The Crucible Spring 2018: "Handwoven"

Handwoven

cru·ci·ble ‘kroosәb(ә)l/ noun

1. a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures.

2. a place or occasion of severe test or trial.

3. a place or situation in which different elements interact to produce something new.

The Crucible borrows its name from UNC’s first student magazine, which served what was then the Colorado State Normal School from 1892 to 1920. We chose the name to honor both UNC’s heritage as a teachers’ college and its students of today and tomorrow. Like its counterpart in chemistry, The Crucible purifies its contents; it challenges its contributors to test themselves and to strive for flawlessness in their future creative ventures. © 2018 by United Student Literary Voices All rights reserved by respective authors. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The views expressed in this book do not necessarily reflect the views of The Crucible staff.

Printed in the United States of America First Printing, 2018 United Student Literary Voices University of Northern Colorado Campus Box 109 Greeley, CO 80639 www.crucibleunc.weebly.com Cover art by Grace Hoag “Chrysanthemum” - 9x12” Drypoint Print © 2017 Interior designed by: Kathryn Derby, Erika Siebring, and Jason Keller “Crucible” defintion courtesy of Google.com

Staff Editor-in-Chief Kathryn Derby ViceKailaPresident Ward Secretary Erika Siebring Treasurer Maddie Siegle Editors

Savanna Wilson Molly Riggs Austin Huber Gabby Kallina-Tran Jason Keller Griffin Myers

Letter From The Editors Dear Reader,

Writing, painting, taking photographs, whatever your poison is, is something wholly unique to the fingers, because art with your toes is impressive, but only for the fact that it aspires to what fingers can do effortlessly. Every symphony, every note, every line of code, beautiful word; every time a wet paintbrush gets put against a blank canvas, it’s gripped in between a pair of fingers. We owe a lot to those little awkward beanstalks sprouting from our hands. It’s a bit odd to start off an address with an ode to the fingertips, but to them we shall sing praise un-ending, for being the true locus of creativity, the border between the physical and the mental, the keys to the door, the artist, the master, the painter, the writer, the composer - The soul their only master.

That’s why we’ve chosen “handwoven” as our direction for the 2018 Spring Edition of The Crucible. Every piece in the pages ahead has an artist’s fingerprints all over it, regardless of whether they snapped the photo, drew the scene or pushed the keys on the keyboard. You’ll find compositions in the pages ahead as unique as a person’s fingerprints.

We are of course not alone in this. It goes without saying that because of our submitters, the ones brave enough to put their hands - not their noses - to the grindstone, and share with the world their “handwoven” art that we’re still here. And without appreciation, art is just a hobby, so we owe a great deal to our readers. We are also eternally grateful to Lisa Zimmerman, associate professor of English at The University of Northern Colorado, for being our loyal faculty sponsor. We also have the UNC Student Senate to thank for helping fund us for over 60 years. TCBY Yogurt was also instrumental in helping us fund this year’s edition.

So as you start your thumbs on the first pages, take a closer look and see the marks of craftsmanship - wholly unique to something composed only the hands of an artist.

With Care, The Crucible Editing Staff

TablePoetryof Contents Cassidy Willis

The Word Shaker Yard Work

9 24

Christopher Strople

Kaput

10

Erin Wetzel

King and Queen

14

Rebecca Bolding

Fire Beneath Silken Sheets

15

Taylor Zangari

Mysticism Noose

16 39

Jess McCombs

Avalon in San Juan Black Dog

19 64

Asa Cogswell

The Naming The Giants Walk in Kansas The Projector in Room 135

21 22 23

Meadows Madsen

Swing Sets and Safety Seasonal Goodness

25 29

Jimmie R. Pennington

Summer Eve

27

Brittany Holland

Front Lines Hello Invisible Audience!

For the Exploited Children Who Helped Build America

32 42 62

Austin Huber

The Captain Has Turned Off the Seatbelt Sign 41

Colin McGuire

My First Car

45

Kaila Ward

Night Stalker

47

Molly Riggs

The Summer Of Free Spirits...

51

Jordan Parsons

The Cry of Hubris

55

Kianna Williams

The Bruises They Get At Home

63

TableProseof Contents Jason Keller

Transcript of Audio, 1-11-1962

7

John Farrell

I.V.

28

Tamara E. Faour

Seen Through a Pain

30

Gail Kuroda

The Passage

44

Taylor LaPlace

The Burning Voyage

48

Mary Harbert

Room 355 - To Justify Despair

57

Gareth Root

Constance Initiating

65

Visual Art Grace Hoag

Chrysanthemum

Cover

Eli Solt

Frontiers of Self-Creation

13

Madeline Sterns

Out of Place

18

Christopher Strople

Untitled Untitled

26 46

Calvin T. Shepherd Ethan Funk-Breay

If I Were a Superhero

33

Amanda Jacobs

Untitled Untitled

40 43

Tori Knutsen

Bloodline

54

Keller | Crucible 7

8 Crucible | Keller

The Word Shaker Cassidy Willis

Based on The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak

At the end of heaven street, in a shivering damp basement.

A bird with blond curls escorted by dangerous brown eyes, dwells.

She does not chirp alone, she is basking in the savory words of her secret.

A secret that understands her.

A secret that stole the sky and delivered the stars at her worn, snow covered boots.

She cradles the words in her small palm-wings.

The good words whisper while the bad words wail she embraces them all.

The letters and vowels fight amongst themselves.

Misbehaving, quarreling, grappling, for her admiration.

The words do not only mean something, but everything.

She spits them at her enemies her words are a boisterous battle cry her tongue is her spear.

With a lemon cradled in one hand, and her secret clasped in the other, -Brace yourselfShe shakes the world.

Willis | Crucible 9

Kaput Christopher Strople

A credential is placed precariously on a credenza and that placement is made to avoid the upcoming assumption that all is well.

Because all is not well.

And that is a problem. Not only for the subject but also for the predicate.

The worker uses his mechanical tools and his labor to work, and accomplishes his first task early in the morning; and he will accomplish his last task sometime in the evening. And that will be his day.

His night holds limitless possibilities.

Well, not really limitless, unless he chooses to not work the next day.

Then, those possibilities will be increased, but still not limitless, unless the man has a lot of money (and time, too).

10 Crucible | Strople

Then, those possibilities will be further increased, but still not limitless, unless the man has complete independence.

Then, he can choose to go anywhere, or do anything with the night. There really is only one thing limiting the man’s night.

Day. They are bookish looking with their round rimmed spectacles and their well worn corduroys.

They appear to be intellectual and a casual glance will reveal the use of five dollar words and citations.

There is a certain pretentious air about them, one that is artificially driven, like when someone forces a tear or two when they really aren’t sad.

However, they are only a fraction of their appearance.

A more thorough examination reveals that they sound more intellectual than they actually are.

That their five dollar word vocabularies add up to twenty dollars; and their citations are, like their pants, well worn.

They have always needed glasses and those glasses prevented them from playing games outside.

So they, eventually, just stopped trying. That pretentious air is really only bitterness spawned from ineptitude.

Review the procedures, and when you do send out a memo to anyone who can read and inform them.

Otherwise, the procedures take on a life Strople | Crucible 11

of their own, and will surely begin to dominate common sense and reason.

If that happens there will be hell to pay.

12 Crucible | Strople

Frontiers of Self-Creation Eli Solt

Solt | Crucible 13

King and Queen Erin Wetzel

The spring flower, she stood alone.

The cold statue, he stood silent

She faced away from the Cavern door beside her Up to the clouded mountain That blocked out the sun And would never let her Come into her own power.

He watched soul after soul List into the endless afterlife That offered only them true peace, The kind that he could not find Living under the obsidian In complete isolation of the void.

That mountain was false.

But he saw her at the door.

The darkness beside her Was true as it whispered, “You are Queen here.”

She became the stars in the shadows Roof of his kingdom, her voice soothing, “The weight is not your own.”

14 Crucible | Wetzel

Fire Beneath Silken Sheets Rebecca Bolding

Promiscuity Beckons from her stormy eyes They watch–each another notch In her belt Looped around thick hips Red wine, regret Drip From thin lips Where teeth lie in wait To keep tongues silent Pleasure dances on hot coals–her feet Unburnt

Bolding | Crucible 15

Mysticism Taylor Zangari

I hang upside-down from the emerald rafters In my mountainside cave.

The tips of my feathered hair stroke the ground, which is full of fresh, flaming stones, but I have learned to walk freely on my fingernails.

No such fire singes me.

My crossed feet curl over granite beams, as I twirl with posed fingers like a vacant noose swayed by the whistling mountains.

My cactus-thorn tattoos drip from the points of my fingers, sizzling on the open flame, blooming like shamrock roses.

Budding grass peaks through the disintegrating cinder, and I unhook myself from the ceiling, pearls of dew covering my ironclad ankles, but I am not bound by chains.

My waiting room is the world, 16 Crucible | Zangari

dusty feet stacked high like redwoods filled with inquiries, blowing smoke into an otherwise perfect trio of sight.

I am an ancient marble temple.

They chip away at my surface, with rusty ice-picks.

I am a relic, repurposed for abuse.

Much like featherless, sightless mammals, I bind myself to the stalactites, swimming in the altitude, above my fiery stones.

Zangari | Crucible 17

Out of place Madeline Sterns

18 Crucible | Sterns

Avalon in San Juan Jess McCombs

Hurricane Maria, 2017 1.

She is coming.

Our home is white plastic, the bags of belongings we hope to protect as if they are all we have.

The roof starts to drip and we slip into puddles of fear so dark we could drown.

Will these buckets be enough to catch the sky’s tears or must we use our hands?

2.

Our room is an ocean– if only we could swim.

This roof cannot hold up the sky.

And there is no power, only floods of darkness.

We are wet and we are tired like the palm trees McCombs | Crucible 19

that have decided to lie down.

I wish I could just lie down and I wish she had not come.

I wish we could have Stopped her.

We should have known.

20 Crucible | McCombs

The Naming Asa Cogswell

He wants to be Born, and so invents his name.

1st They feel it, Rushing tides of hot blood bound In human bonds, Trees that creak and crack like rocks And winds that sigh As mothers do when their children sleep at last 2nd He is sensed by the helpless Grasping at coattails and buttonhooks, Long jackets that brush against the dust And gather it in loose folds like wheat, This thin layer of immense weight That settles 3rd He is awake now, not in truth but in mind, Half spoken questions and late night thoughts Where the cool blue moonlight wafts In with the baker’s bread and hot spice soup

4th He walks with heavy footfalls, Sounds of mountains breaking and clashing Like people, together and apart Wrenching quakes of new life Coming forward with no word to name This wonder 5th He leads these new children Who see the world and open chests wide To take of the Earth With buzzing joy so obvious to bees But know not why 6th He speaks in minds and they come to talk new Children with those late night talks with baker’s bread bees and tides of blood rushing past ribs as wind and weight bearing down until feeling bursts like cool blue stars colliding as mountainous fathers and mothers creak and crack together and apart that settles like dust back to dust then 7th One said Let’s call this “God” And so it was.

Cogswell | Crucible 21

The Giants Walk in Kansas Asa Cogswell

Dark passed to Day And the pink-blue glow illuminated Their iron rod frames.

They catch clouds, devouring their Wispy bodies like how machines spin yarn into thread And toss them casually aside, essence spent.

They wind their bladed arms round and round Exhausting the sky in this eternal devotion Silently praising the open windswept plains.

Their single eyes blink red in unison A steady pulse of tasked solidarity.

One’s gaze goes dim, arms slackened and still But its corpse remains proud and strong The tallest blade of grass in these hills that move.

My companion, seeing my distracted gaze, Answered my supposed question “I remember when we first built those.

It is strange to remember the fields Before they were there.”

And so the moment passed.

The wind turbines continued unabated by my wandering thoughts, And the Giants passed into myth once again.

22 Crucible | Cogswell

The projector in Room 135 Asa Cogswell

He sat in the corner, vacant, staring at nothing No arms or legs to walk or run, just a body with long thin neck And one vacant eye with no inner brilliance.

I wonder what he saw, before being banished to this corner.

What wondrous mathematics and divine works of words Spun out in light through that great oculus Which now reflects dusty shadows where no one sits and learns.

What is it like, when your purpose is gone, O forlorn child?

What sorrow do you feel, abandoned in dark rooms with no people Watching others take your place forever.

Do you hold memory in that sightless mirror?

Do you remember glowing with a light like a small sun, captivating your own private universe?

Or do you sit there now, unmoving, unblinking, unable to die.

The next day he was gone. I wondered if Angels came to relight his lamp And take him away on silver wings to a place where beautiful objects go when they have outlived their purpose And I knew I was dreaming.

Cogswell | Crucible 23

Yard Work Cassidy Willis

They said to write what I’m afraid of They said to put it down “Your fears are silly, they aren’t real” They add to the pile, the mountain climbs the beanstalk of my throat Anxiety and fear are best friends They tumble in the ragged grass that grows in my chest Incredulous invites itself to play Anxiety and fear are much too polite Just because you say the grass isn’t real doesn’t weed-whack it away These weeds sprout dandelions, white dancing fluffs With a wish and an innocent blow, they spread Fist lightly clasped Eyes closed Lips pursed Whoosh…

What if no one wants me? Was that girl just staring at me? I hate being alone. I want to be alone. I need to see my friends. I don’t want to leave. I like books more than people. Why do I care so much about fictional beings? What’s wrong with me? Why did both of my fathers leave? I’ll never be good enough. I didn’t say bless you to that girl that sat behind me on the bus I should have, I should apologize but what if she doesn’t remember? I texted them hours ago why didn’t they reply are they mad at me, are they hurt? What did I do? I mess everything up. I can’t remember what she asked me to do what if I get dementia, what if my mom gets dementia? How can I live without my mom? What if my friends forget about me? They don’t need me like I need them. Am I here for a purpose? What if I never fulfill it? Why do we exist? Why do I exist? What if I fail? I can’t fail. The test is multiple choice it’s fine.

It’ll be fine. I’m fine! It’s fine! I hate the word “fine.” Fine is a charismatic liar. Fine is the Hitler of words.

On my hands and knees I dig my fingernails into the dirt, ripping out the weeds.

They want to help, they sprinkle new seeds and snip and rip the old constant foliage up.

They wrench it out of my chest scraping the leaves on the beanstalk, as it is heaved up my throat, it sounds like “thank you…”

But my flowers were not theirs to pick.

24 Crucible | Willis

Swing sets and Safety Meadows Madsen

My safe place smells like roses.

I swing under the willow tree embracing the flowers.

Madsen | Crucible 25

Untitled Christopher Strople

26 Crucible | Strople

Summer Eve Jimmie R. Pennington

far in the hollow a whip-poor-will calls summoning slumber as night gently falls

Pennington | Crucible 27

I.V. John Farrell

The mosquito dances around the dilapidated room in search of sustenance.

Watching the insect inspect its surroundings, the man drearily follows the mosquito with his eyes. Zigging and zagging, bouncing and diving, the bug never leaves his eyesight.

He witnesses the creature’s lively curiosity of the cramped landscape and its terrain. The canyon of the cracked floor. The lake of melting snow that drifts in from the heavens of the hollow roof. The whistling plateau of the shattered window sill. The acrid chemical pond of the charred spoon. The mountain of the living deadbeat. The mosquito surveys the mountain in search of potential food. Landing ever so gently on the man’s track laden arm, he studies the mosquito.

Hey there, he thought, how are you? Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill you. Why would I kill the only thing that has visited me in weeks? I wonder what your life story is? Just going by aimlessly, without thought. Without emotion. With only the need to feed yourself.

Then when you get what you need, and you’ve had your fill, you leave. Always searching for the next supplier, the next meal ticket. Because food is the only thing keeping you going.

Keeping you sane. How you get it and who you get it from doesn’t matter. As long as you get it. No one else knows how crucial the food is. No one cares to know. No one cares. You just want to enjoy that first meal again. You just want to feel the warmth of the food in body. In mind. In vein. You know you’ll never feel that way again, but you keep searching. You have to find it again. Even when you know, it’s all in vain.

The mosquito finds a fresh hypodermic hole in which to engorge itself in a banquet of tainted blood. The mosquito digs in with starving madness. Once the mosquito is filled, it flies off. The mosquito buzzes around, then it crashes. Never to fly again. The man lazily gazes at the dead bug in disappointment. Even you, huh?

28 Crucible | Farrell

Seasonal Goodness Meadows Madsen

Our cookie dough melts Us back together in the Soft heat of a dream The chill of our air On the sill of my window Slowly fading out Hands caress my ears The cold dripping from my nose Simple, sweet, snow days Holding our blankets Fighting frostbite with love Patient in the glow

Madsen | Crucible 29

Seen Through a Pain Tamara E. Faour

I’ll tell you a tale of salt and stars, of panes and pains, of salves and scars.

I’ll tell you a tale of long, slim hands and hearts that break in distant lands— of hearts that break out in the cold while in the houses clouds of gold and laughter blur the icy breath of things that stir; defy soft death.

Walking outside the foggy glass they wince on shards of stars and pass, while far away from stabbing dark inside the houses others lark as the lark sings of merry things like hope and love and tangerines and soup that fills the air with salt so that it thrills 30 Crucible | Faour

one to a halt of agonizing gladness as one passes by in sadness and looks through the yellow panes to see the happy inner company.

I’ll tell you a tale of one who stands inside the door with clenched-up hands between the salt and stars.

Faour | Crucible 31

Front Lines Brittany Holland

I spend hours Carefully aligning, Meticulously placing My battalion of Little toy soldiers.

The front lines Falling singularly, Sometimes in groups.

No one loses a sister, A father, a brother.

It doesn’t even hurt.

Like a panther, you Stalk past your obstacles That were once My heartstrings, and Oh, there you are.

I did not expect you here.

32 Crucible | Holland

Shepherd and Funk-Breay | Crucible 33

34 Crucible | Shepherd and Funk-Breay

Shepherd and Funk-Breay | Crucible 35

36 Crucible | Shepherd and Funk-Breay

Shepherd and Funk-Breay | Crucible 37

38 Crucible | Shepherd and Funk-Breay

Noose Taylor Zangari

I am tied to an iron gate by a string ten thousand feet long I dip my rounded nose into the dusty atmosphere I sink my rubber teeth into wobbling clouds and if I look down I can’t see the birds so I cannot envy their wings.

Still I laugh with the sun in the ripe month of June as I sway from this aramid string.

But I know that one day this weathered string will snap and I will float away.

Zangari | Crucible 39

Untitled Amanda Jacobs

40 Crucible | Jacobs

The Captain Has Turned Off The Seatbelt Sign Austin Huber

I hadn’t experienced loud until I stepped out of an airplane while it was flying. Not that it was really my fault anyways. The sound was… emotional. Air rushing past my ears like so many bullets. Screams erupting from my throat like a banshee’s teeth on a chalkboard. This is the end for me. I know that; there’s no way around it. For future reference to anyone reading this, the big, heavy door at the front of the plane does not lead to the restroom.

Huber | Crucible 41

Hello Invisible Audience!

Brittany Holland

I would like to tell you, I appreciate How you don’t laugh When I sing a high note from Wicked Off-key and my voice cracks.

Yes, I like to pretend I’m on Broadway…

But then you already knew that.

Thank you for being polite, And applauding me when I stage My own cooking show and narrate That I only eyeball the ingredients And I appreciate you acting concerned When the fire alarm screams: “FIRE! FIRE!” After the smoke from my burnt apple pie Reaches the ceiling.

It’s very kind of you to turn away When I ugly cry and my face screws up, And snot drips down my upper lip, And I can’t make any noises, And I can’t take feeling alone anymore.

I adore that you like to watch me dance Naked around my room after a shower, And that you sing along with me in traffic.

I cannot stress how much I love you For not calling me crazy When I talk out loud Like everybody else does.

Thank you for being a part of my life.

How could I survive without you?

42 Crucible | Holland

Untitled Amanda Jacobs

Jacobs | Crucible 43

The Passage Gail Kuroda

Apologies to Rattawut Lapcharoensap

This is how I know what month it is. September: faces, hopeful and refreshed, come to my counter. They look in their daily planners and sign up for their college conferences. October: pimples have multiplied on those faces. They know they have to be nice to me and make small talk. I let them into the Dean’s office. After their thirty minutes of statistics and reality, most of them shuffle away, eyes downcast. November: the crewcuts of the boys have grown shaggy, the girls’ eyebrow hairs have sprouted outside once perfect arcs. They come to me with letter of recommendation forms. I send them away if they do not have the top portions filled out; I send them away if there are no stamps. December: the faces have no smiles. Each one believes his or her life hangs in a precarious balance, hinging on Evaluate a significant experience, or the inane, Write page 217 of your autobiography. They show up to make appointments with the counselor. Everyone needs their fifteen minutes to cry in her closed room. January: older faces, those of the parents, just as downtrodden as their children, hesitantly approach and softly ask for tips on financial aid. If you own a house in Hawaii, you are kind of a millionaire and kind of sunk, I tell them. February and March: faces, most of them browner than white, diligently come by, picking up the latest scholarship info. The girls’ eyeliner lines aren’t as slipshod on their lids. The boys’ chins are more carefully shaved. Ditching school is not happening, but they know they don’t have to get 100 percents plus extra credit this second semester. April: the hardest month. Exuberant smiling aliens barge into my office and hug me without asking.

Minutes later, girls with red eyes and disheveled hair see the Dean. They only got into UPenn, not Brown. Or, how do I get off the waitlist for Stanford? I overhear. May: a couple stragglers come in. I give them one of my black ballpoint pens. While I watch them fill out the front-and-back University of Hawaii application, I open my drawer. There, I fish in the back for my secret stash of stamps.

44 Crucible | Kuroda

My First Car Colin McGuire

I knew

My Dad wanted it to be a surprise And I played along as if I didn’t

This was the way to the dealership and I try to act like

I’m excited This can’t be happening

The best day of my life But he doesn’t know

That morning The counselors came to our class

I will always remember They didn’t say her name

Trying to hide it But I knew

The whole time Whose empty seat it was

McGuire | Crucible 45

Untitled Christopher Strople

46 Crucible | Strople

Night Stalker Kaila Ward

To exist in the pause between words The silence between healing The sun between set.

To manifest in the switch before light The movement before laughter The ocean before tide.

To be the humbled moon hunched over your bedside.

Ward | Crucible 47

The Burning Voyage Taylor LaPlace

The dark is not always cold and quiet. It can often be sickeningly hot and deafening with the echoes of panic. But like so many other things in life, the dark swallows everything in its path. It will swallow the light from a candle that is about to burn out.

It will swallow sounds of pain from lonely hospital rooms that many families don’t visit.

And it will even swallow the last of the faint moonlight as clouds begin to mass together.

This darkness is what terrified me the most at dusk. The thoughts of creatures under the bed were not as frightening as the mere idea of darkness swallowing me up as well. Fear is what pushed me on that night. When the darkness swallowed the last of the light, the sanity of a mortal, and the most important person in my life, fear is what was engraved in me.

We do not remember where we came from and we do not know where we are going, but still we continue to walk. It’s a silent march with a child in front to lead us, a mother in the middle who keeps the pace steady, and an older daughter to follow both as the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach continues to twist and ache. I cannot understand why we march just as I cannot understand where we are. Marie has a slight skip in her step as she blazes the trail ahead of us, always making sure to stay within the limits of the sidewalk. I am not sure why we stay on this path, though when I do venture a look around me, all I can see is dead grass stained with a dark red paste. It is thick and dry, as though time and shadow have consumed all the life and light that it used to be.

And as I continue my walk behind my family, I notice the lack of light. Aside from the streetlights that illuminate the path, there is no light around us. The moon is nowhere in the sky and there are no cars or city lights in any direction. There are only the tall street lights ahead of us that guarantee that we will not simply walk into the dark abyss. But even the street lights can’t provide infinite brightness. The lights in front of my short sister always stay lit and continue their illumination as my mother passes by as well. But as soon as I take one step past a street light, the bulb will immediately burn out without a sound. It seems that the darkness is stalking us while threatening to engulf me first.

Marie and my mother seem oblivious to the ever-present night pursuing our slow trek forward, while I grow more aware every second that my feet trudge behind them. Anxiety appears to fester and blister inside my veins like it’s threatening to corrode my body from within. Unfortunately, this is only the beginning. As more questions 48 Crucible | LaPlace

begin to invade my mind, Marie has spotted a fascinating incident. The short 7-yearold skips towards a small pond at the very end of our sidewalk while my mother and I follow behind at our same pace. Pure energy looks as if to radiate from her tiny form as she nears the edge of the pond. It’s not a happy energy glowing within her, but rather a purpose so that she does not have to wander aimlessly forever. And as her energy grows grander, my anxiety swells up within my lungs whilst I meekly call for her to stop. She looks as if she is deaf to my calls and persists forth, all the while staring at a peculiar row boat in the middle of the water. The wood of the boat is coated with a vivid indigo paint that’s not reflecting in the obsidian water. The boat itself doesn’t move at all and neither does the water. There are no ripples emanating from the boat, as if it’s attached to something below and only meant to be a pillar of intrigue. Marie steps nearer to the edge, the toes of her shoes almost about to disturb the glassy surface of the dark water.

I speak louder, attempting to tell her to stop. But something inside grips me and I break out into a cold sweat. I walk quickly to her to close the short distance between us. My body starts screaming at me to run, to grab her before it’s too late.

Too late? What will happen if I am too late? What will happen if I cannot reach her in time? What will happen to my sister? What will happen to my family? What will happen to my mind?

Madness controls me as I scream at her. I scream as loud as my lungs will allow.

I scream as the burning inside me causes me to gasp for more air. But my cries reach only the abyss within and around me. As craziness sways me, my mother stays silent and watches on with a grin plastered on her lips. I yell for her to grab my sister but she too is not right. Her perfect, ivory teeth cause more distress within me. She is just a smiling statue, a fake comfort in a time of despair. I have already lost her. I never noticed, I only followed a husk of a being. Marie is still captivated by the deceiving blue, wooden row boat and doesn’t move an inch. I can feel moisture running down my cheek, unsure if it’s tears or sweat, when I begin to see something move from under the water near Marie. It’s slow, but I can make out a finger, then fingers, and then a whole hand. The stench coming from the lake makes me want to retch onto the disgusting grass beside me. I can see the rotting arm grasping the air in front of my sister as I push my body to run faster.

My throat aches from overuse as I try my hardest to belt out more pleas for Marie to run.

It is too late though. I am too late. Just as she is inches from my fingertips, the decomposing hand drags her frail body into the pond. It happens so quickly that she doesn’t have a moment to scream, gasp, or even resist. I run to the edge of the now disturbed water, desperately looking for any sign of my baby sister. I notice her hand trying to reach out of the water, but I know in my heart that she is not strong enough.

And I will not hesitate to be that strength for her. I dive into the water with every ounce of strength I have within. But the moment the water touches my skin, I notice how oddly warm it is. It feels comforting at first, like being wrapped in a wool blanket, but it soon becomes an uncomfortable heat. I push past this so that I can swim deeper. I keep kicking through the murky water, almost out of breath, when I perceive her reaching out to me from the deep of the pond. Her pale face is full of petrifying fear and I can hear her screams so clearly, as if we were still on land. But I cannot reach her. I am not strong enough either. She is dragged deeper and deeper in the shadowy water until she LaPlace | Crucible 49

is out of my sight. The screaming persists though. Oh, how awful it is, how loud it is. I start to choke on the water filling my throat and the water engulfing me becomes more intense. I attempt to struggle to the surface, but the water just blisters my skin more. The screaming seems to grow closer and yet I know she is already gone. Once I start to accept my death, the water scalds me and the screaming punctures my eardrums. My last thought is of wishing to be on the blue boat. Still and peaceful with the cool air against my temples.

And as the burning darkness swallows me, I hope it does not stare too intently at me for eternity. A simple glance is enough. Darkness and fear are what killed me. And I could not defeat them. I was not strong enough.

50 Crucible | LaPlace

The Summer of Free Spirits Freed From the Grasp of the Melancholy Spirit of Higher Education Molly Riggs

i. somber january don’t kill yourself, week two, even with snow on the ground—bleak —and the uncanny belief that you’re all alone. you’re not. for buried beneath suffocating sheets of cosmic tears, frozen from their cold-hearted deliverer, springs life that waits on the other side of this internal canyon you dare not cross. ii. bleeding hearts you may automatically assume that this portion of the poem will cover love, beautiful and deadly, poisonous flower. but I am unsure of what love truly means so instead, I concede to present the case of another mysterious plant: the Venus flytrap, a symbol of the independent woman, with pods like vaginas and the ability to digest human flesh. iii. envious in the key of green how is it that everyone else appears to be so happy, carefree, yet the entire population claims depression? effective drugs I suppose, or else they have actively omitted the secret with me Riggs | Crucible 51

on how to maintain the image of well-being, for my turmoil and misery are surly screaming out to every person of depressed composure who skips by. iv. resurrection still chugging along, week twelve, when snow is finally starting to melt— you didn’t think I’d make it, did you? nor I —but don’t breathe easy just yet because the tracks I’ve followed are beginning to derail, directionless I flail for surface, for air in an ocean of these cosmic tears drowning me: they may green the grass on the other side, not mine. v. escapism leave behind the arduous term I’ve endured. “may I ask, Houdini, how you managed it when there were chains encasing you on all sides?” persistent belief that the sun would shine again the moment I was released into your custody, my friend. together we may be free, fly away like doves appearing out of thin air: an illusion we convince ourselves is real in order to spend summer in bliss. vi. the summer of… you know this is the summer of self-navigation, without the assistance of the maps app; instead, I’ll find my own way. in an attempt to escape who I used to be— following train tracks into oblivion —I’ll compose this unruly paper map into something beautiful and deadly: independent, but not alone. this is the summer of free spirits freed from the grasp of the melancholy spirit of higher education. it took centuries—or so it seemed —to arrive in this state of serene acceptance, 52 Crucible | Riggs

knowledge unattainable within textbook pages, but we’ve arrived nonetheless, on the other side, green grass past the canyon we dared not cross before.

Riggs | Crucible 53

Bloodline Tori Knutsen

54 Crucible | Knutsen

The Cry of Hubris Jordan Parsons

In selfish pain I walk alone.

I break my back and bathe in snow.

I burn my face and melt my eyes.

I hold on to the pain inside.

It keeps me warm; it gives me home.

It never leaves my flesh nor bone.

The haunting sweetness of its feel Gives me hope that something’s real.

My knees press tight against my chest.

The tears that fall lead me to rest.

My heart, it yearns to not be found.

I lay in silence,

slipping

down…

Don’t catch me Don’t hold me Don’t save me Don’t love me Don’t know me Don’t own me Don’t linger above me Let me retch in silence Let me bleed in peace Depart from my side Please let me be free The anguish it calls me Parsons | Crucible 55

It beckons my mind You suffered your cross Release me to mine In selfish pain I walk alone.

I break my back and bathe in snow.

I burn my face and melt my eyes.

Let me dissolve within my pride.

56 Crucible | Parsons

Room 355 - To Justify Despair Mary Harbert

Ugh, I should have vacuumed months ago, I say, my mouth full of the scratchy, plastic carpet that covered my apartment floor. Dust mites floated gently in the sunbeam that shone through a sliver of an opening between my frayed and stained curtain panels.

One… two… three… four? No, not four, I think to myself.

My body, splayed out on the ground. I cannot move. At first this worried me, but that happened much too long ago for the fear to still shake me.

I had fallen face down. Just, right down onto the floor. Smack. And that was it, since then I haven’t moved an inch.

From my limited view, I can see my kitchen counter. My sense of time has gotten fuzzy, but I swear I had just brought back groceries. It’s a limited number of groceries, yes, but I was trying to eat healthier, in place of the normal frozen microwave meals for once and that’s fairly noteworthy. A rotting bag of oranges sat proudly on my counter as if to say nice try.

I measure the passage of time in the only way I can anymore—by the decay around me. I used to keep track, keeping time like a metronome.

I hear some stomping resonating from the apartment next door to mine. Mrs. Hellinger is heading out for her daily walk with her devilish, spoiled Shih Tzu named Petunia.

The dog never responds to her name, I guess it’s too long for it to comprehend. So she often yells its nickname, ‘Tunia.” But to me, it sounds like she’s yelling out “Tuna!” in her gravelly voice.

I had always thought this apartment complex was too shady for an old lady to live here. In the run-down side of town, this complex was catty-corner to the hub of criminal activity that took place in the city. Then, I realized she owned the place.

As gruff as she is, she was never a pesky, persistent landlady, unlike those who become power-crazed in the position. She tended to let people skip their payments for months on end and never yelled at people to stay quiet. Granted, I think it’s because Tuna was just too yappy and she didn’t want pursue the hypocrisy of the situation.

Because of her great lenience, the residents took advantage of her. Some people, residents who should’ve been on the streets, stayed in her complex far past the conventional kick-out time. Eventually, they just left out of guilt. Others were more dangerous.

They used the apartments as a den for all sorts of illegal activity, though as long as she and Harbert | Crucible 57

her Tuna weren’t disturbed too much, she’d look the other way.

Still, with the crime rates in the neighborhood, the place was no haven for the angelic and devilish souls alike that lived there. The apartment was gated, and yet every morning the hallways directly outside our apartment doors would be covered in fresh graffiti. Sounds of gunshots bled through the thin walls, keeping people up at night.

I was here not because I needed a space to do my illegal activities in peace, on the contrary, it was because I was in-between jobs. I use the past tense was not because I found a job and can now pay my back-rent, but I use was because my status as I am, as in I am unemployed, is now invalid.

I had been in-between jobs for quite some time. I lost my last job when I had a public breakdown. Retail. The monotonous routine, the disrespect, the lack of direction in my life—it just became too much. In my short-sleeve button up and my khakis, I threw a TV from its shelf and yelled at a customer who had been threatening me for not giving them a discount. That moment was not one of my best. The company canned me, and I have been looking for a job ever since.

I lost touch with my coworkers after that event. I tried to meet up with them after I was sacked, but the air seemed to go frigid with discomfort as they tried to not provoke me, as if that would happen again at any moment. I eventually gave up.

A few months later, I couldn’t afford the rent at my previous apartment and they threw me out. My closest friends lived in that neighborhood and once I was gone, they didn’t put in the same effort to see me. As if they were only close to me in proximity and not in relationship. I was convenient... and then I wasn’t.

My move was tough. I didn’t find Mrs. Hellinger right away. I was homeless for a few weeks before I got here. And that was a lonely time; a time where all my connections were lost. My parents disowned me for being jobless and homeless and my friends were already long gone months before. But eventually, I found Mrs. Hellinger.

Or rather, she found me.

A large angel in pink slippers shadowed over me as I lounged on the abraded sidewalk. With a bedazzled leash in one hand, which led to a white loofah of a dog urinating on a tree next to me, and with a “For rent” printout in the other, she gave me a shelter and an opportunity that day.

An opportunity I never took advantage of.

Tuna gives her timely yapping solo as the pair walk out of her apartment. I hear the routine rattle of keys as she locks her door. I hear the shuffle of her feet, padding down the hallway, as Tuna’s bell on her collar rings out.

This moment is so routine. Yet I feel like, as each day passes while I lay here, I never really noticed it. Stomp-Stomp-Stomp, the opening of the door, yap-yap, the jingle of the keys.

It’s nearly identical each day, once completely invisible now is the only thing keeping me regularly aware of my surroundings.

I look around the room once more. My cheek, malformed as I am sure it is quite unrecognizable now, rests in a puddle of an unknown substance. I am unsure where it came from, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s me somehow. I cannot move from it, and God do I wish I could.

For now, I have accepted my fate. But I am sure I will, quite soon, re-enter the cycle of emotions once again. From acceptance and peace back to denial and desperation.

58 Crucible | Harbert

The sound of a wildebeest stampede comes from down the hall, near the stairwell. Some of the neighboring kids are playing together. I would say this isn’t a place where people should raise their children, but we don’t live in such an ideal world. They storm the hall, continuing past my apartment door.

The commotion rattles the limited décor on my walls. My only mirror in the apartment swung precariously on its tack. It was already cracked, placed by the front door, so—if I actually left my apartment—I could check my appearance before stepping out into the world. The commotion ends briefly, just before the herd of children run past the door again to return to where they came from. The mirror jumps off the tack, smashes to the floor, and I can see myself, in the reflection of its various shards, for the first time since I fell.

AH! OH MY GOD! I scream in my head, no one can hear me. Holy shit, oh god no.

Ultimately, I had come to terms with my suspicions that I was dead. I hadn’t seen any proof until now. I am not sure I would ask for it in hindsight.

I calm myself down, actively staring out to the counter and not at the front door and the shards of glass revealing the horror of what has happened to me and my body— my corpse?

I am those oranges, I say to myself in an airless manner. Worse, they look better than me.

The panic works up in my throat, and I try to focus again.

Four weeks? That can’t be right, I say.

I want to thrash, slam my head against the floor, anything really. I guess it’s the rigor mortis that set in that is forcing me still? No, stupid, it’s ‘cause you’re dead. It doesn’t matter if it’s rigor mortis, dead people don’t move. I try to move again, roll over, swing an arm, bash my head, and still. Nothing.

I look over at the mirror again and let out a strangled sigh. I felt my eyes widen and fill with tears, but the image in the mirror didn’t display my image. Just my deteriorating, partially skeletal face.

My weight had been dropping, fairly rapidly, the few weeks prior and I couldn’t tell how much was due to that or the fact that I’m dead and trapped in my decaying body.

Before my death, there had been some noticeable changes in my health. I haven’t really thought about it before now. But with the confirmation of my death… I am no longer questioning what has happened, but rather how this happened. How in the fuck did this happen?

My weight, like I said, was dropping at a disconcerting rate. I wasn’t doing it on purpose, but I can’t say I was actively trying to stop it. At least not in the beginning.

The weight loss didn’t register me as being particularly striking as I have limited resources for food. It was pretty much expected. But once it happened, even though I was eating more regularly than when I was homeless, well… I figured it was out of my control. Maybe I deserved it, I deserved this….

Then came the bruises. They appeared out of seemingly nowhere. I was lethargic, I could hardly move from the mattress on my floor. After I took far too long waiting it out, seeing if I’d bounce back magically, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Just before I… I died, I was able to work up enough strength to get some groceries. Maybe Harbert | Crucible 59

microwave meals don’t hold enough nutritional value to live off of alone or maybe I was just getting too picky and put myself in this position subconsciously. Either way, I couldn’t afford a trip to the doctor and I definitely couldn’t afford any treatment prescribed afterwards. I picked up some vitamin-rich food or whatever those crunchy-granola folks eat and hoped I could home-remedy myself out of this bitch.

Before I “passed on”—Or whatever this is, considering I am still stuck with my decomposing body, I’ve gone nowhere— I had just gotten back from grocery shopping.

The walk to the store and back, not to mention making it up and down the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment, was dangerously exhausting. I put the groceries on the counter and finally sat down.

At that point, my head was pounding, and I was aching some-kind-of-awful everywhere. I had sat down in a fold-out chair arranged where the non-existent dining room should be by the kitchen that, due to the small space, bled into the equally non-existent foyer. I eventually got up to go to the cupboard in the kitchen which held some painkillers and I collapsed on the way over.

And since then, I have been stuck in this in-between, this unknown and yet known, this so-called purgatory. Why the fuck am I still here? I am dead, aren’t I? I should be in heaven, hell, whatever! Or better yet, ceasing to exist! Hell, even… I don’t know, floating along the cosmos?!

I stop dead, no pun intended.

Why has no–Why has no one found me yet.

It wasn’t a question, but more of a statement.

My throat burns, or at least it feels like it burns. It’s been how long? And no one has called, knocked on my door. You’d think the smell would have gotten to someone?!

God, I wish I could move. Just to hit something at least.

I waited.

For what? I didn’t know, but what else could I do?

Time passed unceremoniously.

A sound of a shuffling gait, by an overweight woman in slippers and the tinging sound of a tiny bell started up down the hall just faintly. I direct all my attention to it. Mrs. Hellinger’s strict routine has kept me slightly sane through this as I can keep better track of time.

There’s a knock on the door. My door?

“Excuse me, Mr. Cooper?” Mrs. Hellinger says in a formal tone I have never heard her speak in. She pauses slightly and knocks again. “Excuse me, your rent is due.”

What? Mrs. Hellinger has never knocked on any resident’s door and asked for rent.

Confused, I try to call out to her, but knowing she’d never hear.

“Excuse me?” she sounds nervous. “I’m coming in.”

I hear her rummaging through her ring of keys. She selects one and tries it on the door and it works.

“Oh!” she gasps, holding her dog tighter under her arm and throwing a hand over the dog’s eyes to shield it from the foul scene. I am grateful she was holding Tuna for this part. I feared the dog would come licking at my corpse. Who knows what it would catch from that.

She mumbles a series of prayers. “The poor soul.” And she starts to cry. While she 60 Crucible | Harbert

was so lenient and forgiving of the worst people, this strong, burly woman, who was not a force to be reckoned with, cried for me. A cast-out, resentful bastard who never made anything for himself.

She found me again.

“I’m so sorry, Mr, Cooper,” she says as she struggles to get a phone to report a found body and I feel myself losing attachment to my body, my anchor to this existence, and everything fades away.

Harbert | Crucible 61

For The Exploited Children Who helped Build AMerica Brittany Holland

She sits at her station, stares at the scraps of cloth, in piles by the door. Soon, they will burst into flame, trapping workers inside. They’ve locked the doors from the outside. 145 will perish. * He buys his newspapers, with the paltry ten cents he earned from yesterday’s hawking.

His stomach rumbles, not a scrap of food for days. His shoes are stuffed with papers he couldn’t sell. He hopes another of his toes won’t fall off this winter. * He shines another shoe, this pair black like the last, and the ones before that. He hopes the next customer will tip. The ones so far haven’t. Maybe at the end of the month, his mama and daddy can still pay rent. * They sit in their offices, and merrily laugh at the fact insurance money will build another factory, like the last two before this. They clink glasses and smoke cigars, commend themselves about the ten-cent raise on the price of their papers. It’s nothing to them, but everything to the boys on the streets. They jingle the change in their pockets as they walk away. It doesn’t make a difference to them. They do everything in their power to strike down the acts the labor unions try to pass. * She is terrified for her little sister, too young to be here, and unfit for this work. She howls when the needles lance her fingers. The floorman nearly knocks her out, just to stop her wailing. * He wishes his parents were still alive. He might have a hot meal then, or shoes that aren’t split open. Maybe an education, too. But he’ll die, just like many before him. There are ten in line waiting to replace him. * He laments that his daddy’s arm got broken when part of that mine caved in. He’s thankful he didn’t die, but no one will hire his daddy again. For this, his fingers are forever stained black, his knees forever bruised. Mama will kiss him on the cheek when he puts his money in the jar. His little brother will have bruised knees and black fingertips as soon as he’s old enough to carry supplies.

62 Crucible | Holland

The Bruises They Get At Home Kianna Williams

Splotchy Blooming like a garden of flowers Darker as the days go by Until they fade Nonexistent, you can hide them Because they are not permanent But the memories are The memories are anything but Nonexistent, you can hide them Until they fade Blooming like a garden of weeds Splotchy Darker as the days go by Because they are permanent Permanent Because the memories are Pain Nonexistent, they want to fade, Hide themselves, Bloom like the flowers they are But the days are splotchy as they go by, Darker.

Williams | Crucible 63

Black Dog Jess McCombs

It has been too long for these scars to be this deep and these burns to be this raw, but the memory of smoke swirls into my nose and lungs to suffocate me so I feel like you.

But your ghost does not relent, does not sit or stay or lie down, but follows after me and licks my heels with flames.

The charred walls of the house abrade and chafe against my raw wounds so that I cannot sit on that porch where I lost you.

64 Crucible | McCombs

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Contributors’ Notes Rebecca Bolding is a graduate student at UNC in the English MA program. When she’s not teaching undergraduate composition, writing critical essays, or napping, she is writing creatively; she mostly writes poetry, as that is her favorite, but creative non-fiction and short stories are also a large part of what she writes in her free time. She wrote this poem in late 2017, and is excited to share it with The Crucible.

Asa Cogswell is a senior English major at UNC. He loves writing fantasy and poetry, walking in the mountains, and creating his own worlds in his head and on the page. Sucker for Sword and Sorcery, Miyazaki movies, and the Oxford Comma.

Tamara E. Faour is an English major at UNC with minors in writing and Spanish. She writes in many forms and genres and has been published in both the 2018 edition of Scribendi as well as in the American Library of Poetry’s 2015 collection Eloquence. Among the things she best loves to unearth through writing are a good story, a good argument, and a good laugh. She lives now with her family of nine in Northern Colorado, who keep her in good supply of all these things.

John Farrell is aa poet, author, and essayist currently studying at the University of Northern Colorado. He has a passion for storytelling and reading. He is a published author with his previous work, Sapphires, which was published in the Fall 2017 edition of The Crucible.

Mary Harbert is a junior double-majoring in English and journalism. Her interests include film, art and creative writing. Her hometown is Pueblo, Colorado, which is often a source of inspiration in her works. Mary acts as Historian for Sigma Tau Delta, the English honors society on campus. She also works for UNC’s student newspaper, The Mirror, as the new managing editor. Her works can be found at uncmirror.com.

Grace Hoag is a multi-disciplinary artist with work in painting, ceramics, printmaking, and jewelry. She is a junior at UNC with a major in art and design, minor in business administration, and certificate in arts entrepreneurship. To view more art, please visit Grace’s artist website at gracehoag.com, or follow her on Instagram: @_hoagieroll.

Notes | Crucible 73

Brittany Holland is a third year student at UNC studying history. She has been writing since she was a pre-teen, and has written many poems and works of fiction. Her works have been published twice, including once in The Crucible in the fall of 2017.

Austin Huber is a sophomore English major. Austin has spent years at this point developing a writing style that he enjoys in which he attempts to simultaneously shock the audience, while making them laugh. Austin believes this is one of his stronger pieces showcasing this.

Amanda Jacobs is a doctoral student in educational psychology at UNC. Amanda has lived in Colorado her whole life, but moved to the Greeley area five years ago. Photography serves as a welcome break from her studies. Amanda enjoys landscape and still life photography, and her three dogs are some of her best portrait models.

Jason Keller is a senior studying journalism at the University of Northern Colorado. He has an interest in the “weird” side of science fiction, and has been reading sci-fi since he was in Kindergarten. Jason Keller is the winner of the 2016 Rosenberry Writer’s Conference Writing Contest for the fiction category, and writes daily. He lives in Greeley, Colorado.

Tori Knutsen is a Colorado native visual artist who explores the spiritual connections between humans and nature in the pursuit of aligning her viewers and herself with higher consciousness. She balances labyrinthine lines with explores of color to manifest juxtapositions and synergies between different media and minds. To see more of her work, visit toriknutsen.org or follow her on Instagram: @toriknutsen.art.

Gail Kuroda does library work in Greeley and takes writing courses to exercise her creative muscles.

Taylor M. LaPlace is a female student at UNC. She is a junior who is majoring in audiology and speech-language pathology and minoring in special education. She enjoys writing short stories and playing video games when she has free time. Taylor is currently hoping to intern at hearing clinics to pursue her career in audiology. She hopes to one day become an audiologist who also publishes a book full of horror stories.

Meadows Madsen is a young, intellectual poet who spends her time writing and volunteering. She takes moments she has experienced and uses them to fuel her passion for writing. She is a second year undergrad student at UNCO hoping to find herself in a career that makes a true impact in the world.

Jess McCombs is a junior in the English education program. She has loved reading and writing poetry from a young age. She views writing as an outlet to express emotions and share experiences. As a future educator, Jess is passionate about helping students come to love poetry for themselves, and she looks forward to incorporating poetry into her class74 Crucible | Notes

room. Instagram: @jessnmccombs Colin McGuire is currently a student at UNC studying English secondary education. His special talent is knowing all the words to Daft Punk’s “Around the World.”

Jordan Parsons is currently a senior at the University of Northern Colorado. In the fall of 2018, he will graduate with a major in marketing and a minor in writing. He hopes to pursue a career in writing, creating and publishing a variety of screenplays, novels, short fiction, essays, and poetry. In the summer of 2018, he is planning to move to Greeley with his now fiancée, but future wife, Jennifer Wood.

Jim Pennington is a writer and self-taught artist from the Appalachians of eastern Kentucky. Writings have been published in; Pegasus, Kudzu, Promise Magazine, Kaleidoscope (Featured artist article), Branchwood Journal, Blue Ridge Traditions Magazine, Mid South Review, The Corbeled Gallery, West Virginia Words, Dakota House Journal, White Ash Literary Magazine, and others. Jim is the author of three poetry collections, one short story collection, one non-fiction memoir and one amateur sleuth mystery novel.

Molly Riggs is an English major with a writing minor at the University of Northern Colorado. She loves to drink lavender tea and listen to Tom Rosenthal while she writes, which is how the piece of poetry in this edition came about. She would love to just do the above three for the rest of her life, however unrealistic that may be.

Gareth Root is a junior theatre studies major at the University of Northern Colorado. He likes to write plays, films, poetry, and stories, but you probably already figured that out this being here in a literary magazine and all. Science fiction and fantasy are his preferred genres. When not writing, acting, or refining his plan for world domination, Gareth enjoys normal human things, like being with friends, playing tabletop RPGs, and engaging in the martial arts, which he finds meditative.

Calvin Shepherd, comic book writer, and artist Ethan Funk-Breay are best friends who do what they love: create comics. Everything from two aliens sitting on a bench waiting for a bus to janitors cleaning up after aliens at Area 51. Shepherd and Funk-Breay have come together to create Funky Shepherd Productions where they make both comics and movies. They will be exhibiting at Denver Comic Con this summer. Find them @funkyshep on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Eli Solt is an independent filmmaker and freelance photographer studying English and film at UNC. While continually exploring different genres and types of filmmaking and photography, Eli is most interested in experimental, unconventional, and surrealist storytelling and visual techniques. He has created several award-winning short films and is hoping to work on more films about his travels and films that focus on issues relating to social justice and equality. Website: elisolt.com Instagram: eli_solt44 Madeline Sterns is a 2D artist working primarily in acrylic mediums. Her active body of Notes | Crucible 75

work explores complex human emotions by combining opaque and washy layers of paint.

Madeline’s current artistic influences are surrealist Rene Magritte and abstract expressionists such as Mark Rothko. Skeletons, plants, and moths are common subjects throughout Madeline’s work.

Christopher Strople continues to explore and experiment with both the written and the visual. His work is partially derived from a fondness for color and an appreciation for aesthetics. After a decade of teaching public elementary school in southern California, he now teaches at a public university, and currently resides, in central Maine. Previous publication credits include the following: Art Times, Fox Cry Review, Aries, Parnassus Literary Journal, and Red Owl. For samples of his work, please visit www.strople.org.

Kaila Ward is an English education major with a minor in film at UNC. She enjoys blogging, writing, and teaching and is currently in the process of publishing a book of poetry.

From romance to horror, Kaila enjoys several genres of literature, but finds a particular love in the poetic world. While she is often seen running around campus, it is not unusual to spot her with her favorite book, The Great Gatsby. After all, a girl’s best friend is F. Scott Fitzgerald, right?

Erin Wetzel is a graduating senior in the English Literature department. She is from Colorado Springs and has two older sisters, two cats, a turtle named Herbie, and a perfect view of the mountains. Ever since she was little she has loved stories, reading and writing them every chance she has. She has hopes to publish her fantasy series and to become a literary agent to help others make their writing-dreams come true!

Kianna Williams is an aspiring author of young adult fiction and poetry. “The Bruises they get at Home” is her first published piece. You can read more of her writing on her blog: thekeytocreativenonfiction.blogspot.com.

Cassidy Willis is a student at the University of Northern Colorado. Cassidy is 22 years old, minoring in creative writing and majoring in ASL interpretation. Cassidy believes that there is nothing in the world as magical and everlasting as our words and our stories and is honored to share that magic with you.

Taylor Zangari is a sophomore at the University of Northern Colorado. She is an English major with a minor in writing. Poetry has always been her preferred genre of writing, and she hopes to continue writing poetry in the future.

76 Crucible | Notes