The Mountain Laurel, Volume 55, The Golden Journey

Th e Mo u n t a i n L a u r e l

Th e G o l d e n Jo u r n e y

Vo l u m e 5 5

The Mountain Laurel Volume 55

Letter from the Editors Kintsugi “tr. Golden Journey” A Japanese art form The human experience is not characterized by absolute or lasting perfection. Rather, wholeness often requires the careful mending of countless fractures which continually surface. In our healed state, the scars and furrows bring about deeper learning and denote richer growth. For this year’s edition of The Mountain Laurel, we sought to capture this fundamental truth, exploring it through connections with the Japanese artform of Kintsugi, the process of transforming a work through a period of brokenness.

In the first stage of Kintsugi, a ceramic piece is Formed; its state is complete but raw, fragile, and innocent. These vessels represent the purity and contentment of beginnings, where everything has come together to create something new and beautiful.

The second stage sees the piece Broken, shattered, and seemingly beyond repair. These moments hold pain, strife, and separation. In this fractured state, the pot is damaged to the point that it is unable to fulfill its intended purpose.

Finally, the vessel is Restored, its seams mended with gold. It has been redeemed beyond the shadow of its former glory to a richness and splendor which surpass all that the initial piece was and could ever have been.

The pot—once whole, then broken, and finally restored—has more value after experiencing brokenness. Points which were once considered weak and fragile now reflect completion and strength. Each stage that the vessel travels through is an essential part of the redeeming story.

From innocent beginnings through trying times to final restoration, we all walk the path of a Golden Journey.

Karley Conklin, Managing Editor Sarah Hope Carlson, Prose Editor Justin Oates, Poetry Editor Kristen Webb, Art Editor

The Mountain Laurel

North Greenville University 2019 P.O. Box 1892 7801 N. Tigerville Rd. Tigerville, SC 29688 (864) 977-7000 www.ngu.edu ngumountainlaurel.wordpress.com

Table of contents Formed Art Teapot, Jordan Hurley 6 *Victorious, Tori Cantrell 8 Coil Pot, Caroline Capell 11 Not All Who Wonder Are Lost (I),

Madian A. Estela Castro 12-13 Learning Curve, Katie Casamassa 17 Black Balsam, Jordan Hurley 20 Distance, Katie Casamassa 23 *Continuum, Kristen Webb 25 Fiction *The Art of Caretaking: Chapter One,

Sarah Hope Carlson He Married His Love, Davis Lisk A Walk in the Woods, Emily Edmonds Non-Fiction I Am White Hall, Hannah Bridges *A Mid-Day Excursion, Joshua T. Jordan My Father’s Love, Sarah Hope Carlson

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14-17 18-19 24-25 6 9 21

Poetry Seven Men, JT Cantrell 7 A Dialogue Between My Past and Future Self, Micah Purvis 10 Today, You Loved Him, Sarah Hope Carlson 11 Coffee, Dawn Marie Carvajal 20 In the Walls, Davis Lisk 22 Hide and Seek, Josue Lopez 23

Broken Art *Serendipitous Sunday, Ashlynn Mullis 29 Colorado Calling, Karley Conklin 30 Vital, Ashlynn Mullis 32 Values, Ashlynn Mullis 34 A Home Forgotten, Karley Conklin 38-39 Not All Who Wonder Are Lost (II),

Madian A. Estela Castro 41 Pickens, Jordan Hurley 43 Introspection, Jordan Hurley 44 Unexpected Voyage, Adelaide Dickens 48 Black Balsam II, Jordan Hurley

50-51 Insecurity, Katie Casamassa 52 *Soigné, Ariel Norris 55 The Altai Tea Set: Inspired by Central Asia,

Emilie Gilbert 58-59 Fiction The Man and His Lady, Davis Lisk *Silhouette, Karley Conklin Elysium, Josue Lopez *Dear Charlie: A Year After Death,

Micah Purvis

Restored Art Aesthete, Ariel Norris 63 Not All Who Wonder Are Lost (III),

Madian A. Estela Castro 64 Telluride Trails, Karley Conklin 66 Yujo Tea Set, Kristen Webb 68-69 Soothe, Tori Cantrell 71 River Walk, Karley Conklin 72 *Oscar and the Bee, Audrey Knapp 74 *“Drive In, Fly Out!”, Jordan Hurley 77 True Colors, Sarah Johnston 80 Not All Who Wonder Are Lost (IV),

Madian A. Estela Castro 81 Non-Fiction *Pronto?, Sarah Hope Carlson Ode to 207, Karley Conklin

70-71 75-76

31-32 35-38 45-48

Poetry Resurgence, Justin Oates 62 In Search of Lost Time, Sarah Childs 64 Hurricane, Jada Barr 65 56-57 The River, JT Cantrell 66 Set of Seasonal Haiku, Karley Conklin 67 Non-Fiction Naiad, Davis Lisk 73 Postcards at the Harbor, Jessie Taylors 40 Wings, Karissa Garzony 74 *Rain Man, Jonah Losh 78 Poetry *The Land’s Lifeblood, Karley Conklin 79 Fields of Dust, Samuel Heard 28 *Swing, Jonah Losh 80 Sacrifices for Zeus, Dawn Marie Carvajal 30 Miscellaneous *A Crime of Understatement, Karley Conklin 33 Index 82 I Am a Ship, Jada Barr 42 Staff and Credits 83 A Thought on Abortion, Karissa Garzony 43 Judging Results 84 Obscurity, Karissa Garzony 44 Judges’ Biographies 85 Leprosy, Taylor Elliot 49 Mission Statement 86 Look Down, Cora Cunningham 53 Selection Process 87 Another Drag of Chai, Sarah Hope Carlson 54 Advertisement 88 Tash Rabat, Samuel Heard 58

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formed (Adj) (N. Being) “process of becoming�; a state in which one has recently been completed.

I am White Hall

by Hannah Bridges

Light filters into me. Not sharp, blinding ten o’clock rays of sunlight, but soft, gray, seven o’clock light that just barely makes a dent in the darkness that settled over me yesterday evening. The birds begin to chirp.

Some land on the bricks and chairs that grace my exterior; others flutter past toward an unknown destination.

Soon, the day will begin. Feet will patter down creaky hallways. Keys will jingle as tired, yet dedicated professors enter their offices to grab materials before class. The smell of coffee will waft into the lobby. Conversation will reverberate through every office.

They weren’t always offices. At one time, they were dorm rooms—rooms where girls laughed, cried, slept, and lived. The secrets I heard and the dreams I dreamed along with the girls have long faded, but the memories will live on forever.

Teapot Jordan Hurley Ceramic 8” x 7” x 5”

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Memories. So many memories within my walls.

Professors meeting to discuss ideas, problems, and hopes for their students; students crowding into my lobby to create countless editions of The Mountain Laurel; friends laughing as they try to alleviate their stress even the slightest bit; boys and girls falling in love as they sit or stand close together on my porch or on the stairs behind me, the sun setting behind the surrounding mountains and cares dissipating like sugar in steaming tea.

I am composed of memories. Memories that have been made, that are being made, and that will be made in the many years to come.

As the seven o’clock light shifts to the sheer brilliance of eight o’clock and then nine o’clock light, the sun’s rays pierce the chairs: empty now, but soon to be filled.

I am White Hall, and it’s the people within who make me who I am.

Seven Men

by JT Cantrell

The ocean Glistens in the moonlight; I admire its beauty.

Then The command is given, Ringing out across the beach.

I race forward with my six companions, The rubbery bottom of the boat rubbing and scraping My shaven head.

We reach the arctic waters; The raft drops into the waves with a tremendous SPLASH. Each man scrambles for his oar; We cram into the small boat.

Our officer in charge calls cadence.

Seven men use what strength they have, Pushing, heaving;

Seven men strain against the rough current.

Cold seeping into our bones, We reach the buoy.

Seven men with renewed vigor Turn the craft and head back Again; The boat plows through wave after wave.

Suddenly The craft lurches to a stop; Seven men crawl out We lift the boat from the frigid water.

Seven men running forward Only to find seven other men Already there.

Now we do it all Again.

A tribute to Navy SEALs and the challenging BUD/S training course they must complete.

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Victorious* Tori Cantrell Oil Painting 16” x 20”

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A Mid-Day Excursion*

by Joshua T. Jordan

My family and I have enjoyed the solitude and calm of Jekyll Island for ten years. Before we started taking our vacations at the island, our trips consisted of long ten-hour drives to Florida to see family. When we discovered our new secret haven, we knew that we had found our own delightful escape from our hectic lives in South Carolina. We may not have agreed on many things, but we always conceded our fondness for Jekyll Island.

Jekyll Island is a small barrier island off the coast of Georgia with an interesting history. In the late 1800s, millionaires such as Vanderbilt and Astor built pristine mansions on the western side of the land. Although I love the mansions, my favorite parts of the island are the trails that interlace the interior. As I ride through the dark, quiet woods, I feel as if I am suddenly transported to the center of the Amazon rainforest. I hear nothing but the sounds of the jungle: frogs croaking, cicadas buzzing, and birds chirping. The branches above me layer themselves, creating a luscious ceiling of deciduous and tropical leaves. Light filters in above my head through the tops of the trees to reveal only trace amounts of blue sky. As I move deeper into the forest, I feel that I am the first to see the beautiful bowels of the island. No one else has seen these trees, nor can they appreciate them like I do.

My family and I bring our bikes to the island every year. Even though we do not always ride together, we still cherish those languid hours gliding beneath the trees beside those old mansions. When we were younger, we always rode in a group. I think that we were more of a family unit back then. Now, however, we ride alone or in pairs. Our paths have drifted further from one another

as my sister and I have grown older and more mature in our thinking. I can remember when I began to become myself deep in the forest. Without the constant input of information from my ever-present parents, I began to think more for myself. I began to feel less alone when I was by myself and more like an individual trying to figure out life on his own. Solitude became my closest friend in the middle of that labyrinth of an island.

I cannot convey my love for riding around Jekyll Island alone without describing the ocean. As a boy, I was never fond of trips to the beach. Getting sunburnt and almost drowning are the only two memories that I can conjure of the seaside. Nevertheless, I now love the sea from the shore. I do not need to dive into it to appreciate its beauty and grandeur. Simply stopping my bike alongside the plain of water as I emerge from the open mouth of the forest is more than enough of a window into its mystique. Endless whitecaps rolling below a balmy sun and the escaping horizon line are so beautiful that it almost hurts. The infinity of the sea is so tantalizing; the never-ending placid surface of possibilities captivates my humble gaze.

Jekyll Island has been a place of deep transformation for me. Nowhere else have I felt both familiar and a stranger to myself. I think this is because of the memories that I have with my family juxtaposed with the memories of riding through the island alone. The island felt familiar, and yet at the same time, bitter and distant.

This combination is a clear symbol of my identity, my desire to break away from my family, while at the same time, my love of those memories that we shared all those years ago.

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A Dialogue Between My Past and Future Self

by Micah Purvis

I’m floating downhill from Mars, a slave to my heart and mind as seen in my unwritten memoirs insightfully written by the blind looking for a visitor's dream like a whisper in the night, whispering meaning without theme, expecting us to see without light, and the Earth stands still in photographs in which remain the weight of our enduring will to find the humor within our pain.

So, tell me something that is true; nothing ever changes, but you.

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today, you loved him

by Sarah Hope Carlson

note to self: today, you loved him. and the sloppy list of his grin, how the left side always leads, tugging the stubborn rest along. and the sweet way he always pleads to steal just a few minutes more when you’re standing at the door. note to self: today, he loved you. stared at you in gazes of soft blue for a few good hours, I suspect. he spilled over with giddy laughs at the poor jokes that you collect and pressed you deep into his chest as if, out of all things, he held the best.

Coil Pot

Caroline Capell Ceramic 12” x 13” x 11”

note to self: prop this on your shelf, tuck it inside your favourite book.

I haven’t met tomorrow yet, all I know is you fit in the crook between his shoulder and his neck. keep this letter as a memory that today you spent in honest love with him.

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Not All Who Wonder are Lost (I) Madian A. Estela Castro Digital Photography

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Cornwall, England, at Sunset

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The Art of Caretaking: Chapter One*

by Sarah Hope Carlson

A name dropped. Printed in a small, clean font on the 3- by 2-inch card, it shot down the chute, blew through the tunnel, and glided across the aisle until it bumped the lead ball that rolled into the mallet that rang the bell at Secretary #5’s desk. With a squeal, her chair swivelled around so her practiced hands could pick up the card.

Throughout the office, bells chimed, cards clapped together, and desk chairs squeaked in an infinite canon, broken up only by the uneven click of Secretary #5’s standard issue kitten heels beating on the tile floor.

Showing more strength than she seemed capable of, she hoisted a door open.

“Mr. McCoy?” her singsong voice called into the room. A few moments later, she slipped in and shut the door, causing the sign outside, “Harold McCoy: Director of Caretaking,” to rattle against the glass window.

Six and a half minutes later, she emerged once more.

Instead of heading back to her desk to process more names, she set off down the hall and into the elevator to the upper level where the caretakers sat at their desks awaiting their next assignments.

Ding! The kitten heels clipped and clopped out of the elevator shaft and made their way past fifty-two good caretakers before taking a swift left and stopping right before a small, grey door. The sign on it had once read “Janitor” but had since been crossed out with a Sharpie, and underneath it sat the amendment: “Patrick Doyle.”

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Secretary #5 knocked in three loud, even raps.

The door groaned open and a pasty, somewhat alarmed face popped out.

“Mr. Doyle? Mr. McCoy would like to see you in his office, if you please,” Secretary #5 sang into the little closet.

Patrick Doyle swallowed and pulled his tie just a bit tighter around his throat.

“Y-yes, of course.” Startled, he bobbed his head up and down and pulled himself to his feet.

Secretary #5 could wait no longer. She took a right, breezed past the fifty-two desks, descended in the elevator with a ding!, and held the office door open for Patrick. Once he had persuaded himself to cross the threshold, she promptly shut the door behind him and headed back to her desk.

“Have a seat, Mr. Doyle!” called the booming, bouncing voice of Mr. McCoy.

Patrick obeyed and carefully sat down on an old, daisy-printed armchair in front of the desk.

“How have you been, dear chap?” the director asked as he offered a big, pudgy hand. Patrick took it gingerly, without answering. “Ah, yes. What a silly question to ask! Of course, you must be happy. After all, you’ve one of the most esteemed positions in the community.” Mr. McCoy sighed happily and perhaps a little longingly. “Why, I remember when I first started.”

As the director launched into his memoirs, Patrick took in his surroundings. The office was darker than he would have expected, but not unhappily so. The rest of the Agency was bright and big with floor-length windows that filtered in a pristine sort of light. Mr. McCoy’s office was rather yellow. Boasting no windows, it was lit exclusively by lamps, giving off a warm, homey glow into the room. The walls were crowded with frames: pictures, diplomas, and letters, all indicating a happy and full life that wasn’t afraid to look back upon itself.

On the desk, right in front of the director’s wildly swinging arms, was a flip calendar that read February 21st.

Mr. McCoy must not be a very organized man, Patrick observed, as it was most definitely February 22nd.

“Ah, anyway.” The director finished his narrative as he had begun: with a sigh of wistful contentment. “It does no good to dwell on the past. We’ve gathered to talk about the present, your present!” He waved his arm in Patrick’s direction, trying to draw him in.

“Sir?” Patrick offered.

“You’ve been here for . . . ” Mr. McCoy flipped open a folder on his desk and scanned it for the information. “My! Eighteen months! And we haven’t sent you out on an assignment yet.”

“N-no, sir.” Patrick cracked the knuckles on his left hand.

“Well, you see, the fact is . . . we haven’t been able to find something that quite, ahem, fits with your skill set yet . . .” He coughed embarrassedly.

“I know, sir.”

Pop! went the knuckles on Patrick’s right hand.

“But no worries! We’ve just had another commission come in, and I think it would be absolutely perfect for you, Mr. Doyle!”

Patrick swallowed hard and shifted in the floral armchair. Over the past thirty seconds, the springs had begun to dig quite forcefully into his back.

“The assignment is to a Miss Peconia. I think you’ll find her a lovely lady. She’s not exactly what you would call new to our system, but, well, we’ve been called to her aid, and we shall answer, shan’t we?” Mr. McCoy stretched the card out to Patrick in an inviting manner.

Patrick didn’t move.

“Ahem. Sir,” he began timidly, “are you sure this

is an assignment for me? Perhaps Miss Finch upstairs or Mrs. Roberts would be more suited?”

The director blinked and withdrew the card. He held it in both hands and stared at it for a moment.

“Ah!” His face lit up once more. “I see what your concern is, and it’s quite natural.” He leaned close to Patrick in a conspiratorial way. “When you were at the Academy, no doubt you learned that it is contrary to the Agency’s protocol to hire a male caretaker for a female client—and vice versa, of course—to avoid unnecessary entanglements. Quite right, dear chap, but Miss Peconia is a very special client, and, well, I think you two will get on very nicely.” He paused for a moment. “Yes, yes!

Quite well indeed! Alright. Now, where did I put those papers?”

Mr. McCoy began rummaging violently around his desk, flinging papers and knocking frames over as he went. Patrick winced with every object dropped.

“You must, of course, sign a Pledge of Care before you begin,” the director continued, speaking sloppily and distractedly as one does when talking mid-bite at a meal. “Ah. There we are.” He unearthed a slightly mangled sheet of paper from under some heavyset binders. “You may take Miss Peconia’s card and look her up in the registry before you leave today and just be sure to drop the Pledge of Care off here tomorrow morning, signed, before you head to her house.”

Patrick rose and reluctantly took the document and card that were now being shoved in his face.

Mr. McCoy offered an additional, exuberant “Splendid!” in Patrick’s general direction before ushering him out of the room.

Alone at last, Patrick let his shoulders sag. He blinked.

Lifting the newly acquired documents within eyesight, he read the name so neatly stamped on the commission card, Miss Kirrily Peconia. A heavy sigh 17

worked its way through Patrick’s body.

Before leaving that day, he went to the registry and pulled out her file. ***

The door swung open to a happy sight: a golden retriever with a periwinkle collar, wagging his tail at the sight of his master.

Patrick’s smile started as a reluctant one but quickly grew into a full-sized grin.

“Hello, Flapjacks.” He knelt down to pet the soft, bubbly dog. “How was your day?”

Flapjacks rammed his slobbery face into Patrick, knocking him off balance.

“That bad, huh?” Patrick laughed and righted himself. Burying his face into the twitchy, golden dog, he took a deep, full breath, stretching all the nooks and crannies in his tight lungs.

He exhaled.

Bee-beep. Bee-beep. The watch on Patrick’s left wrist went off and was promptly silenced as he got to his feet.

Work shoes came off and were traded for sheepskin slippers. Padding softly across the linoleum, Patrick headed into the kitchen where the cupboard opened and the dog food came out with a heavy thud.

Hearing the soft rustle of the chips inside, Flapjacks half-cantered, half-slid across the room, just in time to watch the daily cascade of kibble deposit itself into his bowl.

“Good boy.” On his way to the bedroom, Patrick patted the head of the happily munching dog.

His knees cracked as he knelt down beside the neatly made bed. Rummaging around to feel their way, Patrick’s hands tugged a brown, dusty box out and onto the wool rug.

The lid came off with a shuffle and a sigh, and Patrick pulled out the first folder.

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Patrick R. Doyle, 12th grade.

Quality Time: CActs of Service: C Consolation Gifts: CWords of Encouragement: D Physical Comfort: D Final comments: While Mr. Doyle is fairly equal to physical labour and following instructions, he struggles with the—for lack of a better word—fluency required for effective caretaking. In the Words of Encouragement portion of the exam, Mr. Doyle proved himself to have a good memory of the scripts studied throughout his years at the Academy but no sense of how to select one and apply it to the scenario given. In Physical Comfort, Mr. Doyle was asked to pat a crying dummy on the shoulder. When students are successful, the mannequin responds by quieting down and leaning its head on their shoulders. When Mr. Doyle attempted it, the dummy began screaming. It took the proctors 10 minutes to reset the mannequin and 30 to coax Mr. Doyle back into the exam room.

“But Ds get degrees, don’t they, boy?” Patrick whispered to Flapjacks who had by this time worked his way into the room and laid himself down beside his master. Reaching further into the box, Patrick pulled out a single piece of paper marked “Diploma!” in large, scintillating letters. On it, a scrawly, barely legible hand explained to Patrick just how thrilled the Academy was to pass him on to the Agency where he would, no doubt, be sent out on many assignments to care for the struggling people in the community. “We’re proud of you!” had been glued on at the bottom in shiny sticker letters.

“Well, that’s not very likely.”

The average caretaker received his first assignment two weeks into his employment at the Agency. It had taken Patrick a year and a half.

The Monday after his graduation, the Agency had witnessed a fresh batch of bright-eyed and bushytailed young scholars turn up for their first day of work.

With hair neatly parted down the middle, pristine glasses pushed all the way up their noses, and freshly printed copies of The Agency’s Protocol for Caretaking tucked under their arms, a dozen exuberant rookies had walked through the revolving door. The thirteenth newly-minted caretaker was quite different.

Drawn tight and closed off, he kept his face pinned to the floor. The thirteenth caretaker was, of course, Patrick, and he stayed much the same throughout the following eighteen months of solitude and routine at the Agency.

Miss Kirrily Peconia. Patrick’s right foot began to tap nervously against the rug as he read the name again.

We’ve been called to her aid, and we shall answer, shan’t we? Even in his memory, Mr. McCoy’s voice bounced and boomed too loudly, causing Patrick’s foot to pick up the pace.

Taking note of the now quite rapid movement, Flapjacks placed his golden head in his master’s lap. Distracted for a moment, Patrick lowered his hand to pet the dog in slow, smooth strokes. The tapping subsided.

Flapjacks happily lifted his head to look his owner in the face.

Shan’t we? The soft, steady eyes asked.

Tapping once more but with considerably less panic than before, Patrick pulled back his left sleeve and added a reminder on his watch for February 23rd.

Miss Kirrily Peconia. 356 Virgil Street. 8:00 a.m.

Learning Curve

Katie Casamassa Digital Photography

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He Married His Love

by Davis Lisk

Father Wood donned his lace-fringed surplice and took up a beautifully carved wooden crucifix. He turned down the hall that led away from his study and glided past the dining room and entryway into the cool, refreshing breezes of springtime.

He passed by the pale-yellow blossoms congregating in Lady Lawthorne’s bushes and smiled, but only briefly as his face soon became pained and stolid.

“Well, Edward, I—I’m—,” Mary had said, “I’m flattered, but I really couldn’t.”

“I don’t understand,” he had replied. “We’ve known each other for quite some time now and—”

“It’s not that we haven’t, Edward, but I can’t marry you.”

“But that’s absurd. I did it all right, didn’t I? On one knee and with your favourite flowers. I would’ve gotten a ring, but you know how down on my luck I am just now.

It’s not like I’m trying to be miserly or anything.”

“And I believe you, but—”

“Oh, there’s someone else. I guess I should’ve known all along; I never was much good for anyone, I suppose.”

“Don’t say that. I’m sure someone will—”

“Well, that doesn’t mean much coming from you.”

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Father Wood hadn’t seen her for many a year after that painful exchange. He turned back to the present as he approached the spritely dancing elms of Middoway Park, which lay nuzzled between the white-walled library and the weather-beaten parochial house. He looked over the grounds and beheld, in the very centre of it, the maypole that was no longer there, smiling upon a midsummer’s eve, clothed in a livery of gay-coloured streamers.

He had walked to and fro along the outside edge of the festivities as he picked at his unyielding Eton collar and his itch-ridden woolen stockings. He had been looking down for most of the time until that fateful moment when an underling of the Norse Fates had begun to pipe out a brisk and merry tune upon a flute. His eyes jolted upward, and it was then he had first seen Mary, all dressed up in Easter egg blue. What an awkward-looking girl, he had thought to himself.

Today, the old Middoway schoolhouse sat quite contentedly to the Father’s left, silently enjoying its retirement. He couldn’t help but dash over to the window and peer inside. He looked down at the desk closest to the window and smiled. On the leg, in runic script, lay the inscription Sir Edward Wood, esq. Just as soon as he had let out a little laugh, he sighed.

He and the members of the old guard had sat with their legs propped up on the windowsill as they contemplated the complexities of life (such as there had existed at that youthful age). While they had been thus in deep ponderance, Mary Crawford had come storming into the room. She had been quite upset at them, albeit rather unintelligible, leaving the boys to nod consent whilst wondering all the time what it was they were in trouble for. Young Eddie Wood had stopped trying to listen to her about thirty seconds in and had begun to stare at her eyes. What a lovely shade of grey, he had thought to himself. It was then that he felt reasonably certain that he was falling in love with her.

He was almost to the church. He took a detour by the ash grove before finally entering the sanctuary.

The place was filled to the brim as the young groom awaited the entrance of his bride. The procession went forward seamlessly and with a staggeringly angelic elegance. Father Wood spoke with unquestioned eloquence as he read off the marriage vows.

“Arnold Holsten Morraine,” he said, “do you hereby take Mary Sybil Crawford as your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health, to love and to cherish, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” affirmed Morraine.

“And do you, Mary Sybil Crawford, hereby take Arnold Holsten Morraine as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health, to love and to cherish, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” she said.

“Then I pronounce you husband and wife.”

A rapturous roar of applause ensued as the happy couple marched out. In all the tumult, nobody noticed that Father Wood had slipped out the back door. He made his way over to the rose garden and, sitting in the grass, broke down in sobs.

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Coffee

by Dawn Marie Carvajal Half asleep feet shuffle in aimlessly, Water fills the celestial coffee pot, Chocolate brown grounds by a spoon are allotted.

A spoonful spills to the floor! This marks its tragedy.

Another, another, so painfully This tragedy would make any distraught.

How can sleep be torn from eyes so bloodshot Without the black elixir so holy?

The sleepy feet walk through the garage door.

Each broom’s handle is long like cold harpoons; Sweeping up the wasted dreams on the floor.

“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.”1 The tedious toil begins once more, And so go the morning coffee mistunes.

1 “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot

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Black Balsam

Jordan Hurley Salt Print 9” x 6.5”

My Father’s Love

by Sarah Hope Carlson

I felt sure the rocks were going to swallow me.

With their white, sharp teeth, they were going to reach up and snap shut around my bare feet, dragging me down to what must’ve been sand underneath. Why someone chose to put a mountain range of boulders between the beach and the pier is beyond me. Didn’t he know some of us were going to try to climb them? This time, navigating the boulders was unusually difficult, and I had to try several different paths before making it across. Luckily for me, my friend Connor was having an equally challenging time, so we battled the white teeth together.

Finally besting the boulder range, we looked around for the rest of our group; but one quick glance at the sun, and I was spellbound. It had already begun its dramatic descent into the water. We gravitated toward it, setting ourselves down onto the furthest edge of the pier to watch our Father compose one more sunset. I slung my feet into the breeze and leaned against the cool railing.

Gosh, it was beautiful. Connor’s phone buzzed, announcing another text from his mom.

“Does your mom really stay up every night until you’re back?” I asked. Not having lived with my parents in a good while, the concept was foreign to me.

“Yep. She knows she doesn’t have to, but she does anyway. I think it’s her way of making sure I’m safe.” He shrugged his shoulders.

We both turned back to the blazing sky. Tattered clouds stretched over the remainder of blue, like torn lace hanging off the hem of a dress, and the sun painted the lower half of the sky in the blush of a maiden’s cheek.

Still facing the horizon, I asked Connor about his dad.

“My dad’s my best friend. We talk about everything. He’s helped me through so much,” he said.

“That’s really cool. I like that about your relationship with him.”

A boat called Wind Dancer made its way past us and back to shore. We waved at its passengers.

Parents love so differently, I thought. My mom loves me through tea bags and Jane Austen movies, but Connor’s does it through texts and late night vigils. Dad and I don’t talk about everything, but we talk about a lot and laugh about the rest. ***

“Oh, my gosh. Look at it!” Connor exclaimed, pointing his phone’s camera at the sunset again.

It was lovely. The sun had lowered itself further toward the water and turned a fierce orange. Just then, God sent us a breeze, and a steady ripple began to make its way through Lake Michigan. A thousand more orange sunsets appeared in the waves and slowly bobbed under and past my dangling, bare feet. The people on the opposite pier faded into silhouettes cut out of a greyblue sky. Someone was walking his dog. A couple held hands, mixing their two shadows.

The wind picked up the soft, fresh smell of water and pressed it up against my nose while jostling the ends of my hair. I ran my hands along the bumps on the railing as though I were reading braille and let the coolness of the metal sink in. The sun always sets slowly until those last few seconds when it dives deep beyond the horizon. As Connor and I peered around our edge of the pier, the sun jumped into Lake Michigan with a splash of crimson and just a dash of violet.

“This sunset is for you, kid,” God seemed to whisper.

21

In the Walls

by Davis Lisk

I lie upon my bed at night Tossing, turning, peace is fleeting Dreams are painting in my brain Dark and dreary gothic lanes And as I wander twisted paths And as I walk I hear a—

Scratch, scratch, scratch I wheel my head around to see If I can spot the place from where—

Scurree, scurree, scurree

By Jove, what’s wrong with me?

I twist in circles; on and on I hear

Scratch, scurree, scratch, scratch, scurree Darkness fills my chambers. Have I slept?

I must have been—

Scratch, scratch, scratch No, no, no, that’s just my head That’s groggy from my time in bed It must—

Scurree, scurree, scurree O goodness, goodness, glory be!

Alas, by Jove, what’s wrong with me?

22

Hide and Seek

by Josue Lopez

As a child, I imagined myself a fiend At hide and seek; my disappearing act was Reminiscent of Houdini’s magic At only four years old So confident was I in my sure steps, my soft Movements, treading like one on a tightrope It had never occurred to me that I Had already been found And that my mother’s stupid bumbling about Was a lie from the start, for her eyes had not Once strayed away from me, and I never Was as far as I hoped

But she feigned cluelessness, for my sake, while calling Out my name, and pretending not to notice My giggling fits, waiting for me to Reveal myself in time, And yet, when the roles became reversed How easy she was to find.

Distance

Katie Casamassa Digital Photography 23

A Walk in the Woods

by Emily Edmonds

Jason readjusted his backpack on his shoulders.

It had been a long, tiring hike, and he wondered if he should turn back. After all, as his dad always said, “however far you go, you really have to hike twice that—once there and once back.” He looked down at Chipper, his dog and constant companion.

“What d’you say, Chip? Ready to go back?” The shepherd’s dusty-brown ears perked up at the word “go,” and she stared at Jason with an intense gaze, her head cocked to the side, tail slowly wagging. She turned as if to continue ahead on the trail and glanced back at Jason over her shoulder.

The young man sighed. “No, girl, I said go back.” Chipper’s ears twitched, and she gave him a look that said I know that, and I’m ignoring it. She kept staring at him, waiting for him to take a step forward so she could dash ahead. “You want to keep going, don’t you?”

The speed of Chipper’s tail increased until it was a sandy blur. Jason shook his head in defeat. “All right, fine. But only thirty more minutes!”

The last sentence rose in volume to carry after the dog, who had started running at the words “all right,” scattering twigs and dead leaves as she took off.

Well . . . it was a nice day, after all, Jason reasoned as he hitched up his pack and set out after his dog. The sunlight shone through the leaves, dappling the ground with shadow, and a comfortably cool breeze ruffled his hair and offset the heat of the sun. Birds chirped and sang as they flitted through the trees. Tiny creatures, squirrels or chipmunks, rustled in the fallen leaves. Yes, it was a fine day indeed. He could certainly stand to stay out here a little bit longer.

24

The boy and his dog continued on for another ten minutes, Jason striding along with his long-legged pace, Chipper running some yards ahead and then racing back to her human every two minutes to check in. Jason just had to smile at her energy and obvious joy—characteristics that had earned the shepherd-mix her name. He watched as she dashed up the next hill and halted to sniff around a particularly gnarled old oak. It must have been extremely interesting because she was still snuffling around its roots when Jason caught up with her, his breathing a little heavy from the steep climb.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and examined the tree. It seemed very old, its trunk at least three times as big around as Jason, and it appeared to be nearly dead. Its bark was such a dark brown that it looked almost burnt, and it was peeling off in places.

The litter of leaves was deep around its base, and the sharp, musty smell of moldering plant matter nearly made Jason sneeze. There was a large hole in the trunk about two feet above Jason’s head—he suspected that it was home to some small woodland creature, the scent of which had likely attracted Chipper’s attention. The last thing he needed was an angry raccoon leaping onto his head, so he snapped his fingers to get the dog’s attention.

“C’mon, Chip, let’s go. Leave the creepy old tree alone,” he said. The sandy brown dog obeyed reluctantly, casting longing glances back at the tree as she came to stand by her human’s side.

Just as Jason was about to turn away and continue up the trail, something on the ground by the old tree caught his eye. It was another path: much smaller than the one he was currently following and a bit faded, like it hadn’t been used in a while, but definitely a trail.

It wound its way up the hill, almost at a right angle to the main path, and the trees grew increasingly dense as the track went on, becoming more and more mixed with

conifers. It was quite shadowy, the overhanging branches touching overhead to form an evergreen tunnel. Jason stood there for a few moments, deliberating. He looked back at the sunny, well-beaten path behind him, then again at the deep and shady trail, and bit his lip. It took only a few seconds for his sense of adventure to prevail.

He never could resist the promise of discovery; and besides, he could always turn back whenever he wanted.

Jason stepped onto the disused track and began making his way into the pine-scented darkness, Chipper by his side.

None of them—the boy, the dog, the dark and narrow trail—were ever seen again.

Continuum* Kristen Webb Aluminum Casting 4.5” x 5” x 3.5”

25

BROKEN (Adj) (N. Fragments) “altered form of being�; a state that once had been complete.

Fields of Dust

by Samuel Heard

In dusty fields, beneath a cloudy sky, Where flocks have grazed, and leaves have withered dry, The son of Adam gathers fruit in hand And blows away his harvest crops like sand.

And carried by the wind, the sand finds rest Upon an altar block of stone compressed.

And Cain, content to find it sitting there, Returns to toss his fruit of crops elsewhere.

Beside the fruit, the firstborn of the flock Is placed to decorate the altar block.

With strokes of white, a brush of paint unflawed, The artist Abel shows his work to God. And God is pleased. It sits upon His shelf.

The dust on top is swept by God Himself.

And Cain sees God and Abel at a glance, And Cain picks up a fallen countenance.

So Cain seeks out the Lord, with stone in hand, Accusing Him of sweeping out his sand.

The Lord puts down the broom and then replies: “I see the lust of blood within your eyes.

Do well, dear Cain; you may and so you must.

The choice is yours—to turn or fall to lust.

If you do well, acceptance comes in store; If not, then sin is crouching at the door.

The Viper always waits to strike you dead— You must rule over it and crush its head.”

And Cain returns to Abel, stone in hand, And Viper hides himself beneath the sand.

The stone gets heavy, Viper is ready, The arm of Cain has become unsteady.

His arm is raised, and with one toss of rock, Another sacrifice to altar block!

But Cain holds still, and watches Abel turn–– The mind of Cain is struck with new concern:

He sees himself with strength, his rock cast down;

He sees himself take up a victor’s crown.

He sees his brother Abel, and they embrace;

He sees the shine of life upon his face.

He sees their walk back home is sweet.

He sees the Viper underneath his feet.

He sees the Lord return, he hears His voice:

“Well done, dear Cain, in you I do rejoice!

No rock was tossed; the land has seen no stain.

Well done, my good and faithful servant, Cain.

Come stand with me and see your work of art,

The head of Viper crushed and torn apart.”

But Viper struck, and Cain expressed his lust, And Abel’s blood cries out from fields of dust.

28

Serendipitous Sunday*

Ashlynn Mullis Film Photography 9” x 6”

29

Sacrifices for Zeus

by Dawn Marie Carvajal

Is the glory still gold when stained with red?

It dangles above the tower that was built for you.

Time to place the last piece.

Take a step onto the first layer — The lost joy of simplicity Just to play your sport as a game…

None of it matters now.

Climb atop the ledge of green, Of stacks and stacks of wasted dollars; What was once trying out new equipment Has become the purchase of a status quo.

From here, flesh reaches high; Surely they were all disposable.

Recognize that face? Thank God Coach talked her down.

Keep climbing the pile of bodies to the top.

The last piece rests in your hands — Every hope…every dream…

Every envisioned personal victory, this last piece: Place your heart on the heap of offerings.

The laurel is less green than you would’ve liked; The gold is cold in your hands.

Was it worth it to prepare such a staircase on the altar?

All to reach Olympia?

30

Colorado Calling

Karley Conklin Digital Photography

The Man and His Lady

ed clicking of his landlady’s shining black stilettos as she came to collect the overdue rent. A wave of panic crashed over him like a blanket of bitterly cold snow. It was at that point that the crying crescendoed and shook

by Davis Lisk him from his musings of dread. Blasted man, he thought, when will he learn to get over his thousand-dollar suit and

Nigel Leonard Moon had just left his boss’s attractive lady friend? Those last four words made Moon’s office, where he had been asked not to return to work; throat constrict a little, and that old strain of bitterness the law offices of Sundry, Waldriff, & Waldriff no longer sprouted up alive and rampant. He almost let out a needed his services. He packed his things into a worn growl, but stopped himself upon another interruption by leather satchel. Moon walked sullenly out the door, his the wailing man. gaze fixed upon the tips of his shabby oxfords. As soon as

Moon peered down again, and, even more woehe was out in the open, the wind bombarded his derelict fully, began to meditate once more on his recent dose of overcoat. On his way back to his apartment, which he bad luck. This continued for another ten minutes or so had affectionately dubbed “the rathole,” he decided to before the man sobbing began to break out in a pitiful forgo the comforts of home and to sit down on one of moan. Moon had finally had enough. He got up and the benches in the park for a while. Moon sat alone with walked over to the well-kempt young man, and, belting only the sound of the howling wind to distract him from out at the top of his lungs, demanded to know what all his somber thoughts. After he had spent the better part the racket was about. of fifteen minutes there, he heard another sound, this

“You seem to be well-off enough,” he bellowed. time of someone crying.

“Nice clothes, good looks, a pretty girl—”

He looked up and saw a handsome, well-dressed

“Sir,” said the man, free from all traces of vindicman with bloodshot eyes and tears running down his tiveness, “my wife just died.” cheeks. Next to him sat an angelically lovely-looking

In that moment, Moon’s face turned a violent young lady arrayed in a snowy white crinoline. The shade of red. How could one be so brazen? It was absocouple occupied a bench parallel to Moon’s underneath a lutely shameless! sturdy wrought iron lamppost. The lady, her eyes closed,

“Good heavens, man!” he finally exclaimed, was laying her head on the man’s shoulder. Moon was in“You can’t even go a day without traipsing off with ‘Mrs. furiated. Why should such a man as the one before him Smith,’ eh? And then to have the nerve to admit it be bawling his eyes out? He was well-dressed, good-lookso—so—so matter-of-factly, like it is really nothing that ing, young, and adored by a beautiful woman. What did right after the old battleaxe is six-feet under you go off he have to cry about? with your done-up hussy. It’s shameful enough having a

Moon hung his head and tried to block out the mistress at all, but this? Heaven help you, sir, I swear!” sobbing noise. I can’t believe it, he thought to himself,

After Moon had spent all the breath he had in I worked there from day one, and now it’s all over. He his lungs, he began to inhale deeply for a second round checked his watch, paying little attention to what the of verbal chastening, but, before he could do so, the hands were trying to tell him, and then looked back young man replied, “This woman is my wife.” down at the ground. He could almost hear the wick31

The colour drained from Moon’s face. In a moment of sheer horror, he turned around and ran as fast as he could. All he could think about was how badly he wanted to get back to his threadbare sofa and rubbish-bin fireplace and all the comforts of home, where the only corpses were the dead flies on the window sills.

The whole way back to his dwelling was a blur of shadowy black with the occasional yellow streak of a street lamp. When Moon finally arrived at his apartment, he shut and bolted the door, as if the woman’s corpse might somehow wander inside. He went straight to bed but was unable to fall asleep as he lay there in the half-light, his mind consumed with dark thoughts.

Vital

Ashlynn Mullis Film Photography 9” x 6”

32

A Crime of Understatement*

by Karley Conklin

That just is oft unjustly used is clear; Beyond its jurisdiction, just became A thief, that takes and dulls whatever’s dear And makes it merely, only, simply plain.

And just just sees the seed as hollow shell; It watches, unimpressed, as gentle rain Awakens life, as sunlight casts its spell, And just still finds the chaff in golden grain.

With just the whispered voice is only breath, The wind’s a sigh, the stars are specks of white, The tree’s a twig, the ocean loses depth, And man is a machine with no delight.

O Just, you muffling, snuffling thought, you lie To hide your victim’s worth; you leave us blind.

33

Values Ashlynn Mullis Salt Print 7” x 9.5”

34

Silhouette*

by Karley Conklin

The storm was building. Helen gazed up at the ominous clouds which darkened the sky and threatened rain with mumbles of distant thunder. She wondered if she should have cancelled her small group tonight. Most of the ladies would skip because of the weather. She shrugged and stepped out of her car. Too late now.

Helen unlocked the side door of the church and flicked on the hall light, making her way to the Sunday school room. After putting down her bag, she grabbed the coffee pot and went to the kitchen for water. As she came back down the hall, she noticed the door to the basement was ajar and the light left on. Helen shook her head. Allan Piper needed to learn how to flip a switch.

She shut the light off and closed the door. Satisfied that the hall had been set right, she went back to the Sunday school room to wait.

Alice, the youngest of the group, was the first to arrive. The eager blonde immediately began telling Helen about her new job, as the other women trickled in.

Five ladies came in total, with the other three members having opted to avoid the rain. As usual, they began with

prayer requests.

As they finished going around the room, sharing their concerns, Sandra looked up from scribbling the requests in her notebook. “Oh, I almost forgot. Jenny wanted us to pray for her boy. He’s still got that awful cough, and the doctors don’t have a clue what’s causing it.”

“Of course. Anything else? No? Okay, I’ll pray us in.” Helen closed her eyes and led the women in their opening prayer.

As she said “amen,” a male’s voice pierced through the room. “Excuse me?”

Thunder cracked and shook the walls, causing Helen and several other ladies to jump. Alice giggled, and Helen sent her a silencing glance, then turned her attention to the guest. It was a police officer.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, ladies. I just wanted to ask if anyone else has come through this building tonight,” he said.

“No sir, we’re the only ones here this evening.”

He tilted his head. “Have any of you, by chance, 35

seen a man in the area? Dark hair, wearing an orange jacket?”

Helen looked to the other ladies, all of whom shook their heads.

“Alright. Thanks for your help.” He started to leave and paused. “Are you able to lock yourselves in?”

“Well, yes.” Helen raised one eyebrow.

“You ladies might want to do that. There’s nothing to worry about, but you would probably be safer with the door locked. I’d recommend you head home, but the storm is terrible. It wouldn’t be safe to drive in right now.”

“Of course, officer. I’ll lock the door behind you,” Alice offered.

The man tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am.

Have a good evening, ladies.” His voice was light, but his brows were scrunched together above concerned eyes.

The room was silent as he walked out, Alice trailing after. Helen listened as Alice called goodnight and heard the door bang shut. A moment later, Alice returned, and all the ladies stared at each other.

Sandra was the first to speak. “Well, I never.

What on Earth do you suppose that was about?”

“They must be looking for a criminal.”

“Good heavens, Gracie, don’t say such things.

You’ll give me goosebumps!” Sandra brushed a greying strand of hair out of her eyes.

Helen stood. “There’s nothing to be worried about. We don’t know anything about the man. Maybe he just went missing and was last seen around the church.”

Alice leaned forward. “But then why would the officer tell us to lock the door? He must think whoever they’re looking for is dangerous.”

“Perhaps another patient disappeared from the hospital,” Melonie suggested, in her typical matter-offact tone.

36

Helen could sense the tension in the room rising.

“I suppose it’s possible, but-”

“I heard on the news this morning about a man being admitted temporarily into the psych ward,” Gracie added. “He’s suspected of murder.”

Another burst of thunder rang out, and the lights in the room flickered.

As the bulbs steadied, Helen felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “That’s enough of this. We are perfectly safe here in the church, so let’s stop this nonsensical fretting.”

All the women nodded except Melonie.

She looked around the room, her eyes landing on the table. “I’m sorry, but can I just point out that none of us heard the officer come in? I don’t mean to startle everyone, but if a man wearing keys on his belt can come in unnoticed…”

“I’m sure the officer would have seen him. He came in while we were praying, remember? Before that, several of us were looking at the door. No one other than us could be in the building right now.” Helen sat back down. “Now, if you are all quite through, I think we left off with Matthew 6 last week. Gracie, would you start reading for us in verse 19?”

The brunette nodded, adjusting her glasses.

As Gracie read, emphasizing the words as though she were reading to her two boys, Helen couldn’t help but glance at the door. She felt as though an intruder might rush in at any moment and the thought gave her goosebumps. The air conditioning creaked on, and she she shuddered, imagining for a moment that she heard a door open in the hallway.

Gracie paused when a crash rang out from the skies, shaking the earth. As the thunder quieted, soft music drifted down the hall, and every woman in the room froze.

Someone was playing the organ in the sanctuary.

High-pitched cords rose and fell into a quiet melody, too indistinct to be recognized. The women stared at each other, their faces white.

“Helen,” Alice whispered. She opened her mouth to say more, but the music stopped.

After a moment of silence, Helen cleared her throat, but the words came out faint. “It could just be Mr. Peters, practicing for Sunday morning.” The music started again, even softer than before. “Alice and Gracie, you two stay here. Sandra, Melonie, and I will go check the sanctuary to see who it is.”

Gracie nodded, and Alice grabbed her arm. “Be careful,” Alice said.

Sandra and Melonie slowly stood up, and Helen led the way. All the classrooms were dark as they walked by, and Helen wished they had shut the doors on Sunday. Passing the empty black spaces was eerie. The music halted abruptly, and Helen paused. Sandra nudged her, and she kept walking, hoping to see Mr. Peters emerging from the double doors before her. He didn’t, and she pushed through the doors without another thought.

The bright sanctuary was empty, though every light was on.

“Mr. Peters?” Sandra called, with no response.

“He could be behind the stage,” Helen whispered, unable to keep the words from quivering. The other women nodded.

“Maybe.” Melonie’s voice was barely audible.

“I’ll go check,” Helen volunteered. She stepped forward, with Sandra following closely.

The room behind the stage was dark, and Helen reached for the light switch. Her hand couldn’t find it and after groping a moment, she gave up and pulled out her phone for light instead. She and Sandra began poking between the equipment, peering through shadows for… something. Helen wasn’t really sure what at this point.

A pounding of footsteps in the sanctuary, accom-

panied by the clang of double doors swinging open and slamming shut, halted her searching.

“Helen?” Melonie’s voice stuttered from the balcony. “Sandra?”

“We’re still here, Melonie.” Sandra grabbed Helen’s hand, and they rushed back to the stage.

Melonie was looking down from the balcony, her hands gripping the rail. “I don’t think that was Mr. Peters.”

Sandra nodded. “We should call the police.”

Before anyone could move, thunder cracked, and lightning sliced through the black sky outside the windows, and a scream rang out from down the hall. Helen took off running, Sandra right on her heels. Melonie’s footsteps pounded down the balcony steps behind them.

“Alice! Gracie!” Helen called their names frantically.

The two women rushed out of the classroom and met them halfway down the hall. Alice’s face was red.

“I’m so sorry…there… there was a mouse.”

Relief flooded Helen’s heart. “You didn’t see the man?”

Gracie’s face dropped. “No. It wasn’t Mr. Peters?”

Sandra shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak when another crash outside shook the building and the lights flickered off, blackness filling the hall.

“Call the police, call the police,” Alice’s voice wavered.

Melonie’s cellphone glowed in the darkness as she dialed, and the other women pulled out their phones as well, turning on their flashlights. As Melonie talked to the operator, Helen ushered the women into the closest Sunday school room.

“Sandra and I will go grab some more flashlights from the basement. Stay here and wait for the police,” Helen whispered as Melonie gave the address of the church.

37

She and Sandra rushed down the hall quietly, the rain pounding on the roof of the church. The wind began to howl as the storm picked up, every noise louder in the dark. Helen reached the basement stairs and noticed the door wasn’t shut all the way. Before she could say a word, Sandra went through the door, carefully feeling her way down the steps. Helen sent up a quick prayer and followed her friend, unable to find her voice to stop the other woman’s movement.

They reached the floor and shined their tiny circles of light about the room. “The flashlights should be over here,” Sandra said.

They walked past the boxes of clothing donations, and Helen grabbed Sandra’s shoulder and gasped.

“What is it?” Sandra turned and dropped her phone.

On the ground before them was a discarded orange jacket, and the boxes of clothes, normally so neat, were obviously rummaged through.

“What do we do? Helen?”

“Let’s just go.” Helen turned back toward the stairs, Sandra clinging to her sleeve. A rustling erupted from the corner. Helen’s nerve broke, and she ran forward, crashing straight into a pile of boxes and tripping to the floor. She looked up in time to see a figure shoot out of the dark and race up the steps.

Sandra’s scream pierced Helen’s ears, and then Helen realized she was screaming as well. The door at the top of the steps slammed shut, and Helen grabbed Sandra and clung to her. After a second, they heard shouts coming from upstairs. They raced back up.

As they reached the top steps, the door flung open and there were the other three women, all hysterical.

“We saw him, he ran right past me…”

“Are you alright? We heard the screams…”

“The police are on the way.”

38

Helen pushed past the women and tried to figure out which way the man went. “Let’s get outside and wait for the officers.”

The women ran down the hall to the nearest door and felt wind as the door crashed open before them. They halted as they saw the rain pouring down, lightning filling the air. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer.

Helen reached the door, and, as another bolt of electricity shot through the sky, she saw a silhouette running across the street, and as the light faded, the man disappeared into darkness.

A Home forgotten

Karley Conklin Digital Photography

39

Postcards at the Harbor

by Jessie Taylors

As I sat in my dorm room, the cold fluorescent lights flickered slightly. I looked down at my lap, a tattered postcard resting there. The vintage image glared back at me, piercing eyes staring into my soul. The man’s handsome brow crinkled slightly, as if he was worried but insisted on putting on a brave face for his family.

Unable to meet his eyes, I flipped the card over, revealing the empty, wordless back of the postcard. My gaze flickered to the monogram, reminding me where I got it: The John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.

Back in Boston.

Sometimes, I dream of Boston at night, where I wander around the curving streets illuminated by the bright lamp posts on the sidewalks. I walk as if I am lost, but I know where I am going. Down to the harbor where the crisp breeze penetrates my soul, whispering that everything will be new in the morning. I won’t have parents who hate me or be in love with somebody who will never return it. I won’t have my body stolen from me, my dignity washing away as the seconds tick by. I won’t be the hideous creature that seems to have taken my place.

As I stand at the harbor, I clutch the postcard in my hands, wondering why I brought it. Barely able to look at Kennedy’s face, I toss the postcard out into the ocean, a message written on the back, one I do not know. Maybe somebody will find it. Maybe somebody will care.

I stand at the harbor for what seems like an eternity, my mind void of my troubles, except for one— I know that as soon as I walk away, everything will come back. The morning will not be new because I will still 40

have the same parents who hate me in the same way, taunting and screaming about all the ways I have failed them. They told me they wish I was not their daughter, which sunk into my brain, reminding me that I will never be good enough.

I will still be in love with the same boy who will never know how I feel because he’s too stupid to realize it. He’ll smile and flirt the same old cocky nonsense that leaves me breathless yet hopeless at the same time.

In the morning, I will have the same battered body, one that was ripped to shreds a little over a year ago. My heart will still ache, and the simple prayer from the deepest part of my being will echo on: make me new.

The view of the harbor fades out as I wake up from my slumber, furious that instead of walking the Boston streets, I am sitting in a dorm room in rural South Carolina. I am in the land of seemingly polite people, all smiles and waves, but little heart. Southerners insist on sitting in the past, a place I am too familiar with.

Deep in thought, I scream it again.

I don’t want to be reminded of my parents’ poor treatment and refusal to understand me. The foggy memories of the words thrown around are all that I can carry. I don’t need to know that he will never love me back. His irreverent words are quite enough. I don’t need to remember that I am used and worn. Yes, I will never be loved because of it; of that I am aware.

To be free of this nightmare, I must leave and go back to my beloved Boston, a place where there are new beginnings for me.

I set the postcard down and turn the lights off.

Although the sun is still high in its lofty perch, I am ready to slip away once more to the Boston Harbor, where everything washes away. I am ready to throw my postcard of the Kennedys into the sea and pray that someone will read it.

Not All Who Wonder are Lost (II)

Madian A. Estela Castro Digital Photography

“Close to the Edge” Cornwall, England 41

I Am a Ship

by Jada Barr

I am a ship tossed about on a sea of uncertainty.

I’d call it an ocean, But that’s too beautiful, Too complex, Just like I long to be.

I long to be so beautiful That one cannot help but fall into me, Just like the ocean.

But alas, I am the ship, Thrown around in the midst of the sea with no sail, No compass, No map to guide me, No way of knowing what is to come.

I’m left only with my heart and its desire to be loved.

I can only hope to be washed ashore Onto the beach that is your arms, That is your heart.

But there’s no certainty in hope, Only chaos.

42

A Thought on Abortion

by Karissa Garzony

How did the world ever come to “Save the whales, Murder the children”?

Pickens

Jordan Hurley Salt Print 7” x 9.5”

43

Obscurity

by Karissa Garzony

The stars have all turned into dust, Trampled by their afflictions.

A gaping hole swallows the light, Another crucifixion.

Each day a constellation falls, Again into her dolor.

Yet no one tries to help her out, Another mindless toiler.

Fate destroyed her soul’s foundation, She crumbles, and despite her plea, The cornerstone was cast away, Another lost divinity.

44

Introspection Jordan Hurley Film Photography 9” x 6”

Elysium

by Josue Lopez

There was metal, a lot of it, hurtling through space, a glint of silver against a fathomless black canvas.

The metal was impenetrable, so they said. Airtight. The long, cylinder-like object had wings for aerodynamic efficiency and fire shooting out of the tail end, increasing the shuttle’s speed. In the craft was the only oxygen that could be found for many, many miles, and consuming the oxygen, tightly sealed in this metal cabin, were the Space Men. These were the explorers, the venturers, the conquistadors of old reimagined in shining, flashy suits.

There were five men in total, including the Captain, who had taken upon himself the heavy burden of leading this great and noble expedition. He was the oldest, exceeding the rest of the crew by a decade. He had been the logical choice for the position, with two wars and a degree in aeronautics underneath his tightly fastened belt. Aside from the Captain, not one member of the crew exceeded the age of thirty-five.

They were nearing the two-month mark of their voyage, and outside of the single, triple-enforced glass oval that provided their only connection to the world, the scenery had not changed much. Blackness swallowed them on all sides like an eternal night. In space, the dawn never broke. Throughout the cabin, the faces of the four young men, so full of excitement and anticipation in the early stages of the expedition, had grown pale and haggard. Hopelessness and desperation had crept in like a discomforting smog, stifling the already limited supply of air in the cabin, chilling the small quarters and everything within. At times, one of the men would betray himself by tilting his head up and glancing out, squinting, searching for anything that might dare challenge the bleakness of space. This small effort was never rewarded, and the disheartened head would lower upon

the sagging chest, the mouth uttering a deep, penetrating sigh. This act was repeated regularly by each of the Space Men, and with each gaze out the window, the men’s appearances could be seen to physically deteriorate. The cheeks thinned, the bags underneath the eyes lowered, and the skin whitened. These were skeleton men rattling along in a heavy, impenetrable capsule that bore no difference to them than an iron casket.

There remained aboard the ship only one man whose resolve had not changed, whose chiseled face had stayed steadfast, and whose eyes had not once glimpsed out of the window.

The Captain was of Nordic descent, so he was told, and he had never doubted it; he had never had any reason to. The blood galloping through his veins like so many horses, securing him to the vessel with an iron stance, warm yet strangely cool, could belong to no other ancestry. The muscles of his crossed arms would flex involuntarily with each slight movement or breath.

And like his Nordic brethren, it had been the thrill of the discovery, the possibility of new lands to ravage and conquer that had brought him to this expedition. His ancestors had boarded vessels and taken to the seas, and in similar fashion, he had taken command of his own craft and set out on a very different ocean, endless and bleak. The purpose, however, had not changed over the centuries.

The Captain grew neither impatient nor discouraged, for he knew with a resolve as solid as the ship which they inhabited, that somewhere in the distance resided the thing for which he searched. And the knowledge of this brought the Captain to let out a loud, penetrating scoff into the quiet of the cabin. He glanced at the men, huddled in their seats, clutching little remembrances of home. Weak, he thought, every one of them.

Weak. He spat, and the spittle glided weightlessly across the room, over the heads of the men. The Captain’s 45

searching eyes then found the window in the ship’s side, and staring into it, he scoffed at infinite space.

The Captain noticed some commotion in his peripheral and turned his head. One of the men had risen from his seat, and, still clutching an empty carton of cigarettes, finished long before the journey’s start, he nervously shuffled to the head of the vessel, where the Captain now stood.

This man was Jeffrey Flint, a twenty-seven-yearold pilot from Utah. Jeffrey was thinly built and a great deal shorter than the Captain, who stood well over six feet. Jeffrey, the Captain had found, was the kind of man who always needed something in his hands to fidget with, and in many cases, if nothing was at hand, Jeffrey would settle for cracking each of his knuckles one at a time, a sound that the Captain had grown to loathe since the start of the mission. Before becoming a pilot, Jeffrey had studied law and was generally considered one of the more educated, well-spoken members of the crew, which meant that any grievances or issues that the crew had were almost always delivered in Jeffrey’s nasally voice.

The Captain felt his muscles tense and braced for a conversation that he knew had been long overdue.

He had not been ignorant of the air of discontentment that had invaded the metallic quarters over the past few weeks. It had been growing steadily, with each man refusing to speak what his eyes betrayed, fearing that by expressing his honest opinion he might be shunned or detested or laughed at by those who thought differently.

But now, the scales had shifted, and the protests and complaints previously shared by few had become the majority. The men were anxious. They had forgotten the mission, or they no longer cared about why they had left in the first place. The Captain sneered at their disloyalty to the journey, at their child-like homesickness and soft stomachs. The spirit of adventure and camaraderie had been swapped with temporary infatuation and a 46

weak-willed drive that fluctuated with each jolt of the ship. Where had all the iron men and the stone hearts gone? The Captain was the last of a dying breed, and this thought more than anything outside caused him to shiver.

A meek cough brought the Captain’s gaze downward, and he found himself face-to-face with the exact problem he had just been addressing in his head. To the Captain’s chagrin, Jeffrey spoke.

“Eeeerm, Captain. Some of the men have been conversing among themselves. Well, by some of the men, I really mean nearly all of them. It seems that a consensus has been made regarding the voyage and its projected completion.”

“Is that so,” said the Captain. “And what is this decision that has been reached?”

“In short, Captain, the men wish to terminate the mission and return home.”

“Really,” said the Captain, scratching his greying, red-tinged beard. “Who feels this way?

“The men, sir.”

“I’m aware of that, Jeffrey. But who specifically?

Which ones?”

The Captain, pushing past Jeffrey, faced his crew and scrutinized each man, moving his eagle eyes from one man to the next.

“You, Charlie? Do you feel this way? Big, strong man that you are?”

The Captain addressed a man seated near the rear of the craft, who, afraid to meet the Captain’s penetrating eyes, directed his gaze downward, searching the floor for some imaginary, misplaced item. Charlie’s large hands tightly gripped a ragged, stuffed bear no bigger than a bag of chips. It was the image of this bear, more than anything else, that held the man firmly rooted to his seat, refusing to meet the Captain’s challenging taunt.

Again, the Captain showed his immense displea-

sure by allowing phlegm to build in his throat and then hawking it across the cabin, where it sailed with surprising speed, nearly hitting one of the men seated on the left side of the shuttle. It was to this man that the Captain now directed his gaze and verbal assault.

“You, too, Smith?” the Captain said. “I suppose I could’ve expected this from the others, but not you.”

Smith’s muscular form tensed at the sound of the Captain’s accusation, his skin pressing tightly against the belts strapping his big frame into place. The veins on Smith’s neck bulged, and through the thin, pale skin, the blue lines could be seen with surprising clarity. Smith lifted his eyes to meet the Captain’s, and his face converged into a mixture of shame and desperation.

“I’m sorry, Cap, but it’s over. It’s done. We gotta get back home; we’re going stir crazy in this heap of metal. It’s just not worth it.”

“Not worth it? How can you say that? What if the men at D-Day, staring down the loaded barrels of the German guns, raining down bullets, had simply decided that it wasn’t worth it? What if Neil Armstrong, calculating the risk, the near inevitability of failure, the supreme difficulty of the journey, had decided that it just wasn’t worth it? Those were real men, willing to take the ultimate sacrifice to go on, to discover, to claim, and to retrieve. But here, I’m surrounded by nothing but poor excuses for men, children who cry for their mothers at the first sign of trouble.”

“Give it up, Captain,” was Smith’s retort. “Your guilt trip isn’t working. This whole thing you’re doing isn’t working. We’re going home.”

And as if to drive home the full weight of his words, Smith unclasped the seatbelt and rose, revealing his true height, which was at least a full head taller than the Captain’s. The Captain, sensing the subtle threat behind this gesture, smiled, but his face bore no hint of mirth or pleasure. His smile was ice-like, betrayed by the

eyes which watched Smith with cat-like intensity, like a panther in a zoo surmising a new threat in its enclosure.

“Ah, I see,” said the Captain, addressing the cabin. “It doesn’t matter what I say. You’ve already made up your minds. You plan on stripping this away from me, by force if you have to. You figure that I can take on a couple of you, and I can; but all of you, even I know my limits. Let’s not pretend this is something else than what it is: Mutiny.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” said Jeffrey, in that soft-spoken, business-like way of his, as if he were trying to summarize a case for a jury. “We don’t have to resort to violence, Cap’n. We just need your assurance that you won’t try anything.”

“But I’m the only one who knows how to command this vessel,” said the Captain. “You need me.”

Jeffrey smiled, all pretenses gone. For the last two months his role aboard the craft had been as the Captain’s verbal punching bag, taking on the full force of the Captain’s many outbursts whenever he was given the ill-fated task of bringing any of the crew’s concerns or grievances to light – sickness, complaints about the food, any quarrels. It was no secret that of all of them, the Captain disliked Jeffrey the most. He considered Jeffrey to be the very embodiment of the weakness and smallness that had plagued the men, latching on to fear and worry like a parasite draining them of their once strong resolves, as if it had been Jeffrey, with some malicious intent, whispering into each of the men’s ears, turning them against the mission, against the Captain. Jeffrey was the Iago to the Captain’s Othello. But now, the situation had reversed, and Jeffrey, the Captain noted, reveled in his newfound strength, carrying the combined strength of the rest of the men behind him. For the first time in perhaps ever, Jeffrey did not shrink from the Captain’s malevolent gaze. In fact, despite his small figure, he acted larger, as if it were he who was looking 47

down on the Captain for a change.

“I can fly it,” said Jeffrey. And letting his fresh bout of confidence lead him, Jeffrey sauntered past the hulking, fuming man.

“Nothing to say, Cap’n? That’s what I thought.

Look at that, boys. We finally managed to shut the Captain u–”

The words halted in Jeffrey’s throat. He looked at the Captain and followed the man’s gaze downward, to the hand wrapped around the knife, sheathed in his abdomen. Shock and fear took over his expression, eyes deepening, looking about frantically as if plotting his next course of action, unsure whether to attack or clutch his side where a red stain had emerged, rapidly eating away at his shirt. All he could do was let out a soft, guttural groan, as his strength left him. Jeffrey lifted his head and met the cold, callous eyes of the Captain’s for the last time, eyes brightened with hatred and bulged with madness. In one final act of defiance, Jeffrey spat into the Captain’s face before his legs toppled from underneath him and he crashed to the floor.

Pandemonium ensued.

The Captain was met by a wave of men, already out of their seats and rushing forth, leaping over the still form of their fallen comrade, led by Smith. The Captain, with a speed unexpected for his size, had already retrieved the blade, still producing droplets of blood.

Grinding his heavy boots into the metallic floor and spreading his arms wide, the Captain readied himself.

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Unexpected Voyage Adelaide Dickens Ink Drawing 8.25” x 5.75”

Leprosy

by Taylor Elliott

You love me, don’t you?

You buy me records and you play with my hair, Empty my jars of tears, so when I get home, They aren’t there.

You’re nice to me, so I’m scared That I can’t ever feel enough for you.

If you saw me here, sick and rotting, Would you still love me?

Because I am a spreading, rotting, pastel pink Wound that never stops. I am tired, I am stuck here, I’ve never learned how to stop spreading.

I will grow taller than you; I will be bigger than you.

I know how to put my face on and soften my hair; I know how to dress like a lady now.

You finally told me you loved me, You said you loved me!

But if I were contagious, would you still?

I’m turning into the disease.

When I can’t breathe, and my lips are chapped, and my eyes are fading Will you love me still?

I have been healed, and my spotted skin Has been made white as snow— But back in your old house, the mirror, Like Jesus it knows.

I’ve been wondering, and I have been thinking, I wish I could learn to love you, someone, anyone, But I still see spots and lines of pain on my skin; I can feel the numbness start spreading, before the relief can even begin.

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Black Balsam II Jordan Hurley Salt Print 9” x 7”

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Insecurity Katie Casamassa Digital Photography

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Look Down

by Cora Cunningham

Small and unwanted Paper petals scattered against Cans and garbage bags The alleyway reeks of alcohol And discomfort climbs the walls Someone sleeps in the dirt Of the city’s desert Eyes heavy with some unknown burden That weighs upon his heart With a beard scraggly as a tumbleweed His blanket is the nighttime breeze And his lullaby—the sirens wailing Somewhere far And yet too close His brave companion sits beside him With mangy fur black as the water Spilling over every crack and crevice In the sidewalk below them A low growl belonging to the sleeping man’s Stomach echoed against cold stone Footsteps turn away from the lonely two

Small and unwelcome Were they Kindness was deprived them Yet they still had some left To give A penny for your thoughts my dear A penny for some bread A penny for the cold Old man A penny for the dead Small and penniless Penniless and small “My thoughts and prayers” “Just down on his luck” Excuses for selfish hearts To deny thought to A dead man walking and his dog Abandoned in the dark

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Another Drag of Chai

by Sarah Hope Carlson A hand skims along, styrofoam screeching His eyes flood over, blindly beseeching For some kind of clue that this cutting back Won’t be a cutting off of what he needs.

The plans he collected mount and they stack Hard on shoulders, breaking him at the knees And it all washes down With another drag of chai One swig more of sweet sorrow Very first sip slides and slips sweetly down Much harder to swallow, the way that she frowns She’s built her own isle in these few weeks Trusting the tide

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To draw her back in time.

This rowing turns raucous, her boat’s sprung leaks Far out on the sea, I still call her mine And it all washes down With another drag of chai One swig more of sweet sorrow Then bitter bites back against the tender I’m left with mem’ries hanging off-centre Promises black, stained by the smolders I wasn’t in the habit of looking through spoonfuls of sand, expecting boulders Curtain is falling, but I missed my cue.

And it all washes down With another drag of chai One swig more of sweet sorrow

Soigne* Ariel Norris Acrylic Painting 12” x 16”

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Dear Charlie: A Year After Death*

by Micah Purvis

Jason

You wanna hear something strange? I still play Mario Kart for at least two hours every Friday. The first few times, I played by myself; but Mom’s forcing me to play with Rachel now. I swear it’s not my idea. Don’t worry, I don’t let anyone play Luigi. That’s still your character.

Mom and Dad still make me participate in family movie night. It was Rachel’s turn to choose, and you’ll never guess her choice: Frozen! That’s right; she chose the same movie she always does.

It was alright, I suppose, until that song started playing. You know the one. Well, I still absolutely hate it, just like you did. I finally escaped, and everyone freaked. I tried to explain, but they didn’t understand.

That’s the problem with our family: they never understand. Well, except for you, but that’s different. I always thought we had a special connection . . . I guess I was wrong.

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Rachel

Hey, big brother! I really miss you. We watched Frozen yesterday, and it was so much fun. Jason didn’t like it, but I don’t know why. It’s my favorite.

I ask Mommy and Daddy every day when you are coming home. They don’t always answer, but I still ask. Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t think they know.

That’s okay, I know you need your space. Just come home soon. It’s almost Christmas.

Dad Son . . . I . . . I can’t. I’m sorry.

Mom

Charlie, what did I do wrong? I think about every moment we were together, and I wonder about every moment we weren’t. I’m trying so hard, but I can’t figure it out.

Remember when you were 10 and you wanted a Nintendo? That was the only thing that you asked for, and I told you, “No.” I felt so sure of myself. “Video games rot your brains,” I must have said a thousand times. What a joke! Well, maybe I was right, I guess I don’t really know, but I hardly held fast to my conviction. I gave in after only a year. A year isn’t that long, so why do I feel like it made all the difference? That if I had given you what you wanted that first Christmas, you would have chosen to stay. I’m so sorry; it’s all my fault.

Then again, maybe it was something else. Did I say something wrong or do something to push you away? I know that I failed you, but I’m not sure how. I wish you had told me. If you thought I knew how much you hurt but didn’t care, I swear it wasn’t true. My baby

was dying from the inside out a few feet from where I slept, and I didn’t know. How could I have been so blind?

So many questions, but one haunts my dreams.

Do you know that I still have nightmares? I do, almost every night. Yesterday, I had a dream that you were going on a trip. Don’t ask me where. I don’t know. In the dream, that didn’t seem important, only that you had to leave; and you had to leave soon. Well, you got on a bus, and for a moment everything was fine. Then, all of a sudden, I felt a desperate need to tell you how much I love you. I tried, oh Charlie, I tried so hard. I strained my voice trying to tell you how much I love you, but my words were trapped in a prison of silence. I watched helplessly as you left on your innocent trip to Nowhere without knowing how much I care.

So, please Charlie, tell me you knew that I loved you. I think about every time I told you, and I realize it wasn’t enough. I did, though, I swear I did. I loved you, Charlie, and I will always love you.

Who did you think was going to find you? We all thought you were just sleeping. Lazy Charlie, sleeping until the last minute whenever possible. Mom told me to wake you, but I guess you already know that. Mom always made me wake you up. You looked so peaceful, which is why I didn’t realize you were dead until I felt your cold skin.

So don’t expect me to forgive you. You are a coward. I will never forgive you for running away and leaving us all behind. I hate you, and I hate you most of all for never giving me a proper explanation. Charlie, why did you have to go?

Because.

Charlie

Hannah

I hate you. I despise every positive memory I have of you. Do you even realize how selfish you are?

You tore our family apart without a care in the world.

Mom and Dad blame themselves. Not me, I don’t blame anyone but the person responsible: you.

Was your life really that bad? It isn’t like you were bullied or abused. So, tell me, what’s your excuse?

You wrote that you “could no longer bring yourself to live through the pain.” Pain? Don’t make me laugh, little brother, you never understood pain. Pain is being forced to listen to Rachel worry endlessly about how you’re going to miss Christmas because she’s too young to understand that from now on you’re going to miss every Christmas.

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Tash Rabat

by Samuel Heard

Ерліктің дастаны, Еліме қарашы1 An old solace stands relentless against The passing of time, though time bids it farewell.

There it lingers, tucked within the shadow Of the mountains and the dust, Where the rocks begin to rust.

See the Kyrgyz men, near Tash Rabat they dwell.

They say: “We know this land far too well.

We know it far too well.”

There it stands, like a house built upon A distant memory, though it remembers every face.

It counts the steps of every traveler Who journeys into the night, In the bitterness of white.

See the nomads who come across this space.

They say: “I have found my resting place.

Here is my resting place.”

There stands Tash Rabat, the only home For a lonely people, diminished by the mountain hill.

A kettle for the Kazakhs, the Kyrgyz, the Uzbeks, As they seek to make their way In their land of snowy gray.

See these people as they escape the chill.

They say: “Let us go and drink our fill.

Let us drink our fill.”

1 From “My Kazakhstan,” the Kazakh national anthem.

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The world outside wanders on, like stallions On the steppe, no elevation in sight.

And Tash Rabat stands on, Relentless and alone, The mountains are unknown.

Inside, the people share their fright.

They say: “Why has the world left us tonight?

Why have they left us tonight?”

The Altai Tea Set: Inspired by central asia

Emilie Gilbert Ceramic Teapot: 8” x 8” x 6” Cups: 3” x 4”

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Restored (Adj) (N. Restored) “returning to form�; a state of being which has been redeemed.

Resurgence

by Justin Oates

A city, Once proud with buildings that Reached skyward in their hubris, To touch the blue, but only marred it.

Monuments to human achievement.

But now, The walls are shod in moss green.

Cracks adorn every edifice.

Grass sprouts up from dull roads.

Algae-ridden pools fill the holes Where parks were But no longer are.

And there, A survivor stands In awe—and reverence For the overwhelming, All-consuming power That belongs to nature alone.

That cannot be stopped—but only delayed.

He knows, For though the city fell long before his days, His fathers passed down the tale, And he chose to heed it.

But what of his sons?

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aesthete Ariel Norris Acrylic Painting 6” x 9”

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In Search of Lost Time

by Sarah Childs

Sometimes, I feel the weight of two times at once In that one place I feel so strongly the past and the present All of time comes to me in pictures The flash of light bulbs popping push The sense of now away Then “reality” comes crashing and I forget to breathe The past is heavy but the future is light, like The consequences haven’t caught up with the lightning of the camera.

And I fall Now is no longer now Now is a trail of gunpowder lit.

It is incessant And whenever we come upon it we see the trail of char and

think we own it, but Each grain was placed and instead of the trail already set ahead We lay the grains one by one in order to burn.

A blazing flash of flowing magma Quick to slow, and slow to leave And all of it at once.

Not All Who Wonder are Lost (IIi)

Madian A. Estela Castro Digital Photography On a Mountaintop in the South

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Hurricane

by Jada Barr

You’re a hurricane; That’s the only way to describe you.

You’re forceful and intense, So much so that just your glance could knock me

off my feet.

You start out so small, But when you’re confronted with emotions You consume them, Envelop them, Let them stir and simmer within you Until you become too much for yourself And have to unleash your intensity somehow.

You bring unpredictability from a distance.

You’ve built walls strong enough To rip me to shreds as I try to break through them.

But, when I do, what awaits me is the most

wonderful calm I’ve ever experienced, A sweet relief From the strength of the fortress in which you’ve enclosed yourself.

Within this calm eye,

There’s you.

There’s who you truly are, Calm and steadfast, Loving and strong.

Yet when you feel too much, The storm you’ve created comes back, The eye quickly fading back into destruction As if you’re afraid to remain in one place for

too long So you’ve got to keep moving, Keep searching for something new.

But even if you tear through the fragile landscape

of my heart, It brings the opportunity to rebuild.

You’re a hurricane, Terrifying and unpredictable, But I’ve always had a thing for storms.

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The River

by JT Cantrell

Powerful Nothing can prevent its flow Serene Fills me with a sense to go Beautiful With my rod and reel I throw Pristine Catching fish is all I know

Telluride Trails

Karley Conklin Digital Photography

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Set of Seasonal Haiku

by Karley Conklin

Stimulus The crackle of dried color crushed beneath my footfall is addicting.

The Tang of the Forgotten Spiced scents of leaves and Wood smoke remind me of days I can’t quite recall.

Sign of the Scarecrow Hung on wooden stakes A man of hay guards the wheat fields ripe for harvest.

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Yujo Tea Set

Kristen Webb Ceramic Teapot: 10” x 8” x 6” Cups: 3.5” x 4”

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Pronto?1 *

by Sarah Hope Carlson

I am a few minutes old. The doctor—I imagine him a gruff Italian with swarthy skin and an obnoxious moustache—shows me to my parents just long enough to keep them patient. Then, he rushes the pudgy, wrinkly, blotchy baby to a table just out of reach and entirely out of sight. Two nurses crowd in, and they begin to argue in muffled Italian.

After only five short months in this country, my parents’ language skills are no match for a hospital room, but a thing like that won’t stop a father. The lanky, red-headed American calls across the room, “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, everything is fine. We’re just doing normal check-ups,” the swarthy physician replies.

Years later, Dad will tell me that this was the day my parents learned Italian medical staff will lie to spare your feelings.

I’m three weeks early and hardly ready for the task ahead of me, so they put me in an incubator for two days before letting my parents take their baby home. ***

I am five years old. Riding in the back of our little Czech mini-wagon, I press my nose up against the cold window and try to sneak a peek at the stars in the dark Italian sky. Dad and I are just finishing off another great grocery adventure over the mountain by returning to our little one-horse town of Ronciglione.

He has been telling me about how my sister wants to go to Black Forest Academy (BFA) in Germany.

It’s a school where all the students are missionary kids (MKs) like us, he says. He explains that Rebecca might be able to fly there by herself, how we’d go visit her from time to time, and what German culture is like.

1The Italian word for “ready”

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“Maybe you would like that, too. Germany is nice. MKs have things in common. Do you think you’d like that, too?” He tosses the words over his shoulder to my backseat corner.

“Do they speak German?” I ask a few questions, and Dad takes them in stride.

My bottom lip begins to quiver, so I bite down on it and press my nose harder into the cool, wet window. There have to be some stars out there somewhere.

Minutes go by, painful and slow. We pass the toy store, and I know we’re almost home. Still, no stars.

Dad glances back at me in my dark corner with my face up against the glass.

“What are you thinking about, Sarah?” He breaks my silence.

I break my composure. “I’m not ready to leave!”

I blurt out as I melt into a puddle of tears and snot that once resembled a five-year-old girl.

“No, no, Sarah!” Dad’s words reach back to where I’m sitting and wrap themselves around my heart.

“I’m sorry. We were thinking in about ten years when you are in high school. You don’t have to go to BFA, now or ever. We’re talking about the distant future.” ***

I am nineteen years old. Thirty honors students gather by a tiny trail, flanking a 30-foot-high catwalk.

It’s team-building, they tell us. It’ll make us better leaders. I’m not sure I buy it.

We watch the first brave souls get harnessed in. I hold my breath as they climb the 30 feet. They walk, one foot in front of the other, like Olympic gymnasts on the bar. Exhaling like a popped balloon, I watch them lean into their harnesses and get lowered back to the ground.

Safe.

“Anyone else?” calls the professor.

My roommate pokes me gently. “I’ll do it if you do it,” she quietly offers.

Next thing I know, some guy with a beard, a hard hat, and a distinctive Outdoor Leadership vibe asks me if I’m ready for my turn.

Nope. No. Not at all.

I walk forward, and they begin harnessing me in. My chest tightens like it does when the railing comes down on roller coaster rides. As the straps click into place, something clicks in my mind as well. This is it. No escape.

“Are you excited?” The nice granola man asks.

“Nope,” I shut him down. “I’m terrified.”

“Why?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

He gives me an unnervingly cheerful smile. It seems rude that he should be so happy when I’m so scared.

“Because it’s at 30 feet in the air that you feel the most alive.”

I’m not entirely sure how I make myself climb those metal rungs to the catwalk, but ready or not, here I am, walking along, six Sarahs high, like it’s no big deal.

The sun filters through the leaves in the happiest shade of green before hiding itself in the corner of my eye and gilding everything I look at. The air is warm and quiet. Before I reach the other side, I am already wondering whether I can pull off an arabesque or a pas de chat like I used to on our gym bar.

Soothe Tori Cantrell Oil Painting 16” x 20”

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River Walk Karley Conklin Digital Photography

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Naiad

by Davis Lisk

Ocean’s daughter, ocean’s daughter Hid in the soft-pink shell The fairly shining faerie pearl Sweet and hale and brave her matter Brisk wind of sea-from swell Ocean raise and seafoam hurl The firebird comes from the sea Shining on her blissome frame Out-whiting salt and snow Hold, mind’s eye, for me Her form so fair—here in the hame Of mind—to feel and be and know And love her well in memory For soon the clam close comes Amidst the sunset and sea-hums

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Wings

by Karissa Garzony Go collect white feathers And tie them up with strings.

I’d be your guardian angel If you’d only make me wings.

Oscar and the Bee*

Audrey Knapp Digital Photography

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An Ode to 207

a little fuller; and this strange element rushes through my veins. Every inch of my body slows. All the tension,

by Karley Conklin the nerves, the questions, and reminders all settle to the bottom of the swirling snow globe I call my mind, so I

I sit in a quiet room on a small carpet coated in can clearly see once more the figure in the middle. light. The sun is streaming through the two little win There I sit on the floor, watching the dust play in dows set in beige walls. A shelf of books is at my back; a the air, and I call it work. I balance on the short bench wooden desk stands before me. In this room that smells before the shelf and listen to the chatter of students and of paper, wood, and warmth, my thoughts are somehow professors in the room, in the hall, in the office next silenced. door; and I call it study. For hours on end, I have made

There are certain places in this world where time that bench my perch and sat as a cross-legged gargoyle is somehow forgotten. It presses less upon the skin, its watching figures enter a sanctuary. demands are less urgent, and its shouts turn to whispers

The office is a time-warp where people come and disappear. The clock hasn’t frozen, but for all that to fall asleep, only to awake far later than intended and it is noticed, it might as well have. No longer do the stumble out like Rip van Winkle, unsure what hour it is, moments feel as though they are slipping by, unable to unsure that it matters at all. They bring their problems, be grasped, like river water rushing through your fingers. but when the questions are answered, the people still No longer do the minutes plunge over your arms, pullremain. The problems are just an excuse; they come to ing you and pushing you to follow without giving you forget the judgement of the clock’s ticking hands. In dotime to brace your feet against the current. In these soft ing so, they discover the peace to be found in the pause. spaces, time becomes a breeze. Passing in the distance, The room is paused, and there I turn to stone. seconds play through your hair and float away, almost

I tuck my shoes into my bag and stand on what undetected. must be holy ground, not sacred because of wooden

There are places in life that teach you to abide. floors or walls of books, but because the very air is filled For some, it is a patch of grass where people watch the with a sense of being. The fullness of the quiet gives the sun saunter along its track, and the woods call out, air weight; it settles over my arms like a blanket.

“Stop; stay.” For others, it may be chairs in the corners of

In the tranquility of the office, my mind wantheir favorite coffee shops where they observe raindrops ders. I wonder what it is that makes this space so life-givcreating puddles in the street. For me, it is an office, ing, and my thoughts turn to places I imagine have a nestled in a hallway that might as well be home. similar, but greater power. Surely for years, the land

Every day, I pass the dear old building, its porch where the burning bush stood made the birds nearby fall of rocking chairs, its creaky wooden floors, its angled silent, in awe of the remnants of holy presence. Surely steps, and a longing rises in my throat; a pull I can’t resist for years, the mountaintop where Christ’s true form tugs my heart. Often without a thought, I walk through was revealed sent shivers up the spines of travelers who the front door, up the steps, and inevitably into that passed the spot unknowingly. small room. I have to be there. I’m addicted.

My mind falls silent; a shiver runs up my spine.

The air has something special, some rare oxyWhat prayer was spoken, what miracle performed, what gen that makes my lungs expand a little farther and fill 75

command was given here that even now the soft light from the window warms my soul? What meeting of angels made the walls so full of laughter that this vessel built by man captures the hospitality of earth? Surely, this humble office has been a tabernacle some time or other, where a cloud of fire issued forth to guide a leader into truth. There is no accounting for this blessed oxygen otherwise.

My to-do list rests in my lap, but still I am content to linger here, just five more minutes, unwilling to awake to the world just yet. I want to dwell in this instant. Every time I enter through this door, the space feels like the moment after a deep prayer has ended, when the hands of brothers and sisters in Christ have lifted off your shoulders, and you look at one another without a word. No words are needed.

No words are needed.

So I breathe. I sit barefoot on the floor in my patch of sunlight, and I empty myself so I can be filled.

“Drive in, Fly out!”*

Jordan Hurley Ceramic 24” x 12” x 7”

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rain man*

by Jonah Losh

when the rain sings

so do i smile in silly fashion

smiles the rain man

falling dripping smiling droplets

shimmer fallingly down

from sunless sky

searching joyously for bigger waters

flyings birdlike to deeper dreams

sings the rain man

summer or chillier weather does

my heart fill with song

i laugh as i watch and sing (I laugh as he watches and sings)

and i count shines and shinies of rain

dropletting on my window pane smile on rain man

and i dance and twirl and breathe best

in the softly smelling air of the rain

fire the tea and drink the logs! smiling silly rain man silly rain man

dancing in the rain man

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The Land’s LifeBlood*

by Karley Conklin

Today, I heard Earth’s hidden heart-beat; Found her pulse in a neck of stone, in a boulder Bouncing back the rhythmic echoes of the rushing remnant-rain.

The creek cut across the rock and cleft the ground in two, Creating a cracked-crag from the persistent pulsing of life And the percussionist sound of Mother Nature’s blood-song.

Her arteries branch out, splitting and spreading through the soil, Capillaries curve their way to reach each appendage, To feed the fingers of the forest, roots of mountains, toes of trees.

The rivers are overflowing, bleeding out their blessings, Flooding with fine silt and refreshing all the dusted dirt.

How fitting that life chose to be a fluid. Life is fluid.

It wears upon the world and re-shapes the very landscape.

Liquids grow the gardens, grow the creatures, grow the ground.

Even stone learns how to age, worn away by waves, shape-shifting Into sand, and in caves beneath the land, expanding stalactites Stretch according to the water-breath inside their lungs.

The life of the land is in the waters; the life of the lamb is in the blood.

When life’s beating rivers wash over, what hope is there That stone hearts might remain unchanged?

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swing*

by Jonah Losh

swing, child, swing in the morning when you dance, swing at noon when the bell has rung and you have eaten and are done,

swing in the midafternoon drizzly pour, , , , , don’t let a little water slow you down no more, , , , , swing, child, swing but in the evening when the sun yawns and there goes around a lullaby in birdland and the creatures find their beds in the woodland child search history and minds of old knowing that as you swung today and swing tomorrow knowing that as you today swing into tomorrow the moon gets a little closer each day as you swing higher and higher only child hold on tightly little one hang on with all your grip and might and little grisly strength my love and dream child knowing that tomorrow when you wake you can fly fly even higher still than today so swing, child, swing

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True Colors

Sarah Johnston Acrylic Painting 24” x 36”

Not All Who Wonder are Lost (IV)

Madian A. Estela Castro Digital Photography

Merlin's Cave, Cornwall, England

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Index Barr, Jada—Secondary English Education, Sophomore 42, 65 Bridges, Hannah—Alumni 6 Cantrell, JT—Outdoor Leadership, Senior 7, 66 Cantrell, Tori—Studio Art, Senior 8, 71 Capell, Caroline—Outdoor Leadership, Senior 11 Carlson, Sarah Hope—Elementary Education, Senior 11, 14-17, 21, 54, 70-71 Carvajal, Dawn Marie—Psychology, Senior 20, 30 Casamassa, Katie—Alumni 17, 23, 52 Castro, Madian A. Estela—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 12-13, 41, 64, 81 Childs, Sarah—Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior 64 Conklin, Karley—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 30, 33, 35-38, 38-39, 66, 67, 72, 75-76, 79 Cunningham, Cora—Interdisciplinary Studies, Freshman 53 Dickens, Adelaide—Interdisciplinary Studies, Freshman 48 Edmonds, Emily—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 24-25 Elliott, Taylor—Psychology, Freshman 49 Garzony, Karissa—Secondary English Education, Freshman 43, 44, 74 Gilbert, Emilie—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 58-59 Heard, Samuel—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 28, 58 Hurley, Jordan—Studio Art, Senior 6, 20, 43, 44, 50-51, 77 Johnston, Sarah—Sports Management, Junior 80 Jordan, Joshua T.—Interdisciplinary Studies, Junior 9 Knapp, Audrey—Health Science, Senior 74 Lisk, Davis—Interdisciplinary Studies, Sophomore 19, 22, 31-32, 73 Lopez, Josue—English, Senior 23, 45-48 Losh, Jonah—Piano Performance, Sophomore 78, 80 Mullis, Ashlynn—Interdisciplinary Studies, Senior 29, 32, 34, 43 Norris, Ariel—History, Senior 55, 63 Oates, Justin—English, Senior 62 Purvis, Micah—English, Senior 10, 56-57 Taylors, Jessie—Interdisciplinary Studies, Freshman 40-41 Webb, Kristen—Studio Art, Senior 25, 68-69

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Staff and Credits Managing Editor Karley Conklin Art Editor Kristen Webb Poetry Editor Justin Oates Prose Editor Sarah Hope Carlson The Mountain Laurel Staff Christian Bullard Dawn Marie Carvajal Victoria Campbell Taylor R. Elliott Jonny Hannah Jordan Hurley Joshua T. Jordan Davis Lisk Micah Purvis Kimberly Rhyne Zach Senter Isabelle Sprinkle Elizabeth Williams Faculty Advisers Sarah Bailey (Literature) Hayley Douglas De Gonzรกlez (Art) Faculty/Professional Consultants Dr. Cheryl Collier John Logan Shell 83

TML 2019 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 Poetry 1st: Swing by Jonah Losh 2nd: A Crime of Understatement by Karley Conklin 3rd: Rain Man by Jonah Losh Honorable Mention: The Land’s Lifeblood by Karley Conklin Fiction 1st: Dear Charlie: A Year After Death by Micah Purvis 2nd: Silhouette by Karley Conklin 3rd: The Art of Caretaking: Chapter One by Sarah Hope Carlson Non-Fiction 1st: Pronto? by Sarah Hope Carlson 2nd: A Mid-Day Excursion by Joshua T. Jordan Art 1st: “Drive in, Fly out!” by Jordan Hurley 2nd: Victorious by Tori Cantrell 3rd: Oscar and the Bee by Audrey Knapp Honorable Mentions: Continuum by Kristen Webb

Soigné by Ariel Norris

Serendipitous Sunday by Ashlynn Mullis

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Judges’ Bios Literature Prose | Jordan M. Poss is a historian and novelist. A native of Georgia and a graduate of Clemson University, he currently teaches US History and Western Civilization at Piedmont Technical College in Greenwood, South Carolina.

He is the author of the novels No Snakes in Iceland, a Viking Age ghost story; Dark Full of Enemies, a World War II commando thriller; and Griswoldville, a coming of age story set in Georgia during the American Civil War. He lives in upstate South Carolina with his wife and children.

Poetry | Christina Hubbard is an internationally published writer, poet, and speaker. Her work has appeared in Proverbs 31, (in)courage, and various other literary publications. When she leads conference or retreat sessions on faith or writing, she loves to inspire creatives to live in the fullness of their God-given identity. Currently, she coleads a writing group for freelancers at Compel Training. She is also a member of the Renovaré Institute: School for Christian Spiritual Formation 2018-20 cohort. Christina is the author of Five Ways to Love Like You Mean It. She lives in Olathe, Kansas, with her husband and two creative kids. She enjoys cappuccinos, exuberant dinners with friends, and going places she’s never been. Find her at christinahubbard.com.

Art Julie Hamer graduated from the University of South Carolina in 2017 with an MFA in Art Studio accompanied by a Graduate level certificate in Museum Management Studies. She served as a Graduate Assistant at the McKissick Museum at USC during her studies. After graduate school, she worked for Carolina Conservation and as a Curator and Museum Manager in Barnwell, SC. She is a member of the Professional Development Committee for the South Carolina Federation of Museums. Julie is new to the Greenville area and actively creates precious metal clay jewelry and other 3D artworks. She also enjoys participating in art shows around the east coast such as ArtFields. Julie is delighted to be working as the Coordinator at Greenville Center for Creative Arts and is dedicated to meeting the mission of the Art Center through their Annual Fund and Membership.

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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.

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Selection Process

The Mountain Laurel student editors and staff evaluated each selection, using a blind judging process in accordance with specific criteria. For literary submissions, staff members looked for creativity, diversity, continuity, appropriate use of grammar, prowess in the work’s genre (poetry, fiction, nonfiction), and the writer’s command of the English language.

For visual art submissions, staff members not only looked for creativity and diversity but also for the artist’s expertise in capturing an image, the appealing use of color and design, and inner meaning beyond the viewer’s first impression.

With all submissions, staff members determined whether the work was suitable according to the standards of North Greenville University. After reading/viewing all submissions, student editors and staff rated each on a scale 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 2019 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: Kiona 72 pt, 48 pt, 24 pt; Adobe Garamond Pro 8 pt, 10 pt, 12 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: 5/1 + Dry Trap Matte Varnish & Matte Gold Foil Stamping Cover art: Digital Design by Kristen Webb Adobe Illustrator CC Divider Page Art: Formed - Digital Design by Kristen Webb Broken - Digital Design by Kristen Webb Restored - Digital Design by Kristen Webb Printing: Jostens Commercial Printing, Clarksville, TN Copyright 2019 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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