2025 - The Phoenix - Spring

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The Phoenix Spring 2025 Editor-in-Chief Alexa Beck Assistant Editor Abigail Smagala Editors of Lay-Out & Content Alexa Beck Brooke Griffith Kaitlynn Wolffe Copy Editors Muncie Canon Madalyn Triskett Editors of Art & Publicity Ashlei Brown Makenna Oswalt Savannah Welch Director of Audio & Media Kyleigh Coy Peer Reviewers Muncie Canon Olivia Cedar Kyleigh Coy Sydney Green Kylie Heid Anna Kavulla Ava Kavulla Neira Laird Kelly Oros Colin Schroyer Faculty Advisor Dr. Mary Theresa Hall *All works in this publication are the sole property of their authors and are not to be reproduced in any manner. These works do not reflect the opinions or the Mission Statement of Thiel College.

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Table of Contents Introduction and Dedication ................................................................................................................. p. 4 Index ................................................................................................................................................... p. 47

Poetry “The Phoenix” .................................................p. 5 “Flying” ...........................................................p. 6 “Invisible Friend” ............................................p. 6 “Song of Seasons” ...........................................p. 7 “Nightmares” ...................................................p. 8 “HEART” .........................................................p. 8 “One Last Stop” ...............................................p. 9 “Old Photo, Fresh Ink” ..................................p. 10 “Never Alone” ............................................... p. 11 “One Less Moore” ........................................p. 12 “Love Heart” ..................................................p. 12 “Through Silence and Distance” ...................p. 13 “The World of Poetry” ...................................p. 13 “Ceremonious Heartbeat” ..............................p. 14 “A Popcorn Kernel” .......................................p. 15 “Hollowed by Hope” .....................................p. 16 “Amid Self-Hate, Love’s Unwavering Fate” p. 16 “Farewell” ......................................................p. 17 “Distant Longing” .........................................p. 17 “The Fair Rose” ............................................p. 18 “Journeys Storms” ........................................p. 19 “Anne Frank” ................................................p. 19 “Wooden Puppets” ........................................p. 19 “Seasonal Depression” ..................................p. 20 “Scratching at my Skull” ..............................p. 20 “W.I.N.G.” ....................................................p. 21

“Sunflower” ................................................. p. 21 “Pondering Profundity” ............................... p. 22 “Arsonist’s Lullaby” .................................... p. 22 “The Powerful Woman” ............................... p. 23 “Wonderful” ................................................. p. 23 “Immortal Souls” ......................................... p. 24 “Texting Heaven” ......................................... p. 24 “The Green Path” .................................. pp. 25-26 “Thirty-One…” ............................................ p. 27 “I’ll Wait” ..................................................... p. 28 “Waiting” ..................................................... p. 28 “Conversations with Strangers” ................... p. 28 “Whisper of Words” ..................................... p. 29 “Priorities” ................................................... p. 29 “Friend in Appalachia” ................................ p. 30 “Mental Profit” ............................................. p. 31 “Luck” .......................................................... p. 31 “Poem of a 9-year-old Tragedy” .................. p. 32 “P.I.C.U.” ..................................................... p. 33 “The Poetry of Psychology” ........................ p. 33 “The Circle is Complete” ............................. p. 33 “The Last Night” ................................... pp. 34-35 “The Depths of Fear of FISHING” ............... p. 35 “The Silence Between Us”............................ p. 36 “The old days!” ............................................. p. 36

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Short Stories “Arguments of the Greats: Debates between Sappho, Aristotle, Dante, and Machiavelli on Who Contributed Most to Culture” ........................................................................................ pp. 37-41 “Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust” ................................................................................................... pp. 42-46

Artwork

By Anna Kavulla...................................................................................................................... Front Cover

By Cydney Wierzbowski ......................................................................................................... Back Cover

By Kaitlynn Wolffe ............................................................................................................................... p. 8

Photographs *Throughout publication Photographs submitted by: • Zachary Bergstresser • Ashlei Brown • Muncie Canon • Anna Kavulla • Summer Stitt • Kaitlynn Wolffe Audiobook/In-color Photos: To view photographs placed throughout the publication in color or listen to the submissions, scan the QR code below:

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Introduction & Dedication Every year, the editors of The Phoenix include an introduction at the start of the publication that serves as a reminder to all readers that the contents of The Phoenix are unique, creative, and worthy of admiration and respect. It exemplifies why The Phoenix is treasured annually by so many members of the Thiel community.

For the 2025 edition of this publication, editor-in-chief Alexa Beck ’26 has written that introduction on behalf of the editorial board. Her writing, featured below, is not only a tribute to the work and creativity put forth by the contributing students, faculty, staff, and alumni who allowed for the creation of this year’s issue of The Phoenix, but it serves especially as a tribute to the idea of New Beginnings and Creativity— the concepts that create a beloved publication like The Phoenix. ************** This year’s edition of The Phoenix highlights and demonstrates the importance of new beginnings. Most of the editorial board this year are new to The Phoenix—including the editor-inchief. The editorial board was eager to participate in a new, yet exciting, process of making a publication, such as The Phoenix, come to life. We thank you for your unwavering support.

The editorial board has created a solidified plan for future editions of The Phoenix and has managed to display some of the most creative minds of Thiel onto this year’s pages of the publication.

We have found that the key to making a creative piece, such as this publication, is to truly make it your own: find a new path, a new way, or a new idea and implement it.

A key theme of The Phoenix each year is individualism. Allowing the words and thoughts of each author, artist, or photographer to be seen on the pages in front of you is our goal as an editorial board. Without creativity, The Phoenix would not be possible. For example, past introductions of The Phoenix included a dedication to a person—not a concept or concepts. This year, the editorial board wants to bring about a new creative twist to the dedication.

We wanted to focus on the aspect of new beginnings when it comes to The Phoenix and the entirety of Thiel College. Recently this year, Thiel renovated the Academic Center building in honor of Daniel and his late wife, Dorothy Spence. The new Daniel & Dorothy Spence Academic Center is highlighted on the back cover of this year’s edition. Cydney Wierzbowski, president of Thiel’s Photography Club, captured the beauty of this renovation and how it serves as a reminder of how Thiel College and its students are ever-changing.

As you examine the pages of this year’s edition of The Phoenix, please take note that you can dive deeper into this year’s submissions by scanning the QR code found in the table of contents. This new aspect of The Phoenix, brought to life by Kyleigh Coy, is an audiobook of submissions that can be found on our Official YouTube: The Phoenix--Thiel College. Now, you can read and hear the submissions read aloud anytime you want. New beginnings and ideas are the foundation for The Phoenix and, unsurprisingly, we are just getting started.

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The Phoenix

by Jason C. Merriam ’04 I look at these hands of mine, writing still.

They are not as nimble anymore, Getting stiff and sore with overuse, The strength remains the same though.

Sometimes I mourn for my younger self, A tyrant of towering intellect.

My thoughts a live tripwire, electric, An extrapolating juggernaut So sharp you could perch on the edge Of a fleeting idea, but never fall.

My mind a continuous dynamo, So crisp, clear, and concise, I could cry.

I was willing to accept the ravages, Weight gain, hair loss, aches and pains, The stress, the worry, bone-crushing fatigue.

Never this though, never the impeding fog.

It is difficult to fathom at first, Creativity migrates away, Almost an afterthought of sorts.

The well is dry and cracked with dust.

Time a constant flow, evaporating mist.

I once said “Write every day because You are never the same person tomorrow.”

Now, I cannot remember when I wrote last.

Yet I look at my life with boundless hope.

I have three priceless gifts to protect, Three reasons to fight through every day, Every moment to be there for my girls.

by Kaitlynn Wolffe

My mentor taught me this lesson well.

A legacy is not just the work produced.

It is unseen, interacting with others, Inspiring them to think for themselves.

Those ideas, those tenets, become immortal.

Living beyond memory, passing Throughout the generations to come.

The origins may obscure eventually but Knowledge will rise out of the ashes.

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Flying

by Samantha Stine I stand at the end of the cliff wondering If I should leap or not; because there are Two different ways that can happen. I will End up flying because my wings are strong Enough to hold me or, I will end up falling Because of my wings not being strong enough To hold me. I know that I need to decide because All of my life, I have never taken the leap before.

And I know that if I don’t make a decision now, I will Regret for the rest of my life. So I will take the leap, I backed up And started running towards the cliff. As soon as I reach the cliff End, I leaped into the air, and I have been there ever since.

Invisible Friend

by Katabella Byers I hear you whisper the words I want you And that's all I’ve ever wanted To be wanted So of course, everything is perfect We share a smile for a moment Until you flip me over and suddenly it’s like I’ve gotten up and walked out of the room I look at you, trying to remind you that I’m still here But it's too late

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“Song of Seasons”

by Sean Oros ’15 Seasons turn in cycle, Whirling by in dance, Day and year turning As the seasons ever prance.

Moonlight yields to daybreak, And dawn to evening light, While creatures live their lives Amidst the dancing bright.

Moss grows thick as cushions, Acorns fall green as emeralds, As ferns and briars likewise Rise as the dancer’s heralds.

Mist rising in the dawn-light Gleaming above a lake, While stars appear like gems of light Amidst nightfall’s somber wake.

Dancing moonlight on the snow, Crystal ice a branch adorns; Golden leaves of life’s last burning Gleam like fire in autumn morns.

Dance with the seasons, Embrace even the daily strife; Sing the song of living With all your breath of life.

by Muncie Canon

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Nightmares

by Faith Zagotti

HEART

By Katherine Smith

Something I don’t wish to share Is that I often lie awake at night Quiet, in the darkness of our room Staring at your sleeping form Listening to your soft breaths Watching your chest rise & fall It lets me know it’ll be alright There’s no sign of danger or doom Here with you, it’s safe & warm It helps to slow my rapid breaths Makes the scary frights seem small Soothing, even after a nightmare

Oh my Dear Heart, You have been strong for so long.

Oh With all the pains, and suffering you see, You never gave up but instead kept beating.

My Dear Heart, you need to stop loving those who want to destroy you!

Someday they will win, you’ll be crushed!

My heart It is now time to move forward.

You have been crushed but you will Survive, My Dear Heart-- keep Going you can live on your own! of course You didn’t listen instead You found another broken heart.

But to heal the other you both need to Be strong and help each other survive OH MY DEAR HEART!!!

by Kaitlynn Wolffe

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One Last Stop

by Laci Dezern ’24 [“Remember me, though I have to say goodbye”] These are my last moments. I can tell there’s not much time left. Oh, how I wish I had the time to tell my friends my final goodbyes. There’s no turning back now. My last days are filled with paperwork, flowers, and anguish. It’s not all bad, at least I have my friends. [“Remember me”] I chose not to leave any notes. I choose not to tell anyone about this. This was my decision. I hope that in the end it was worth it. I’m leaving behind everything. I leave behind my bees, my ducks, my stars. [“Don’t let it make you cry”] There are so many things I wish I would have done. So many things I wish I would have said. Six wishes for every person I’ve shared my world with. It’s been fun. We’ve had fun. [“For even if I’m far away”] It’s hard to imagine sleeping in my bed several miles away. The glow in the dark stars I stole don’t glow when I’m at home. I’ve ordered more, but it’s not the same. [“I hold you in my heart”] Do I regret it? A failed love, a misunderstood promise. Uncertainty is only somewhat hope. There is no hope without fear. I feel more fear. Is that bad? [“I sing a secret song to you”] Some of my worst memories are from this place. Some of my best come from here too. It’s hard to remember my goals sometimes. [“Each night”] Each night I question if this was the right thing to do. Each night I wonder if I’ll see any of you on the other side. [“We are”] No, I am. It’s my time to go. Maybe I’m not able to celebrate with you, but you’ll still have one another. [“Apart”] This is it. The drip finally stops. Please! Don’t forget about me. Remember me!

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“Old Photo, Fresh Ink”

by Mariah Moody There the photo shines at me, The ink looking fresher than the picture.

His smile is so warm and alive, If only it was still like that.

I wish I could take his yellowed lenses and put them on Just to view the world with love— Like he always did— Rather than how I see it now.

He holds my sister and me on his lap, Covering the Pitt Panthers sweater I still have Stowed away in my closet upstairs.

She wears her light blue shirt and flower-rimed jeans;

I wish I could take the blankets behind us and wrap us in the pigment forever, Just so this moment could never be lost again.

But I can’t.

He’s gone.

Me in the burgundy pants and pink sweater with a genuine smile— Something I haven’t seen in a long time.

He glances down at us to make sure he’s holding us tightly Because God knows how long the moment will last.

She’s making sure to clutch her purple cat while I clasp nothing; however, I would have liked to have held Back the hands of time on his watch just for a few extra Minutes.

by Zachary Bergstresser 10

Now, the years have passed and the ink is beginning to run.

I can’t remember that day, but I remember his hands holding us As if we were his whole world while we Ignorantly let the moment pass by in a Photograph.

Never Alone

by Jason C. Merriam ’04 Sitting under a century old pine, Feeling the chill breeze of October, The tranquility of the green lawn, Leaves of all colors blowing in the wind.

A majestic backdrop of autumnal splendor.

Faint howl in the air, pushing the clouds Forever onward towards the next season.

Glorious sunshine, and I alone, A rare space for contemplation, Away from the fellowship enjoyed, Yet a moment to process the day When so many cannot afford the price.

Faith, trust, surrender, topics all Found in God’s hands, provided freely.

The question is what should I give?

The answer is more, but in what way?

I think of all the roles I have, All the things I am to other people.

While I lament my lack of free time, I should know, remember this lesson.

I am truest when I commune with God alone, Renewed, the winding path leads me home.

by Summer Stitt 11

One Less Moore

by Ryan Moore My fractured family was once whole, Now it’s missing a laughing loving soul, In our photos there were four now it has one less Moore, Your name was Jack and one thing’s for certain you always had my back, Your eyes were brown I will always miss them just gazing around, I never had a choice that I could never hear your voice, You took more than your love now you live above, Your presence I still crave it’s hard looking at your grave, I’m sorry that you’re gone but your memory will live on, We still miss you since we can no longer hold or kiss you, I’ve been doing fine but the years-it has been nine, Nothing feels the same since you went away, but thought of you helps me get through my day, You had a son, a daughter and a wife, It’s a shame someone had to take your life, When we heard you died, We did nothing but hold each other and cry, As I go inside a car, I feel that invisible scar, a new feeling that’s so bizarre, After the crash, your loss turned into a rash, that never went away but now we’re doing okay, I wish I had you longer, I hate it when people tell me this loss of you will make me stronger, I still feel a lot of pain but I’m so glad we share a middle name, I’m sorry if I was ever bad or if I ever made you mad, but I will always be glad I had you as my dad.

Love Heart

by Katabella Byers I will never be able to find a way to thank you for how you’ve supported me Like a mother holding her first and only child You’ve held me tight and firm, yet have only ever been gentle and loving

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Through Silence and Distance

by Victoria Broshears Though distance strains and words are hard to find, I love you still, though silence clouds my mind.

Our calls grow faint, emotions hard to speak, Yet in my heart, your voice is never weak.

We fumble through the moments when we speak, But in the quiet, love is never weak.

Though time and distance test what we both feel, I know within, this love will still be real.

For though we struggle just to find our way, My heart is yours, no matter what we say.

When doubts arise and shadows fill my head, I fight them off, recalling things you’ve said.

The space between us sharpens every pain, Yet through the ache, my love for you remains.

The World of Poetry

by Hannah Stoughton I write for my muses.

To loving gods who kiss my hands, the madmen who match my bruises.

A world in which the sad man loses, a poet never receives a champion grant.

I write for my muses with words my soul best chooses.

My inky blood across the page commands the madmen who match my bruises.

The pen, with love a god produces, Sings songs of insanity thine eyes demand.

I write for my muses.

I negotiate my sanity for the poetic uses, sinking slowly into the suffocating sands.

The madmen who match my bruises are poets, too, yet my heart refuses to know that the world of poetry is a hollow land.

I write for my muses, the madmen who match my bruises.

by Anna Kavulla

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by Zachary Bergstresser

Ceremonious Heartbeat

by Alexa Beck The gray sky hints it soon will start to rain.

A chill of doubt creeps slowly through my veins.

It whispers warnings carried on the breeze, For shall I wear this dress and call it mine?

Will this bundle of roses fit just right, Or, I wonder, will I hold them too tight?

The yellow mix of pink, purple, and white Will I regret the steps I choose to make?

Heart, beat ever so slow, for how will I ever know?

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A Popcorn Kernel

by Anonymous I found the funniest photo this morning.

Grandma and Grandpa and Me Sitting at the movie theatres Waiting for some childish movie to begin.

I can’t remember that day, but I assume it was One to remember. You two stared into the black Lens which captured the life within your eyes And I stared at you both as if to Photograph you two in my mind. Your clothes, blurred by a Veil-like cast over the photo, felt familiar to me. Then I knew They were the ones I threw out a month after Grandma died. Cleaning day made me cry for hours.

The theatre was packed with parents passing children Popcorn, toddlers talking interminably at Adults—yet I found it impossible to look at everyone else When I could only focus on you.

Grandma held her hand on my lap, protecting me, Making sure I wouldn’t go anywhere. I wish I could have Returned the favor; clutched the hands of her watch And froze the moment in time like the cheap Polaroid did.

Everyone believed you both looked so youthful In the caskets, adorned with formal dress And layers of formaldehyde paint; however, I believe you look Best in these minutes before the movie began.

I miss those days every minute and the photograph now Lives on my dorm room wall, like an incessant reminder.

I never go out and party, for I find most comfort in The melancholia of Tennyson’s works.

Every time I stare at the blurred photo, I’m enraged. I believe God is a Masochist, finding pleasure in all who Suffer at the hands of his Great Plan.

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Hollowed by Hope

by Rose O’Reilly

Amid Self-Hate, Love’s Unwavering Fate

by Victoria Broshears

I won’t hear take your meds again— not from lips that have never swallowed fire and felt it burn out the light inside.

In the shadow of self-loathing, your love resides, A heart that aches for the one it silently hides.

Though I long for your presence, you push me away, In your eyes, self-hatred casts its gloom gray.

You don't know how it is to be a trial, a test tube of hope and chemicals, waiting for some miracle to replace the pieces.

You can’t know what it's like to watch your hands betray you, each tremor shaking loose something precious you can't hold on to— the pencils, the brushes, the colors of who I used to be.

You don’t know the empty that follows, a ghost I can’t shake, when the pills turn days to gray and sleep to shadows, when the sun doesn’t rise for days.

You see yourself through a distorted mirror’s lens, But my love for you knows no such amends.

I miss your laughter, your warmth, your embrace, Yet you battle demons, in your mind’s darkest space.

I wish you could see what I see in you, A soul so beautiful, strong, and true.

In your self-doubt, you’re blind to your worth, But I’ll keep loving and missing you, here on this earth.

As you journey through self-hate, I’ll stand by your side, With love as my shield, in your darkness I’ll bide.

One day, I hope you’ll find love within too, For then, my love, you’ll see that I’ve always loved you.

You don’t know the nights I’ve stayed awake, watching the walls breathe, afraid to blink, to sleep, as fear paints my mind’s edges with a darkness no medication can break.

Until you’ve stood here, a body hollowed by hope, don’t tell me to take the cure, don’t ask me to wait.

by Zachary Bergstresser

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Farewell

by Jason C. Merriam ’04 I thought that I would have more time, Chiding myself that I would be old By the time you moved out of the house.

My estimates were woefully off.

Spread your wings, etcetera, etcetera.

Time will move slower for you at first.

So many days that will seem important, Yet will elude your memory in old age.

This is so cliché. I don’t care.

You were just getting interesting!

Not that I loved you any less, Only that I think we got closer

It will fly for me. It already is.

Years sliding like months. Months, weeks.

Your sisters and mother will fill my days As I keep the home fires burning.

The further away from your childhood.

We’re kind of equals and buddies now.

I will miss that. I will miss you.

Neither of us is dying, just moving

Home. My first one was with you and Mom. Everything else felt temporary.

We will always have a place for you.

There is no dynamic where you are not included.

Sorrowful is not how I describe it.

Maybe some regret over time and opportunity Lost. Mostly joy in seeing you happy, Living life instead of watching it pass by.

In a new direction, adventures Lay in store for you a thousand miles Away. I support you, but I’ll worry.

It is what fathers know best sometimes.

I am going to be fine, kiddo.

I will always love my Firstborn.

Not all tears come from sadness and woe.

Not all partings last forever either.

I’ll see you two or three times a year, Sending you texts and annoying TikToks.

The occasional embarrassing voicemail.

I know you must leave and begin,

Distant Longing

by Victoria Broshears I see your name light up from miles away, A sign you’ve seen the stories that I share.

Your words are few, but hints of warmth convey, Though what you feel, I cannot see laid bare.

I wonder if you miss those moments too, Or if this distance lets your heart forget.

Do fleeting signs still mean your love is true, Or is the spark we had now past regret?

We once held close, in silence watched the night, As movies played, your heartbeat next to mine.

But now the space between us blurs that light, And all I have are memories to pine.

I long to ask, yet we fear the truth would show— That what we were is something you let go.

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“The Fair Rose” A Songs of Innocence response to William Blake’s “A Sick Rose”

by Muncie Canon O Rose thou are fair.

The buzzing bumble bee, That charms each petal In a flower sea: Has caught thy young eye Of innocence: And his manners so sweet Does thy heart possess.

by Ashlei Brown

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Journeys Storms

by Gracie Mosko

Wooden Puppets

by Colin Schroyer

In the eye of the storm I feel at ease Free from the judgment Of stormy seas

You tell a lie, and your nose grows, But so, too, will your feet and toes.

Performing this insipid act While your hair grows down to your back, You wonder, and you start to think: “Who is the one pulling my strings?”

Become a boy? Become a man!

For all we know that is the plan!

But will you stay a wooden toy?

Or will you become a real boy?

Across the horizon Yearning for more I take a step forward and ignore the world Now frozen in time Flakes of failure Surround my ship As if I'm their savior

Anne Frank

By Katherine Smith In Anne Frank's diary, words of optimism and dread.

The burden of concealment, the desire for freedom, A young girl's voice in a world so unclear, Her bravery obvious, and her spirit powerful.

Inside the little space, her mind flew, Imagination soared, dreams kept alive, She discovered her light among the ink-stained pages. She refused to give up on hope in the dark.

To hide away, to silence her own voice, Nonetheless, her words revealed her reality, Her story now a beacon, a powerful choice, To never forget, to always uphold.

In Anne Frank's diary, the world can see, The strength of a girl who dared to be free.

by Anna Kavulla 19

Seasonal Depression

By Gracie Mosko

Scratching at my Skull

By Colin Schroyer

Stare at me Bury me These dark sullen eyes

It’s scratching at my skull A dank, sinewy finger— Rotten and decomposing, Icy and filthy, Defiled and tainted— Picks at the walls of my mind.

It stretches its grime-glistened tendons Rising to chip away at layers of bone.

Help me Carry me Hold me through the night Long days Longer nights Does ultimately kill

It digs, scraping against the cage Containing the beast, With its misshapen nail; Chiseling, gouging, Wriggling in the crevices Its dug, picking at my nerves, Digging out the chunks of my head.

Secret cries I want to fly Off the windowsill Define me Be kind to me Oh you lovely sun

It bides its time, carving Kooky little pictures Against the cement prison walls Keeping it in; It peeks out The windows, vying to grasp All that lingers outside In its putrescent palm.

Warm me Don’t harm me Like the moon that I ran from Lift me up Fill the cup That was empty for so long

Stained with the dust of bone, The finger rises again, The noise caterwauls, like nails on a chalkboard.

Dust falls down, forming A sea of sand dunes, piles like Chalk on a nail board.

Stay with me Laugh with me For many days to come

It’s scratching at my skull.

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W.I.N.G.

by Katherine Smith In unity, women will stand strong and tall, Together, they can conquer any wall, With power and grace, they light up the sky, Their strength and courage never will die.

by Muncie Canon

Young and fierce, they march in unity, To show the world their true identity, With voices raised, they break through the night, Their spirit shines with a radiant light.

In solidarity, they fight as one, Their journey long, but never to be done, For when they join in each other’s embrace, They find the power to conquer any space.

So let us stand together, hand in hand, Women powerful and young, a mighty band.

Women Inspiring The Next Generation is what we are. We have come so far, do not let us die out, as then we will be forgotten.

Sunflower

by Samantha Stine The moon is asleep and now the Sun has risen. All the earth begins to awaken But there is one living thing that has been awakened By the first ray of the sun. This living thing can grow As tall as the sky and it is as colorful as the sun. But it Can only grow in certain seasons and it is very rare to See it growing in the wild. This living thing is known to be A very beautiful flower and it means happiness, which is What I feel every time I see a sunflower.

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“Pondering Profundity”

by Sean Oros ’15

Arsonist’s Lullaby

by Colin Schroyer

Pondering profundity, I questioned what it means To be profound.

Many play at profundity, But this pantomime Is childish mimicry With no content And much danger.

No, profundity is elusive.

Profundity is not wisdom, Nor cleverness, Nor knowledge, Nor cunning, Though it may contain some Or all.

No, profundity Is perspective, Paired with self-reflection For self-direction.

Or perhaps it is seeing the self Amidst a sea of selves And knowing How to bridge the void.

Profundity Is a pondering curiosity, But does it hold to platform, Or does it strike forth And chart new waters Others will codify?

This poem And its poet Are not profound— But it does ponder, And in pondering May lie profundity.

Start a fire Last ’til morn’ Staying brighter And keeping warm My young ember I hope you know You’re loved tender So you’ll stay warm Light up the night With dreams newborn And their delight Will keep you warm My spark, my flame, Across the board, Hear your name And you’ll stay warm

by Zachary Bergstresser

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The Powerful Woman

by Katherine Smith She rules her own fate as its queen.

The persistence of her was impressive to witness.

She overcomes every obstacle with ease, With Her unwavering strength and power.

She is a great force whose voice bounces like a blazing fire.

She puts in continuous efforts to achieve justice.

Her enthusiasm and optimism, battling death She is a brave, courageous leader who Does it all, for all those who would fall.

She will forever be in our hearts and minds as Her legacy will go on forever. As a sister, friend, mother, daughter and lover.

She truly showed she could do it all.

by Anna Kavulla

Wonderful

by Jason C. Merriam ’04 I remember watching Anne Bancroft Performing when I was younger, Alongside Patty Duke. Impossibly Revealing a vibrant wider world.

They will. Awareness to acceptance, Puzzles evolve into infinity.

Possibility, the new watchword, Limits and boundaries obsolete.

A miracle: One important moment.

Extraordinary. Times have changed.

Those once thought hopeless are no longer, Yet their numbers grow by the year.

The future shines in anticipation, Each day inspires discovery, Pioneers into a new mindscape.

Heroes like my Evie’s Ms. Chappo.

Some have risen to the challenge.

Tireless warriors who will not waver, Holding the line without surrender, Waiting for reinforcements to arrive.

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Immortal Souls

by Neira Laird

“Texting Heaven”

by Mariah Moody

Only visible in the moonlight, Lurks in the shadows Seeming to fulfill dark desires Attracted to crimson fires.

I still scroll through our texts Because I hear your voice in every one.

They bring up so many regrets.

Eyes like rubies They haunt the realm, Thirst-bound Secrets are found They dance through centuries They’re cold to a touch, Immortal souls Weaving their tails Their kiss a poison, sweet yet dire in their embrace there’s no escape

I’m sorry I never sent those photos from the dance.

You said I looked beautiful, But you never got to see.

And I’m sorry I left you on read once or twice.

I thought texting you took too much Time.

And I’m especially sorry for the times I thought You aggravated me.

You only ever loved me.

I hope you know I still wait by the phone To hear a ring, Or see a message come through.

The grief has been awful lately.

These texts are all I have.

I hope you’re still proud of me ...

by Anna Kavulla

24

The Green Path

by Jason C. Merriam ’04 Gentle heart, do not weep for me.

Not all goodbyes last forever.

When the weight of the world grows weary, Even the brave must rest. I shall sleep, Dreaming of Lethe and quiet days.

The trauma washed by cleansing waters.

Refreshed, I know where I must journey.

I fight my way through the underbrush, The ferns and shrubs of the periphery.

It is a struggle to push forward, But at last I crash on to the floor.

I lay on the cool, damp earth Utterly exhausted, chest heaving.

Strangely, I feel calm, my mind clearing,

The Green Path, a legendary road That may lead to self-discovery.

Few believe that it exists. None have Ever returned, but I must try.

I no longer know who I am.

Only guilt, rage, and pain remain.

A wounded warrior without hope.

Arising to a verdant landscape.

Every shade of green imaginable, The sun filtered, emerald splendor.

Endless columns of mahogany Supporting a vaulted canopy The color of fresh spring budding, Hall of pulsating vitality.

After enduring dusty dirt trails Searching for clues, searching for half-truths.

When despair and doubt cut me deepest, I heard the howl of the Western wind Roaring through the leaves of countless trees.

Over a final rise, at last.

An endless forest canopy

I proceed forward, exhilarated, The sounds of creation abound.

Birds, insects, woodland creatures, all alive.

No cares, no troubles, just existence.

I revel in the freedom of being, finding myself running, pushing deeper, Grasping for the solution to it all.

Stretching past imagination.

The tops well over a hundred feet.

I stand awed before its majesty.

As I approach, the trees seem to rise Like a wave crashing onto the shore.

My eyes scan for entry within, The foliage impenetrable.

Further in, the canopy changes, Darkening to viridian.

Night approaches, doubt enters my heart.

The same fears and dread from years ago When my hands and heart were stained with death.

I tense for the inevitable conflict, Praying that it will end swiftly.

Nature misdirects, the mystery unrevealed. One must need to find it.

I close my eyes, focusing my mind On my desire to be healed, Expelling pain into a rebirth.

When I open, a sunbeam lights The way. I thank God and enter.

Treetops rustle under a heavy wind As if in tandem with a coming storm.

I take a long breath for composure.

The swaying above reveals silver Shafts of moonlight cascading downward.

They mark a path upward to respite.

Resolved, I attempt the long ascent.

25

Never looking down, I risk it all, Taking chances with the slick branches, Every grasp potentially the last.

Dozens of feet up, I hear below The savagery of the forest night.

It impels me higher, hands outstretched To an uncertain resolution.

The epiphany is simply this.

In embracing overwhelming life, I realize death has no power.

All the fear in my heart falls away.

The chains of guilt and rage disappear.

I can be the man who deserves your love And sweetest will be my journey home.

Time ceases to exist in that climb.

Eventually I rise and break Through the dense veil of the canopy.

Birthing myself into the night sky.

I lay panting underneath the stars Whose beauty defies explanation.

At last, I have found the peace that I sought.

by Anna Kavulla

26

Thirty-One: A Response to Elizabeth Alexander’s “Nineteen.”

by Hannah Stoughton That summer in Culpepper, all we could see was white: legs, cars, white shorts, white toothy-smiles.

I hung around with a younger gal and didn’t tell her I was married. We stole reefer from the campers and smoked while her doe eyes observed me behind her rum and Coke.

She danced with me to poison-ivied fields and uninhabited camp vans.

I slept so well with her. When she returned to the city each fortnight, I found another to lay with while the first washed her clothes.

At thirty-one it was my thirteenth summer away from home.

I’d stopped grooming. I looked troubled. “The ladies love my hair,” just to see that white toothy-smile. I’d been smoking marijuana for a while; I knew how it had to burn, how to handle it. I’d learned it all in Vietnam. I was forced to bring my son one day; I imagined her as his mother.

“Can I steal a kiss?” I said, knowing I had her.

She asked about Vietnam, how each scar felt, What combat was like, how the jungle smelled.

I listened to a lot of Marvin Gaye, blocked out the rest, and reached for her girlhood. She would leave in the middle of the night and I’d see her white legs in the morning. I knew I’d ruin everything soon. A storm erupted in the middle of the night; I bolted at the sound of war.

“The rain sounded just like that,” I said, “on the roofs there.”

27

I’ll Wait

by Sophia McGarvey

Waiting

by Anna Kavulla

Miles apart, yet still close at heart, He’s in every thought, we’re never far.

His duty calls, and he must go, But our love blooms, forever steady and slow.

Waiting for the moment, the right time, the career Counting down the minutes until the New Year Waiting for Saturdays, waiting for the summer sun Waiting for all of the work to get done

The nights are long, and the days are tough, But our bond remains strong, more than enough.

In every letter, in every call, His voice, his love, I can feel it all.

Waiting for the light at the intersection Waiting for a real love connection Waiting for the life we dreamed Waiting to be known and esteemed

Though the distance keeps us too far away, In my heart, he’s here to stay.

A Coastie’s love. Forever faithful and true, No miles can break what we hold through.

It is often said good things come to those who wait, But what if now was the time we waited for?

Wouldn’t that be great?

Conversations with Strangers

by Faith Zagotti Once we were close, I miss it, The conversations, most.

It’s not the same, Conversations with strangers, They feel so tame.

The way we would joke, Full on belly laughs, That only together we could evoke

But now we’re strangers.

So, would it be awkward, With every word full of risk & dangers?

From one tangent to the next, Full of randomness, We never ran out of subjects.

I don’t even want to stick around To discover that, My heart wouldn’t handle that let down

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Whisper of Words

by Rose O’Reilly

Priorities

by Jason C. Merriam ’04

In whispers sharp as jagged glass, Words are hurled with reckless force, They cut, they scar, they leave a trace, Of pain that lingers, deep and coarse.

I know they are everything. All else pales: Money earned, honors gained, feats accomplished.

Fame, power, and desires ring hollow.

The thrill of the hunt, escaping pursuit, Are secondary considerations.

In shadows cast by narrow minds, Misogyny festers, spreads its blight, Its tendrils wrap around the soul, Dimming the day, stifling the light.

Life revolves around them completely, From the moment they wake until they sleep.

Schedules made for all activities.

Spontaneity lost, freedom faded.

Privacy, a treasure buried with time.

Each word a dagger, forged in fear, Aimed to wound, to break, to bind, Yet women rise, despite the storm, With strength unyielding, hearts aligned.

They bear the weight of such disdain, And still, they stand, they fight, they grow, For in their courage, hope remains, A beacon bright in darkest throes.

So let us speak with softer tones, And cast aside the chains of hate, For words can heal, can lift, can free, And love, not fear, must be our fate.

It sounds like something to be truly feared.

Rather, it is an opportunity seized.

Life is created from many avenues, Yet the choice to care and nurture, protect, Accept responsibility no matter what, That is a distinction beyond reproach.

A nobility not known openly.

When you invest time and effort in someone, It is reward for the soul, heart, and mind.

Not for an instant, have I felt regret.

I will never reach the lofty dreams of youth.

I have found an enduring love instead.

A purpose greater than any imagined.

A life that is genuine in content.

Good or bad times, every day a blessing.

Weep not at my end, I live in you.

In memory, thought, and word. Forever.

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Friend in Appalachia Written on the occasion of a best friend’s birthday

by Hannah Keeling A dear friend ventures out from our small town Brandishing a Calling to something greater than herself.

Daunted by her aspirations, but Eager nonetheless, she picks up and Follows a Trail, Gingerly but courageously painting broad brushstrokes on an unfinished landscape and Harboring more emotions than one ought to be able to feel.

In those ancient weathered mountains she continues to find herself.

Jade and sapphire and turquoise -Kingly hues on geography that is Lavish in beauty yet steeped in poverty.

Mountains.

Not a day goes by that she doesn’t climb one -On her way to higher education, higher learning, higher meaning -Pursuing wisdom and mercy and justice, emanating grace and empathy.

Quietly these virtues radiate from her and bounce off those blue-green mountains, Ringing echoes of her love of God and compassion for neighbor.

She stands in these mountains and claims her “one wild and precious life.”

This friend stands with her Under the Appalachian rain, and marvels at her immense Value.

Wherever she goes and wherever she lives, she will be eXtraordinary.

You mean something, and you are loved. Of that I have Zero doubt.

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Mental Profit

by Rose O’Reilly

Luck

by Jason C. Merriam ’04 What is it worth? Nothing… and Everything!

People can feel like they are nothing, worthless.

Feeling they are nothing to anyone.

Life in a meaningless, endless cycle.

The mind is a wonder, a journey untold, From dark to bright, a dance brave and bold.

Yet whispers persist, a cautionary tale, “If you’re not too bright, you might just fail.”

“Close your lips tight, let the silence unfold, Swallow the pills; let the story be sold.

For in this maze, it’s profit we seek, Your thoughts, your voice, they’re far too unique.”

But deep in the quiet, a fire ignites, A longing for truth, for the fierce inner fights.

The mind can unravel, can soar and can bend, With each whispered doubt, we learn to transcend.

So let’s not be muted, let’s challenge the night, Embrace every shadow, let’s kindle the light.

For the wonder of minds, in all of their hues, Is the strength to resist, to choose our own views.

Repetitive, anxious, never ceasing.

Labors, necessities, obligations.

Providing for others, self-sacrifice, Invisible in the very moment.

Exhaustion erodes identity.

Skills atrophy from simple disuse.

Innate uniqueness ignored.

Surrendering oneself to the role.

Victory is possible in the margin, Slim, but fortune favors the bold, A lifetime of strategic study, Awaiting the opportune moment.

An opening to prove one’s mettle, To strike decisively, turning the tide, Winning the day for your people, Recognized loyalty leads to reward.

Yet skill, long hidden, seized the day.

May we all achieve when the time arrives.

by Zachary Bergstresser

31

Poem of a 9-year-old Tragedy

by Kathryn Carter Remembering is easy, forgetting is harder.

I remember the movie, the letter, and the dresser The world for the first time in my life stood still.

I felt a heaviness in my chest as the blood was spilling out of me.

I remember my mother screaming, her staring at me, her saving me.

Blacking out is real and we never know when it is our time to go.

I remember the ambulance, the unfamiliar boy who stood on our porch, my brother asking if I was okay.

I felt as If I was going to die without accomplishing my life goals.

I wanted to be a mother so bad, I just wanted another chance.

I blacked out for what felt like a split second.

Doctors and nurses are all the same trying to save a life day by day.

I remember feeling sleepy, I remember asking if I could sleep, I remember the nurse telling me no.

I held on for as long as I could.

Then there was darkness.

I blacked out again.

Recovery sucks.

I remember the walls, I remember my parents sleeping, I remember watching Frozen with my family.

Woke up for X-rays that needed to be done every hour.

Mother got angry as they wouldn’t let me sleep.

Walking was harder, legs wobbling, hand holding the railing.

Recovery took five days.

32

P.I.C.U.

by Rose O’Reilly

The Poetry of Psychology

by Neira Laird

The room was dark, no light to see, A hollow space, just shadows and me.

No window's warmth, no breath of air, Just echoes of whispers, a silence laid bare.

The psyche’s depths, a mystery to solve, In the mind’s vast caverns, secrets evolve, In the theater of the mind, we are all players, With masks we craft from dreams and layers.

Scared and restless, never at ease, Time stretches long, like a cruel disease.

Locked in a chamber where hope seems to cease, An 11-year-old heart cries out for release.

With scripts written deep, in memory’s hall, The inner self’s dialogue, the deepest call, In the labyrinth of the mind, we wander, Through corridors of thoughts we ponder.

Why would they do this, what did I deserve?

A child’s fragile soul, lost in a curve.

Yet in the stillness, a flicker remains, A spark of resilience amidst all the pains.

Where shadows of our fears are cast, A psyche’s map, uncharted, vast, Where symbols speak and intuition gleams, A climb for self-actualization and self-esteem.

Through darkness I tremble, but deep down I know, Even in shadows, my spirit can grow.

For though I was broken, I’ll learn to be free, And find my own light, just waiting for me.

Where actions are copied, and norms abide, Therapeutic presence, social learning’s guide, For in the poetry of psychology’s art, We find the essence of the human heart.

The Circle is Complete

by Jason C. Merriam ’04 I may never shake the heavens above, But I know that faith will lead the way.

The fire, the genius, the will to burn Now illuminates the next generation.

2025 could be the year, the zenith.

Top of the mountain, peak of power.

The signs have shown themselves early.

Knowledge lost a generation ago found,

These may be the final embers sparking, Not in vain, not forgotten, final focus To craft all I can with that spirit Before I forget my youth forever.

The song of my youth remembered.

“I want out! To live my life and to be free!”

Full circle realization. I was him.

He is me. How we have grown together.

Cry not for its passing, all things do.

Smile, for happiness filled the void.

A mutual handshake, mental understanding.

I am proud of what was done, what will come.

The same soul resides within, blossoming, Responsibility and maturity Nurturing me into the man I am.

A devoted husband, loving father.

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The Last Night

by Katherine Smith We are out and about all night long, With friends by our side, we're never alone.

It is always so much fun, just us on our own, No worries, no cares, just laughter and fun.

Our parents unaware, we're out so late, If they knew, we’d be grounded for days.

But we're young and free, it's our time to create, Memories that we'll cherish forever as we grow up.

Under the moonlit sky we roam, staying out late, until the night is done. The city lights shine, as we walk the streets, we embrace our youth, so carelessly.

The thrill of breaking free, no curfew to abide by no rules to meet. We let our spirits explore, as we know if we were to get caught it’ll be the last time for a long time we get the chance to be ourselves.

Our favorite time we look forward to every summer, As our group is getting older we lose a few.

But For this moment, we're invincible, we’re all in, As we let go of the mundane, the predictable, the worries.

Though as the clock strikes twelve, then one, then two, we try not to keep track, as time is of no value to us.

As long as we stay living in the moment nothing will change.

With every step we take we feel alive, as the night grows longer, We talk, we laugh, we dance and sing, we head down to the lake.

Where we go to our spot, under the fence we craw, over the hill we climb.

To the spot we have claimed as ours, as the sun begins to rise, We know this will be the last time, we cherish the moment, Watching the sunrise and remembering what fun we have had.

We know it's time to say our goodbyes, we have grown up, We can no longer stay out all night long anymore.

So as we all head back home to our friend’s place, It is quiet, but not a sad quiet, a happy one.

As our hearts are full, from the night's highs.

We stumble home, with heavy eyes, we crawl into bed.

As the day begins, we know that once we wake, we will go our separate ways, as it is time to go.

We’ll stay in touch but nothing will be the same, 34

by Muncie Canon

As after that night our lives changed for the better.

We are grown up now, we no longer wander the streets.

The Depths of Fear of FISHING

by Katherine Smith Beneath the starlit sky she stood, longing to spend time with her father.

Though touching fish she truly despised, She joined him at the lake; it was a surprise.

Everyone knows she hates fishing, But will do anything to be with her father.

She was a daddy’s girl and loved to please.

So fishing at night she went, upset as another Tagged along interrupting her special time.

She thought all would be fine, But fate had other plans that night.

As icy water blurred her sight Her body plunged into the deep unknown, Surrounded by darkness, fear swiftly grown.

She had fallen in trying to help the other person, She screamed and cried trying to get up from The cold embrace, a grip of despair.

She was scared, thought she was fish food, Yet in the darkness, hope was there.

As her father's voice pierced through the night, Yelling her name, she felt the water splash.

He had jumped in to save her knowing she Couldn’t swim, he saved his daughter.

by Muncie Canon All she wanted was to spend time with her father, Instead she almost drowns due to his “friend.”

Now Saved from the depths of darkness, shaking, Crying, and hurt, she clung onto her father.

Saying NEVER AGAIN!

35

The Silence Between Us

by Victoria Broshears

The old days!

by Jalen Douglas

We sit in silence, thoughts too hard to share, The weight of words unspoken fills the space.

We wear our smiles, but underneath despair Lies deep within, behind a fragile face.

In the quiet echoes of memory's embrace, I trace the steps of youth's fleeting grace, Oh, cherished days of innocence and glee, Now distant whispers in time's vast sea.

What bothers me, I keep beneath the skin, And you, the same, with troubles left untold.

The wall between us thickens from within, As hearts grow cold where warmth had once been bold.

Without the words, how can we hope to heal?

For love can’t thrive where silence breeds its chill.

Yet we still hade the truth of what we feel, Afraid that speaking might reveal the ill.

But love needs light, not shadows to survive— Through honest words, our hearts can stay alive.

Gone are the hours of carefree play, When laughter danced in the light of day, Each moment painted with colors bright, Now softened by the veil of night.

The dreams we held, so bold and pure, Now tempered by life's trials endured, Oh, how swiftly the seasons pass, Leaving behind footprints in the grass.

Faces once near, now distant stars, Their laughter echoes from afar, Memories etched in the sands of time, A symphony of joys and sorrows intertwined.

Yet in this elegy of days gone by, I find solace in the tears I cry, For each chapter closed is a story told, In the tapestry of life, forever unfold.

by Anna Kavulla 36

Arguments of the Greats: Debates between Sappho, Aristotle, Dante, and Machiavelli on Who Contributed Most to Culture

by Kaitlynn Wolffe, Al Bach, Laci Dezern ’24 & Grace Honeycutt The Host stood at the head of the table as their guest chatted over tzatziki and pita chips.

“Thank you all for coming I know it must have been a long journey for all of you,” The room becomes silent as the Host speaks.

“You must be wondering why I invited all of you here. I will explain, but first, I would like you all to introduce yourselves and your works, as well as mention someone who has inspired you and your works.” The Host gestures to their right where a Grecian woman sits in ancient robes.

“I suppose I am first. I am called Sappho of Lesbos. I authored poems such as ‘Let’s not pretend', ‘Very Well, Charaxus,’ and many, many more. My inspiration is Anactoria, one of my favorite people in the world,” Sappho stated in her lyric tone.

“Also, I must say, this tzatziki is delicious!”

“Is that what this is?” The man across from her said, taking another bite of a pita chip. “Fascinating. I am Aristotle, a student of Plato. I wrote Politics and Poetics.”

The Host gestures to the man sitting next to Sappho.

“Oh, I'm next.”

The man in red and black robes takes a sip of wine and speaks.

“My name is Dante Alighieri of the Florentine Empire. I wrote The Divine Comedy. My mentor and guide is Virgil of Rome. I am also a renowned artist! You can thank me for all of the new depictions of Hell.” He said with a proud smile.

“Thank you, Dante. Last but not least.”

The Host gestures to the man in black robes. The man sits up straight and addresses the table with the strong voice of a diplomat.

“I am Niccolo Machiavelli of Florence, Italy. I am best known for my works in politics and in war, and am inspired by Cesare Borgia, the illegitimate son of Pope Alexander VI. I can also be considered the founder of political science as you know it today. It is a pleasure and an honor to be dining here tonight.” Machiavelli had a politician's grin stretched across his face as he spoke to the group.

The Host nodded in greeting.

“The pleasure is all mine. Thank you, everyone.''

The Host held up their glass of wine as they spoke.

“Now onto the main subject of the evening. I have a question for all of you to discuss as we dine, who here has made the greatest contributions to culture?”

Aristotle is the first to interject.

“How would you define culture? We cannot debate this unless we know how you define what culture is. I believe some context is needed.”

37

The Host ponders for a moment before answering.

“I would say… Culture is defined as the collective creations of humanity; the works that humans create and how they influence modern ideals and individuals.”

The Host then gestures to Sappho.

“Since our first course is based on your time period, I believe it would only be fitting for you to begin, my lady.”

Aristotle mumbles under his breath, “Why does the lesser sex receive precedence?”

Sappho lets out a dry cough to punctuate it is her turn to speak.

“Well, a theme I have placed throughout my work is that of beauty. In my time, beauty was analogous to military power, but in my poetry, I focused more on the beauty of individuals and the relationships between them. For example, I wrote a poem about my lover Anactoria and the beauty of her form.”

Dante inquisitively asked, “Ah, so you write of romance?”

Sappho tilted her head in thought.

“I do not only write about romantic love, but also platonic and familial love. For instance, in ‘Very Well, Charaxus’ I scold my brother on his greed and thirst for power. I wrote this because I love him, and I feared that he would take a dark path if he continued. On a lighter note, I also wrote poetry to my pupils in Lesbos, showing my platonic love to my students by passing down my knowledge and ensuring they would prosper even after I was gone.”

“So, in a bit of a conclusion, can you briefly summarize what you think you have most contributed to culture?” the Host asks politely.

Sappho gives a slow nod.

“Of course. I have contributed to culture by challenging the definition of beauty and love in my society.”

Dante remarked in reverence, “I very much admire your literary work, Sappho. Writing your poetry in your own meter takes much skill. Your literary prowess is inspiring!”

“Why, thank you, it is encouraging to see that people have found my works and can relate to it, although we are centuries apart.”

The Host interjects, “I would like to inform you that many of your works have inspired and touched the hearts of many feminists and members of the homosexual community.”

Aristotle cocks his head in confusion.

“What is feminism? Is it a support group for women?”

The Host furrows their eyebrows, knowing the conversation will soon turn into arguing.

“Essentially. Feminism in the 21st century is a supportive stance made to support women that are facing adversity. Any person – male or female – can be a feminist.”

38

“Oh.” Aristotle is mostly silent. He opens his mouth to speak again when Sappho cuts him off.

“That’s wonderful,” she exclaims, clasping her hands together in excitement.

“I am pleased to see that my hard work has helped so many women in the future.”

As Sappho finishes her argument, the table divulges into chatter as the lentil soup is brought out.

The Host places down the last bowl of lentil soup and speaks, “Now, we have a dish from Dante’s time, lentil soup. As you enjoy your food, Dante, would you mind explaining how you contributed to culture, as well as why you think you did the best.”

Dante, after taking a sip of his soup, begins.

“Absolutely. The kitchen has done a lovely job with this soup, by the way.”

The Host bows silently and gives a smile.

Dante clears his throat, “Now, for my contributions I wrote the famous epic The Divine Comedy, and I also painted many of the modern-day representations of the Christian afterlife, also known as Hell.”

Machiavelli lets out a small laugh.

“Based on your works, my friends and I must be going to your Hell, then.”

Dante gives a nervous smile.

“Well, you see, the politicians I have met have not been particularly good people. I’m sure you understand.”

Aristotle interjects, “Well, I must also fear for my soul.”

Dante nods and continues his monologue. “The Divine Comedy has influenced modern depictions of Hell and Purgatory, expanded Christian lore, and inspired many authors such as John Milton with Paradise Lost and Martin Luther’s 95 Theses.”

Dante smiles to himself.

“You could say I alone planted the seed for diversification of Christianity.”

As Dante’s argument reaches an end, the next course is brought out – the Patina Lucretiana, a dish of pork which has been glazed with herbs, is rolled, and is then baked.

The Host, returning to the head of the table, gestures to Aristotle.

“Now, with this dish from Aristotle’s time, it is Aristotle’s turn to speak.”

Aristotle puffs his chest with pride, “Yes, of course, it is my turn to speak. I am a student of the great philosopher Plato. With my education, I have written many works in my time. I have written plays as well as discussed politics in my writings. One may recognize me for my work in creating the concept of tabula rasa or blank slate, as well as logos or logic. I even went so far as to found my school, the Lyceum.”

39

Machiavelli nods in approval, “Would you care to tell us more about your works on politics?”

Aristotle smiles.

“Absolutely, my work focused on what qualified as a good government and the good and bad aspects of each. Essentially, all governments aim to have some good in them; however, sometimes that is not the case. Governments can be unfavorable for preserving a constitution, yet the same could be said for the opposite. Government can be both good and bad, it just depends on how each man views it. This would also depend on how the government benefits each person. For example, my protégé, Alexander the Great, used government to his advantage and conquered much of the known world. On the other hand, Socrates was murdered by his government. It depends on a multitude of factors, and therefore my work cannot be determined as either good or bad as a whole.”

Before Aristotle could continue, the dessert was brought out. Machiavelli smiled as he saw it was Sambocade, otherwise known as elderberry cheesecake.

“I am guessing it is my turn?”

Machiavelli faintly smirked as the slice of cheesecake was placed in front of him.

“Yes, please enjoy your Sambocade while Machiavelli makes his argument.” The Host used the arrival of dessert as a smooth transition.

“Thank you, Host,” Machiavelli composes himself and takes on a diplomat's presence.

“As the founder of political science, I separated religion and morality from politics. I best articulate my ideals in The Prince.”

Aristotle interrupts to ask between bites, “What is political philosophy?”

“It is less of a philosophy and more of a truth. Politics and politicians need to be aware of the public's view, but ultimately do what is best for the nation, even if it means deceiving the public. Cesare Borgia is a notable example of the ideals described in The Prince, except even he relied too much on luck rather than intellect or strength.” Machiavelli spoke as the others ate their cheesecake.

Dante looks over at Machiavelli and comments.

“Separating religion and politics was a smart move, as both are easily corruptible on their own.

Together they can easily drag people to Hell.”

“I just took what I saw people do, rather than what others say they ought to do.” Machiavelli stated.

“Politics has shown itself to be best represented when amoral.”

As the meal comes to an end, the guests collect their thoughts on everyone’s arguments, and they long for an answer to the question: who has contributed the most?

Sappho, placing her silverware neatly beside her plate, speaks up. “So, Host, who would you say contributed the most? I believe you would be unbiased in your conclusion.”

40

The Host looks to the guests in thought, “Well, I believe every one of you has contributed greatly to culture. Where Machiavelli has contributed to politics, Aristotle has contributed much to philosophy. Sappho, you have made beautiful poetry, and Dante, you have contributed greatly to the Christian mythos. However, all of your contributions simply cannot be equated to one another. You have all contributed so much, but to different subjects, which are equally important.”

Dante furrows his brow, “So what do you mean?”

The Host smiles, trying not to upset the guests. “In a way, you have all contributed equally to separate things. Since these things cannot be compared, you all have contributed the most, just to your own fields.”

The four notice that their bodies are becoming faint. They look up in confusion to the Host. The Host smiles and eases their confusion with a final goodbye.

“Thank you all for being here for this wonderful debate. I am now sending you back to your own time periods. You won’t be able to remember this event, but just know that the significance of this meeting will ripple throughout time.”

The End

41

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust Inspired by an Original Ghost Story from Sean Oros ’15

by Mariah Moody I heard a loud crack as the door swung open and I fell to the ground, taking years’ worth of spiderwebs with me. My flashlight fell to the concrete floor and rolled around before shining on me like a spotlight. Termite holes spotted the now loosely swinging door like splattered paint in the warm light. I imagined they probably burrowed down into the wood upon impact. Trying to focus my vision on something still, I rolled my head to face the ceiling. Wooden rafters ran along the top of the basement, seemingly very weak and dry rotted. I’m quite surprised they didn’t collapse when I broke through.

Brayden leaned over me to inspect the door’s damages. I was so out of it, all I could see was his bullet necklace dangling in the light. He told me it was the one that killed his grandfather, an on-duty cop. Because of this, I’ve never seen him not wearing it or at least carrying it on him. It dangled back and forth before pointing directly at me like a threat, yet I lay there motionless.

“Geez, man,” he said, moving his light from the door to my eyes for a brief second before putting it back. “Look what you did.”

Where the door lock should be, a large hole now was with splinters coming off in every direction like crooked teeth on a lion. In all honesty, I tried to pick the lock, but swiftly realized the cogs must have been rusted in place; as a result, breaking the door was a better answer. He continued to glance between the two, shocked and possibly a little frightened.

Brayden shined his flashlight in my face once more, laughing. “Nice job, Sean! I think you permanently broke it.” I lifted my head a bit to see the rest of the guys were beginning to huddle behind him and, carefully stepping over me, he guided the other fraternity members through.

After the stampede of feet finally subsided and my head stopped pounding, I slowly found my way to my feet again. The guys were already on their way up the steps, so I dusted off the spiders, went to retrieve my light, and tried to hurry up to the rest of the group—I was used to them leaving me behind, but not in a place like this.

Roth Hall was the financial aid and student accounts building. There was nothing to be afraid of here except for the Dean…and I was gonna prove it. This was another one of my many ghostbusting missions on campus. Thiel had become recently notorious for its ghost rumors floating around—no pun intended—so I decided to bust every place. Hodge Hall? None. Howard Miller Student Center?

Nothing. Passavant Center? A little spooky, but nada. I thought I debunked every place until I was out to dinner with Sheila and she asked me if I’d ever done Roth Hall.

“Uh, of course I have! There’s nothing there. The scariest thing in there is my growing mound of debt.”

“Okay,” replied Sheila, a little annoyed. “But what about the top floor?”

I stopped chewing my grilled cheese and stared at her wide eyed. “What top floor?”

“You know, where the old theater used to be? I hear a lot of stories about ghosts being up there.

Maybe that can be your last ‘mission’ before summer break?”

42

After that, I was hooked. I asked around campus for stories and none of the students really knew anything. Even the professors were clueless; all of them except Doctor Morgan. When I asked him, he froze at the mention of the floor. His countenance grew cold and stern before he got in my face to whisper, “Don’t go up there. She won’t be happy.”

I tried to question him on who “she” was but he just grabbed his things, continued to tell me to stay away, then left. Of course, that’s what led me and the rest of Kappa Sigma here. Or at least about 8 of our members, including myself. When I picked up my flashlight, I did a quick look around the room. Nothing but textbooks, filing cabinets, tables, and event signs. In the corner, a tower of chairs stood triumphantly over an old oak desk. It might have belonged to a teacher long ago judging by the locks on the drawers, but it now belonged to this basement, the dust, and darkness which enveloped us both. ...

By the time I got back to the group, they were already on the third floor. I saw them staring at the doors, but none of them reached for the rusted handles. Jacob Shauden stood closest to the door, so I thought I’d be the first scare of the night. “Hey, Jacob,” I said. The group turned simultaneously, each with a little hint of fear in their eyes. He glanced at me through his inch-thick lenses, at the door, then back at me before replying with a simple, “What?”

“You gonna open the door for us or are we gonna have to stand here all night?”

The guys looked at him, some with anticipation, others with terror. When he continued to stare at the knob and guys like Steven Kutchner and Randy Holbine started teasing him, I pushed him aside and pulled them open myself. With a loud creak, they rushed open to unleash decades of dust and stale air upon us. As I stepped into what once was the theater, I saw everything frozen in time.

Props from old productions lay artistically across the stage like paid actors while old papers and programs were strewn across seats, the floor, and tacked to the walls. The wallpaper looked fairly recent, but it was obviously older than the theater itself. According to a pamphlet from what seemed to be their most recent production of Romeo and Juliet, the theater’s last performance was in May of 1921.

The guys all went off on their own in the room. Some of the group sat in seats and talked while others read the many papers strewn about the room. Brayden, Randy and Steve acted out scenes from cheesy 80s movies like “Dirty Dancing,” “Mannequin,” and “Ferris Bueller's Day Off” for our pleasure before taking a bow and moving backstage. I walked through the dark aisles of red velvet seats dimly illuminated by my and the other guys’ lights.

Surprisingly, some of the seats still had some dried bouquets, congratulatory stuffed animals, glasses, purses, cigarette cases, and ashtrays. It was remarkable. The whole room looked as though it had been abandoned in the middle of a performance. All I could imagine was intermission being called and families of the actors and actresses who had all worked so hard rising from their seats to evacuate the building for the rest of eternity. It was as though they had left their lives in this theater for preservation; however, time chewed away at whatever was left.

There was no ghost here. Nothing was scary about the room. Sure, it was eerily ominous because of its abandoned state, but after we called out for 10 minutes and nothing happened, I knew it was a hoax. That was before the three clowns called to me from backstage.

43

“Hey, Sean,” Brayden, Randy, and Steve appeared out of the left curtain, breathless and excited. “Come check this out!”

I called on Jacob and we followed them through dark halls of clothing racks, dressing rooms, makeup benches, and prop storage before we stopped in a pitch-black corner. The windows were boarded up and a wall of boxes tried to prevent us from getting back here, but we were determined. It was only about midnight outside, but the room made us feel as though we were in a void. Jacob and I shined our flashlights around before mine landed on Brayden, standing high and mighty on a hidden staircase. Randy and Steven stood beneath him, striking their best power poses.

It made sense: there was another floor all along. Randy and Steve looked at me with pure excitement, but I could tell Jacob was not as thrilled.

“C’mon, man, let’s go up!” they pleaded with me. I’m not quite sure why they did because I was going up either way, but I dragged Jacob along with us. I found my way around the guys and took the lead.

When we reached the top, a set of doors held shut by a metal pipe shoved between their handles stood before us. Though it was suspicious, I pulled it out, handed it to Jacob as a “weapon”, then pulled the doors open. Inside, there was an open hallway and four doors—two on the left, two on the right— and a room at the very end with the door cracked open. The first room was nothing but an old classroom. Brayden wanted to move through to the next room, but I stopped him, having him “investigate” this room first (we really just called out for any ghosts to show themselves). The desks were lined up straight facing a blackboard on the side wall with chalk lines faintly left.

The next was an old music classroom. Only a few chairs remained in there and a beautiful— though decaying and obviously water damaged—grand piano. A light bulb and old sheet music sat on top of it, but there was nothing else noticeable in the room. When we turned our backs to move on, we heard glass shatter behind us. The lightbulb had mysteriously rolled off the piano. Strange because no one was near it, but not enough to prove a ghost. I figured it must have been the air or the vibrations of our movement on the old wooden floors. Besides that, nothing unusual.

Only one room of the four was different—or rather, unsettling. In that room, the desks formed a semicircle around the doorframe. Behind them, the blackboard remained partially in the wall, partially crumbled on the ground. When I noticed writing was still on it, something felt off. Then, more felt strange as I realized the desks in this fashion had carvings in them of birds, symbols, and Latin phrases. I thought the guys had left me, but then Brayden and Randy came up and forced me into the room, daring me to read the board. When I gained enough courage, I stepped through the doorway and past the desks to find mounds of ashes in the back. I wondered why they would be here, but pushed it out of my mind and dragged myself to the board.

The two made comments about my chickening out before I'd even got to the back of the class.

When I stood before it, I caught their attention with a quick “Hey!” before saying, “It says something about crows and to ‘follow the crows’? What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know,” Brayden started. “Maybe a ghost wrote it.”

“Haha. Very funny.” I turned around and the guys led me back out into the hall. Brayden and Steve moved to the side so I would lead them down to the last room. Behind me, Randy pushed Jacob forward and we started onwards. Then, I felt the pit in my stomach grow larger and larger and my 44

palms get sweaty. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, guys. I think we’ve done enough and, to be honest, we’re already trespassing so—” “Shut up.” They cut me off in unison. They stared at Jacob and I intensely and the pit began to grow more, now invading my chest cavity. Then, Brayden let out a humorous laugh and said, “Dude, I’m just playing! Go ahead. Lead us. You wanted to find ghosts right?” Randy and Steve stayed still and silent, watching us with a sort of strange glisten in their eyes. It was at that moment I realized his bullet was gone and something felt very off.

I swallowed the gargantuan pit that was now invading my esophagus and turned back to face the door at the end of the hallway. Jacob held onto the back of my jacket as I led us all through the dark. Behind us, the three guys walked slowly a few feet back, shining their lights ahead as well, but staying completely silent—the first time they’d shut up all night. Halfway down, I began to realize our flashlights were growing dimmer as we got closer. I pushed it out of my mind believing I must have a concussion after hitting my head off the basement floor. A few seconds later, Jacob whispered in my ear, “Is it just me, or are our flashlights all dying at once?” My heart stopped. I wasn’t crazy, but I was now almost pitch black with nothing but three suspicious idiots and this chicken with his pipe.

Then, there was this…feeling. I don’t know how to describe it other than the closer I got to the door, the more I knew there was someone on the other side of the wall. I tried to convince myself it was paranoia, but being in almost complete darkness and only a few feet from the door, it became harder to convince myself.

My heart pounded out of my chest. I could hear its deafening rhythm in my eardrums, drowning out the creaking of my feet on the century-old boards. I could hardly breathe and when I could, it was shaky and painful and filled with dust. As I neared the door, sweat streamed down my forehead and dripped into my eyes, burning them to the point I was losing vision even quicker. Our flashlights were practically dead, giving off the faintest glow in this black void in which we were encased. I took a long, deep breath, glanced at Jacob, then pushed.

I pushed through quickly, swinging my body around the left wall to see what person had to have been lying in wait…

There was nothing.

The entire room was empty. My flashlight regained full power once I rounded the wall and faced the desolate corner. I turned back to Jacob to find him cowering in the doorway, darting his flashlight about the room. When I forced us out, that’s when we both realized Brayden, Randy, and Steve were all gone. We ran down the hall, quickly searched the rooms, but there was nothing. I dreaded having to search the crow room, but this was important. My flashlight flew around until something glistened in the ashes. A sort of golden something that felt familiar. I approached the pile slowly, shining my light at the sparkling piece buried within. I dusted off the ash and that’s when it became obvious it was a bullet; more specifically, a bullet on a chain necklace.

At that moment, my stomach dropped. I can’t quite remember much after that, but I felt like I was going to vomit. I remember screaming as I ran down from the fourth floor, out to the theater, and past the rest of K-Sig smoking ninety-year-old Camels. When I made it through the basement and out of the building, that’s when I collapsed on the comfort of the concrete and the cool, damp grass. …

45

For the next several nights, I couldn’t sleep. Every night at three in the morning, I was awokened to my bed—or myself—being furiously shaken awake. It was always at the top of the hour, never a minute early or late.

I haven’t seen much of K-Sig around campus since they think I’m just a wimp, but they don’t know what happened. Jacob moved back to his hometown for the summer not long after that and I heard he is considering transferring schools due to the “post traumatic episodes he experiences” from that night. What happened to Brayden, Randy, and Steve is a mystery, but all I know is they never left the building that night. I’ve searched for them all over campus, asked their friends and the frat, I’ve even asked their families. Nobody has any word on the three and since then they have been reported as missing persons.

I no longer feel safe anywhere on campus. I feel like I’m being followed all the time and when I sit alone in my room, it feels as though I am surrounded by people. I carry a Bible in my bag at all times, but the feelings never subside. I still believe every corner I round has someone there. Watching, waiting. I always find groups of crows lurking in the quad and, sometimes, one will sit on my windowsill and watch me inside my dorm. No matter what I do to shoo him away, he just sits there frozen like the theater, stalking me. I never go out at night alone and I always find a way to stick with large groups. Even at the grocery store, I still feel as though all eyes are on me, and not in a good way.

Things only continue to get worse. This morning, I was sleeping soundly until I was—once again—shaken awake by unknown forces. Instead of rolling over to sleep again, I sat up and scanned my room, trying to decipher objects in the moonlight. When I caught sight of a woman’s head facing my closet at the foot of the bed, I started to wish I would have rolled over. I rubbed my eyes believing it was just a pile of laundry or my backpack, but her hair only became more defined. I quickly realized she was real when she slowly began to turn around, staring me down. The only distinct feature I could make out on her was bright yellow eyes illuminating in the darkness and piercing through my soul.

My heart began to race once more and I lost my ability to breathe. It felt as though a fiftypound weight had been placed on my chest. Then, unblinking, she glided towards me. Around the bedpost, along the side, up to the head of my bed. I still didn’t move. Instead, I continued to stare at her, gasping for air and watching the long, gangly hair drag across my covers. The last thing I can recall is her tall, lanky body rising from the floor to tower over me and vibrant amber eyes inches from my own.

46

Index Anonymous Writer.............................................................................................................................. p. 15 Bach, Al ....................................................................................................................................... pp. 37-41 Beck, Alexa ............................................................................................ pp. Introduction & Dedication,14 Bergstresser, Zachary ................................................................................................ pp. 10, 14, 16, 22, 31 Broshears, Victoria.......................................................................................................... pp. 13, 16, 17, 36 Brown, Ashlei ..................................................................................................................................... p. 18 Byers, Katabella ............................................................................................................................ pp. 6, 12 Canon, Muncie ............................................................................................................ pp. 7, 18, 21, 34, 35 Carter, Kathryn ................................................................................................................................... p. 32 Dezern ’24, Laci ...................................................................................................................... pp. 9, 37-41 Douglas, Jalen ..................................................................................................................................... p. 36 Honeycutt, Grace ......................................................................................................................... pp. 37-41 Kavulla, Anna .......................................................................... pp. Front Cover, 13, 19, 23, 24, 26, 26, 36 Keeling, Hannah ................................................................................................................................. p. 30 Laird, Neira ................................................................................................................................. pp. 24, 33 McGarvey, Sophia .............................................................................................................................. p. 28 Merriam ’04, Jason C. ........................................................................ pp. 5, 11, 17, 23, 25-26, 29, 31, 33 Moody, Mariah ................................................................................................................ pp. 10, 24, 42-46 Moore, Ryan ....................................................................................................................................... p. 12 Mosko, Gracie............................................................................................................................. pp. 19, 20 O’Reilly, Rose................................................................................................................. pp. 16, 29, 31, 33 Oros ’15, Sean .............................................................................................................................. pp. 7, 22 Schroyer, Colin ..................................................................................................................... pp. 19, 20, 22 Smith, Katherine .............................................................................................. pp. 8, 19, 21, 23, 34-35, 35 Stine, Samantha ............................................................................................................................ pp. 6, 21 Stitt, Summer ...................................................................................................................................... p. 11 Stoughton, Hannah ..................................................................................................................... pp. 13, 27 Wolffe, Kaitlynn ............................................................................................................................. pp. 5, 8 Wierzbowski, Cydney .............................................................................................................. Back Cover Zagotti, Faith................................................................................................................................. pp. 8, 28

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--BACK COVER START--

Thank you to the students, faculty, staff, and alumni members of Thiel College for your submissions!

Publication of The Phoenix would not be possible49without your willingness to contribute your time, talents, and creativity to ensure the continued growth and outreach of this journal. – The Editors