, Flute notices them slowly begin to spread out, only to regroup a moment later when other words come too close. Together, they shuffle off, away from the offending presence of outsiders. After a few minutes of watching them gather and move in response to other words, Flute has an idea. He waits a moment for them to spread out ever so slightly, and then he ducks down, wiggling his e high in the air. He jumps up and gallops toward them, skidding as he circles around the flock. The the’s huddle together and begin bleating in distress.

He continues to cycle around them until all the the’s are in a tight bunch.

As he races around them a fifth time, he slides too far to the left and crashes into a thou, falling over. He looks up to see the thou glaring down at him. All around, thy’s and thine’s roll their eyes

or shake their heads in disapproval. As Flute peels himself off the floor, he bows his head in apology. The thou lets out a low “Hmpf ” and rolls his shoulders, turning back to his conversation with his peers. Several of the antique words let out sighs and a few continue to shoot glares in Flute’s general direction.

Flute slinks off, away from the judging archaic vocabulary and the still-protesting herd of the’s. He pauses at the base of the nearest shelf, deciding where to go next. With a twitch of his f, he sets off to the left.

Flute gets only a few steps before stopping abruptly, feeling a quick tug on his e. Bending back, he sees an excited a jumping up and down.

The a gestures upward, and Flute notices more a’s hiding in the shelves above, peeking out shyly at him. Flute waves to them, inviting them along, and they jump forward, tumbling from the tops of books and spaces between covers. One by one, the a’s hop down to meet him, helping lower each other down at some points.

Flute catches a few of the more timid ones, until all the a’s who want to join are on the bottom shelf. Then they set off on their expedition.

With all the a’s trailing behind him in a row, Flute runs across the wooden floor. He trots with his bouncing a’s to the end of the shelf and rounds the corner, halting suddenly.

The a’s crash into him, causing a few to roll until they land flat on the floor. Flute bounces and waves his comrades’ attention to the splendid sight before them. .

Dust bunnies are playing tag, scuttling and sliding around the feet of the chairs. Flute wiggles his e and runs forward. He skids to a stop next to a dust bunny, who immediately tags him and hops away. Flute chases him, and soon the a’s tumble into the game as well. The words chase the dust, and the dust tickles the words as they race around the store.

Soon the dust bunnies grow tired and end the game, going to hide back underneath the shelves. The a’s and Flute continue the game in front of the opening in hopes of luring the bunnies back out. They give up when the dust starts to snore softly.

The a’s gather back around Flute, whose attention is quickly drawn toward the counter. He nudges the a’s toward it, giving them a boost as they climb up the side of the table. They reach the top and wait for Flute. He climbs up last and immediately starts his exploration, and the a’s waddle behind him as he scouts out the new area.

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That is, they follow Flute until one a notices a splotch on the table. The little a wanders off to inspect it and hops in delight as he discovers that the splotch is in fact a puddle of ink. He plunks in and rolls around. When the other a’s see him, they rush over, tumbling on top of each other to play in the puddle. They splash each other with ink while Flute, unaware of what his companions are doing, makes his way to the cash register.

He steps carefully onto the closest button. “Click.” The button sinks a little beneath his weight. Flute wags his e. Bending down, he pounces onto the next button. “Click.” Sink. And the next. “Click.” Sink.

He spins and jumps as far as he can, landing splat on the biggest button. “Click. Ching!” The empty money drawer pops open. Flute glances at it and bobs up and down. The word turns to wave to his friends, ready to share his excitement when…he sees them splashing.

The leader stops for a moment surprised and lets out a low, “tsk.” He shakes the curl of his f, and hops off the register. Then he marches over to where the a’s are playing and making messes.

The excited words continue splashing and sloshing in the ink until one by one they notice Flute and freeze. One a (the a who found the puddle in the first place) doesn’t see him, and continues to play, oblivious to his leader’s approach.

The a stomps in the puddle and, “Splat,” a spray of ink hits Flute. The little a turns to see with ink dripping down the curl of Flute’s forehead. Bashfully, the little a climbs out of the ink, and scurries over to huddle with the others.

Flute sighs and waves them toward the tissue box. He jumps up and pulls an edge of a tissue to the countertop. The a’s gleefully file over, rubbing off all their acquired extra ink.

Once they are all cleaned off, Flute leads them to the cash register, where the drawer is open and welcoming. The group stands on the edge of the buttons, looking down and fidgeting excitedly, waiting for Flute to jump first. He complies quite willingly, and into the drawer they all go. Soon, they are helping each other over the dividers, exploring each section.

As they make their way through the drawer, they hear a footstep by the door. All the words freeze, listening closely. They stare at each other, and stretch in surprise as they notice how much brighter it has gotten. Could morning have come so soon?

Sure enough, they hear a key in the lock. The Caretaker is back!

The a’s scramble around desperately, poking their heads back into other sections looking for Flute. He starts boosting them out of the drawer, pulling himself up as quickly as possible and then pushing them to jump down. One a jumps and knocks into the drawer as he drops, causing it to slam shut and trap the tail of the last a.

Flute yelps and pulls the a’s back up the side of the counter.

The keys jangle again and the door rattles, still closed.

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Flute and the a’s gather around their trapped friend, pulling and yanking with all their might.

Another key is slid into the lock.

The words pull together one more time and one a falls off balance, landing on the big button. The drawer pops back open and all the words tumble to the floor. Flute straightens up quickly and gathers all the a’s together, rushing them forward to the safety of a shelf, just as the Caretaker comes in.

They travel under one shelf and scramble across the walkway to the next, making it into the shadows just as the footsteps turn toward them. Pulling together for a moment, they wait for the Caretaker to pass. Then they run forward again. Another shelf over, two more shelves down.

Flute waits for the sound of the cuckoo clock anxiously, knowing that as soon as it goes off, more people will be filling the store. He nudges the a’s to go faster, spotting their shelf finally. He runs forward then stops short, turning around and pushing the a’s back into the shadows as the Caretaker walks by again.

The human is standing right in front of their shelf, blocking their way back. Flute’s stomach sinks. The Caretaker is looking at the books. What if he picks one of their books? He’ll be missing words!

Flute glances from side to side and sees a dust bunny nearby. He gestures quickly to the desk, hoping the dust will understand. The bunny nods and hops off. A moment later, Flute hears pens clattering on the ground.

The Caretaker turns and walks away to inspect the noise and Flute ushers his troupe homeward. They rush up the shelves frantically, the a’s separating and scrambling to their proper books and pages. As the last a makes it in, Flute dives into his book, wiggling back to his spot. Just a few moments later, the Caretaker returns.

He pulls out Flute’s book and lays it on the counter, flipping it open. He pulls out his bookmark and starts to read. As he does, he squints, noticing an extra spot of black ink by one of the f ’s. He shrugs and continues reading.

Beauteous Form

Julia Klukow Digital Photography

Before Time

By Marcus Sundberg

God sounds the wind above the glowing skies below Him. Betrothing His Son, God vanishes from the mist of the morning dew.

The heat of the day wearies the fading glory of a man’s youth.

Forsaking himself, he clings to the promised ceremony to come.

Finally, the wedding bells sing together with the magnificent sights.

Beating in His chest, the heart of Jesus whispers to His Bride, “I’ve loved you since before Time.”

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Selection Process 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.

Index Andrews, Timothy – Studio Art, Freshman

Biggers, Gloria – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

Brock, Sorrell – Spanish Education, Senior

29, 53, 57

Madeira, Courtney Jerman – Secondary English Education, Senior

15, 33, 49

McDonald, Will Paul -- Studio Art, Junior

35

Carlson, Sarah Hope – Elementary Education, Sophomore

20, 21-23, 56-57

Dyer, Laura – English, Senior

54, 70

Milteer, Margaret – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

14, 42, 55

28-29, 75-78, 81-82

Moore, Abigail – Dual-Enrollment

49, 52, 77

Edgington, Jori – Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior

30, 32, 75

Edwards, Heather Anne -- Studio Art, Senior

5, 25, 74

Erdmann, Estelle – Studio Art, Senior

71, 73

Horton, R.J. – Studio Art, Sophomore Kramm, Sydney - Studio Art, Senior

Petersen, Dawson – Interdisciplinary Studies, Sophomore

6, 26, 38, 53 20, 70, 79

15, 18, 31, 64

Rock, Kylie – Studio Art, Sophomore

65, 72, 80

32, 67 50-51, 67 59, 60, 61, 78

Quinn, Melia – Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior

40-41, 44, 66

7, 11, 37, 38, 39, 55,

Hitt, Jenny – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

56

Gowing, Lowri – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

41

Navarro, Nisa – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

Remington, Rachel – Biology, Senior

Galyean, Katelyn – Mass Communications, Senior Henderson, Hannah – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

Nelson, Brandon – Alumnus

5, 76-77

Fricault, Kat -- Studio Art, Sophomore

Miller, Hannah E. – Elementary Education, Junior

46 10, 43

13, 19, 27, 32, 43, 45

Freeman, Kendra – English, Junior

47, 63

Mikell, Casey – Intercultural Studies, Freshman

Clardy, Kristin, Studio Art, Junior Conklin, Karley – Interdisciplinary Studies, Sophomore

17

Sloan, Mariah – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

46, 66

Stevens, Linnea – Studio Art, Junior

12, 23, 24, 26

Stokes, Shaun – Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior Sundberg, Marcus – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

7, 36-37, 63, 79

Turpin, Curtis – Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior

16, 30, 48

Vann, Sarah – Studio Art, Freshman

42 67

6

Watson, Grace – Music Education, Junior

62, 80

60, 69, 82

Wright, Josiah – Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior

68-69

Longwell, Meagan – English, Senior

31, 59

Klukow, Julia – English, Senior

84

48 61, 83

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.

Embedded 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.

Staff and Credits Managing Editor Kendra Freeman Art Editor Linnea Stevens Poetry Editors Courtney Jerman Madeira (Fall) Laura Dyer (Spring) Meagan Longwell (Spring) Prose Editors Karley Conklin Sara Hope Carlson

The Mountain Laurel Staff Heather Anne Edwards (Spring) Camille Hagerman (Fall) R. J. Horton Jordan Hurley Julia Klukow Will Paul McDonald Kelsey Shannon (Spring) Sarah Vann Brittany Wright (Fall)

Faculty Advisers Dr. Deborah DeCiantis (Literature) Hayley Douglas De Gonzรกlez (Art) Faculty/Professional Consultants Dr. Greg Bruce Dr. Cheryl Collier Dr. Becky Thompson Mr. Burl Walker (Spanish Translation/Review) Photography Credit (pg. 51): Jo Gowing

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Judge Biographies Literature Poetry April Phillips Boone holds the MA in English (Renaissance Literature) from Western Carolina University and the PhD in British Literature from The University of Tennessee at Knoxville. She taught writing and literature for 18 years at four different universities, most recently as Assistant Professor of English at North Greenville University.

Boone has loved poetry for as long as she can remember, and is now making the writing of it a full-time pursuit.

She currently has several poems under consideration by professional journals, and is at work on her first book-length collection of poems called Jocassee: The Face of the Waters. These poems, set at Lake Jocassee in Upstate, SC, address a range of interrelated topics such as eco-psychology, water, kayaking, nature, birds, animals, beauty, the creation of Lake Jocassee, Jocassee Valley prior to the lake, Cherokee legend, the Creation, and the Creator’s ongoing active presence in the world.

Prose Tim Hendrix is a former Instructor of English, Linguistics, and Interdisciplinary Studies at NGU, where he additionally served as Writing Center Director and co-adviser to The Mountain Laurel. He now lives and teaches in Muscat, Oman.

Art Traditional Media Douglas Gray is a Professor of Art at Francis Marion University in Florence, South Carolina, teaching Ceramics, Ceramics Sculpture, and Three-Dimensional Design. Previously, he taught at Sul Ross State University in Texas. He holds degrees from the University of North Texas and the University of Louisville.

Doug exhibits both regionally and nationally. His work has appeared in Pottery Making Illustrated, Ceramics Monthly, Clay Times, Southern Living, and the Lark Books’ 500 Series. Originally trained in functional pottery, his work has evolved to include sculptural and architectural forms. His current work utilizes a variety of traditional and experimental processes. He is particularly interested in color and surface, as developed on glazed and unglazed ceramic works; he has developed various image transfer techniques on clay, a reflection of his interest in photography, printmaking, and story telling.

Doug regularly shares his creative process through demonstrations, workshops, and publications. He has coordinated several national, regional and local art exhibitions. He served as Vice President of the Board of Directors for the American Ceramic Society’s Potters Council, has served with the Florence regional Arts Alliance, and on various arts-related Downtown Development endeavors.

Photography Jessica Christine Owen is an artist and educator whose work explores the evolution and standards of Western beauty and the representation of identity. She received her BFA in Photography and BA in Art History from New Mexico State University in 2010. In 2014, she completed her MFA in Photography at the University of South Carolina. She currently lives and works in Boone, NC, where she is an instructor at Appalachian State University.

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

Poetry 1st: “Ode to Fate” by Josiah E. Wright

Art – Photography

2nd: “shadow of a doubt” by Melia Quinn

1st: Recollection by Will Paul McDonald

3rd: “Standing on the Edge” by Gloria Biggers

2nd: Never Let Me Go by Heather Anne Edwards

Honorable Mentions:

3rd: Take-Off by Kristin Clardy

“Stepmother” by Laura Dyer

Honorable Mentions:

“Peace” by Jenny Hitt

Beseeching by Katelyn Galyean

“Insomnia” by Laura Dyer

Dragonfly by Margaret Milteer Loving Arms by Kristin Clardy

Fiction 1st: “The Night Adventure of Words” by Karley Conklin

Art – Traditional Media

2nd: “George and the Paper Napkins” by Sarah Hope

1st: Jim Hawkins by Estelle Erdmann

Carlson 3rd: “Just a Face” by Karley Conklin

2nd: Awakening the Beast by R.J. Horton 3rd: Student in the Raw by Timothy Andrews Honorable Mentions:

Nonfiction

Denise by Kylie Rock

1st: “Hold On” by Laura Dyer

Peace586 by Brandon Seabrook Nelson (Alumnus)

2nd: “Overlapping Lines” by Lowri Gowing

Organic-Non-Organic by Heather Anne Edwards

3rd: “A White Suburban Girl Being in the Middle of a Race War” by Melia Quinn

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Baylor Graduate School C O N G R AT U L AT E S

Peter Coogan

BCU Scholar and North Greenville Graduate

I am grateful for my time at North Greenville. My professors, in addition to teaching classes and answering questions about the course material, took significant time to give me Biblically based spiritual guidance both inside and outside the classroom. NGU fostered a collaborative learning environment where working on mathematics and growing in life were a unified team sport. My teachers and classmates helped North Greenville to be a place ‘Where Christ Makes the Difference.’ I aim to make a difference for Christ wherever I am.

The Baptist College and University (BCU) Scholars program at Baylor University is designed to identify and recruit top graduates from IABCU institutions for doctoral study in 22 academic disciplines. By partnering with Baptist institutions, Baylor hopes to help prepare the next generation of scholars for Baptist universities. Baylor thanks North Greenville University and Interim President Randall Pannell for their continued support.

Learn more about BCU Scholars at baylor.edu/graduate/bcu

Baylor University admits students of any race, color, national and ethnic origin, sex, age, disability, or veteran status.

The Mountain Laurel 2017 Sponsors College of Fine Arts, Art Department, North Greenville University College of Humanities, English Department, North Greenville University College of Communication, Mass Communication Department, North Greenville University (TV Vision 48, WNGR Radio 95.5 The Vibe, The Vision) Krispy Kreme Doughnuts

300 North Pleasantburg Dr. Greenville, SC 29607, 864-232-8250

Moe’s Southwest Grill

6005 A Wade Hampton Blvd.

Taylors, SC 29687, 864-848-2885 (Steven D. Overman, Owner)

Baylor University Graduate School

Waco, Texas 76798

Colophon Fonts: Amethyst 45 pt, 60 pt, 80 pt; Hesster Mofet 24 pt, 36 pt; Adobe Garamond Pro 8 pt, 10 pt, 12 pt, 14 pt Pages: 8.5 by 8.5 88 pages: 56 4/4 80# matte, 32 1/1 80# matte Cover Stock: 100# Sterling ultra matte Binding: Perfect Bind and trim Cover: 4/4 + flood matte varnish overlay Cover art: Digital Design by Will Paul McDonald Adobe Illustrator CS5.5, Adobe Photoshop CS5.5 Divider Page Art: Shadows - Digital Design by Will Paul McDonald and Linnea Stevens Transparency - Digital Design by Will Paul McDonald and Linnea Stevens

Radiance - Digital Design by Will Paul McDonald and Linnea Stevens Printing: Jostens Commercial Printing, Clarksville, TN Copyright 2017 by North Greenville University All rights reserved by the individual authors and artists North Greenville University is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges to award bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral degrees. Contact the Commission on Colleges at 1866 Southern Lane, Decatur, Georgia 30033-4097, or call 404-6794500 for questions about the accreditation of North Greenville University.