The Mountain Laurel, Volume 54, Voices

Our world is made of music, and every life is its own song. Voices blend in chaotic mixtures, noises clashing one against the other, sounds racing to be heard, and vibrations interspersing until they are all but lost in the fray. But if you listen closely, you can distinguish the different songs.

Search through all the pauses, and you’ll find the voices Silenced; the tongues which are suppressed and ignored, quieted by inner fears, or pushed aside by louder songs.

Listen for the percussion, standing in the background, the steady Spoken words which set the beat of life. You’ll find in them the common truths we all forget, the daily rhythms and constant pulse which keep our song moving forward.

Pay attention to the brass, the horns sounding and the cymbals crashing. Shouted messages reverberate through the air. These are the voices crying out, bursting forth, and raising questions others dare not ask. In these, you’ll know you are not alone in your battles.

Hear the choirs and the tambourines, the sound of celebration Sung in the streets. These voices hold joy and triumph; they are the heralds of future hope. In their words, you will find reminders of life’s beauty, of the sun which lingers behind each cloud.

The air surrounding us is heavy with the notes of others’ songs, and so each of us has a choice.

Do we tune out the buzzing mixture of sounds that weighs upon our ears? Or do we quiet ourselves, just for a moment, to hear the music in the Voices?

Karley Conklin, Managing Editor Sarah Hope Carlson, Prose Editor Josiah Wright, Poetry Editor Sarah Vann, Art Editor

The Mountain Laurel

North Greenville University 2018 P.O. Box 1892 7801 N. Tigerville Rd. Tigerville, SC 29688 (864) 977-7000 Enrollment: 2567 www.ngu.edu ngumountainlaurel.wordpress.com

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Table of Contents

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Art The Path Less Traveled, Tori Cantrell Introspection, Jordan Hurley Coil Pot, Emilie Gilbert *Ship on the Sea, Tori Cantrell Indecision, Jordan Hurley Taxi, Caleb Pepper Be Still and Know, Karley Conklin Stay Gold, Justin Keck

6-7 9 10 11 12 14 16 17

Non-Fiction At a Wedding, of All Places, Sarah Hope Carlson *Surface Treader, Karley Conklin

8-9 15

Poetry Loss of a Friend, Celia Prine *The Swan, Micah Purvis It Was a Grave, Michael Thomas *Faces Golden, Davis Lisk Lamentations, Dante Wilcox The Silent Killing, Christian Bullard An Idea, Megan Byler Mother Nature, Christian Bullard

6 7 10 11 13 14 16 17

Art *Circular Contemplation, Kristen Webb Edited Perfection, Kristen Webb Tools of Communication, Jordan Hurley Caged Freedom, Kristen Webb *An Inheritance, Jordan Hurley Symphony of Stars, Linnea Stevens Hiding Place, Tori Cantrell *Bound, Jordan Hurley Sail Away, Tori Cantrell Bohemian Sunrise, Joseph Bulsa *Milky Way Over Clemson, Justin Keck

20 21 23 24 26 28 30 33 35 36 37

Fiction *The Point, Nathan Lowe *Voices in Your Head, Dawn Carvajal *Kingdom of Discarded Words, Karley Conklin

22 29-30 34-35

Non-Fiction The One Hour Friendship, Jori Edgington *Daycare Bomb Disposal, Sarah Hope Carlson

25-26 31-32

Poetry Paranoia, Celia Prine Please, Do Not Mind My White Friends,

Dante Wilcox *The Roots Remember, Shaun Stokes An Elegy for Sleep, Caleb Willingham *Waiting by the Shore to Say Hello,

Josiah Wright Concerning Small-town Earth, Shaun Stokes What If, Celia Prine

21 24 27 28 33 36 37

sung

Art Untitled, Jordan Hurley *One of Many Soldiers, Justin Keck Ethereal Haze, Sarah Vann Fight the Good Fight, Tori Cantrell The Sun and the Son, Justin Keck *All the Gear, All the Time, Jordan Hurley *Old Friends, Caleb Pepper *Sight, Will Paul McDonald Evelyn, Abigail Moore Nesting Bowls, John Bell Delicate, Will Paul McDonald

40 42-43 49 50-51 52 53 55 56-57 60 61 61

Fiction *When the Dead Linger, Josue Lopez About a Ring, Josh Springs President for a Day or So, Josue Lopez

44-48 54-55 58-60

Poetry For the Wicked, Christina Bullard We Choose to be Blind, Walker Pruitt One Last Question, Davis Lisk Sea of Red, Christian Bullard Love’s Electrocution, Christian Bullard

40 41 51 52 57

Art *Coming through the Fog, Tori Cantrell Island of Thought, Karley Conklin *All Fenced In, Justin Keck *Nesting Bowls, Emilie Gilbert Ruins and Reading Nooks, Karley Conklin Pink Bowl with Daisies, Linnea Stevens Liberty, Tori Cantrell Black Balsam Sunset, Justin Keck Nesting Bowls, Audrey Salaita Robin’s Nest, Linnea Stevens Faces of Haiti, Madison Morehead

64 65 66 68 69 73 74-75 76-77 78 81 82

Fiction Island View Blue, Hannah Miller *Synesthetic Love Letters, Sarah Hope Carlson

65 70-73

Non-Fiction Supper at 409 Blacks Drive, Joseph Bulsa *Promises to Keep, Sarah Hope Carlson

67-68 79-81

Poetry The Song of the Sea, Angelina Branche The Boy in the Clouds, Angelina Branche Someday, Ariana Strickland Naming, Dante Wilcox Last Days, Karley Conklin My Voice, Shaun Stokes

64 66 69 76 78 83

Miscellaneous Index Staff and Credits Judges’ Biographies Judging Results Mission Statement/Selection Process

84 85 86 87 88

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by Celia Prine Oceans between what is and what was. No words, no laughter, no shared thoughts. Only the void of crippling silence where you once brought me to life

by Tori Cantrell Drawing 18� x 24�

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The Swan* by Micah Purvis

Still early on my family ship Stopped upon a half-frozen lake With an anchor built from dying oak All the swans gathered near But to me only one came close The two of us would swim alone Dancing innocents on a silver stage Then she flew like a homesick star And as I watched the rest took flight Future memories come to life I never saw the Holy Man Who was hiding in the trees But I did hear the shot That went through my friend An angel unfallen stripped her wings Listening in vain as she tried To sing softly and far away A silent song for a silent heart And once finished she took a bow Flying still, but backwards now

With tear-stained eyes I finally left Tormenting thoughts pushed me on And in my hurry, I must have missed My clueless swan alive and safe Her friend now leaving without a trace Well looking back, I realize now Two swans often look the same But as for me, my heart still breaks For one swan is all I’ve seen

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,

by Sarah Hope Carlson

A wedding gathers a strange crowd of people, I think to myself as I peer over the candle centerpiece at my table-mates. We’re quite the assortment. We’ve got the Harvard girl, the small Christian college education major, the Michigan State student, the mid-20’s library employee, and Lauryn, whom none of us have seen in at least four years. Well into her fifties and somehow still blonde, Lauryn used to run an outreach program for Somali refugee children that all of us were part of in our earlier years.

Conversation waxes and wanes as we reminisce over our past and try to find common ground in our present.

Lauryn puts her two cents in, “Do you remember the suicide in the back forty?”

My throat tightens. At a wedding, of all places.

I haven’t thought about this in a long time and not by accident. ***

Once again, it was way too early to be going to church, yet there I was, sitting in the backseat of my grandparents’ new car. Perks of being the granddaughter of the church counselor. Leaning my head against the cool, foggy car window, my mind tried to process the news that Grandma had found in her email and shared with Grandpa and me that morning.

A man had shot his dog and himself in the back

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forty of our church the night before. There were police cars and yellow tape, but we weren’t supposed to talk about it. We weren’t supposed to talk about the fact that some stranger went out into our woods and took his own life hours before the crowd rolled in for the first service. ***

A few months passed, and we still didn’t talk about it. The tape, the cars, and the panic disappeared too quickly and too easily, and we returned to our woods.

It was a Sunday or maybe a Wednesday, around Thanksgiving, and a group of us were trekking through the little wilderness. Wading through tall grass that scratched our knees, side-stepping stones with our bare, muddy feet, we worked our way along well-worn and well-loved paths to the little campsite at the heart of the back forty.

“Is this another trail? Where does this one go?”

Connor announced more than asked, as he plunged down the hill on the little, unknown path. Calvin and Josiah continued on, but I ran down the hill after Connor.

The trees were thin and bare at that time of year.

For a while, we could see through them to familiar landmarks—the campsite, the pavilion, the tire swing; but then, we were on our own. A crick in the path led us to a big, flat rock with a little cross painted onto it in red.

Is this where it happened? My mind begged.

Calvin and Josiah spied us through the skeleton trees and performed their best imitations of peacock calls to get our attention. Walking back together after a bit of tomfoolery, we crested the mossy hill with the wooden bench—is this where it happened?—and slipped down its slope to the rope swing—is this where it happened?

Calvin led the way back to the pavilion—is this where it happened?—and from there, we came round the long

way, going past the creaky, rusty merry-go-round—is this where it happened? ***

The newlyweds sit at the head table, looking bright and sparkly like the floating candles in front of me. Lauryn continues to regale us with details we never asked for. The man was a Christian, a neighbor to the church, but he’d fallen on hard times financially. He had always loved our back forty. He often took his dog into the woods so he could walk and think, and that’s exactly what happened that Saturday. He must’ve been there for a while, Lauryn tells us, because Les Johnson and one of his small groups came across them. Les said hi to the man, and they had a little chat while a dozen small hands crowded round to pet his dog. Still, it didn’t make a difference. Lauryn goes on to tell us more about the man, his life, his family, but I don’t want to hear it anymore.

The next day, as I fly south once more, I pull out my journal. The cover is brown rippled cardboard and always makes me think of a coffee cup sleeve. Opening it to the first available page, I write, “to the man who ended his life in my favourite spot.” Shifting my weight, I curl my body protectively around the words. Not everyone will like what I need to say.

The word “why” shows up 13 times in the letter; I ask all the questions we weren’t supposed to years ago.

“Why would you take your own life?” “Why did you shoot your dog?” and “Why didn’t you tell the small group leader who passed by you that afternoon?” I round it off with what matters most to me.

“Why in my spot? Why in my woods? Why did you take my one safe place, my home, and turn it into a graveyard? How could you? The more I think of you, the more I am sure suicide is selfish.

“You didn’t bleach yourself from this earth; you forever stained my woods in red.”

by Jordan Hurley Film Photography 8” x 10” 11

by Michael Thomas A thousand kingdoms write anarchy in their wills.

Ants feed on the dust That once composed a thousand thrills.

Remember then, you once thought it just Love written into lust On those sacred towers Which sell their bodies to uncertain futures.

The house of our lives has no bolted chamber That does not hear the whisper Of its flaws. I am A mortal footprint on an immortal frame.

Beyond and behind here, a thousand Were nearly the same. If These steps shall fade, then So too shall my pain.

This place where your love is laid You would not recognize; it was a grave Whose grief has worn away. Now Only the flowers remain.

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by Emilie Gilbert Ceramic 12� x 10�

Faces Golden*

by Davis Lisk

The blasted heath spreads forth Out across the dismal wastes And all about the rocks and weeds Sits shrine on shrine, fane on fane.

The color’d smoke of incense Smelling sweet and ever strange An off’ring to the earth and sky To gold and bronze, stone and wood.

Inside the temples lie Faces golden, smiling faint That stand as still as stone O’erlaid with blooms, flow’r on flow’r.

The people pray in chants Humming always as they sway And lifting voices high They sing their song, raise their hymn As faces golden smile in silence And never speak a word.

by Tori Cantrell Linocut Print 9” x 12”

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by Jordan Hurley Film Photography 8” x 10”

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by Dante Wilcox How lonely sits the city Among graves and embittered goats

How lonely sits the city In the midst of blackened hill

Here crags bring forth harsh grasses The only sound – lingered notes

Where scramble starving rodents Whose stomachs never fill

Spoken by old priests, dry monks There’s no bread, no ready oats

Farmers have abandoned Their cattle and their till

How lonely sits the city With Latin writ in its halls

How lonely sits the city Abandoned by its king

“These walls shall last forever No matter which misfortune calls”

Who fashions little heavens From his silver offering

But rooftops keep collapsing Where priests were singing in their stalls

Dear God redeem this city Perfect its reckoning

How lonely sits the city Destroyed by pride of wealth The hospitals are empty Since there’s no more need for health The only things that creep You’ll never find for all their stealth

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by Christian Bullard Nightmares whisk away with cigarette smoke, arrested by the city smog and eventually trapped in the ozone for further polluting.

He sits, eyes closed, lungs creaking; his mind becomes muddled.

Feelings start to surface, so he submerges them in inertia and puffs them back into clouds.

Transcendent, sinking downward into the couch but head tilted upward inhaling that bitter-sweet stench; protecting his brain, poisoning his lungs, palliating his life until death.

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by Caleb Pepper Film Photography 8� x 10�

Surface Treader*

By Karley Conklin

Pushing my paddle against the ridge, I lean forward until my vessel leaves the land. My craft is floating toward the stillness of the early morn. As I cut right, the sun wakes, and hazy clouds rise with its rays. The white mist trickling in captures colors, leaving streaks of orange and yellow across my view.

A breeze blows by. The wind catches against my skin as it passes, tugging at my clothing and hair until it’s free. Then, it races on, to dodge through mazes of leaves and branches.

Morning is brightening now, the sun lifting higher and spreading farther into the shadows. Specks of starlight twinkle ahead, trapped by the day and resting lightly on the silent plane of silver. I break the glass with my motion, scattering shards as my paddle propels me onward. Even gliding smoothly, I can’t help but smear the image of this mirror. The folds ripple out and startle the tiny stars which shiver and sparkle in the wake. A slap rings out across the way as something tries to break free from beneath the glass. In a moment, everything is quiet again. The mirror evens itself out, and all is pristine once more.

I pause when I see land before me, the shore of a floating island visible in the distance. Like a disk bulging on both sides, the ground of this island rises roundly to meet the line of trees reaching for the sky. At a similar angle, the dirt sinks toward the trunks which support the upside-down branches below. What lies beneath perfectly mimics what is above so that this earth-bound Laputa finds its balance in matching sides.

1 Laputa is the name of a floating island in Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift

The glass around the island ripples; the ground must be pressing forward. I note that the mirror sits perfectly centered, cutting horizontally across this ship of land. The island hangs beneath the glass as much as it rises above; half the trees set in the air while the rest are trapped in the deep. This piece of earth stretches in all directions, seeking out all at once the secrets of both the heights and depths. As it travels onward, what can be hidden from its net? The mirror is unmasked for these trees and rocks, as Laputa digs beneath the reflected image. The island traverses both light and dark. I, on the other hand, merely drift along the surface, slipping by unnoticed.

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An Idea

by Megan Byler

A small dove hatches leaving behind its broken shell too young yet to survive on its own but with a dream to one day fly— a faraway dream.

I take it into my care I feed it and speak to it and caress its soft head with gentle touch and nurture it within the confines of safety.

Eventually it is no longer small, young, weak, helpless but is grown and strong the prospect of spreading its wings in flight no longer a faraway dream.

I take my beautiful dove out of its safety.

I carry it to the door to the dangerous, unknown outside where the breeze will dictate its path.

It tweets and twitters in anticipation and with my hands that gave it life I break its neck.

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by Karley Conklin Digital Photography

by Christian Bullard I have never seen a woman whose body detested her more than that of Mother Nature.

Her breath becomes fouler, as days pass.

Her body’s streams become more poisoned, as days pass.

Her skin becomes more furrowed, as days pass.

Her thick hair becomes thinner, as days pass.

The passing of days is weighing heavy on her soul.

She weeps from the pain that her body has caused her.

Eventually, she will not withstand the passing of another day.

by Justin Keck Digital Photography

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by Celia Prine Invisibility is a luxury not afforded to those who crave it most. And yet the only judgement is from the eyes that look out from the mirror

by Kristen Webb Film Photography 8� x 10�

21

by Nathan Lowe

You are a pencil—not a mechanical pencil, but the ordinary #2 wooden kind. Thus far, you have been sitting in a box on a rack in the store waiting for someone to notice and purchase you. That day has finally come! You are removed from the rack, scanned, placed into a bag next to some notebooks and a packet of printer paper, and carried out of the store.

Upon arrival at your new residence, you are taken from the box and placed into a pencil holder with your fellow pencils. There, you stand with a pristine yellow paint job, an unblemished eraser, and a shiny metal ferrule, anxiously awaiting the day you will be selected to write the next great novel, or a love letter, or a recipe for the world’s best chocolate cake.

Before you have time to contemplate your future further, you are plucked from the pencil holder. This is so exciting, you think. You can see the paper below. Any second now, you will fulfill your lifelong dream and sole purpose. But wait; what is that? You are being moved toward some sort of oblong metal object with a handle. Now, you are being inserted into an opening on one side of the object, and the handle begins turning. You feel a slight tingling sensation that very quickly becomes pain like you have never imagined! You can feel something sharp moving all around you and digging itself into your woody flesh. Bits of you are being torn off to fall away lifeless. For seconds that seem like hours, this torture continues. Each mo-

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ment is just as excruciating as the last. You can hear the terrible scraping sound of metal on wood and the faint wrr-wrr-wrr of the awful machine as it turns.

I cannot believe this is the end. Goodbye, cruel world!

Finally, the machine stops. Half-conscious, you are removed from the machine. As you slowly regain awareness, you look at the results of the machine’s work. Some of your paint is missing, and you have been whittled to a point—a hideous black point!

The next thing you know, you are moving rapidly across a white plane.

You wonder, Am I dead? Gradually, the white space begins to fill with mysterious black symbols.

Wait a second! I am not dead. This whiteness . . . is paper!

And these symbols are letters, words! I am writing! Unable to contain your enthusiasm, you forget about the pain and throw yourself into your work.

Later, as you rest in the pencil holder once more, you think about all that has happened. You realize the painful process of having pieces of yourself forcibly removed, although far from pleasant, was the key to fulfilling your purpose in life.

by Jordan Hurley Drawing 18” x 24”

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who really don’t like the same ice cream we do; they prefer Turkish Delight, friends.

by Dante Wilcox Please, do not mind my white friends; it’s just so hard to find the right friends, when I have to stay inside all day, so that I won’t catch a blight, friends.

You see, the neighbors don’t want to play; they looked at me in shame tonight – friends, unsure how to approach my skin and unaware of my plight, friends.

I must say I love to lock my door and I love to invite friends inside, to drink tea and talk about movies, unless I’m with my upright friends, then we’re sure to talk about the church.

Just don’t turn out the light, friends; we have to keep seeing for who we are or we may soon have a gun-fight, friends, then we might go our separate ways to hang out with our requisite friends,

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Before long, no one will agree anymore, between Celsius and Fahrenheit; friends will throw hissy-fits and smack their words, until they are out-of-sight-friends.

What will happen then, when finally, Dante just tries to overwrite friends?

Caged Freedom

by Kristen Webb Film Photography 8” x 10”

by Jori Edgington

She lifted her shirt slightly to show me her feeding tube. Four years. She hadn’t tasted food or had a drink in four years.

“It’s been hard living in the home. I can do a lot more than the other people here can, so it’s tough. I try to encourage them and talk to them. I just try to bloom where I’m planted,” Mrs. Lawton explained.

I couldn’t quite imagine living with people losing their minds, let alone trying to minister to them.

Her room reminded me a bit of a dorm room.

Except it was tidier than most I’d seen. She didn’t let her eighty-year-old body hold her back from cleanliness. Her bathroom housed various seasonal decorations she used to make her little hospital-y room just a bit homier. Mrs. Lawton was put-together, and it showed from her pink lipstick to her organized room. She had placed her roots down and made a temporary home for herself. She was blooming.

“I was the queen in the May Day Parade,” she beamed as she flipped through the antiquated pages of her yearbook. In the picture, she wore a big, beautiful dress and stood beside her dashing escort. She loved her time at North Greenville Junior College where she graduated from in 1955. Despite the vast differences of college life in 1955 and 2017, I felt a deep sense of camaraderie with Mrs. Lawton.

In that moment, we weren’t defined by our age.

We were two women bonding over the universality of

pretty dresses and handsome young men, talking about the joys of being in college. Even stronger than our bond of womanhood was our bond of faith.

Mrs. Lawton told me she took religious studies classes in college, so I asked how her faith had changed throughout her life.

“It’s only grown stronger. I couldn’t have gotten through so much without it.”

Her husband had divorced her, she was living in a nursing home with people she couldn’t fully connect with, and she had a feeding tube. Suddenly, my problems didn’t seem so bad.

She fills much of her day with reading, especially the Bible and Guideposts, a Christian devotional magazine. My heart leapt when she told me that. As an aspiring writer, I was touched by the thought of sweet elderly women like Mrs. Lawton curled up in nursing homes around the world, encouraged by words I’d written.

Some might call it a mere coincidence or perhaps Fate—but Mrs. Lawton and I—we agreed that God arranged our meeting. A series of chance happenings was too unlikely a reason for us to have met. I was the only student from North Greenville University at my summer program of eighty people in Myrtle Beach. We had the option to visit the nursing home that day, but I thought I’d be too tired and too busy. As God would have it, my manager at Wendy’s let us out of work early (as I’d prayed) despite the fact that the store was getting busier as we left.

Mrs. Lawton asked another student from my group if anyone was from NGU, so we were quickly introduced. So far, being the only one from my school made me somewhat of a misfit, but that day, it was a divine fit.

“Mrs. Lawton, can I pray with you?”

I looked over to see a huge pink lipstick grin.

The Holy Spirit spoke through me as I prayed

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and held her frail hands. I felt the love of God for this eighty-year-old woman.

She told me my prayer meant so much to her and my visit had been a huge blessing and made her day, but the exchange wasn’t equal; I got the better end. Mrs. Lawton had shown me what it looks like to have faith in all circumstances. I likely had more years to remember our sweet time together than she would. How many Mrs. Lawtons have I passed by because I wanted to keep that hour to myself?

I recorded my address in a small notebook per her request, and she wrote hers down for me. She later asked for my phone number, too. The dear woman said she wanted to write me while I’m at school. She insisted she’d wait with me until the very last second I had to go.

I couldn’t help but wonder who would be with her until the second she had to go.

For such a small woman, Mrs. Lawton sure had a tight embrace. She wrapped her arms around me for far longer than the average hug. It wasn’t just the cursory “nice to meet you” of an acquaintance. I was held in the lingering cling of a goodbye between good friends.

About an hour after I met her, I had to leave.

Her address still sits in my room.

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by Jordan Hurley Drawing 18” x 24”

by Shaun Stokes A hurricane passed, and all is quiet. I see

wet pavement, cement, asphalt, concrete — the world over, wet with the tears of heaven; and I’m not naïve enough to believe that

the whole world is reeling from this catastrophe, I know it’s just my

world just as I know that I’m the only one looking at the reflection

that heaven made for me. My back porch is glistening and I see my tree inside

brokenly standing tall, the branches left on the trunk are stiff, full,

they’ve had their fill, yet some of the weak branches are sagging — they will never grow thick, fat from years that should have been theirs. and half of this tree has already fallen in the past year.

I can see the circles inside, cut in half, years lost, I can’t count its age anymore.

The moss eats up the trunk,

Cut tree branches that were full

grown, I climbed them as a kid, now

no more climbing. Yet the roots are strong.

Its life-force surges and

was just replenished.

Who on earth will remember?

The graves of trees are not dug by gravediggers, the trees linger only so long as no-one needs fire-wood. I’m warm, I’ll layer-up, I’ll find my own warmth, and the world will know that trees will bloom again, when the branches turn green as the limbs linger on the cold, soggy, green grass, black dirt and worms underneath, they will not chew up and spit out of backwards mouths, I’ll cut it up and preserve the knowledge

of years lost, I’ll write on the blank—

write on the blank pages that

pages that You helped — They helped

create .

They will be remembered, and their roots will grow deep within me .

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An Elegy for Sleep

by Caleb Willingham Again I lie awake at night And try to fall asleep, But all my thoughts put up a fight And vow to not retreat.

They bounce around on pogo sticks And hit against my skull, While on and on the hours tick Without the slightest lull.

An idea here, a question there; Another starts to race, And like a fox who sees a hare, My mind begins to chase.

“Just fall asleep!” I try to say, But never does it work; The thoughts of what I did today Continue still to lurk.

My past regrets, my memories— They come out with the moon, And with them come anxieties; I hope it’s over soon.

And then I start to contemplate The ways I need to change, And I begin to motivate Myself, but then it’s strange—

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I tell myself tomorrow I Will be more energetic, But by the morning, it’s a lie; I’m just as apathetic.

What good is it? I toss and turn And never get to sleep; Why can’t I make my mind adjourn Instead of counting sheep?

I guess it’s pretty hopeless then, It’s something I won’t shake; I’ll finally be tired when I need to be awake.

by Linnea Stevens Linocut Print 12.5” x 15”

by Dawn Carvajal

Everyone squirmed nervously in his or her seat, ready to start the day. Morning was here, and with morning came a whole new plan. Each day had a chaotic rhythm, varying in unpredictability. However, the one thing that remained static was this very meeting. Like clockwork, Frontal Lobe stepped into the boardroom, taking a seat in the leather “boss’s chair.”

“Yesterday, we fell behind,” he sighed heavily, resting his gaze on each face as he scanned the room.

“This is becoming a very bad habit.”

“Eep!” Amygdala whimpered. “What do we do?!

The test is today, and the Self hasn’t studied at all!”

“Calm down, please. That won’t help at all right now,” Frontal shook his head in frustration.

With a nod, Hippocampus cleared his throat.

“We’ve done this before – we just need a plan. The test isn’t until 2:00 p.m. today. If we use each hour to our advantage, we’ll be in decent shape at least.”

“Yeah, we’d be fine if that dingus Self would actually clean her glasses,” Occipital mumbled. “How am I supposed to do my job if the only readings we get from the eyes are a blurry, smudgy mess?”

“Stop whining, sonny.” Temporal shook his head in disappointment. “My boy here is right: this is doable.”

“Ugh, dad, pleas-” Hippocampus ran a hand over his face.

“Now, now, none of that. You have very good

ideas and an excellent memory, just like your old man here,” Temporal interrupted, patting the young man’s shoulder.

As Hippocampus sat there in embarrassment, Frontal Lobe took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts.

He needed to make a game plan, and fast. The Self needed to get ready for class, and she’d be leaving her dorm room soon. How on earth was this going to work?

“Okay, let’s break this down step by step. Any suggestions for drafting a quick outline?”

Silence hung over the room for a while, but it was soon broken by a sudden bout of screeching. Everyone jumped and turned, looking to the corner of the room. They groaned once they saw the source of the noise – a mutilated little creature huddled in the corner.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Frontal rolled his eyes. “You let Generalized Anxiety in again, Serotonin?”

“Eheheh, sorry . . . ” Serotonin winced, standing and guiding Anxiety out.

Frontal frowned deeply, planting both palms with a firm thud on the table, leaning forward. .“Enough of this! We need to stop playing around! What is going to happen to us if we don’t get our stuff together? This may just be one test, but it can easily become every test! We’ve all been slacking off, and that is dangerous!

Do you want to be out of a job if the Self can’t use her head?”

The meeting had reached a climactic point, and the pressure was on to crank out ideas. Temporal decided to speak up first, “Well . . . I guess I could always start with listening for the alarm clock?”

“Finally, some useful contributions. You and Pons can start by working on that.”

“I g-guess I can use emotions to motivate her to k-keep studying,” Amygdala timidly offered.

Frontal exhaled sharply, glaring sideways at Amygdala.

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“Yes, but you need to be a little lighter on the controls than you have been lately. If you make her too freaked out, Anxiety will find its way back in. You need to keep her relaxed, but not too relaxed. The emotions need to be balanced this time, understand?”

“I agree,” Thalamus nodded, “and I can help the Self skim for the bold words, just to be more efficient.”

“Geez, I guess I’ll need to help with that, right?

Fine, whatever,” Occipital grumbled.

Most everyone had spoken up, save Parietal. All eyes turned on her, expectantly waiting. Parietal quietly met their gazes.

“It’s time to get her moving then, isn’t it? The Self is still just chilling in bed.”

“It would be good if she were to get up now, yes.” Frontal began to organize his papers.

“Okay, boss.” Parietal gave a small smile. “Consider it done.” ***

“Ugh . . . ” the student rubbed her head, sitting up in bed. The shrill, piercing cry of the alarm had broken through her sleep. Stretching, she groggily threw off her covers and stumbled over to the clock.

“That was such a weird dream. Who were all those people?” she mumbled.

It didn’t take long for her to dismiss it, grabbing a textbook to start some studying. Her morning began, and she forgot about all the little voices in her head.

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by Tori Cantrell Film Photography 8” x 10”

by Sarah Hope Carlson

Colton was a ticking time bomb. At seven-yearsold, he was roughly the size of the four-year-olds in the daycare. To call him “lanky” would be generous. He was sharp with his edgy hips, pointy chin, and what seemed to be an endless supply of poking joints. His body looked tentative, like a carefully stacked house of cards that would crumble if you breathed too heavily on it. I imagine that’s why he had ankle braces, though none of the staff could tell me definitively.

Sock, white brace, blue brace, shoe, and repeat for the other foot. It was a miracle if he’d sit still that long. I don’t blame him. The braces pinched his feet, causing the skin around his big, hollow brown eyes to squeeze shut for a split-second as he took in the pain.

Colton was a ticking time bomb, they explained, and then appointed me to bomb disposal. All I was told was, “That’s Colton. He’s autistic. He can’t talk.” The first time I came in and sat with him, the room was dark, a lullaby was sputtering its way through the stereo in the corner, and tuckered-out kids were either draped over and curled up on their cots. All except Colton. He sat on his bed with his wide, dark eyes darting at anything that moved. That day, we played with Mr. Potato Heads. It was my job to make sure Colton kept quiet.

With his eager, skinny hands, he pulled the plastic potatoes out of the bin and dug through the various accessories.

This is too loud, I thought. He’s bound to wake someone up.

I picked up a green, rubber baseball cap and set it on my head. Looking at me for the first time since I sat down, Colton cocked his head to the side like a curious little bird.

“Hat,” I whispered and smiled. Then, I dipped my head and let the little cap roll off into my lap.

“Oops,” I laughed at myself and put the toy back into the bin.

“Eh, eh.” Colton cooed and dug the hat out again. He held it toward me. “Eh, eh.” He pointed to my head.

I put it back on. “Hat.”

Still trying to balance the rubber cap, I rummaged through the bin until I found a yellow visor with flowers on it. I plopped it on Colton’s buzzcut-boasting head.

“Hat,” I repeated.

His face lit up with silent laughter.

“Ha,’” he replied.

As long as the other kids were asleep and someone was sitting with him, Colton did just fine. It was when the lights came on, the noises got louder, and the kids woke up that life got hard for him. On these occasions, his favorite thing to do was throw things: toys, his shoes, himself. He’d throw toys over the gate and into the hall, so we’d let him go outside and fetch them.

He’d dump his shoes in the trash can, hoping we’d be too disgusted to fish them out.

If those two failed, he’d throw himself down on his knees, planting them hard into the tile floor.

Suddenly, his pale face would wrinkle into itself like a drawstring bag being pulled tight, his eyes would pop out bigger than usual and fill with water, and he would turn an ugly shade of red. His mouth would drop open as if to sob, but as usual, nothing came out. He never actually cried, but, sometimes, I think he wanted to.

31

Colton liked to climb. His favorite mountain to conquer was an old, dirty armchair with stuffing coming out of one shoulder. The other teachers were not big fans of this perch, but I didn’t mind because it meant I could keep an eye on him while I put the cots away. I took Sofia’s blankets and put them on the chair beside him as I hoisted her cot on top of the others.

“Eh, eh,” he protested the first time.

“One second,” I smiled at him. Once the cot was stacked, I grabbed the blankets and began folding Sofia’s pink fitted sheet.

“Colton, do you want to help me?” I asked.

There was no reply. There hardly ever was.

I continued on to her other sheet and her Paw Patrol fuzzy blanket. When I had squared off all three blankets, I tossed them into Colton’s lap.

“On top?” I asked, pointing to the cot.

The first time, it took him a while to figure out what I wanted and then a while longer to decide whether he wanted to help, but eventually, he plopped the blankets on the cot in a big pile of magenta. I grabbed them and laid them out one by one, counting aloud. “One . . . two . . . three!”

He must’ve thought I’d lost my mind. I think I did, too. But the next day, as I was putting the cots away, he climbed up onto his chair and said, “On top!”

Colton helped me with the cots most every day. It didn’t really make my work any more efficient, but it took his mind off the increasing number of bodies waking up and moving around in his space.

Sometimes, he got so excited to move a cot, he’d pick it up and start to haul it across the room for me. I’d sprint over and say, “Not yet.” By the end of the summer, I knew he could count up to at least four (we didn’t have any daycare friends with more than four blankets).

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He was a funny one. His mom, I think Lisa was her name, would come pick him up every day around 4:00, and somehow, like clockwork, at 3:30, Colton would climb onto the hallway gate and wait. Like a sentinel, he stood, straight as an arrow, hanging onto the white swivel gate, waiting for Mom. The kids knew he’d opened the gate before to run out into the hall, so they would come up to me and report, “Miss Sarah, look at Colton! He’s on the gate!”

I’d smile at their little concerned faces and call across the room to him, “Alright, Colton, but stay in here.” Most of the time, he would.

Maddie woke up from her nap early one day.

Rubbing her little fists against those chocolate brown eyes, she looked around and saw me talking to Colton. A few minutes later, I walked over and asked her how her nap was.

“Miss Sarah, C-c-colton can’t talk,” she whispered, tripping over his name.

I smiled at her concern that no one had told me.

“Maddie, that’s not quite true. Yeah, it’s harder for him to use words, but he can still say some things. You just have to be patient and keep on talking to him.”

After that, every once in awhile, I’d catch Maddie in her butterfly wings and princess dress talking to Colton. Sometimes, if he’d gone home before she got to talk to him, she’d come up to me and ask, “Uhm, uhm, Miss Sarah? Where’s Colton?”

At the end of the summer, I emptied my locker, high-fived Colton one last time, and headed out of the daycare. Maddie, Sofia, Colton, and every other kid in that daycare was a ticking time bomb: complicated, confusing, and exhausting. Colton was just wired a little differently than any of us were ready for. I put roughly 86 hours into cracking his code this summer.

This is Colton. He struggles with autism, and he can talk.

Bound*

by Josiah Wright I wait for Winter, Like a man waiting for his lover On the docks— He tucks away his brown Hair beneath his woolen cap, And gazes out into grey light.

by Jordan Hurley Film Photography 8” x 10”

Beseeching the dead autumn air, I have no hat to cover My tired head, wracked with aching, For the wind is neither cold enough Nor fraught with flakes of snow F a l l i n

g To kiss the icy earth And say hello and goodbye At once.

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by Karley Conklin

A father sat in his office, scribbling away. His desk light beat down upon the page and silhouetted his hunched form as he leaned across the table.

The door creaked open, and a small head poked in. A girl’s bright eyes studied the man’s back, her head tilting and hair falling to the side as she slipped into the room. She opened her mouth to make her presence known but was halted by a grunt and a crumpling of paper. A moment later, the wad of white was carelessly tossed over the man’s shoulder, soaring across the room and landing with a crinkle and a clink in a metal wastebasket.

The girl blinked, and her eyes widened; all thoughts of speaking vanished. Her bare feet padded across the wood, and her little hands landed on a cold rim. She glanced at her father and then peered into the bin, carefully pulling out and examining the discarded page. After smoothing out all the creases and reading the mess of words hidden between scratched-out splotches, she looked back into the basket, the bottom of which was covered in wrinkled white spheres. Her hand reached in.

A moment later, soft footsteps travelled across the room, and the crack of light from the doorway disappeared, leaving the man alone with his thoughts once more.

Twenty minutes and six tossed pages later, the daughter returned in similar manner, carefully opening the door and silently floating into the office. This time,

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she merely glanced at the desk, and then headed straight to the basket, peering in with sparkling eyes.

With her armload of pages, she left to the sound of sighs and scratching pen.

The third time she entered, the basket was almost full. The sprite picked up the balls one by one, tucking them gently into the crook of her elbow. So involved was she in her work that she did not notice the sound of paper being torn from its notebook and crunched in irritation. Just as the daughter stood up and turned to leave, the paper ball flew toward her, bouncing off her nose and startling her. She fell backwards with a soft thud, papers spilling from her arms.

Pulling herself up quickly, she chased after the scattered treasures. As she leaned over to retrieve her fallen friends, she dropped more. For every page picked up, two more slipped from her grasp. With a huff, she decided on a new tactic. She dropped all the papers and glanced around the room, spotting what she needed.

In the corner sat a plush armchair upon which a small blanket was resting. The young girl quickly dragged the cloth off the seat and brought it over to her pile of papers. Picking up her treasures, she arranged them on the well-worn square and pulled the corners together, very slowly, not wanting to disturb the pile of white in the middle. Now, her pages were safely confined in a blanket bag which she slung over her shoulder with pride. Head held high, she slipped once more out the door, the metal waste-bin clanging behind her as another thought was thrown away.

Hours passed, and the father’s eyes grew red, his hair mussed by frustrated hands. He leaned back from his writing, rubbing his temples. Glancing at the clock, he sighed, realizing the lateness of the hour. Picking up his page, he read over what he’d written. He shook his head, crushing the paper in his grasp. The father pushed back from his desk and walked over to the trash. He

lifted his hand slightly to drop in his last failed attempt of the night but stopped in surprise. The basket was empty. His eyes narrowed as he looked around the room.

Not a single page was in sight.

Confused, he walked out into the hall, the paper still in his fingers. He heard a faint rustling coming from the living room and turned that direction. His eyebrows raised and his jaw dropped as he stepped into the room.

The floor between the couches had been transformed into a delicate world of white. Folded flowers were scattered about, and a scrunched hot air balloon raised with paper clips rested on the edge of the coffee table with several airplanes lying at its side. Paper had been rolled up to build walls of a house, no, a castle which leaned precariously—elegantly—against the leg of the table. Swans and butterflies surrounded the palace, the only subjects in sight.

And there, in the center of the paper creations, sat his daughter, cross-legged on the floor, elbows out, head down in concentration. She was working on shaping a floppy-eared dragon to sit atop her tower. When she finished, she held the creature in the air, turning it side to side. Satisfied, she placed him gently on his perch, then turned her head, noticing her father. With a laugh, she jumped up and hugged him. He continued to shift his gaze in amazement from her to her creations, as she spotted the paper he held.

Gently, she plucked the ball from his grasp, patting his now-empty hand. The girl plopped herself onto the floor to decide what else to make.

Her father slowly sat down beside her, a soft grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His daughter smiled at him and pulled another sphere from the pile next to her, inviting him to join her.

He took the page and carefully smoothed it out.

Then, he began folding, helping her complete her kingdom of discarded words.

by Tori Cantrell Foamboard Sculpture 13.75” x 12” x 18.75”

35

by Shaun Stokes Small-town bustle, feel the hustle moving—Train whistles and stopped cars— Ice cream stand on standby. People gather here at night time. Move, small town, small city blues, crazed with the isolation, feel elation when God sticks his big thumb in the center, pushing Alpine mountains into town spires; industry’s coming here next.

Sky-scraping buildings, towers that reach the heavens — Our language will be confused in no time.

Already generations separate, not knowing how or what or why kids ruin everything, change love change fear change comes.

Engrossed small town, change inspires that anger old cads too used to their dull, simple life — no remorse, no regret, the world charges rent — we take rent without paying a cent, and so the world works. Old retirement agencies, growing rich with agéd ones who long to die but never give in, fevered with blows made against their kids, they live to see the thumbprint made by gods, their kids.

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The etched print, their descent, descendants made it, charged the payment, never tamed it.

Out of control, rocks in sandals, shoelaces tied together, small fingers fumbling against their too-tight-jeans; generations change, but by God, mountains were made in generations past — all we are trying to do is make sure they don’t last.

by Celia Prine An endless cycle of vulnerability and regret.

Everything laid bare before prying eyes, a glimpse at the clockwork underneath before the shell clamps shut. It only opens for wishful thinking

by Justin Keck Digital Photography

by Joseph Bulsa Digital Photography 37

1

by Christian Bullard John 5:28-29 They say there’s no rest for the wicked.

But I am here on the day of rest for the wicked.

Arranged to appear, so I may attest for the wicked, armored in the gear of Sunday’s best for the wicked.

Hiding my drear and distress for the wicked.

But in gaining their ears, I lose my breath.

For the wicked was a friend, not just dear but my best.

For the wicked committed a crime most severe, when he dove to his death.

For the wicked never allowed himself to hear the voice of I Am, payer of debts.

For the wicked would remain forever in fear, his unopened gift stolen by misery’s wrest.

For the wicked was damned to an eternal heart without cheer and an eternal soul without rest.

40

by Jordan Hurley Digital Design

1

1 Photos used in composition: credit El Lezzitzky

Yes, they were remembered, but statues can’t stand forever We obsess over our possessions without realizing they are

false idols I am not a preacher, and I won’t practice magic if I can

prove it isn’t real We challenge the wrath of God and flaunt that we are We close our eyes at the sight of the sun invincible Its light reveals all too much of our sin We build Titanics again and again, telling ourselves that We believe in what we cannot see

they are unsinkable Not because of faith but because we choose not to open I am not an engineer, but if the first one sank I wouldn’t

our eyes

build another

We would rather leave it all unseen We toast to our own success and boast all of our accom-

plishments to an empty room Sweeping it all up under the living room rug We play with matches in the name of science and flaunt We put our hands on hot stoves for fun

that we are fireproof We ignore our bodies when they ache to be done Yet when fire comes raging, we get burned every time We tell our legs to walk when they are broke We wage our stick wars and take no prisoners We breathe in sulfur and soot and get to work We shed a tear for the poor and call it charity Mind over matter they say We throw pennies in wells to test if gravity still works Meditation and good grace they say We shoot bullets to see if blood still stains Well, with forks in electrical outlets you’d think we’d We medicate ourselves to numb the pain

be more aware We keep each other company in our misery Yet still we hold on for the pleasure We know our troubles are our own doing, but we still We put the weight of the world on our shoulders

blame sorcery Because we say diamonds are made with pressure We each parade around, proclaiming that all the We walk weary and exhausted to the doors of fortune

universe is mine

and fame Yet as much as we know, as much as we try, as much But we never quite reach them, settling for the pit-stop

we lie to each other saying everything’s fine,

of forever and final We choose to be blind We pray for forgiveness so that we may sin again

by Walker Pruitt

bow to the statues of the great, wanting to be more We like them

41

42

by Justin Keck Digital Photography

43

by Josue Lopez

The heart monitor beep, beep, beeped slowly, rhythmically in the white-washed hospital room that smelled of bleach and decaying flowers. On the screen, the green line performed marvelous stunts, moving up and down, straight, and true to some unseen destination.

It contrasted sharply with the black screen in which a small, distorted reflection of the dismal room could be seen. The blurry shapes on the screen depicted a dying man on a bed. The reflected image was ritualistic, barbaric—the transition of life into death, featuring the bright green line that no longer jumped as it had only several moments before. With enormous simplicity, it showed the heart’s ultimate decrescendo, the gradual fade into obscurity. The music faded, the breathing stopped, but the drone continued, the singular, elongated beep.

The family did not weep or grieve. Mourning for the dead was an activity long past. Death no longer carried with it the finality that it once had. Ever since the dead began to return, death lost its significance.

“Time of death, 5:45 P.M,” the doctor sighed with a breathiness that indicated he had done this many times before. His sigh carried exhaustion, expressing that life both during and after can be tedious and mundane.

He examined his watch to make sure the time on the round clock above their heads matched. Then, grabbing a clipboard hanging off the end of the bed, he turned away from the body to look at the family. A mother and father, and their two children, a boy and a girl. To the doctor, they looked identical to one another, pink and smooth. Their faces were stagnant, blank. The little boy, who the doctor guessed couldn’t be more than five or six, had produced a yellow toy truck and was

44

driving it over the bed, over the body, treating the corpse as if it were his personal play mat. The parents did not scold their child, and the doctor said nothing. Death had also lost its sacredness.

“I’m sure you are familiar with how this works, Mr. Flemming,” said the doctor. “Now, your father came in with blunt force trauma to the head, which if I recall correctly, you said was from the impact of a car. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said with a meager smile.

“The darn thing came out of nowhere. No one saw it coming.”

“I see,” the doctor said simply, making a note with his pen, chewing on the inside of his mouth. “And where did this happen?”

The man rubbed his bristly chin, thinking, and then said, “West King Street. It’s about two blocks away from our house.”

“I see,” the doctor said again.

“Doc?” Mr. Flemming said, forcing the doctor’s eyes away from his pad and pen. Mr. Flemming paused, formulating how he wanted to phrase his next words, not wanting to seem foolish. “Doc, how . . . how long until”

“Until your father comes back?” the doctor finished the man’s question. “If I’m not mistaken, you will almost certainly run into him on your way home.”

The doctor’s statement did little to resolve the man’s restlessness. He responded with another question, one he already knew the answer to.

“But he won’t be the same, will he?”

The doctor had handled questions like this hundreds of times before, uttered by uncertain loved ones,

and he wasted no time in replying.

“Yes and no. It will look like your father and sound like your father, and it will bear the same qualities and characteristics of the man lying on the cot. You will not be able to touch him, nor will he be able to leave the spot where he died, save for a mile or so of wiggle room.”

“Thank you, doc,” said Mr. Flemming, ushering his family out of the room and away from the fresh corpse, on which the imprint of life still lingered, reluctant to depart. The cheeks had hardly lost their rosiness, but the color gradually faded as the blood ceased to pump throughout the body.

Humans were meant to flourish and last forever, the doctor considered as he cast his eyes over the body.

Death was a sickness that cut eternity short.

Reminded of something else, the doctor clutched the man’s arm before he departed from the room. Making sure they were out of earshot from the rest of Mr. Flemming’s family, the doctor said, “You might consider warning your children and wife before the encounter that he will still bear the marks of the wound that cost him his life. Some have found the distorted, maimed bodies of loved ones rather unnerving.”

Mr. Flemming nodded to show that he understood and then, taking advantage of their seclusion, posed one final question.

“Doc, is it really him? I mean, do they really come back?”

The doctor patted Mr. Flemming reassuringly on the shoulder, giving a tired smile, hoping that the man could not see the truth behind his penetratingly green eyes: that he had spent many restless nights wondering the very same thing.

“I certainly hope so,” was all the doctor said.

Then, bidding Mr. Flemming and his family a warm goodbye, he exited the hospital.

His shift was over.

***

A creature of habit, the doctor took his usual route home, stopping at his favorite food truck for dinner. Munching and walking, he moved past the crowded streets which had grown ever more crowded now that the dead and the living both wandered with equal levels of aimlessness. He saw many of his former patients, who had died under his care. They all nodded courteously at him as he approached, shrugging with their see-through shoulders as if to say, “You did the best you could, doc.”

And he had. The knowledge that they would eventually return did little to impede his resolve of keeping them alive. It was his duty as a practitioner of medicine, after all.

He was one of the few that still held this belief.

Other doctors, although they would never admit it, had stopped trying once the dead began to come back, as if they were off the hook from performing their jobs. The stakes of death were no longer as high, as the battles doctors had waged against the great, everlasting absence no longer carried the weight they once held.

The people who came back did not seem to mind it very much, being dead and somehow alive at the same time. Once they came to terms with the eternal impossibility of any form of physical contact, nor ever having the desire to consume food or drink again, they realized that they still were free to think and speak and move about, even if their movements were restricted.

They could jest with their family members and lovers once more, just as they had done in life, and for most, this was enough.

A few feet away from the sidewalk where the doctor strode was a procession, the likes of which the doctor had grown accustomed to seeing. From the looks of the decorations and the people laughing, it was a birthday party. A child, giggling madly, was positioned at

45

the end of a long table, underneath a wooden pavilion.

There was something different about the boy. He was there, and at the same time, he wasn’t, glimmering in and out of the sunlight, which pierced his translucent, bluish body. This was little Joey Stephens, who had died three years ago, in the very hospital where the doctor spent most of his life.

Joey had not been one of the doctor’s patients, but he had met the pleasant boy on numerous occasions and had grown extremely fond of the frail child who was dying from leukemia. The boy had been a beautiful beacon of light in the always dreary hospital, and his death had crushed many, the doctor included. And then, miraculously, the dead started coming back, one by one, little Joey along with them, contradicting everything the doctor thought he had ever known. Joey never aged, and he always looked the same, but regardless, his family celebrated his birthday every year, throwing a lavish party and inviting the entire block.

Mrs. Stephens, Joey’s mother, caught the doctor’s eye as he attempted to pass the crowd unseen, and good-naturedly invited him to join the festivities.

“At least have a piece of cake,” she pleaded, when the doctor explained that he was in a rush to get home.

“Joey’s been dying to see you.” She giggled like a little girl when she realized the poor phrasing of her words.

“Oh, all right,” the doctor said, never one to deny his beloved patients any of their requests, “for Joey.”

Stuffing his fists deep within the pockets of his coat, he shuffled gingerly and awkwardly to the center of the party, where Joey was floating effortlessly, legs crossed Indian-style. When Joey noticed the doctor, his face brightened, becoming a somewhat lighter shade of blue, and he did a somersault in the air.

“Doctor!” he shrieked. “How are you?”

“So-so,” the doctor answered honestly, “and

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how’s my favorite kiddo? Taking your medicine, I hope.”

Joey smiled widely, recognizing the familiar question that the doctor had always asked him during his stay at the hospital.

“Ah, I hate that stuff,” was the playful response.

“It leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”

“You mean it doesn’t taste like strawberries like the label says it does?” the doctor asked, continuing the joke.

“You try it, and then you tell me if it tastes anything like strawberry.”

They both chuckled at their silliness, and then Joey asked, “But have you tried the cake? It’s chocolate.

My favorite.”

“I was just about to,” the doctor said.

“Everyone says it’s really good,” the boy said, looking at the cake longingly, licking his ghostly lips. He felt no hunger, but that did not keep him from wanting to taste the rich chocolate cake that insulted him from the table.

The doctor, who had been cutting himself a piece of cake, guiltily set the knife down and pushed his plate away.

“Geez, doc,” Joey said, crossing his arms, one over the other. “Go ahead and have a slice. Tell me what it tastes like.”

The doctor hesitated, but the boy urged him forward, grinning widely.

“How’s it taste, doc?” the boy asked when the man had wiped the plate clean.

“Nothing like strawberry,” the doctor said truthfully. When the doctor swallowed, the boy swallowed, too, as if somehow imitating the doctor would allow him, just for a moment, to share the doctor’s experience.

After saying goodbye, the doctor returned to his route on the sidewalk, tucking both hands into his pockets and bearing his course once more, looking downward

to avoid any more human, or non-human, interactions.

As he neared his house, he encountered only one other group of people that evening, the Flemmings.

They were a few feet ahead of him in the street, though he did not notice them until he nearly tripped over the youngest boy, the one who had been playing with the toy truck back at the hospital.

The doctor tried to walk around them, but before he could, he felt the gruff, forceful hands of Mr. Flemming spinning him around. The man before the doctor was nothing like the grave man he had met earlier. The thin, frail smile had left his face, replaced by one warm and welcoming. His cheeks were flushed, and the doctor could tell that he and his family had been laughing. The doctor inched away from the tall man, afraid that in his newfound excitement, Mr. Flemming might try to embrace him.

“Doc!” the man shouted. “I want you to meet my father.” Mr. Flemming stepped to the side, revealing the form of a man significantly smaller than himself.

Like all the others, this man was coated with an icy blue pallor, and the doctor could see right through him, as if looking through a tinted window. The man looked now, in death, more or less the same as he had looked in life, save for the noticeable dent in his forehead where the car had struck him.

Mr. Flemming’s father greeted the doctor with an outstretched hand which the doctor stared at awkwardly, unsure what to do. The man chuckled, a heavy, raspy sound, then drew his arm back.

“I suppose I’m going to have to get used to it, aren’t I?” the man said. “And call me Rick.”

“Hello, Rick,” the doctor said, waving off the man’s blunder.

“My son here tells me that you put up quite a fight to save me. I appreciate that, doc. I really do. I hope you don’t blame me too much for dying on you.”

There was a mischievous twinkle behind the man’s translucent eyes.

“Not at all,” the doctor said. “I’m just glad that you’re reunited with your family.”

“We all are,” chimed in Mr. Flemming, speaking on behalf of his family. “We’re glad to have you back, Pops.”

The doctor politely congratulated the family and said goodbye, walking away from the excited Flemmings, who he imagined would be there conversing the remainder of the night, as if their deceased family member had only just returned from a short trip. ***

As the doctor walked the rest of the way home, his head spun, and he pondered the sight he had just witnessed. Merriment and death, two things, which before had no place in the presence of one another, now intermingling like lifelong partners.

The sun had finally set, but night did not carry with it the overwhelming darkness that it used to. It never became fully dark, as the dead, like floating lamps, illuminated the streets and the sidewalks, casting a pale blue glow on the areas in which they lingered. Alone in the solitude of night, without their loved ones to keep them company, they wandered.

The Flemming family was happy, or so it seemed, and wasn’t that all that mattered now, that families were reunited once more? The universe, tired of doing nothing but taking, had decided to give back for once.

Surely, the doctor thought, as he opened the little, quaint gateway in front of his humble home, this is better. He said it multiple times to himself, first in his head and then out loud to the cool night. This is better.

It must be. It has to be. He muttered these words, as if uttering a prayer, as he drew from his pocket a shining set of keys, inserting one into the lock and then pushing the door open. The face of young Joey was, momen-

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tarily, called to his mind, smiling and laughing, staring longingly at the cake which he could never consume, his glittering friends and family surrounding him. A dozen more faces cluttered his head, all smiling, all content simply to be back, all nodding their heads at him knowingly, respectfully.

“Honey, I’m home,” he cried into a dark, cold house.

From the hallway, a pale, blue glow shone, growing brighter as it neared him. He braced himself, as if preparing to be struck by an enormous wave.

His wife floated into the room, weightlessly. She gave him a thin-lipped smile and said, airily, “Oh, hello, Charles.”

In the shining yellow orbs of her eyes, the doctor could feel the contempt, and in her greeting, he could hear the bitterness.

He had tried to save her, as he had all the others.

He had clung to her until the very last moment, and only when she had given him permission, the assurance that he could let her go, did he consent. But it had all been a façade. He knew that now. She had never been ready to die. Who is? And now, her life, if that is what it could be called, was a blinding testament to his betrayal, to his failure. The marriage vows had spoken of what to do in sickness and in health, but never had they mentioned anything regarding what came after.

“I’m sorry, Lenore” he said in a whisper, for it was all his clenching throat allowed him as he felt the tears begin to well behind his eyes. “I tried. I truly did.”

She said nothing as she whisked past him and out of the house which they had shared, which they still shared. The hair on his arms rose as if a draft had just slipped through the room. This chill went much deeper, piercing his heart, freezing every fiber of his being.

This is better, he assured himself. It must be. It has to be.

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by Sarah Vann Painting 6” x 8”

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50

by Davis Lisk My friend was born in somber gardens fair Upon the snow capped hills to the cold dark tide.

The rougher things of life, to fret and care Her head was turning grey before she died.

Her part was short and poorly played, she came And went in one eye’s blink, so swiftly, hark She was a friend unto the end, the same Was she from first we met, then all grew dark; The blood in flowing rivers falling from Her torn and battered temple, thrust into A sea of shattered glass and rocks, a hum Around her head still ringing out unto The fading mem’ries of the shock that stole The hapless life she lived. What was the goal?

by Tori Cantrell Drawing 18” x 24” 51

Sea of Red

by Christian Bullard

Together they formed a sea of red whose waves clamored and roared, and anyone without a cap on head was swept back onto shore.

In the center of this fervent tide, one man stood above the rest: He whom they had chosen guide in this time of great unrest.

A man who left behind a kingdom of gold to travel roads of dirt, so he could thank the gracious souls who entrusted him with earth.

For while many saw a fool boisterous and loud, they had seen a patriot, courageous and proud.

He was their mouthpiece, their hero, and their unlikely moral guide.

Because for years they lived without peace, given zero, and were left out to dry.

As he continued, their joyous screams grew stronger and stronger, for they loved to hear him talk.

The zealous streams grew longer and longer for to him did millions flock.

And only he could calm the seas of red, the voice for the forgotten, a true leader among men.

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by Justin Keck Digital Photography

*

by Jordan Hurley Woodcut Print 8” x 8”

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“We’re in Greece, not Russia.”

“Well, if I were Russian, that would be my motherland, but since I’m Greek, this is my motherland.

America is your motherland—”

by Josh Springs

“For the hundredth time, no, it’s not. I’m Canadian—”

This had to have been about the thousandth time

“That’s just America with a French hat,” he said, Ryan and Stephanie sat in the café and the twelfth time laughing at his own stupid joke. Stephanie would admit the pair had an argument. the first couple of times he told it it was funny, but at

“Come on,” Ryan said. “Do you really think the this point, she was over it. diamond is the perfect expression of love?” A typical

“Then why don’t you go find yourself a nice Greek man, he flailed his hands about, almost knocking American girl instead of one with a French hat?” She over Stephanie’s coffee. But she was well experienced in stood up to leave, but he grabbed her hand softly. protecting beverages from her windmill-handed fiancé.

“Come on, darling,” he said, rubbing his thumb

“Yes, it is an expression of love,” she said. “Why against the back of her hand. But his tone was wrong. wouldn’t it be?” She held her coffee closer to her, wrists He wasn’t convincing her to stay but himself to keep on the table but elbows brushing the soft back of the holding on. booth. She felt eyes on her and Ryan, but she was used

She sighed and sat back down. to it: marrying Ryan would mean becoming a spectacle.

He continued, “Now, I’m not saying rings aren’t

“It is an exploitation of the underpaid and unimportant, but they just aren’t the most important.” represented workers in the diamond industry,” he said.

“What is the most important?”

“Did you not watch the video I sent you?”

“Freedom and equality for all people.”

“Which one? The first? Third? Tenth?”

Her gaze fell as she shook her head, a small grin

“The last one.” He sipped his frappé, irritated at stretching across her face. “Your idealism is showing the barista for not making it to his specifications and at again.”

Stephanie for forcing this conversation.

“It is not!” His pride hurt by the remark, he tried

She rolled her eyes. No amount of education to formulate a way to get back at her. could get Ryan to be more discerning with his intake of

“Yes, it is. You’re talking like a Communist again. news.

You said you’d given up the ideals of revolution.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t automatically trust some

“I have—but only those of revolution. I still random guy on YouTube with a British accent to tell me await for the glorious rise of equality through the vote.” about the injustices of the diamond industry.”

“See? Idealism.”

The hurricane of hands ramped up as Ryan be “Well one of us has to hope in something—” came more heated. “And why does it matter if you get a

“What does that even mean?” diamond or not? It’s such an American idea—”

“I want to see all the laborers of the mines paid

“And I happen to like the idea—” equally. I want to see them receive the help they deserve

“But that’s not how we do things here in the for such dangerous work. I want the slaves released. Nomotherland—”

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body should have to suffer in bondage over a stone.”

As soon as he said it, he knew the words were wrong. Stephanie’s eyes shone with the light of revelation. Not a bright light like the sun coming over the horizon at dawn, but more of the sun creeping out from behind a cloud. Light that was always there but somewhat hidden.

“You’re right,” she said.

She stood to leave, but he grabbed her again, a little more forcibly.

“What am I right about?” he asked. For once while he was talking, his hands stayed still, their mission focused on keeping her here.

“This engagement. You’re right.”

He felt her pulse in her wrist. She wasn’t calm, but he didn’t feel the anger that should be there, either.

“What about this engagement?”

“No man should have to be a slave to a rock.

That’s what you said.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, instead, hers settled on their hands. She knew this was the right decision. Maybe.

“I didn’t mean . . .” Ryan couldn’t finish his sentence. The proud Greek man that he was, his word meant everything, and he wasn’t sure if he could finish the sentence without lying.

Stephanie’s gaze fell to his grip on her. Still not hard but not soft, either.

“Do we want to do this?”

Neither was sure of who said it.

Ryan dropped her hand, and Stephanie walked out of the café, both unsure whether to be heartbroken or relieved.

by Caleb Pepper Film Photography 8” x 10” 55

*

by Will Paul McDonald Digital Photography 56

by Christian Bullard Surging forward without appraisal, to discharge words with disregard for impulses sent through the cable, that connected both their hearts.

Pulsing in shock from the currents that proved fatal to their fusion, leaving both in powerless torment, in aftershock of electrocution.

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by Josue Lopez

First, let me clear things up. I never asked to be the President of the United States of America, or POTUS, as we have taken to abbreviating the title. It was a fluke, an error, a glorious misunderstanding, and proof that there is a God out there with a sick sense of humor. I am the most politically indifferent human being one might ever have the pleasure of meeting. The person who holds a place in the Oval Office interests me about as much as the mating habits of stick insects.

I cannot think back on any occasion in particular where I, Theodore Bogard, ever felt the direct influence of said POTUS on my own life. Mysteriously, I have awoken on the days following an election to find my life roughly the same as it has always been, save for the fact that half of the population has woken up in a rather pleasant mood and the other half has now taken to screaming and rioting through the streets. No matter what walk of life a person may be going through, there is one undeniable truth: we are all sore losers.

Because there has been much confusion over the recent election and how it came to be that a man with no particular influence and no higher education, who frequents bars on the weekends and who has been divorced twice, was chosen to be the leader of the country, allow me to state—and I say this with all the diplomacy that only a president can possess – that I have no clue!

How my unassuming, insignificant name came to be entered in the polls, not once, not twice, but enough times to completely wipe away the competition, will, I believe, forever remain one of those unknowable mysteries right up there with the disappearance of Amelia Earhart and

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the whereabouts of the Loch Ness Monster, our dear Nessie.

As the people who actually know something are running about trying to rectify this embarrassment, I have had much time to think. I was rushed here so quickly by the Secret Service, who were as flabbergasted as the rest of the population, that I did not get the opportunity to say goodbye to my family, and for that I am sorry. So darling, if you get your hands on this, look at what a big shot daddy is now! This will make all your little friends grovel, won’t it?

The bodyguards are two tall, sturdy gentlemen, washed in black, with set jawlines. They still have not spoken a single word to me. They have, so far, been completely unresponsive to my attempts at conversation.

They remain hidden underneath their dark shades, and immobile, like smartly dressed statues.

This room is infused with the knowledge and prominence of all the important men who have sat and thought here, as I myself am doing now. It is, in a word, humbling. Compelled by boredom and curiosity, I examine the desk at which I am seated and see the scribblings of the presidents before me, etched into the wood when paper was absent or would not suffice. Silly markings, almost humorous. “Bill and Monica 4 Ever,” is on one of the legs, and on the bottom of one drawer is the word “Oops,” signed Nixon in scraggly letters. Using my nails, I add my own inscription on the desk for the next person. I thought the guards would stop my vandalism, but they remained motionless. I do not even know their names, so I have taken to calling the one on the left Dick

and the one on the right Harry. Harry has a particularly mean look about him, but it might just be the shades making him seem that way.

I feel important. It is as if having spent time in this prestigious room, I have somehow absorbed some of the dignity and nobility left behind. Perhaps I am going mad with anticipation and nervousness, but I am almost certain that the eagle emblem emblazoned on the carpet has taken to winking at me. Its winks encourage me, as if suggesting that I might become someone who matters yet.

The walls in this office are so very white. They provide the perfect canvas for my imaginative pictures. I see people climbing over one another to shake my hand, handing me their babies to kiss. Above all, I see my daughter, and for the first time in her life, she is genuinely proud of her daddy! I have become someone she can respect.

Through the humongous window that overlooks the neatly trimmed lawn, I have seen the sun reach its zenith and then disappear entirely behind a distant hill.

I have been here for quite some time, and my stomach has begun to notify me that I have not fed it recently.

I ask Dick, the guard with the slightly more agreeable grimace, if there might be any food in the vicinity, but he is still competing, it would seem, for first place as the world’s most uninteresting mime. Harry, however, is giving him a run for his money.

I must say that the prospect of presidency has grown on me. I refuse to believe that I am the worst possible candidate for the job simply on the grounds that I have never held a government position in all my fifty-four years of life, or on the grounds that I once referred to this great country as the “home of the corrupt and the land of the fat and lazy.” In my defense, I had just finished my third malt and some slickly dressed lawyer-type had just told me, as he slapped a twenty on the

counter and hailed for another round, that he was living the American dream. He, coincidentally, happened to be fat and lazy, and he was a lawyer, so probably corrupt.

He took a colossal swig of beer, and I swear I heard his liver scream. Then, belching and sending a wave of hot, foul air my way, he asked me what I thought of this oh-so-great country of ours. I looked him up and down, and then I told him the truth.

Not long after that, the gentleman conked out on the counter, drooling. That was the day my second wife left me and my daughter realized her father would never amount to anything.

Yet here I am, POTUS!

I understand that an argument can be made against my presidency based on my lack of knowledge and experience. In this room, where my thoughts are free to roam, guided by the brooding silence of the two gentlemen behind me and the friendly eyes of George Washington staring approvingly from his captivity on the wall, I have pondered what it means to uphold the status of president. What I have decided is that as long as the country has not become a nuclear wasteland, a desolate desert of radiation and scrap metal, by the end of one’s presidency, there can be no complaint.

Some foolish dreamers may hold the belief that the goal of the president of the United States is to see to the nation’s general happiness and unity. This is absolute baloney. Wherever there are happy people who have good intentions and mean well, it is generally assumed that people who want the exact opposite are also present. Striving for world peace is akin to trying to teach a camel how to waltz; a fantastic endeavor, but ultimately fruitless.

I promised myself I wouldn’t make this political. I lied. I also promised myself that I wouldn’t get attached to this room and this chair, and this carpet and this window. That was also a lie. I like the way all these

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things make me feel. I’ve even grown quite fond of Dick and Harry, although I’ve completely forgotten which one is which. I think they’re warming up to me.

The ginormous, heavy-looking oak door has started to vibrate, sending an echoing knocking sound bouncing all over this rather empty room. I believe there may be someone on the other side of it trying very hard to enter.

The person on the other side is shouting something, a name. It’s my name.

“Theodore Bogard! Theodore Bogard, let us in immediately!”

I’ve told whoever it is that I only respond to Mr. President now, and that I’m not quite ready to give up my position just yet.

I think I upset whoever it was that was knocking because they’ve now begun to pound on the door, commanding that I let them in. I’ve told them that I would very much like to see my daughter. Once they bring her here, I will open the door.

After all, I’m a family man first and foremost, and the President of the United States should be with his family.

Dick and Harry have not said anything, but I know they see things my way.

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Evelyn

by Abigail Moore Mixed Media 47.75” x 47.75”

by John Bell Ceramic 9.5” x 3.5”

by Will Paul McDonald Digital Photography

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The

by Angelina Branche It is calling, calling, calling to me; I hear it echo: the song of the sea.

Like the song of a siren it whispers a call As the tide rushes in and the waves rise and fall.

A haunting melody rides on the breeze.

The wind smites the surf, spraying salt from the seas.

The tune of the sea can be carefree and light; A welcoming call while the sun shines bright.

It’s a happy beckoning: cheerful and warm, But it lasts not forever; it’s the eye of the storm.

The sea has a story mysteriously sad.

It moans with the secrets and cares it has had.

by Tori Cantrell Painting 14” x 18” 64

It cries in the night, rough and swollen with pain, And the sky joins in with forlornly cold rain.

Waves tumble and toss in a dangerous way, Foaming dark as the night and sending up spray.

The wind’s angry chorus joins in with the sea, But still it is calling, calling to me.

When at last, the gale has been fully spent, The skies break free as the clouds are rent.

A feeling of peace now settles in place; The gentle, lapping waves invite like a smiling face.

Secrets of sadness, joy, and pain whisper to me.

I hear it calling, calling, calling: the song of the sea.

by Hannah Miller

She loves this island view, sitting on the steps of her coastal cottage and enjoying the serenity of the moment. A ray of hazy summer light bounces off the yard's flowers as she watches them dance in the breeze. Their whimsical green stems bend back and forth in the saline air, the marigold petals a cheerful sight in contrast to her lonely musings.

A touch of gold, reflecting from the flowers, paints her house on top of this hill like the sun, with the waves in backdrop.

Her old mahogany rocking chair creaks in rhythm with the waves which have become as familiar as her own heartbeat.

Smoke gray, far-off clouds match her eyes, eyes that have seen this view for over eighty years but have never grown exhausted of the pleasure it brings. She sighs peacefully. A storm approaches in the distance, but she will not be here when it comes.

by Karley Conklin Digital Photography 65

by Angelina Branche He jumped on a cloud and peered down at me; He laughed with his eyes and the whole of his face.

In the sky of blue and the clouds made of lace, He flew back and forth, with the glee of the free.

As we sailed the skies, not a word did he say, But he showed me the beauty of a spirit set free And I saw he lived life as it’s meant to be.

He was carefree and happy: more with each day.

He kicked at the clouds and away they went; He raced with the breeze that flew in from the south.

Sunlight made dimples on each side of his mouth As he floated wherever the clouds were sent.

At last he let go, and my feet hit the ground.

I watched him retreat through the clouds to the sky; He looked back and waved to say goodbye, And since that day, he’s never been found.

I watched him above, with my feet on the land.

He beckoned I follow him into the sky; I knew not how to tell him I couldn’t fly.

He dove from his cloud and took hold of my hand.

I still watch the sky to see if he’s there, But he’s on a new breeze to a different place.

He’s jumping the clouds with a smile on his face, Floating free with the breeze and dancing on air.

All Fenced In*

by Justin Keck Digital Photography 66

supper soon. Turning toward the center of the room, I wonder which of the two refrigerators mirroring each other across the kitchen holds the ice cream for dessert later tonight. My grandmother opens a glowing oven in the back left corner of the room and inserts a pan of golden butter rolls. Before the oven door thumps shut, I catch wafts of sweet, peppery turkey. Hearing a sudby Joseph Bulsa den “sssshhhh,” I glance to the right and see my mother washing lettuce in the sink on the back wall. I hop on a

Reflecting on my childhood consistently rewards stool at the island in the center of the kitchen and grab me with nostalgia as I recall the easily forgotten higha brown wooden top off the counter. The marble counlights of yesteryear. Time with family has always includtertop is slippery from the ink of Granddaddy’s scattered ed delicious eats and cheery laughs. Supper at my grand- newspapers, but I pinch the top’s rough wood grain parents’ house stands out as my quintessential childhood and send it whirling across the slick surface toward the memory of food, family, and fun. I spent many relaxed appetizer plate. Following my escapades with the top, I Saturday evenings enjoying delectable meals at 409 stockpile a sufficient supply of cheese and crackers off Blacks Drive with my grandparents, parents, and sibthe appetizer plate into my grubby ten-year-old hands lings. until another “Save-room-for-supper!” reminder from

Sitting next to my little sister in the back of our Mom stops me. My siblings and I then trek downstairs blue Chrysler minivan, my ten-year-old frame fidgets to entertain ourselves until summoned to eat. with excitement as I put down my book and look out

Once we hear the call, “Supper’s ready,” we race the window late on a Saturday afternoon. I know we are back upstairs and tumble into the kitchen to fill our almost there, and soon, my dad turns the van into my plates. The smells make my mouth water. As I traverse grandparents’ driveway. We roll between a forest of pines the buffet, fresh scents greet me in succession. A golden, and a field of daisies, pulling to a stop beside my grandbuttery smell directs my nose to the doughy rolls, and parents’ carport. As quickly as my siblings and I can a brown sugar aroma lingers in the air as I plop sweet open the van’s sliding door, our feet pound past the rose potato pie onto my dish. “Make sure you get some bushes and through the carport to the house. Granny vegetables,” encourages Granny, so I use the wooden has thrown open the glass storm door, and we bustle tongs to excavate a sufficient serving of salad from the into the kitchen. “Hello, hello!” I hear Granddaddy’s bowl. Then, I push my way through the heavy wooden cheery greeting as he shakes my father’s hand. “Oh my swinging door into the dining room. The door’s rocking goodness, you made it!” exclaims Granny as she gives out “bwinh, bwinh” heralds an impending feast, and Grandhugs and receives a tray of food from my mom. daddy’s resonating “Amen!” commences the feasting. No

Greetings and hugs aside, I glance around the matter the occasion, the white tablecloth always lends kitchen. To the right just inside the storm door, slatted an air of importance to the meal along with the cloth sliding doors creak sideways to reveal my grandmother’s napkins and Hadley dishes. The crystal chandelier supbottomless snack pantry. I pry open these doors, but plements the feel of an important banquet, yet its soft, my mom quickly shoos me away since we will be eating

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warm light conveys comfort. All eight of us fit generously at the long table with Granddaddy at the head and me at his right hand. While eating, I listen to him and my dad discuss the new circuit court judge and other legal matters. Tracking their lawyer conversation becomes dull eventually, so I shift my focus to eavesdrop on Granny and my mom discussing homeschooling and happenings with family friends. To butter my rolls, I use one of Granny’s unique butter knives. Tonight’s knife features a ceramic duck handle, and I butter myself nearly as much as the roll. My smooth cotton napkin proves inadequate at prying the grease from my fingers, but I finish my plate quickly so that I can beat my siblings to more of the savory bread. Granny reminds me to save room for dessert, and while waiting on the adults to finish clearing their plates, I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows in the wall behind me to see dusk enveloping the house.

The dining room is as full as my stomach and heart are,

by Emilie Gilbert Ceramic 12” x 5” 68

and the dim outside world now seems quite unimportant in my ten-year-old mind.

After wolfing down vanilla bean ice cream with a rich, gooey brownie and appealing unsuccessfully for seconds, I know we are about to depart. My belly and eyelids are both heavy, but I coax Granddaddy into one more go at the rubber ring game on the kitchen wall.

We toss thin, three-inch rubber rings at numbered hooks until I hear my dad say, “Alright, guys, let’s pack it up!”

Leaving feels like the reverse of arriving. Excitement and energy now drain rather than grow, and my feet which had raced into the house now drag themselves out to the van. As we leave, I watch the house’s lights flicker and fade through the pines. A subdivision has since replaced my grandparents’ home, so I cannot return for another meal. However, the indelible images of supper at 409 Blacks Drive remain.

Someday

by Ariana Strickland Someday a Son, a Sacrificial Lamb, a Fisher of Men, an Ultimate Servant, a Shepherd, will return to earth.

Will these that return be separate or one?

Will everything stand still or fall to its

knees in worship?

Someday the one with a golden heart will return, maybe He will command me to follow, if He does I will, I will just follow.

This Son, This Sacrificial Lamb, This Fisher of Men, This Ultimate Servant, This Shepherd, He is each of these, yet He is all at the same moment.

He is also much, much more.

He is my Savior who does so much for me and for others He loves as well.

My Savior is Jesus Christ whom I love with my whole heart

and entire being.

by Karley Conklin Digital Photography

As I follow, I will see the most picturesque scene: a lion lying with a lamb.

I’ll immediately know total peace

has finally come and though time may fly, I will always be with The Son, The Sacrificial Lamb, The Fisher of Men, The Ultimate Servant, The Shepherd.

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by Sarah Hope Carlson

Adam Fitzwilliams tasted words.

When Dorothy Baker was seven years old, Adam and his family moved into the red house across the street. Being a curious little girl with a knack for adventures, it was inevitable that soon after the appearance of the new boy their paths would cross.

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, and having just come from church, her favourite part of the week, Dorothy was feeling quite generous when she passed Adam on her way home. He was sitting in the yard of the red house, making an elaborate castle for the colony of ants that lived there. He spoiled them with intricate stick bridges, colossal mud towers, and a dark little moat running round the fortress.

“Hey!” Dorothy called to the muddy boy with her very best Sunday smile.

Adam’s eyes shot up and stopped at her grinning face. His nose scrunched, and his mouth pulled tightly around itself like one of Mrs. Baker’s drawstring bags.

He spat into the grass in disgust and ran inside, casting a most injured look at his greeter.

Confused and feeling a little less sunny than before, Dorothy Baker’s gait back home was only half-skip and half-step that Sunday.

A few weeks later, her parents came home with an unusual discovery: the Fitzwilliams boy had sin-“S”tease-ya. “What does that mean?” Dorothy butted in.

“Well, he can taste words,” her mother

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explained. “Every word that he hears, reads, or says tastes like something to him.”

That was the day Dorothy Baker decided Adam Fitzwilliams sounded like an adventure.

She spent the majority of that summer making lists: one for all the words that tasted bad to Adam and another for the words he loved. Hey to Adam tasted like mud sliding down his throat, but Baker tasted like warm peach cobbler, and he loved Dorothy for it. Unfortunately, Dorothy did not taste as good. It felt like cobwebs stuck on the roof of his mouth, so, instead, he called her Dotty because Dotty tasted like gumdrops. Bruce tasted like the wrinkly peels of rotten plums, but telephone tasted like salted peanuts.

On every birthday and every Christmas, Dotty would write Adam letters with his favourite words. They usually went something like this:

Dear Adam,

The telephone pumpkin shoe powder.

Christmas and bow up by.

Like, Dotty.

They were absolute gibberish to the untrained mouth, but to Adam, they were feasts. Dotty took as much care in arranging her letters as Mrs. Baker did in arranging their family meals, for even two good flavours, if paired incorrectly, could turn into a bad one.

She always signed her letters Like, Dotty.

For some reason, Adam couldn’t stomach the word love. It tasted of seared slug, but he adored the word like. It was his favourite so far. It tasted like chocolate frosting on chocolate cake. He was one of the few people in this world who didn’t mind the absurd number of times like appeared pointlessly in others’ sentences.

Dotty could never say she loved Adam. Instead, if she

wanted him to know she cared about him, she would say:

“Adam, I like like like you.”

For quite a while, they went on like this, the two happiest 7-year-olds the street with the red house had ever seen. However, 7-year-olds have this funny tendency to grow up and turn into 8-year-olds and then 9-yearolds. Dotty and Adam were no exception. A few weeks after her ninth birthday, the Bakers sat Dotty down in the sitting room and crossed their legs in a very business-like manner.

“Dorothy, dear,” Mrs. Baker began in a higher pitch than usual. She delicately lifted a gloved fist and cleared her throat. “Your father and I are glad you’ve become such good friends with the Fitzwilliams boy.

However, we think . . . ” The gloved hand now nudged the forearm of a disinterested Mr. Baker who was looking quite intently at something out the window.

“Ah, yes. Your mother thinks . . . ” A fierce glare was delivered to Mr. Baker. “We think that now that you are nine years old and quite the little lady, I might add,” He winked at his darling Dotty. “It might be time to improve your . . . vocabulary, broaden your dictional horizons, so to speak.”

Unfortunately, in Dotty’s grand quest to learn how to speak Adam’s language, her mother felt she had forgotten how to speak everyone else’s. Sometimes, she wouldn’t call things their proper names. She referred to ice cream as glaze which was alright for a while because Mrs. Baker could simply tell the neighbours that that was her 7-year-old’s attempt to say the French word for ice cream, glâce, but two years is an awful long time for a little girl to be learning the same French word. Dotty had also gotten into the awkward habit of “editing” their acquaintances’ names. For example, whenever they went to the post office and met the mailman there, Mr. Bruce, she would call him Mr. Brace instead which, accom-

panied with her sweet smile and batting eyelashes, was endearing for a time but had worn quite thin as of late.

“Maybe, it would be better if you took some time off from your friendship with Adam,” Mrs. Baker brought the conversation to a dramatic end.

Dotty scrunched her mouth up like Adam had when she first met him. She didn’t taste words as well as he did, but she could taste quite distinctly that despite her mother’s inclusion of words like maybe and would, this was not a suggestion.

Fall came and went in a flurry of fiery leaves, and Dotty tried her best to please her parents with a brand new batch of friends and to please herself by sneaking over to the red house as often as she could. But Dotty had a good conscience, and it wouldn’t let her rest long in her deception. It made itself known in a very ugly way on a brisk November afternoon when Adam and Dotty were playing behind the Fitzwilliams’s house.

They had been playing Knights of the Round Table using tree branches as an alternative to the much sharper weapons used in King Arthur’s court. Adam, playing Arthur, had just discovered that Dotty, Sir Lancelot, had stolen his Guinevere. In the original story, Guinevere was Arthur’s queen, but Dotty and Adam were not yet at the age where they understood concepts of matrimony and true love. They thought it was rather silly to get that upset over a woman, and that is how they decided their Guinevere would be a black labrador puppy instead.

“How could you?” Arthur yelled, pointing a stick accusingly at Lancelot’s stricken face.

“I couldn’t help it. She likes me more than you. I feed her the expensive dog food.” Dotty fought her case with passion. Arthur glared at his betrayer and lunged forward, his sword scraping Lancelot’s arm.

“But she was mine first!” was Adam’s rebuttal.

Dotty hissed as the sting of blood began to trickle down

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her forearm.

“You’ll pay for that,” Sir Lancelot muttered and fixed his angry gaze on the king’s proud face.

“Excuse me? I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. Do you dare mumble before your sovereign?” Adam taunted.

Dotty paused, took a deep breath, and looked him square in the eye as she said, “Guinevere loves me more.”

Adam’s face contorted, and he coughed hard.

“Dotty! Why would you use that word? You know I hate that word.”

“Well, maybe, I enjoy it! I’m tired of using words that only you like. What about me? What about the words I like? Maybe, I want to be called Dorothy!

Maybe, I want to be able to talk like a normal person!”

Before she knew what she was saying, Dotty spat out every single word she had so carefully trained herself not to say. All of the words he hated, hey and Dorothy and Bruce and love, she threw them at him without mercy.

He winced, grimaced, and flinched, but he didn’t leave.

When Dotty had run through the list to her satisfaction, she looked at Adam’s face. She had been yelling at it for so long that she forgot to look at it. It was pale and pained. His right hand was clenched at his stomach.

The knuckles were white. Still, he stood his ground. He stood it so well and patiently that it shamed Dotty and she could no longer stand hers. With salty tears trickling down her ruddy face, she turned from the boy who tasted words and ran away from the red house.

Sneaking around had worn her out. Making her tongue walk on eggshells had worn her patience thin.

Still, Dotty was embarrassed. She had made that list to protect Adam, but she had used it to hurt him.

She ran full throttle through the front door of her house, running right into Mr. Baker’s stomach. He lowered his arms to his daughter’s shoulders to ask her what the matter was, but before he could get the words

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out, Dotty wrapped her arms around his waist, buried her face in his shirt, and gave full reign to her anguish.

Mr. Baker picked his princess up, sat her down, still in his arms, on the loveseat in the hallway, and waited.

A good fifteen minutes later, she ran out of tears and lifted her eyes to her father’s. “Adam and I had a fight,” she whimpered.

“Adam? The Fitzwilliams boy? I thought you weren’t playing with him anymore.” Mr. Baker inquired gently of his distressed damsel.

“No, no. I told you I wasn’t, but I lied.” Dotty broke into a fresh wave of tears.

It was in this fashion, making very slow progress between bouts of sobs and wails, that Dotty told her father everything.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Mr. Baker toyed with the ribbon in her hair. “Why didn’t you tell me? Your mother was concerned about your vocabulary, but we only wanted what was best for you. Oh, my little Dotty.” He pulled her closer to him. “You never need to lie to me; do you understand? I will always fight for you. Now, how are we going to make things right with Adam?”

Dotty wasn’t ready for that yet. She told her father she needed more time and buried her face in his safe arms once more.

Dotty spent the next week alone. She couldn’t stomach her new friends, and she felt queasy every time she thought about Adam. She knew she had been wrong, but she didn’t know how to make it right.

On the 8th day of solitude, a sunny Sunday afternoon, Adam Fitzwilliams rang the Bakers’ doorbell.

Mr. Baker opened the door to a little man holding a bouquet of yellow dandelions.

“Is Dotty at home?” Adam asked timidly.

“Why, yes, she is, Mr. Fitzwilliams. She’s on the back porch,” Mr. Baker replied, opening the door wide and pointing the way.

Adam found Dotty sitting on a big blue swing looking much gloomier than was acceptable for a day like that.

“Ahem.” He announced himself to her. She started a bit with joy and surprise before slouching back to her original posture. Adam walked gingerly over to the swing and sat at the other end of it. They swung quietly for a few minutes, listening to the rhythmic creaking of the seat’s chains.

Finally, Adam planted his feet firmly on the deck, causing the swing to sway wildly and then come to a halt. “Dotty?” She looked up at him. He swallowed hard. “I . . . love you.” His bright smile almost distracted her from the little wince he had spent hours practicing to hide.

Dotty swung herself around to face him. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” They said it at the same time; then burst out laughing. “I shouldn’t have said those words!” Dotty exclaimed remorsefully. “I should have asked you what words you liked!” Adam countered.

They went on this way for quite a while, each trying to find more to rebuke in themselves than the other. When they had had their fill of this curious competition, they let out a hearty laugh.

“Oh! I almost forgot! These are for you.” Adam pointed to the dandelions in his lap. “Mother said I should present them to you like this.” He slid onto one knee in front of Dotty.

With a giggle, she took the bouquet from him, jumped up, and patted him on each shoulder with the nosegay. As the yellow petals fell softly on his shirt, she pronounced him Sir Percival, knight of the Round Table.

Adam chuckled at his new identity, and they both ran into the yard to scavenge for their new blades.

That night, after besting Dotty at Knights of the Round Table, Adam bade goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Baker and headed back to the red house across the street.

However, he was stopped halfway through his journey by the voice of a little lady.

“Adam!” Dotty called as she ran up to him.

“You’ve told me what so many words taste like to you.

Can I tell you what one word tastes like to me?”

“What word?” Adam inquired.

“Your name. Can I tell you what Adam tastes like to me?” Without waiting for a reply, Dotty cupped her hand around his ear and whispered into it.

Adam grinned, gave her a big hug, and resumed his journey.

by Linnea Stevens Ceramic 7” x 5” x 3”

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by Tori Cantrell Painting 12” x 24”

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by Dante Wilcox I am that I am, and not of much to speak One flame and one cistern, as many others As many others and yet stranger than the dew Yet mountains for valleys and holes for hills You look on me and see my flesh – my eyes Behold! A new creature, coated in grace Blood-dipped and water-cleansed, fastened and sure A wildfire enshrouded in mercy By the old ways of this one true Wind No death nor enemy shall hold me down I am Esther, Ezekiel, Ezra The sun rises afore me, and I walk Straight-backed and lustrous as an heir Walking Heaven and Earth with seeds and coils But I am, and we are, and you are, and HE IS And HE IS ALL, while I am not much more Than gracious flesh, breathing water and ash As each day dips into the eternities of mercy.

by Justin Keck Digital Photography 76

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by Karley Conklin The lion roared.

The earth trembled and birds fled to the sky.

The Fall of trees shook the air, as the lion devoured his prey.

He roamed on in fading light, paws trampling thorns And dust. The evening came.

Fear spread through the savannah, Till all was filled with darkness.

by Audrey Salaita Ceramic 10� x 4�

Then the earth turned.

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As the sun rose, light stretched, Softening the sky from black to gray.

When song gently slipped into the air, Yellow grass gave way to verdant ground.

New life, great trees sprouted from tiny seeds.

Birds came and settled in the branches.

On the hill, a Lamb breathed Its first breath.

by Sarah Hope Carlson

I’m wearing a skirt. Why?

I chastised myself, pulling the fleece blanket more snugly around my shoulders. You would think that after five years of bonfires in the back forty I would know that Michigan nights, even in summer, are cold.

Somehow, I always end up wearing the wrong clothes for adventures.

Lighting the trail with his phone’s flashlight, Connor, our self-appointed and group-approved Fire King, led us over roots and under branches to collect more wood for the wet, cold fire pit. I shuddered, catching a glimpse of Calvin’s iconic khaki cargo shorts.

How does he do that? He lives in the tenth coldest state of the country and wears shorts year round.

We followed the bubble of artificial light into the neighbouring clearing. In the middle of it, the elephant tree where I took my senior pictures still stood, tall and proud. I remembered sitting on the ridge of its wooden nose and then trying to transpose my ballet moves to the flat soil that stretched before it. Last year, the middle school boys from my church’s youth group had pitched their tent in this clearing. This was where Ethan found the branch for his seven-foot lance that somehow ended up speared through the girls’ tent later that week. My co-leader had to have a serious talk with him and explain, “Girls don’t appreciate it when you impale their tents.”

On the other side of the trail, the woods were flooded with fireflies. Turning on and off in some mys-

terious Morse code, hundreds of lightning bugs had sprinkled themselves among the trees. I don’t think there has ever been a moment when Calvin, Connor, and I were together and so quiet. A sacred silence set in, and every word became a whisper. This is how people came up with fairies.

Even my thoughts seemed to murmur, scared of breaking the moment. Taking a few steps into the colony of fireflies, I surveyed the trees around me.

A couple of months before, a small assembly of us had scrunched onto the couch of an Airbnb in Minneapolis.

“I’ve got some money set aside,” Lauren, the rebel with fiery hair, announced. “I say we buy the back forty and set up a commune of tree houses.”

Laughter rippled down the sofa. Knowing smiles and conspiratorial nods were exchanged as we all savored the dream of living together.

These trees look like they could hold our kingdom.

I took two more steps, wanting so badly to be in the thick of it. The fireflies floated in and out of the trees in muted magic, and it looked like the stars had come unstuck from the sticky sky and fallen down to twinkle among us. How I wished they’d take me back with them.

Eventually, Calvin, Connor, and the cold dragged me back down the path to the fire pit. As the Fire King practiced his trade, I wandered toward the benches flanking the pit and ran my hand along the jagged wood. My finger found its way to the names carved into that old, tired timber. A few generations before ours, reckless youngsters had trekked out here to brand these forest pews.

My glance flitted across the path into the shadows where I knew Calvin’s pavilion stood, smooth and new. He had built it a few years prior as his Eagle Scout project. On the last Tuesday before we left for college (the Last Tuesday, for short), we had vandalised it with

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our initials. I couldn’t see it, but I knew that deep in the darkness there was a middle post bearing the intertwined letters: ART, MCR, and SHC.

Roaring into life, the fire began to drag more of the campsite into its light. The first thing to come into view was the pit surrounding it. Cut into the dark, crusty metal ring was the silhouette of a bear family. I chuckled to myself, remembering how many years it took me to realize that it was the shadow of Papa Bear with a fish in his mouth and not the depiction of some prehistoric mammoth with otherworldly fangs. Over the years, this family of hibernators had witnessed many a reunion of our little clan.

It had seen Calvin hide behind that pine tree, barely visible in the flickering light. Blending himself into the shadows, he gripped the wood axe with both hands and waited upwards of ten minutes in an attempt to spook one of us.

Last summer, the family of bears had eavesdropped on the middle school bonfire where more than wood was burned. The rank odor of melting plastic had suddenly greeted every camper around the pit.

“What’s that smell?” Ethan had asked. “Oh! My shoe’s smoking.” He took his feet off the fire pit's rim and scooted a couple of paces back. A few minutes later, we found him holding the soles of his navy sneakers up to his face for examination.

“Now my shoe feels like a pancake that’s too squishy,” he had announced, causing us all to erupt in laughter and earning him a coveted spot in the trip’s quote book.

A shiver worked its way up my spine as I adjusted to this newfound heat. I turned my thoughts to how many different sounds this soil had absorbed. Voices, in tune and not, singing songs from Taylor Swift to John Newton to The Head and the Heart, this dirt had soaked up a lot.

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“Toot, toot, toot.” A pink fox sticker on his forearm and a wooden train whistle in his hands, Josiah had sat under the pavilion on the Last Tuesday, drawing laughter from our reluctant lips. On the grainy picnic table, a big, black time capsule, looking more like a bomb than a box, had waited, ready to devour our treasures for the next five years. Leah had offered it badly-lit pictures from middle school campfires. I had sacrificed letters with loopy, girly handwriting and Bible verses hedged in with curlicues. Angie’s contribution had been the train whistle that Josiah had so graciously taken upon himself to test.

The cackling and cracking of the fire brought me back to Connor and Calvin. Snapping like Rice Crispies in milk, embers flew into the sky with gleeful energy.

Now that it’s been sold, it’ll only be a few years until this is all gone.

My mind bulldozed the trees and erased the pavilion. Wrapping everything in orange tape, I deleted the fire, the friends, and the fireflies. In their place, cookie-cutter houses rose, white with gray shingles and a large, glass window on each door.

Panic rose inside my chest as my imagination continued to work. The door of the closest house creaked open. A little boy with a terrible haircut waltzed out of the house as if he were the king of the world. A smug smile on his freckled face, he high-fived the wooden post of the front porch and ran down the steps to his next adventure. ***

A few hours later, I decided to call it a night and took my leave of Connor and Calvin. Clumsily, I rushed back over the roots, around the bends, and up the hill to my car. With no flashlight and no shoes, the leaving was harder than the coming had been. Still, I wasn’t scared.

My woods had never bitten me.

Cresting the final hill, floodlights from the parking lot cut through the night and dipped the top of the tall grass in silver paint. Last summer, I had stood here, watching Chloe rise like the sun over the then-golden weeds as she rode on the roof of Lane’s car. If you need to pack up a campsite, you might as well do it with style.

I ran down the last bit of hill to my vehicle. My body shook with cold as I shuffled through my backpack to the keys. Fumbling, my hand unlocked the car, turned the key in the ignition, and dialed up the heat.

One last cold chill ran through me before I pulled the gear shift into drive and left.

These woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.1

1 Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Linnea Stevens Linocut Print 14” x 12.5”

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by Madison Morehead Digital Photography

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by Shaun Stokes Little voices run around from mouths that just started

to grow teeth, and banging windows, clanging symbols of what

we once thought was anger but in fact was loving mothers, smiling with teeth in all the right places, and one of these days my teeth will be in full and i will be able to open windows and close them as hard or as gently as i want to.

My voice will be deeper, my voice will be my voice andmyvoice will carry meaning with deep-toned sympathy for all the lil’ little-teethed people. and my voice will fade; my voice will be replaced, and white gunk will fill my gums as i take my dentures out and shake them at the little no-teethed tiny-voiced creatures i will call my own.

to say everything i wanted it to when time was abun—

dant and love was resplendent; yet neither is true now, and

dentures and gum-cream will be seen for me in the blink of an eye, and life loses color and tones, and the ground will cover my lungs — my voice trapped till the resurrection.

Then I’ll sing. And Perfect

Tones become from me A Symphony; love comes easy, then; I wane, yet my

soul, ready, yearns for years of rest — my voice will then be refreshed, and I’ll sing.

Silence now — you’re speaking.

I want my voice to change, to reverberate with feeling: to shake hearts and warm bones — i want my voice to win over, to spurn away, to make lovers love to love and haters learn to love, and maybe, one day, my voice will get a chance

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Index Bell, John—Mathematics, Senior 61 Branche, Angelina—Christian Studies, Junior 64, 66 Bullard, Christian—Criminal Justice, Junior 14, 17, 40, 52, 57 Bulsa, Joseph—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 36, 67-68 Byler, Megan—English, Senior 16 Cantrell, Tori—Studio Art, Senior 6-7, 11, 30, 35, 50-51, 64, 74-75 Carlson, Sarah Hope—Elementary Education, Junior 8-9, 31-32, 70-73, 79-81 Carvajal, Dawn—Psychology, Junior 29-30 Conklin, Karley—Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior 15, 16, 34-35, 65, 69, 78 Edgington, Jori—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 25-26 Gilbert, Emilie—Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior 10, 68 Hurley, Jordan—Studio Art, Junior 9, 12, 23, 26, 33, 40, 53 Keck, Justin—Music, Senior 17, 37, 42-43, 52, 66, 76-77 Lisk, Davis—English, Freshman 11, 51 Lopez, Josue—English, Junior 44-48, 58-60 Lowe, Nathan—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 22 McDonald, Will Paul—Studio Art, Senior 56-57,61 Miller, Hannah—Elementary Education, Senior 65 Moore, Abigail—Studio Art, Freshman 60 Morehead, Madison—Business Administration, Junior 82 Pepper, Caleb—Studio Art, Sophomore 14, 55 Prine, Celia--Interdisciplinary Studies, Sophomore 6, 21, 37 Pruitt, Walker—Business Administration, Sophomore 41 Purvis, Micah—English, Junior 7 Salaita, Audrey—Mathematics, Senior 78 Springs, Josh—Alumnus 54-55 Stevens, Linnea—Studio Art, Senior 28, 73, 81 Stokes, Shaun—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 27, 36, 83 Strickland, Ariana—Elementary Education, Sophomore 69 Thomas, Michael—Digital Media and Worship Studies, Freshman 10 Vann, Sarah—Studio Art, Sophomore 49 Webb, Kristen—Studio Art, Junior 20, 21, 24 Wilcox, Dante—Alumnus 13, 24, 76 Willingham, Caleb—Christian Studies, Senior 28 Wright, Josiah—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 33

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Staff and Credits

Managing Editor Karley Conklin Art Editor Sarah Augusta Vann Poetry Editor Josiah Wright

Faculty Advisers Sarah Bailey (Literature) Hayley Douglas De Gonzรกlez (Art) Faculty/Professional Consultants Dr. Cheryl Collier Dr. Deborah DeCiantis

Prose Editor Sarah Hope Carlson The Mountain Laurel Staff Christian Bullard Hannah Bridges Dawn Carvajal Zackery Gilbert Macy Hamacher Joshua Jordan Davis Lisk Josue Lopez Justin Oates Micah Purvis Walker Pruitt Linnea Stevens

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Judges’ Biographies Literature Fiction | Deborah DeCiantis has loved literature since she could hold a book. Recently retired from North Greenville University, as Associate Professor of English, she taught freshman composition, sophomore literature survey courses, and upper level literature courses. She has enjoyed teaching English and French as well as student journalism, creative writing, and library skills, to children and college students since 1973, at K-12 Christian schools in South Carolina and Pennsylvania as well as in colleges and universities. DeCiantis served as faculty adviser to The Mountain Laurel for eleven years. She has served as a poetry judge in the NCTE Norman Mailer College Poetry Writing Contest. Currently, DeCiantis does freelance writing and editing, including paid critiques of student publications for a national organization. She also serves as Director of Write2Ignite Conference.

Non-fiction | Abby Moore Keith is an editor and writer based in Greenville, South Carolina. Though she’s lived in a wide variety of spaces, the South is home and where she pulls creative inspiration. Abby has a bachelor’s degree in journalism and global studies from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and her writing has been published in various regional and national publications. She currently works as an editor for TOWN Magazine.

Poetry | Matthew Huff teaches English and Creative Writing at Landmark Christian School in Fairburn, GA. He graduated from NGU in 2009 with a B.A. in English and from Belmont University with an M.A. in English Literature. He is the author of a book of poetry titled The Cardinal Turns the Corner, and when he is not hosting tea parties with his wife and three daughters, he can be found blogging at edenbabel.com.

Art Traditonal Media | Allison Broome was born and raised in Tyler, Texas. She attended the University of Texas at Tyler, where she studied studio art and received a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in 2009. She continued her education at the University of South Carolina, graduating with a Master of Fine Arts degree in 2012. During her time there, she focused on painting and printmaking before transitioning to sculptural fiber arts in her final year. Her current work explores reoccurring themes surrounding memory and the passage of time by using a variety of media. She currently resides in Huntington, West Virginia and is part of the Adjunct Faculty at Marshall University, Shawnee State University and Mountwest Community & Technical College.

Photography | Nancy Devon Carsten is owner and photographer of NDC Photography. Her studio is located in downtown Lake City, SC. Devon has been photographing professionally since college, but her passion for photography started when she was a little girl going through old photo albums of her family on the living room floor.

Her mission as a photographer is to preserve special moments in people’s lives in a tangible photograph that can be cherished for generations. Her other interests include spending time with her family and friends, listening to good music, and traveling.

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TML 2018 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.

Literature

Art

Poetry 1st: The Roots Remember by Shaun Stokes 2nd: The Swan by Micah Purvis 3rd: Waiting by the Shore to Say Hello by Josiah Wright Honorable Mention: Faces Golden by Davis Lisk

Photography 1st: Bound by Jordan Hurley 2nd: Sight by Will Paul McDonald 3rd: All Fenced In by Justin Keck Honorable Mentions: One of Many Soldiers by Justin Keck Old Friends by Caleb Pepper Milky Way Over Clemson by Justin Keck

Fiction 1st: When the Dead Linger by Josue Lopez 2nd: Kingdom of Discarded Words by Karley Conklin 3rd: The Point by Nathan Lowe Honorable Mentions: Voices in Your Head by Dawn Carvajal Synesthetic Love Letters by Sarah Hope Carlson Non-Fiction 1st: Surface Treader by Karley Conklin 2nd: Daycare Bomb Disposal by Sarah Hope Carlson 3rd: Promises to Keep by Sarah Hope Carlson

Traditional Media 1st: Coming Through the Fog by Tori Cantrell 2nd: All the Gear, All the Time by Jordan Hurley 3rd: Nesting Bowls by Emilie Gilbert Honorable Mentions: An Inheritance by Jordan Hurley Ship on the Sea by Tori Cantrell Circular Contemplation by Kristen Webb

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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.

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 from 1 to 3. Pieces marked 1 portrayed the best qualities of each genre, while pieces marked 2 or 3 exhibited varying degrees of improvement needed.

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

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The Mountain Laurel 2018 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 (Video, 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)

Colophon: Fonts: Sacramento 36 pt, 80 pt; Avenir 24 pt, 36 pt; Adobe Garamond Pro 10 pt, 12 pt, 14 pt Pages: 8.5 by 8.5 88 pages: 48 4/4 80# matte, 40 1/1 80# matte Cover Stock: 100# Sterling ultra matte Binding: Perfect Bind and trim Cover: 1/1 + flood matte varnish overlay with spot gloss Cover art: Digital Design by Sarah Vann Adobe Illustrator CC Divider Page Art: Silenced - Digital Design by Sarah Vann Spoken - Digital Design by Sarah Vann Shouted - Digital Design by Sarah Vann Sung - Digital Design by Sarah Vann Printing: Jostens Commercial Printing, Clarksville, TN Copyright 2018 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.

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