Trillium 2015 by Trinity International University

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I LLIUM R T E H T

201 4 2 0–1 5 � � r i n i ty �n te r n a ti o n al �niversity

PUBLICATION

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF �m ile e �ullar

CO-EDITORS

�aria �urg K ali Cram e r

� livia Corb e il

GRAPHIC DESIGN �e licia K ranz

FACULTY ADVISOR

table of conten

Brad l� �ru�auff

POETRY / PHOTOGRAPHY / PROSE / STUDIO ART

THE TRILLIUM 3 0 t � a n n ive rs a r�

Editor's Note

Festival Arts Winners

Honorable Mentions

Poetry + Prose Selections

Photography Selections

Studio Art Selections

104

Best of 10 Years

116 Judges 118

The Trillium

EDITOR’S NOTE

THE TRILLIUM � mi lee � u l l a r

All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it –tantalizing glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest– if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself–you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say “Here at last is the thing I was made for.” —C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain. Echo and The Trillium have become natural partners in the quest to cultivate a culture around the Arts at Trinity. Collectively our vision is to see members of our community begin to integrate creativity and imagination with spiritual practice and purpose. As the two entities align more in purpose, The Trillium has become a place to celebrate the artistic abilities of Trinity by featuring Echo winners as well as other exceptional work from the student body. Earlier in C.S. Lewis’s contemplations of the Problem of Pain, where the quote above comes from, Lewis speaks of this incommunicable thread of thought. It is the rapture of beauty. It is the searing pain in its absence. It is the emotion for which we grapple to find words and images. This thread that ties together our most precious moments is the experience of God’s divine presence.

We long to communicate the beauty that we have tasted only in part. We lament the brevity of the experience, and strive to recreate it. Art is an act of creation; an echo, if you will, of what God did when he said, “Let there be. . .” The more we engage in the world the more we experience the pangs of creation’s fallen state. The grace of God is that he provides us with the experience of pleasurable remnants of what once was in order to forever make us discontented with what is. Much of the mystery of faith is learning to grapple with the already and the not yet, and art provides believers the outlet of expression to attempt to reconcile our experience with what we know to be truth. This year, we invite the readers of The Trillium to recognize that internal wrestling of faith. Some of this issue’s content may feel more challenging than in previous years, but while some art speaks for us, some art speaks to us. We recognize these pieces for their artistic qualities and as works written by students parsing out meaning and truth in their lives. We hope that the experience not only causes you to celebrate and praise the beauty of God’s nature, but also to connect with others as we navigate the journey of faith together. We create because through our pain and suffering God has granted us the capacity to imagine something different, and so together with creation we groan for the day when all things will be made new.

fin F E e ar S T ts I VA L WI NNERS

POETRY / 10

DEATH OF A PARADISE � ona t �a n C a s te l e

PHOTOGRAPHY / 40

RAILROAD LIGHTPAINTING �i s a K o w i es � i

PROSE / 64

RALPHIE �a r i a � u rg

STUDIO ART / 88

RED APPLE �o i s Gab o r

POETRY

� l i � a� �ac�oug al l � el i ci a Kranz

�ar i a �urg

PHOTOGRAPHY � l ex �o� nson

� i sa Kowi es�i

�r i �a Gi b son

�ordan � ur l an

� i ff an� Val l eau

PROSE

� o n at �a n Ca s te l e

�lex an dra Wa l � e r � ar i a � u rg

STUDIO ART B ro o � e C o e

�i s a K o w ie s � i � an bee � a r�

� mi l� � o re tto

�o no ra b

� en

on s

DEATH OF PARADISE / 10

�onat � an Cast el e

COMMUTE / 18

�ar i a �urg

SAVI / 20

�onat � an Cast el e

THE ROTTING GUITAR / 22

� a�l or �a� l en

COME BE WITH ME / 24

�onat � an Cast el e

DOLOR / 28

� ar i a � u rg

MURMURS FROM THE DEEP / 30 �eli c i a Kra n z

RECKLESS / 32

�n a �i t a K a rim i

BELOVED YELLOW TONKA TRUCK / 34

�eli c i a K ra n z

WORLD OF LONELY WAKING / 36

� li � a� � a c � o u g a l l

RALPHIE / 64

� ar i a � u rg

TAKE ME BACK / 80

� lex a n dra Wa l � e r

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POETRY / FINE ARTS FESTIVAL WINNER

DEATH OF A PARADISE � ona t �a n C a s t e l e

And to the North of castle window, I survey the ocean stretching forth overcome by its own infinitude while to the South, I see the factories of a monstrous slum where kings and gods like we should not walk at night, for bandits roam in droves who would do us harm, who run dark fingers along gold flesh of stilled chariots in the night when we venture forth for fine fish and cheap liquor singing No Nay Never and Óró Sé Do ‘Bheatha Abhaile driven by the moon, the happy happy moon, who is happier than the sun, and more foreign. I am a son of the heavens, beyond reach of their claws. Selah Gyges Thile Bob Beneath wet shadows of mounted antlerbearing bucks I watch, watch the proud crusaders march into the forest like goddamn redcoats, but I’m not American anymore, 'cause I’m an earthmade song woven of summer suns and winter tobaccos and hippie chicks and red rifles sung from fountains of freedom —

you know that every few goddamn generations the tree of liberty has to be watered by the blood of patriots and tyrants, and that’s that. Beaches are the holiest of places in crisp afternoons. Water like icy spears sears and retracts with liquid heartbeats. Toes digging like moles, mad moles who wish to forge a kingdom underground like we, we who sat on sandy thrones and rode waves the way kings ride horses, toes poking down in anticipation of passing through gaudy gates of baudy pearl peeking up from the minds. They’d say “Come on Johnny, it’s time to fly” and then Bob would fall belly-forward into the sea and flap like a fat bird, gasping self-assigned realities into himself while I bit dust with tired teeth, jaws weary of noble gnashing beyond god’s wall and god’s name is Bob, and he built heaven and named it Paradise, and named it good as we three kingly manly men stumbled over rocks with cigarillos tucked gently into teeth while I try to trace the outline of her face by memory. You weren’t what I expected, you watched me across the ocean of jailed jazzmen and former flappers and beckoned me to moonly chariots, and you orbited me like a planet and called me your sun and

told me that poems would sing my name out into the universe and back upon my tongue, you said you’d never seen a girl whose eyes so green beating like tiny hearts. Thile Follow me, and you I shall deliver. Slide into the passenger seat of my soul as we spin in circles, talk in circles, sing the songs of our fathers’ fathers till dawn. Selah We’ll ride through towns where we used to live and walk tentatively through holy temples, humid citadels the faithful flee and we’ll weigh sixteen liquid ounces of latte foam from crashing waves while feasting by the sea. Gyges Let us speak of higher things. Let us conversate with God.

Let us reach out with long hearts into spinning galaxies and caress the stars! We’ll grasp something there and pull it back to earth, chain it up, display it for all to see, and the Paradise will cry Óró! Welcome home now that summer’s coming. We, friends, will be as Gráinne, it’s time to fly. Bob I don’t want Jesus anymore, despite me own Irish heritage, third generation from a goddamn cop who killed people in Chicago. He killed goddamn hippies with his goddamn club in Chicago, that goddamn democratic convention with the fuckin’ liberals and told me about it when I knee high toddled, and the year was grim, but I like Lao Tzu and Mario Savio now. And I like the Mississippi Delta, so much that I’d drag rusty knife handles across strings of precious Telecasters to weep the tears of bluesmen in the dark. Paradise! Paradise the kingdom built thrice of interlocking consciousness woven inextricable bonded like a single little giant strand of DNA writhing on the beach like a stranded dying whale. Come join us. No Nay Never But I love the Rover so, I will be the Wild Rover. Not even Irish by blood, yet I play the Rover. Bob! You moan of moonshine where smoke curls up to the sky but I lived it, and you wouldn’t believe the tales I could tell.

I’ve seen monsters burst forth from the wishing well and peeked through cracked car windows into hell and feasted like matronly cow upon grass and watched the earth spin, sitting wallowing like a stone among dead bones — timeless. I confess that I should have been born a stone. I have an eighth of an ounce preparing to pounce, seducing you from my backpack, I’d sell you some, for just another moment, for I lust for Paradise — I must vomit dirty dirt infernal dust upon your face and put you in your place and sing No Nay Never No Nay Never No More for many a year, spent all my money on whiskey and beer and now I’m returnin’.

I joked with you about getting married and hoped you’d say you loved me too as piercing green eyes and naked backs rock like tiny lifeboats, I roar a goddess trampled underfoot by bastardly beast people who sign names in uninvited journals and carry conversations late into velvet evenings and interlock cold fingers in sandy playgrounds broken down and won’t stop until police break down every door and won’t give in until there’s nothing left of me. There’s nothing left of me. Our days fade into evenings long While singing Gaelic pirate songs Of war, of virtue, peace, and sin With djembe and a mandolin Paree, Paree, Paree! Our voices lock like Irish knot And carry us past Camelot And kingdoms high of human might To Winthrop Harbor’s holy light Paree, Paree, Paree! See Paradise; fall through her sandy jaw, And sing Óró Sé Do ‘Bheatha Abhaile BSelGygehoThigesleb In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti Father forgive m In nomine e for I hav In nom come on Johnny, it’s Please stay.

time

fly

I think I’ll put a poster on my goddamn wall. I think I shall grow out my hair and step down from the breaker of Paradise into the sea. My fuckin’ ankles are cold and wet. I’m a man. I hunt albino bucks, own innumerable instruments of music and war. My library stretches from Athens to Hong Kong and I drink fiery whiskey with rare steak at early lunches exhaling flames of revolutionary pride and pentatonic riffs. Look upon my works. Listen. God’s behind the wheel, his name is Bob. He asks me questions about love and life and sex and rage and Jesus and Plato and Nickel Creek and then is gone, and I miss him, for the bells are ringing and the sirens blowing from far away (have mercy) and it is time to leave the beach, but I fear shrines shriveling in disunity, atavistic darkness of former paradises. Where does heaven go when it dies?

Our palm trees should have been cactuses, our shorelines rather mirages cast by eyes of thirsty madmen. You weren’t what I expected, you wrecker of rooms. You hold my hand and kiss me and call me pretty and sadly turn your gaze low below the world. What should I expect, for I stumbled over you at the coffee shop, you — a patchy beard like a threadbare coat, a thin book of Fredrick Neechay in your bony hands, an old hat hiding thick greasy unwashed hair, and a tight purple Jimmy Hendricks tee, and cigarette burns in your clothes, coffee stains on your teeth, thoughts of hands (running through your greasy hair) in your mind. Take me back with you, I can’t stand my mother’s boyfriend anymore. Sing me an Irish lullaby before you say goodbye and I shall take you to my favorite beach.

POETRY

COMMUTE � ar i a � urg

Blue, blue setting sky

Of my long commute

Spilling over tail-lights

And the reaching roots

Of buried trees

Drinking away the tawny seas

Deepening skies

And chilling breeze

And chilling breeze.

Glowing past the angry faces

Tired sighs

The thwarted wills

The “traffic kills”

The heavy sadness of a long hard week

The things we bear but cannot speak

The steering wheel in my control

I lean and drink with all my soul.

In setting glory let me steep

The memory I’ll keep

Such a swelling royal blue

Stain the insides of me too My blue-clad cavities may find One day A way

For when Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m blind.

POETRY

SAVI

�ona t �an C a s t e l e

Savi or! we live in the pulse Alone less t onight, never b een suc H less f or a damn workman Lost, i al one ask o ne plea to gain a new Objectiv

Ly mind, i t o be the one running to die to myse Lf - then a br other you do say, a kin of a terrib lelove lyclos enessb eautif ulmyth.

POETRY

THE ROTTING GUITAR �a�l o r �a�le n

I walked down the hall palms clammy and red seeing you in the distance rethinking words in my head asking you to be with me, while Jazz echoed in the halls In a new couple’s hand, we saw painted faces soar guided by confused minds and the fingers of the poor your day of age came and I didn’t think far before I recalled your love of music, so I gave that guitar I loved that guitar and all it stood for a gift in essence, but my heart strung into the frets I wanted to protect that lovely guitar But my own fear bruised it and left a buried scar If we could live for a millennium, I would still make a thousand mistakes Forever the life guard of my own children drowning in the lakes I could explain my weak words that fell in silence Or blame it for ignoring my apologies weeks after our friendship was killed by the virus that my intentions had tried to cease

To this day sorrow falls over Regret shaded in a cloud of the unknown of what I couldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been with its graceful tone I marvel at how much youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve grown tears choking the words I mean to say, but my Hands tied to my back while the guitar just rots away

POETRY

COME BE WITH ME � ona t �a n C a s te l e

Come. Be with me where moonlight flows like wine from wineskins woven taut of watery wind and bound in blue, shrouded in shadow trees on dimming hills, whose darkened eyes have pinned the sight of growing grass flowing to blue at water’s edge, where shadow-people grew and infinitely filled the jagged line of picnic tables, park benches, in breeze of ghostly whispers, wailing “We have sinned in life, and wander now beneath the lake within the wood of benches and about the corridors of historical cold” — whispered and screamed in tone of pallid pout at hills, who grin with grassy face serene of timeless consciousness, languishing lean and peaceful. Come. Be with me at the stake of kings and gods and priests and prophets old and young among the streets, drowned by the stout and swelling voice of he whose blood is gold which pumps through hearts naked in nebulae —

hysterical, emaciated, weak with streaks of silver lotus in Gurnee as great monstrous machinery (with blood of gold and silver) swallows up the flood from bursting clouds below the earth, where sold were souls of midnight lake and hilly peak to faceless faces now. Come. Be with me upon the holy seas of sacred halls where fingers sink into the rocky Snow which screams “Turn not thy eyes upon the sun where wings melt down to molten magma; go beneath me, 'neath the liturgical lair where lazy fawns can frolic, ladies fair can live in celebration of the Falls and springs” — heed not the Snow’s command to run; come. Be with me. Much is the wheat to mow before me as my scythe swings wide and near and many are the beans to grind to dust with mortar, pestle, hands trained in the art — o come to me, though I call out in lust that you, what I do to the beans and grass do unto me, my thoughts and me. Alas — I marvel as my pride nuzzles my ear to numb my fear, while softly fading heart like smoke dissolves, absorbed in gaia’s crust. Once was a time our fingers interlocked when facing fallen flowers, torn from soil and slit by Reaper’s scythe, more grim than mine. O! Carcass of the child saint (whose toil was bearing souls on shoulders broad) — pray, wake!

But I could not command the dead to shake. My hand you held while we the living walked to lands of lovers, where dared we to dine with gods, whose forms now fade to gray gargoyle 'midst unrequited adoration’s shade beneath the gothic buttresses, beyond the city on the hill, within the walls of nehemiah — there, I find a bond with seven dionisiuses, dead to life. And there, your hands caressed my head to comfort me — but had your fingers stayed within my hair! The Snow, the springs and Falls, the seven call me, hoods of bacchus donned of one of us, wrapped in the folds of flames and hum the hymns of holy mountainside and dedicate to us your dying eyes!” I am become the timid, boiling tide and they the moon, beyond my mortal reach — though in the evening, evil voices preach of laughter, liberty! I loathe the names

of ghostly gaia, and the lord of flies. Heed not the Snow, my love! You’d once divide your time between the Word (who was with God) and I — a flesh, who makes himself a word to flee responsibility and pain, who makes himself a beast, a frightened bird to fly away. So often did we leap into the ocean’s overwhelming deep where legs kick wildly 'gainst glaciers thawed by daybreak. In our motion, strength would wane as failure overtook my body, blurred against the pre-apocalyptic floor — a setting where I’d once engage the men who worship he whose blood is stolen gold, the great machine who dwells in Gurnee’s glen, whose televised appendages weave silk of Baghdad’s oil, burst like Canaan’s milk and honey. Yet I hear their words no more as you evaporate within my hold. How desperately I yearn for what you’ve been — come. Be with me by lakes of lost Gurnee where spirits feast on foggy floodlights’ light bursting in flamboyance, as fires glow illuming the “Machinery of Night” while wine (transfigured into water) flows like moonbeams through a prism; Gurnee knows of secrets forged in shipwrecks on the sea of sailors, those who failed to firmly row to utopian shores, found pluto’s flight.

POETRY / HONORABLE MENTION

DOLOR � ar i a � urg

The blood of my heart rises In a powerful surge

Up through my veins

Up to my brains

Where the floor of my mind Pushes it down Down from my crown and back into place

No grace

no grace.

The pressure created To pain is translated, It builds to a bursting

Of nowhere to go

Of nowhere to flow

My heart’s heart-blood

My painful flood

My red, red love

Streaming therof. Nowhere to drain —

Besides the pain) This creates great confusion And dispels any illusion

Any delusion

that I may have indulged That love is life

and life is good

and good is mine

To keep

Instead I steep

I drown

In blood sink down. Love, save me.

POETRY

MURMURS FROM THE DEEP ďż˝e lic i a K ra n z

I murmur at ink splotches of blood on a stained glass window. Where my finger pricks the blade of a sharp crack. Where dust shifts as red drips fall to death. I murmur at the fried church cat wandering through the basement pawing for nip, restless, obsessed with chasing an end it canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t catch. Its burnt whiskers snake in and out with shallow breaths, surviving by its tip toes. I murmur at faded pews that sag beneath the weight

of bloated purses, concealing dullness. Skinny fingers plunder into darkness, clasping at emptiness and a crumpled tissue. I murmur at the grape juice and stale crackers, tainted by dirt and thick air and hungry hands and harsh knuckles as I sink to my knees â&#x20AC;&#x201D; praying God forgives.

POETRY

RECKLESS ďż˝na ďż˝i t a K a r i m i

Feeling inordinately fine, like sunshine hitting the edge of a rocky cliff kind of fine. Twisting in shadows of regret that bloom in my mind like dandelions at spring time. You call me crazy. One more time, then hide the smile that falls so wickedly behind eyes of the unadmired. I had never seen hate until it seeped through the inner workings of me seeing it tingling in my fingertips and roaring through my veins, Until I was entrapped in my own desires to smile every time you broke my heart. Wanting to go back to my childish regard of what love felt like, I clawed at my ribcage daring to break free. Break free from my own temptations of tracing the outline of your hands wrapped around mine. You taught me to run alongside trains, holding onto the vanishing promise it clings onto itself. Running aimlessly until we could no longer feel the weight of our misspent youth beneath us. Spending Sundays creating sermons from smoke rings,

silently searching for something more substantial. Until we found ourselves deep into the week with lackluster thoughts of what the world should look like. Calling ourselves philosophers of the modern world in hushed tones and dark corners. And casually failing, falling, fumbling over our foolish battle scars Enduring all that I had with you, until I found it a blessing. And so, I am fine. Because I never stopped running with the trains.

POETRY / HONORABLE MENTION

BELOVED YELLOW TONKA TRUCK ďż˝e lic i a K ra n z

To my beloved yellow Tonka truck, You taught me how to spin the best mud flurries up into blue skies as grass bowed its head beneath a rusty wheel. You taught me how to roll over the small stuff while listening to crumpled leaves beneath a blue sole crunch away. You taught me how to plow through patches of sticks and misplaced pebbles with an exhuberant VROOM. VROOM.

You taught me how to toot and holler shamelessly among overbearing plants and weeds whose outstretched arms scratched. You taught me how to steer around thorn bushes as I wheezed out congested air and breathed in evergreen. You taught me how to drive forward, unyielding and expectant to see past paths merge into present trails of greater hope. Thank you, my beloved Tonka truck. For teaching me how to move. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Your tall friend

POETRY / HONORABLE MENTION

WORLD OF LONELY WAKING �li�a� � ac � o u g a l l

Sitting alone while the others sleep, Listening to the drone of the somber acoustic number, I feel the storyteller rear back his head. Once more I feel the timeless words pour forth, But they are consumed by silence that rushes over a rest. The words beget the wrath of the deaf, But maybe the words are best suited for the dead. They are the ones who truly know what lies beyond, This world of lonely waking. Sleep deep my friends — Let the music of lonely waking, Consume the wrath of your silent dreams.

RAILROAD LIGHTPAINTING / 40

� i sa Kowi es�i

CALL OF DUTY / 42

�o s� �anuel

BEAR LAKE AT NIGHT / 44

� i sa Kowi es�i

MILKWEED / 46

B radl ey Gi l l as� i e

THE RED SCARF / 48

� i ff an� Val l eau

FAITH WINDOW / 50

�i ff an � Va l l e a u

WHO READS BOOKS ANYWAY / 52 S � � lar �a rs � a l l

DIVE / 54

� a i ge S w a n s o n

CINQUE TERRE / 56

� mi l� � o re tto

AMERICAN GOLDFINCH / 58

� o rdan �u rl a n

FLOWER CHILD / 60

�lex � o �n s o n

DRIP / 62

�r i � a G i b s o n

�� ot o

gr a�

��

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ns io

PHOTOGRAPHY / FINE ARTS FESTIVAL WINNER

RAILROAD LIGHTPAINTING �is a K o w i es � i

PHOTOGRAPHY

CALL OF DUTY �o s� � a n uel

PHOTOGRAPHY / HONORABLE MENTION

BEAR LAKE AT NIGHT �is a K o w i es � i

PHOTOGRAPHY

MILKWEED Brad ley Gi lla s � ie

PHOTOGRAPHY

THE RED SCARF �iff an � Vallea u

PHOTOGRAPHY / HONORABLE MENTION

FAITH WINDOWS �iff an � Vallea u

PHOTOGRAPHY

WHO READS BOOKS ANYWAY S� �lar � a rs �a l l

PHOTOGRAPHY

DIVE

�ai ge S w an s o n

PHOTOGRAPHY

CINQUE TERRE �mi l� �o ret t o

PHOTOGRAPHY / HONORABLE MENTION

AMERICAN GOLDFINCH �ord an �ur la n

PHOTOGRAPHY / HONORABLE MENTION

FLOWER CHILD �lex � o �n s o n

PHOTOGRAPHY / HONORABLE MENTION

DRIP

�ri� a G i b s o n

PROSE / FINE ARTS FESTIVAL WINNER

RALPHIE � ar i a � urg

Ralphie was a fat child. The kind that are freckled and redcheeked all the time, who walk around with a nice, round belly preceding them. He wasn’t anything very special. He had large, round eyes, very blue, and would stare at you for a long time when you spoke to him. He breathed a little heavily and when he did answer questions, it was always in a strangely detached way. He was really very cute (albeit he had moist, spiky hair and was as large-bellied as the best of them) but nobody really noticed because he was so round and so invariably underfoot. This summer, he had learned how to dress himself. Every morning, he struggled into his little striped shirts and dusty sandals all by himself and let himself out. His parents liked it when the apartment was quiet and they could do their work in peace. He was often lonely. Nobody paid very much attention to him, not even the neighbors in the apartment complex where he lived. It was always, “Go away, Ralphie” from his father; or, “What a fine day to play outside!” from his tall, delicate, and impossibly thin mother; or, “Don’t hang around here, Ralphie” from the neighbors whose cat he tried to play with. “Ginger is feeling persnickety today, better let him be.” Ralphie was convinced that all of this was because he was not an attractive child. He was sensitive to things like that.

He would stand there, arms hanging down and mouth hanging slightly open — roll his eyes. His shirt never quite covered his soft, round belly. He looked rather pathetic, and felt it, so he would suck in his tummy and trundle away to play in the little square patch of yard and the other square patch of pavement where the dumpster was kept. There were no other children, only a lanky, oily-faced teenager that sometimes threw rocks against the dumpster and always had headphones in. Ralphie particularly liked him, by virtue of the fact that he was older and had large, interesting chains on his pants and around his neck. Ralphie would come and stand expectantly by him, even though for a long time the teenager would hardly look up and it got pretty warm standing in the sun. Ralphie’s shirt would begin to stick to his back and tummy and his cheeks would get even rosier than usual. Their conversations would usually go something like this: Ralphie: (When the teenager looks up) Hi. Ralphie’s voice was rather husky. The teenager: Well, he wouldn’t say anything, but if it counted for anything, he tipped his head in a reluctant acknowledgement of Ralphie’s presence. Ralphie liked that greeting. He practiced it at home in the mirror ever afterwards. Ralphie: (After a long moment of consideration in which he tugs at his hot, wet, striped t-shirt). What’s that. Ralphie’s questions almost always were statements. Ralphie did not often show very much emotion, not even in his voice. The teenager: (Removing an earphone, once again, very reluctantly). What’s what? Ralphie: Pointed to the iPod. Of course he knew perfectly well what it was, but for some reason known only to himself, felt it appropriate to ask The teenager: (Turning it over in his hand). An iPod.

Ralphie: (Nodding wisely). What’s it for? The teenager: (Folding his eyebrows, as if he can’t believe the stupidity). Plays music. He turned up the volume. Ralphie: (Staring at him, looking absorbed). I don’t like music. His mother was a violinist. She played in all sorts of places, gigs she called them, and was often away from home. The teenager: Didn’t know how to respond. He had not yet developed socially enough to not feel awkward in such a situation, even in front of a child, a fat, freckled, too-curious child at that. Ralphie: To the rescue. He felt that the teenager was uncomfortable, and hated it when people felt that way. Protectively, he threw in, “Wanna play ball?” The teenager scoffed. No kid, I’m busy, though in reality he continued to sit there with his earphone restored to its proper place in the oily crook of his ear and after a while began to tap his foot. Ralphie wondered if he had upset him and also when he was going to begin throwing rocks, because from Ralphie’s observations, the teenager threw rocks mostly when he was very upset or very, very bored. After a while, Ralphie himself got bored

of squatting and staring at his teenager and wandered away. The small square lot of back yard that belonged to Ralphie’s apartment building was fenced in and faced one street (the building was on a quiet neighborhood street corner). There were thin green vines that intertwined the metal rails of the fence, with morning glory flowers (purple, pink, and white), that opened up only in the mornings and by dusk were twisted up small and shriveled. Ralphie would often play there. He would put his speckled nose in the middle of the delicate, trumpet-like flowers and breathe in. They would suck into his face because of the air pressure, and this was always fun except for the fact that he would get pollen on his nose. There was also a small fir tree, randomly placed to one side of the lawn. One day, it occurred to Ralphie that this would be a perfect miniature Christmas tree for his room come winter. Even though it was only July, he began to saw at it with a knife borrowed from his mother’s kitchen drawer, but fortunately for the tree he didn’t get very far and soon gave up. Other times, he would roll around in the grass and maybe look for four-leafed clover, though he was very unlucky and never found a single one. And sometimes, he would just stand, fingers intertwined in the thin diamonds of the metal fencing, staring out at the street, in something of a trance. The paved dumpster lot and the backyard were at opposite ends of the apartment building, connected by a narrow path, cool and shaded over by a wild grapevine plant that the immigrant owner of the building had planted long ago and forgotten about. Mid-way, just where the path opened up to the paved back courtyard, were three concrete steps and a door leading to the apartment basement where there were laundry machines and Ms. Cosgrove’s apartment. Ms. Cosgrove was the oldest tenant of the building—she was a bent, skinny old woman that always wore her silvery hair in a messy top-knot and never changed out of her faded, flowered pajama dresses, never that

Ralphie had seen. She had two flowerpots, one on each end on all three steps, six in all, and would always come out to water them in the morning and the afternoon. The rest of her time she spent in the cool darkness of the basement, on a couch watching sitcoms and Korean soap operas. Ralphie made it a point to watch her water the flowers. He was there like clock-work and always said, politely, “Hello, Ms. Cosgrove,” to which she replied, “HE-loo, Ralphie,” as if she was rather annoyed to see him. Her voice was gravelly and rather sharp, but she always let him help her water the pots, so he thought maybe she liked him after all. He would follow her down the cool basement steps, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, past the whirring washing machines and into her shadowy apartment where she would plop back down on the couch. The TV was always running—he had never once seen it turned off. He used to think maybe her light bulbs had all burned out and it was her only source of light, but one day he saw her turn on the living room light, when she had dropped her hairpin and couldn’t find it. He thought she was probably lonely, and so he would squat there, uninvited, and respectfully watch with her. He considered it his sworn duty to keep her company for at least one or two shows after which he couldn’t bear the passionate,

undulating voices any longer. They sounded too much like his parents’ arguments. He would breathlessly climb the stairs back out into the sunshine. She didn’t pay much mind to his comings or his goings. One time he knocked over one of her flowerpots and shattered it—she was very angry and ignored him for the rest of the day, and when he tried the door to visit her, he found it locked. The next day everything was back to normal. A few days later, one of the neighbors threw out a fancy ceramic cereal bowl with a crack running down the middle. Ralphie picked it out of the dumpster, filled it with dirt using his faded green sand shovel, and put it in the empty spot where the flowerpot had been. After that he often checked the dumpster and came upon several excellent finds, one being a silver watch whose hand swung around and around. Ralphie’s father loved watches. Ralphie knew this because he had seen him looking at them online and once in a while would order himself a new one. Ralphie lugged himself up to his father’s study and plunked it firmly on the desk where his father worked at his computer. “What’s this?” his father asked, looking up. “A watch,” Ralphie said proudly. “Oh — thanks,” said his father, running a hand through Ralphie’s hair and then regretfully wiping it down on his pant leg. Ralphie waited to see him put it on, but he continued to type, and after a while he got bored and wandered off. Ralphie kept an eye out for it, but did not see him wear it, and later found the watch in the trash. He couldn’t understand it. It seemed a fine watch to him. After some consideration, he left it there, concluding it was an unlucky watch to have suffered the same fate twice. There were also the teenager’s parents. Ralphie wanted very much to see them and they lived just opposite his apartment door. He climbed the stairs to their shared floor, pausing as

always to stare at the shriveled up potato fry that had been dropped in one corner of the staircase and always made him crave McDonald’s. Reaching the neighbor’s door, he stepped carefully onto their rough brown welcome mat, which felt funny under his sandals and was specked with debris, then knocked. The door opened and it was the teenager’s father, a mustached man, with a baseball cap and an interesting tattoo on one wrist. Ralphie stood and stared, fascinated, offering no explanation for his visit, mostly because he didn’t know the teenager’s name and he couldn’t ask if the man was his father, which seemed the appropriate question to ask. After some moments of silence, the father felt uncomfortable and offered him a cookie, politely saying good-bye. Ralphie was entirely satisfied with his visit and decided the teenager had very nice parents all things considered, though he wished he might have caught a glimpse of the mother. His other favorite was the mailman who drove a large white truck with one door that seemed to Ralphie to have gone missing. He would wait on the step outside the apartment foyer, and watch the mailman slip the neat, white stacks of mail into the different slots. “Are you a mailman?” he would ask, to make conversation.

“Yeah, kid,” he would answer, barely casting Ralphie a glance. Maybe he got bored of the same question every time, it occurred to Ralphie. “Is it fun to drive with the door open,” Ralphie would continue, hoping by this new route to prod the fat, interesting man to talk to him. “Pretty fun, yeah,” said the mailman, mopping his brow. “It’s a nice breeze. Hot as he —” he stopped himself and glanced down at the round-eyed boy. “Hot. It’s nice.” “Is it hard to turn the wheel because of your belly?” The mailman had a large, round belly, which made Raphie feel as if they had a special bond. He made a special point of never missing him. The mailman looked a little angry and was very gruff with him, so Ralphie concluded that he had better not ask that question any more. He carefully removed it from his daily drill, but left the others. One day, at school, Ralphie’s teacher began to teach them about American Indians and the English colonies. Ralphie was fascinated, most particularly by the Indians. They could walk as silent as deer in the forest. They could throw tomahawks with incredible accuracy. They could discern between the tracks of different wild animals. He wanted very badly to find out more about them, and so he stood, for a long time on his stolid little legs by the teacher’s desk, watching her wipe the board. When she turned around, he gave her a start, he had been so quiet, but he plunged right ahead and asked if she could tell him more about the Indians. Ms. Pengree had experienced a long day at work and was not about to spend any more time explaining Indians to a fat, tired-looking little boy. “There’s plenty of books in the library,” she replied, waving her fingers vaguely, “filled with stories and information. I’m sure your mother will take you if you ask her.”

Ralphie’s mother was at her desk, typing something, when Ralphie came home. She rushed around making him some macand-cheese and gave him a Kool-Aid to drink. “Mom,” he said between mouthfuls. He loved mac-andcheese, mostly because his mother made it often — very often. “Yes, dear,” she answered, looking up from her work absentmindedly. “How was school?” “We learned about American Indians,” he said, but she didn’t answer, and so he continued. “Can you take me to the library?” Her manicured fingers stopped typing and her thin eyebrows creased. “The library? Oh, Ralphie, you know I’d love to, but I have a gig tonight. Why would you want to go there?” Patiently, Ralphie said, “I’m learning about American Indians.” “That’s lovely! I wish I could take you, I really do. History was one of my favorite subjects in school. If only your father wasn’t so busy —” Her face clouded over. Ralphie could tell that she was feeling bad about not taking him to the library, and he quickly offered her some Kool-Aid. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll go outside and play. It’s a nice day out.”

The next few days he spent in the yard, for two reasons. First of all, his parents fought more than usual, and secondly, he came upon the idea of building an Indian village out of little twigs and leaves. There was a patch of dirt with very little grass and that was the clearing. He first gathered a large stack of twigs and began to build little tepees and wigwams. He even snuck out some matches from the kitchen drawer to make a fire which he quickly stomped out with his foot the moment one of the neighbors came out on the balcony to turn on the grill. It was the third day after he had started, and he already had two small tepees and one larger wigwam, barely discernible beneath the clods of mud and leaves that held it together. His mother came into the yard from the shady grapevine path, having used Ms. Cosgrove’s door, presumably. Ralphie got a funny flip in his stomach. His mother never, ever came into the yard. “Come on up, Ralphie,” she said brightly. “Your father and I want to talk to you.” She tried to take his hand but it was really very dirty and he didn’t think she’d like that, so he quickly stuffed them into the pockets of his equally dirty shorts and followed her. He sensed that she was nervous; she was also dressed very nicely, in a muted green business suit and skirt, and smelled like perfume. Upstairs, his father was in the living room. His mother led him to the living room, and both his parents sat him down on the couch. Ralphie had a tightness in his throat. His parents barely ever spent time in the same room together, and never with Ralphie added to it, but now they were there, all three together, and both of them were looking at him very seriously and kindly and his heart was full. His father picked him up and sat him down on the couch, and when his father lifted him, his rough, manly fingers felt very warm and loving pressing against the softness of Ralphie’s belly. Ralphie looked from one to the other, proudly, at his

beautiful, very clean parents. He folded his hands in his lap to keep from dirtying the white couch and looked at them expectantly. His father cleared his throat. “Ralphie,” he began, and his voice trailed off. “Mommy’s going to be going away for awhile,” his mother plunged forward, something both hard and soft in her voice. She gently pressed his dimpled knee. “Away,” repeated Ralphie. His stomach flipped again, lightly. “Your mother,” said his father, “she —” There was a long, drawn-out silence. “You’re moving away,” said Ralphie. “You and Dad don’t get along and so you’re going to live in different places.” Relieved, his father glanced quickly at his mother. “Why yes, Ralphie. That’s right. Sometimes two people can’t get along, no matter how much they try.” “Daddy and I don’t love each other anymore, sweetie,” broke in his mother. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t love you.” “Will you visit,” stated Ralphie, shortly, for his throat hurt him badly. “Yes, of course!” said his mother, “You’ll live sometimes

with me, and sometimes with your daddy. But for now, Mommy is going away. Daddy will take very good care of you.” Ralphie’s father didn’t even know how to make mac-andcheese. That would mean lots of burgers. “I understand,” he said, and slid off the couch. His parents were at a loss for what to say next, and Ralphie did not want them to feel uncomfortable on account of him. He went and squatted on the floor in his parents’ room. It was shadowy and dark. Her trunk lay open, neatly packed. The breeze from outside lifted the lace curtains slightly, and then gently set them back down. Otherwise, everything, including Ralphie, was perfectly still. He squeezed his eyes shut and only opened them when he heard his mother open the door. Oh, Ralphie, she sighed when she saw him. She knelt by him and looked him in the face. “You’ll see me all the time,” she said. “Please don’t go,” he said. His voice was huskier than usual, very low. She looked around her helplessly, and the thought of something stole across her face, and her eyes glowed a little. “I have too,” she answered. “Are you going to live alone.” “No,” she said, and again, her eyes glowed a little and a little happiness tugged at one of the corners of her mouth. He stared at her. She noticed the little folds under his eyes and how the sweat had gathered on his smooth, white skin. She kissed the top of his wet, spiky head. He was breathing heavily. Then she nudged him out of the way so she could open the closet door where there were a few last things she needed. When she finished, she grabbed the suitcase in one hand and her heels in the other, stopping at the door to put them on. He followed her all the way out the apartment door, down the dark, grimy stairs of the apartment complex, not even pausing for the

fry, ignoring it completely in fact, and stood stiffly as she hugged him, anxious that he not dirty the delicate material of her suit with his dirty hands. Then he stood, watching her walk down the sidewalk, suitcase rolling behind her, her slim hips swaying in the cool green of her skirt and heels clicking. At the end of the street, a Toyota was waiting. A man jumped out and put her suitcase in and the wheels made a funny, painful crunching as it turned and they were gone. Ralphie sat down on the front step and cried. Several passers-by looked at him strangely, but no one stopped and no one patted his head because fat children aren’t very cute, let alone great, blubbering ones who have streaked their freckled faces with their dirty, balled-up fists. Ralphie’s were particularly dirty because only moments earlier, which seemed ages and ages ago now, he had been building the Indian village and smoothing out the dirt with his carefully cupped little hands. After a while, he stopped crying. It was a still summer afternoon. The wind rustled softly through the trees, and someone’s wind-chimes tinkled. A dog barked. And a thunk-clunk. The teenager was throwing rocks again. Ralphie heaved himself up and for a moment he wasn’t

sure if his fat little legs would hold. But they did, and he walked to the dumpster. The teenager was listening to music, looking stormily at the dented dumpster. Ralphie walked up to him and stood expectantly. “Hi,” he said. The teenager wiped a hand across his face. There were tears in his eyes, and he pulled his nose with a healthy thunk. He didn’t look at Ralphie. It occurred to Ralphie that maybe there was only the mustached dad — maybe the mother didn’t live there at all. A car pulled up, a nice blue Volvo, stopping in the alley where the dumpster was. A man got out. “Hello, boys,” he said, noticing them. “How are ya?” They both stared at him, and then the teenager mumbled something polite. He was a tall man, wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap. But his skin was a nice, rich color, like leather, and from the back of his cap swung a long, shining black braid. Ralphie’s insides filled with glory. He followed the man to the trunk of his car, gazing at him open-mouthed. The man was lifting out a box of things, and started a little when he saw Ralphie, and laughed. “Heya, kid.” “Are you an Indian?” inquired Ralphie, awe-fully. “Sure am.” He winked and squatted down to Ralphie’s eyelevel. “Don’t know much more about 'em than you do, though. You like Indians?” “What’s your name?” He grinned. “Amadahy — Cherokee for Forest Water. But you can call me Sam.” “Cherokee,” Ralphie whispered. “Where’s your feathers?” Sam chuckled and looked around him. “I’ve got 'em somewhere, mixed in with the rest of this junk. Say, wanna help me move in?” Ralphie’s eyes glowed. “You’re moving in?”

“Sure am. Here.” He dug into his trunk and handed Ralphie a little box. “That there’s a couple interesting things my grandfather gave me. We can look at it together.” “Together,” Ralphie whispered, and his throat was dry. Sam had started out towards the back door. “I’m on the second floor.” Ralphie trundled behind. “And him,” he said, pointing to his teenager. He couldn’t imagine keeping the Indian all to himself. “Aw yeah, him too, if he wants to help,” grinned Sam. His teeth were very white and clean in his tanned face. The teenager had been watching silently, rather disgusted with Ralphie’s amazement but interested all the same. He ran a hand across his face and shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, I guess I can help.” Contented, Ralphie laboriously began to climb the stairs, lugging his box. It was heavy, and his fat little legs grew tired quickly, but he clutched it even closer to his chest — the treasure box of Sam — his Indian. They would open it together.

PROSE / HONORABLE MENTION

TAKE ME BACK �le x a n dra Wa l � e r

“You forgot to take out the garbage again,” Mary Elizabeth said. Hector stood up off of the couch and went toward the wash room. He grabbed the two full bags and headed for the dumpster outside their two-bedroom house. Mary Elizabeth never gave Hector a break. He worked as hard as he could during the day and when he came home, he was always too exhausted to strike up the interesting conversation that she craved. “Done,” Hector muttered. Mary Elizabeth was washing the dishes in the cupcakeprinted apron that Hector hated. Why would someone who never bakes own such a thing? Hector returned to his place on the couch and turned on Sports Center. Mary Elizabeth groaned. Hector shot her a dirty look and continued to listen to the television. “If you’re going to listen to what those imbeciles have to say, can you at least turn it down?” she asked. Mary Elizabeth hated sports. She thought they were just a bunch of sweaty men and women making fools of themselves, and she couldn’t comprehend why several men in suits sat around and talked about them for hours. But she didn’t have to remind Hector; he’d heard the speech several times.

Hector turned the volume up even louder, just to spite her. Mary Elizabeth’s face became as red as the cabinets that Hector had reluctantly painted after being asked to do so for two years. He heard a crash from the kitchen. Hector turned around to see an angry Mary Elizabeth standing around several pieces of glass. “Well what’d you do that for?” Hector asked. The vein on Mary Elizabeth’s forehead grew larger by the second. He knew this meant trouble, so he bent down and tried to clean up the mess, but she slapped his hand away. “Stop, I’ll do it myself. That’s the motto of this house right? Mary Elizabeth will just do it. She doesn’t have anything better to do!” she said. Hector, irritated, stood and watched her pick up the pieces, thinking that the broken pieces looked a lot like their marriage. Each part shattered, unsalvageable, and useless. The rest of the night went as it always did, Mary Elizabeth cleaned, Hector watched TV, then she retreated to the bedroom without a word, and fell asleep by approximately 9:30 p.m. Hector turned the shower on and waited for the water to heat up. He always took a shower after fights because he felt so disgusted. He walked to the mirror and looked at himself. This is not the life that Hector had imagined, and it is definitely not one he would’ve chosen. He stepped into the shower and began to wash his body clean of the mess of his life. He proceeded to relieve himself of the sexual frustration, then, feeling more disgusted, grabbed the soap again. As the hot water poured onto what was left of his hair, he wondered how he got to this point in his life, and how the beautiful girl next door became a bitter, hardened woman.

Hector had grown up in a house where it was expected for the man to be married or at least engaged by the time he was 18. He had always enjoyed company of the opposite sex, but had trouble finding a girl who was right for him. “Hey Heck, you see that new girl? She’s mighty fine!” Billy Harting said. Hector looked up from the table, uninterested. “She probably ain’t even that good looking, people just like her cause she’s fresh meat,” Hector said. “Nah, brother. She’s a looker. You could spot those blue eyes from a mile away,” Billy said. Hector stood up to get his lunch and stopped in his tracks. Across the room a tan-legged, blue-eyed, blonde-haired beauty stood in the line. She flipped her hair to one side and Hector’s heart stopped. His brain couldn’t begin to comprehend how gorgeous she was. He felt like he was looking at a goddess. She happened to look back and their eyes met. The whole world stopped, and everything was frozen in time. It was only them, and that’s all that mattered. He quickly walked over to her, as if she were going to disappear like a dream. “H-h-hi!” Hector said. He was not as aloof as he intended on being.

“Hello, and you are?” she said. She flashed a show-stopping smile at him and he tried to catch his breath. “Hector. Hector Treedan. Are you new to this school?” Hector asked. “Yeah, my parents and I just moved here. Mary Elizabeth, by the way.” “What a beautiful name.” “Well thank you, that’s so kind. I have to get back to my friends now, but I hope to see you around!” Mary Elizabeth said. “Wait!” Hector said as he grabbed her arm. “Can I take you out tonight? I’m sure you’re itching to see the town, and I’d love to show you. Maybe we could catch a film?” “Hmm — alright. But no funny business. I’m a lady after all.” She giggled before she walked away. It was the most beautiful sound Hector had ever heard. That night, Hector picked Mary Elizabeth up at 7 p.m. They walked downtown and he showed her Bonny’s Ice Cream Emporium, the hottest teen hangout spot. He ordered a blue moon while she got a vanilla cone. “Vanilla huh? Where’s your wild side?” Hector asked. “What can I say? I like being plain,” Mary Elizabeth said. If her personality is on the same level as her looks, there’s nothing plain about this one, Hector thought. They went to the movies and got two seats in the back row. Hector nibbled on some popcorn in one hand while Mary Elizabeth held the other. “Hey, look over here,” she whispered. Just as Hector turned his head, their lips met. He felt a rollercoaster in his stomach and his heart was overfilled with joy and excitement. Her lips were intoxicating, and kissing her was like a drug. Hector felt each curve of her lips and loved every second of it. She pulled back and looked at him. The cinema screen lit up her eyes, and Hector’s new favorite color emerged once again.

They walked to Mary Elizabeth’s house in a daze. Although they weren’t speaking, the silence was comfortable. They wanted this moment to last for a lifetime. “Well, here’s my stop,” Mary Elizabeth said. “I suppose it is,” Hector said. “I had a lovely evening, Hector,” she said. “You’re a true gentleman.” “Thank you, my dear. It really was lovely. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Hector took both of her hands and looked into those beautiful blues. The corners of her mouth faced upward and her cheeks became red. He kissed her like it would be the last time, with ferocity and tenderness, making every second count. “I’ll be dreaming of you tonight, and when the morning comes, I will see you. I will count the seconds until we return to each other. But until then, farewell my sweet,” Hector said. “Who knew you were so poetic,” she said. Hector blushed and felt the embarrassment through his whole body. “Don’t worry, I loved it. See you tomorrow handsome.” She kissed his cheek and went inside. Hector would never

enjoy seeing her walk away, and vowed to make it so she never had to. Hector jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. He closed the bathroom door and was feeling reminiscent, so he put on his Beatles pajamas. He climbed into bed next to his wife. Mary Elizabeth never allowed him to sleep on her side, and since she was always right, she deserved that side of the bed. Hector noticed that she wasn’t fully asleep yet, and felt a glimpse of hope in his heart. He decided to scoot closer to her than normal. No resistance yet, so he took his chances and moved even closer. At this point, this was the closest that Hector and Mary Elizabeth had been physically and romantically in several years. Hector rubbed her arm, he remembered how that helped her fall asleep faster. “Mary Elizabeth?” he whispered. “Yeah?” she said. “Vanilla, huh?” he asked. “What? You’re speaking nonsense. Go to bed, Hector. I think you’re drunk.” She shook him away and fell asleep angry, something that was normal in this house. Hector turned away from his wife, ashamed and embarrassed of what he just tried to do. Nothing could fix what was already broken. Not even vanilla ice cream.

RED APPLE / 88

� oi s Gabor

STUDY / 90

B roo�e Co e

WAITING TO HAPPEN / 92

�mi l � Sn�der

GALAXY POT / 94

� mi l� � o re tto

DRAGON'S WAKE / 96

B ret t R o b in s o n

BROWN BEAR / 98

�i s a K owie s � i

ORGANIC TEA KETTLES / 100 � mi l� � o re tto

CHESS / 102

� an bee � a r�

�tu di o

�r

�e

ct io n s

STUDIO ART / FINE ARTS FESTIVAL WINNER

RED APPLE �o i s G abo r

STUDIO ART / HONORABLE MENTION

STUDY Broo � e C o e

STUDIO ART

WAITING TO HAPPEN �mi l� S n � der

STUDIO ART / HONORABLE MENTION

GALAXY POT �mi l� �o ret t o

STUDIO ART / HONORABLE MENTION

DRAGON’S WAKE Bre tt R o bi n s o n

STUDIO ART / HONORABLE MENTION

BROWN BEAR �is a K o w i es � i

100

STUDIO ART

ORGANIC TEA KETTLES �mi l� �o ret t o

102

STUDIO ART / HONORABLE MENTION

CHESS

�an bee � ar �

POETRY / 106

Y E�est A R of S

CONTEMPLATIONS OF AN AXIS �av i d �i s i n ge r

PHOTOGRAPHY / 110

LIFE IS SIMPLE Re b ec c a S �ellm a n

PROSE / 112

THE MAN IN THE MOON

St e��en �u l l

STUDIO ART / 114

SUPER NOVA � i llar � � o n e s

106

POETRY / FALL 2010

CONTEMPLATIONS OF OF AN AXIS �av i d �i s i n ge r

In the race of a heartbeat, the dramatic pulse of thought, in the blink of both eyes the world changes before us. How brief a moment it takes to fall, a shockingly infinitesimal point standing between here and gone, between fear and love, between tear and the awesome cliff-top wonder. An axis in Time, cordoning off the dimension with the flick of a light switch, swiveling me from one end of the dream to the other. It’s a commonplace thing that happens in common places, but what resistance it brings to the squirming land behind my eyes!

Contemplate the nightmare— Now spin around fast: here we are in heaven, now in hell. All respect to Dante, Limbo is a rare thing, and rarer still to be caught in it; So soon it shoves us out of in-between to face either Eden or Pandemonium. But I digress: Look at this pinprick or the eye of a needle that camels and mountains pass through, all of the worlds on one side or another. And damn! how it shifts, one world to the next, like a teeter-totter in a whirlwind. I’m ever unsure of my destination— but, I’ll confess, unsure of my footstool as well. Am I a die or a coin-flip or a poker hand, sand through a sieve as my winnings and losses fall around me, like dandelion seeds and spears? We are all so many wheels, spinning round each other like waltzers or blender-blades, stirring the air up between us. Do you feel it?

108

In the space of a pulsebeat, how everything twists? A dizzying string of sixty-fourth notes, each one composed on the spot. Moby Dick? Destiny? Fate? A joke glimmering in your eye? The best and worst plans often, so often, hopelessly go awry. Sovereignty? A weighty word tossed about by weighty men with bushy beards and no ken of dark or danger. Then you speak Gethsemane, and I pause; Golgotha, and I shake. But hold, I cry. I cannot reply to the tears of blood or nails, but still you slip out from beneath my terrible question. In the race of my heartbeat,

the pulse of my thought, I teeter on an axis with all Atlas’s burden on my shoulders; I cannot breathe. Call my name, gentle Stranger, for I am caught and cannot move: Shove me from Limbo to Eden, and give me the sound— at last!—of silver trumpets.

110

PHOTOGRAPHY / FALL 2009

LIFE IS SIMPLE Re b e c c a S �ellm a n

112

PROSE / FALL 2007

THE MAN IN THE MOON S te �� en �ull

One day the moon fell out of orbit, and the sun–not wanting people to be angry–decided to put up a cardboard cutout, while he went down to find someone to become the new moon. Coming to two brothers at a laundromat, he presented his offer. George thought, “Who’s going to switch out the laundry?” “So wait. You have to stay up there forever?” Randall, the second brother, asked. “Yeah, pretty much,” said the sun. “I mean, you’ll fracture and destroy the earth in a few centuries because of extensive mining and terraforming.” “Well, that’s a bit better,” said George. “Isn’t it kind of lonely?” asked Randall. “Yeah, sometimes. But, I suppose you’d have me to talk to, and meteors come through every once in awhile.” “What’s the perks?” asked George. “Part of every love poem, control tidal patterns, host extremely exclusive golf matches . . . the last moon’s favorite was the tidal stuff.” “What’s the perks?” asked George. “Part of every love poem, control tidal patterns, host extremely exclusive golf matches . . . the last moon’s favorite was the tidal stuff.”

A nearby TV began yelling something about tidal chaos. “Are you satisfied with your job . . . being up in space and all?” said George. “Yeah, for the most part. People complain about me more than you.” “I can do it,” said George, thinking about the plant and the wife and the kids as seen from a hundred miles up. “You can’t do it, you’ve got Jennifer and the boys,” said Randall. “Well, then, it’s you,” the sun said, grabbing Randall by the arm. That night there was a full moon. Jennifer called George out to the porch to see. He reluctantly slouched on the rail, glaring upward. “Yup. That’s my brother.”

114

STUDIO ART / SPRING 2009

SUPERNOVA � i lla r � � o n es

BIOGRAPHIES

THE TRILLIUM � udges

POETRY + PROSE

�t e��en R e ic � e rt

PHOTOGRAPHY + STUDIO ART � ar i l� n �in d � o l m

GRAPHIC DESIGN � an i el C� a n g

�te��en Reic�ert is an artist whose paintings, drawings and mobiles are included in numerous private collections. He has a degree in philosophy from Trinity College and has taken courses, both private and public, in painting, aesthetics and other artistic disciplines. Along with painting he is the editor of the nationally recognized poetry magazine Smartish Pace, which he founded in 1998. He has judged the Erskine J. Poetry Prize for over a decade, including selecting the work of Claudia Emerson two years before she won the Pulitzer Prize. He lives in Baltimore. �aril�n �ind�olm discovered painting as a young adult when a friend signed her up for a five-week class. There, she experienced the glory of paint and water colliding on watercolor paper. Her painting themes are traditional ones as well as experimental art including pen and ink, and collage with acrylics. She holds a degree in Education from the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, but she has studied art with many professional instructors. Since then, she has gone on to teach several workshop classes for various groups and settings. In spring of 2013, she was chosen “Artist of the Year” for the Georgetown, Texas Red Poppy Festival from a field of 50 artists. Her paintings are also featured in private and international collections. �aniel C�ang is an illustrator, graphic designer, and educator working in Los Angeles, California. His cross-disciplinary interests are reflected in his work through the conversation between analog and digital modes of making. While freelancing, he has also worked full time in the surf industry. His client list include the New York Times, IBM, Time Magazine, Random House, Element Skateboards, and Becker Surf. He currently teaches full-time at Biola University in La Mirada.

THE TRILLIUM The Trillium is the official arts publication produced by the students of Trinity International University. The ideas expressed herein are not necessarily those of the faculty, staff, or administration of the college. Entries are judged on the basis of creativity, thought-provoking ideas, and freshness of style. The student editors do not know who the authors of the entries are. This material may not be reproduced by any means, in part or in whole, without written permission from the authors. Copyright ÂŠ2015

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF �m ile e �ullar

CO-EDITORS

�aria �urg K ali Cram e r

� livia Corb e il

GRAPHIC DESIGN �e licia K ranz

FACULTY ADVISOR

table of conten

Brad l� �ru�auff

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I LLIUM R T E H T

201 4 2 0–1 5 � � r i n i ty �n te r n a ti o n al �niversity

PUBLICATION

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