FishHook 12

Get hooked. mia bruno, may f., maria farrar, courtney gardner, amanda meuth, ruby robling, tegan ruhl, kyla schlink, christian schmitz, al sheets, pandora wells, william williams, kaitlen wood

FishHook Volume 12 Fall 2023

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FishHook – USI’s Arts and Letters Journal

@fishhookusi

Logo by Carey Blackmore Cover Art: Retail Princess by Al Sheets

Volume 12 Fall 2023

FishHook Student Literary Journal

a note on FishHook

Proudly Presents The 2022-2023 Editorial Staff

The student editors of FishHook believe strongly that USI’s student art and literary journal ought to be just as unique and inviting as the work it publishes.

Editor-in-Chief: Kyla Schlink

A fishhook speaks to Evansville’s sense of place, tucked as we are in a crook of the Ohio River, and serves a rich metaphor for the process of being lured, hooked and changed by the images (whether visual or verbal) of our student literary journal.

Editorial Staff: Brenna Swaney (Poetry Editor) Denise McKenzie (Fiction Editor) Kaitlen Wood (Art/Photography Editor) Maria Farrar (Nonfiction Editor)

Like a hook pulled from a river trout’s mouth before the fish is tossed back into the water, the fishhook does not pull cleanly free; the barb catches, leaves an echo of its shape in the cheek of the fish.

Faculty Advisor: Professor Anthony Rintala

And that, gruesome as it may sound, is how we, the editors of FishHook, feel good literature and art leave us: changed forever, with an echo of its image and voice deep in our flesh.

We hope you will enjoy this twelfth issue of FishHook as much as we enjoyed compiling it. And, more than anything, we hope you will get hooked!

—The Editors

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CONTENTS Poetry

Fiction

Maria Farrar

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Je M’appelle Nadine

May F.

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Those Under Sakura Blossoms

Amanda Meuth

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Growing Pains The Same Question

William Williams

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Sister Hawk

Ruby Robling

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My Painting Before I Loved You

Non-Fiction

Tegan Ruhl

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Semi-Trucks and Bell Peppers

Mia Bruno

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Junior

Pandora Wells

9 Finding Companionship in a Multitude of Abandoned Shoes 1 Grapefruit. Connection. Consequence.

Art & Photography Courtney Gardner

19 18 13

aqua tofana Make a Wish sabotage

Kyla Schlink

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Leave the World Behind Seasonal Pleasures

Christian Schmitz

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The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 1 The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 2 The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 4 The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 5 The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 6

Al Sheets

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Retail Princess

Kaitlen Wood

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The Flowering Tree You’ve Got Mail

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A Note from the Editor Sitting down to write this note, I felt a bit overwhelmed. What I am supposed to say that past editors have not already said? It wasn’t until I started to really think about what FishHook meant to me that the words started flowing out.

FishHook connects the students of USI, both past, present, and future together in a way that is beautiful and unique. It is a time capsule of sorts. While putting Volume 12 together, I revisit a lot of the past volumes to help guide me in the creation of this one, and seeing the work of former students who graduated before I even began here felt, in some ways, emotional. In a similar sense, there was such a strong sense of being connected to them despite never meeting most of them.

It really made me think about how important FishHook is. Finishing this volume of FishHook is the last thing I will do as a USI senior and I feel accomplished that while I’m leaving, a part of me will always be a part of this school’s legacy.

The work that my editing team and I put into Volume 12 will last longer than the four or so years we spent in attendance and the same is true for our contributors.

This idea has made me realize how incredibly lucky I am to have been a part of something so amazing.

With this in mind, I would like to show my gratitude to those who helped me in the creation of Volume 12 of FishHook.

Firstly, thank you so much to my editing team–Brenna, Denise, Kaitlen, and Maria.

I absolutely could not have finished this volume without any of you. Thank you for the work you put in and thank you for putting up with my awkward “meetings” throughout this year.

I also want to show my gratitude to our faculty advisor, Mr. Rintala. You’ve helped me out so much throughout the year as I learned how to be editor-in-chief and you answered all of my silly questions with no judgment. Similarly, thank you to all the faculty who showed FishHook support and encouraged students to submit their amazing work.

And of course, thank you to our contributors. If it weren’t for the creative and talented students at USI who are willing to submit their work to FishHook, we would not have this absolutely amazing volume.

I and all the editors of Volume 12 hope you enjoy this year’s issue of FishHook.

—Kyla Schlink

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POETRY

Pandora Wells

I want to devour it like an animal, rip into it with pointed teeth, then ask the empty plate, “Am I waxing acidic, too heavily associating feelings with fruit? Or should I welcome these ties as proof that I have lived and known, connected and conquered?”

Grapefruit. Connection. Consequence PANDORA WELLS

I slice and watch the citrus spray dance in the air, each droplet catching the light for a split second before dissipating to nothing.

Halved, plated, lightly sugared.

Bitter and balanced, the grapefruit stares at me through seeds, sours my palate, asks me why I’ve kept such distance from its delicately speckled rind; Why, it asks, has it been four years since last I spooned it out in perfect segments, triangles of pulpy vesicles to pop in my mouth, mix with saliva, pucker and swallow; and if we could have a conversation back and forth like real people, I would say, “You’re dangerous.

I’ve read articles about how you interfere with antibiotics and birth control pills.

Are you worth the risk, then, of illness? Of pregnancy?”

To reply, it might say, “That’s no fault of mine.

Nothing’s changed and I cannot control chemistry.

I was birthed from a tree branch, showered in pesticides, sent off to be purchased, then to please.

Eat me without thinking of avoidance.”

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Tegan Ruhl

Semi-Trucks and Bell Peppers TEGAN RUHL

and listen to four men and one woman shouting with energy over a game of prop hunt.

My chicken tastes kind of rubbery, but the bell peppers are delicious.

I try to watch Apollo 13, but I have to pay for it.

I eat and listen to Zach Stone.

I drink caffeinated lemonade and dance.

It’s good to let your imagination roll sometimes.

It was 7 o’clock in Panera.

I finished my cup of turkey chili, and my mother told me My sister was hit by a semi-truck this morning.

She was fine, but her car is totaled, our insurance is going to go up, and she has tickets to pay off now.

She’s had her license for less than a month.

I never thought this would happen, but nobody ever does.

She’s okay, that’s all that matters.

My family is shaken up though.

We’ve always been a little on edge.

“I want to fall asleep in your arms,” I tell him.

“I want a soft back rub,” he tells me.

“I want to be with you,” I tell him.

“I really can’t wait to be married.”

I really can’t wait to be married.

She’s okay, that’s all that matters.

Thank you, Jesus, that’s all that matters.

I leave 30 minutes early for Walmart Trying to remember to pick up cinnamon for my roommate.

I walk around the store, collecting a variety of things: Toothpaste, elbow macaroni, cereal bars, bell peppers are 70 cents right now!

The cereal bars have jumped up a dollar, from 5 to 6.

Everything is so expensive.

My spending money is almost gone.

I need a job.

But I quit the one I had.

I pay $20.93 for it all.

I leave with no cinnamon.

I drive home cautious of my surroundings.

I don’t want two accidents in one day.

I drive back to the apartment, weary and conscious.

I cook chicken and bell peppers

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The Same Question

My Painting Before I Loved You

Shame on you.

Or is it shame on me?

I have been asking myself for years because, see, I know I was young. But so did you.

And you wouldn’t have hurt me . . . would you?

But if you did hurt me, you wouldn’t do it again . . . would you?

You played me well, I’ll admit.

Some nights, oh some nights, We spent hours getting to know each other.

I even watched you paint.

Your very own fingers painted my skin pink, yellow, purple.

I also learned of your favorite color, A sharp crimson red, right? It had to be, For you watched it trickle down my body with such intent.

And I saw a part of you no one else did.

Your inner child was screaming to be held, loved, and accepted But everyone kept turning away and letting you take care of yourself.

In a way, I understood why you were the way you were, And I felt that pain for you.

But that leads me back to the same question . . .

Shame on you, or is it shame on me?

Regardless, I still blindly stayed by your side.

What a stupid kid I was, Absorbing your proud lies In hopes of holding onto the feeling of finally being loved.

I remember my painting before you doused it in a color no one else has ever shown me.

My painting was the ribbons in pigtails, frolic through meadows, kiss in a thunderstorm type of innocent.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.

AMANDA MEUTH

RUBY ROBLING

I remember the day you came to my gallery.

I remember your weathered fingertips grazing over my brushstrokes, searching for mistakes.

When you found one, your bucket of paint dripped like honey over my heart and soul, and it felt like romance.

Now that you’re gone, and with my vibrant pinks and yellows forever muted by knowing you, I’ve become a painting restorationist.

I spend my days meticulously swabbing your memory away from the beauty underneath, salvaging the innocence as best I can.

The worst part is, somedays I think about leaving the painting

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My Painting Before I Loved You

tainted by you.

Somedays the color is mesmerizing. Somedays hidden in the Rorschach test splatter patterns are the images of our touching fingertips.

Growing Pains AMANDA MEUTH

Those are the days when I know I’ll never get back to my painting before I loved you.

If I stay comfortable, that’s when you win.

At this point, I’d rather die than let you beat me again.

But I have grown so accustomed to you, I can’t fathom the thought of living without seeing you in everything I do.

You’re my comfort, you see, but you’re also the very thing haunting me in my sleep.

I remember it all, but at the same time, I feel like I can’t remember a damn thing.

You tied my tongue years ago So tightly that I don’t recognize my own voice anymore.

Slowly, though, I’m learning that my voice has power No matter how hard you tried to muffle my screams for help.

Slowly, very slowly, I am learning that you are not everywhere . . . just in my mind.

And slowly, I’m learning that the more times you tell a story . . . the less power it has.

Consider this me taking a first step, finally, and trying my best to get over you.

You worked yourself into such a horrid beast in my mind, I often forget you are human like me.

After nights of sobbing and asking you why I suffer, You looked deep into my soul and never gave me an answer.

It all must have been a game to you, I’m sure of it.

Twisting my growing mind into one that worshiped you, Painting me with bruises and pushing me to a point of no return.

I think you enjoyed tormenting a young mind to the point where I was shaking in pain, And after you saw my heart break again, that’s when your true joy began.

You flipped me around, held me tight, asked me why I was gasping and crying.

You offered such deep comfort I caved every time.

I was always so confused. I never doubted your open arms for a second.

But, I’ll never forget the joy on your face.

And I’ll never forget having to wear multiple layers of clothes to your house Just to avoid the hurt.

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Pandora Wells

Finding Companionship in a Multitude of Abandoned Shoes

Worms writhe in rotting hide, spreading a disease of irrelevance until I, too, am erased by proximity, only seen from a distance, from a car barrelling down the highway, shrinking with the sneakers in the rearview; I, too, am leaking my poison into the asphalt.

PANDORA WELLS

The road is never lonely.

Even if conversation halts or falters, I find comfort in the cries from the median of the enigmatic, ever-present solitary shoe.

It is undeniable and inconsistent.

Always a different size, different style, collecting sun bleach like a vessel of loss.

Losing identity and self, hardly recognizable and half-hidden by the shade of the guardrail.

It teases the existence of an implied other, though another never comes.

Seeking a new partner, perhaps, it follows at my heels.

It races down the interstate in a size seven, accompanying me across state lines.

I feel an impure sympathy, laced with sickening envy towards the rain-laden suede, and I can taste my mortality with each tread-upon sole; The flavor is that of dirt and old leather. Muddy. Repulsive.

Stitched cloth logos call to question my reason, casting doubt like a lure on still water, singing that we can be isolated together.

Road-side trash, litter alongside discarded plastic that will outlast life itself, only we, in concept, are worse for the earth.

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Je M’appelle Nadine MARIA FARRAR

My name if I were French would be Nadine.

I would walk down to the bakery and read my book outside. The cool autumn breeze would swirl As I ate my favorite pastry.

Nadine already occupies the middle of my name now. I used to be embarrassed by this name, No one else had it.

Every time I was asked, my cheeks blushed Because I thought the name “Anna-Nadine” was weird. As I’ve grown, so has my appreciation.

It is unique and an ode To my great grandmother, “Grandma Deeny”.

She passed when I was younger, But she loved me, that “skinny Little baby”.

It also means “hope”.

I hope that as I carry on this name, Grandma Deeny would be proud Of whom I’ve become.

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Art and Photography

sabotage

COURTNEY GARDNER

The Flowering Tree

KAITLEN WOOD 13

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Seasonal Pleasures

KYLA SCHLINK

The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 2

CHRISTIAN SCHMITZ 15

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Make a Wish

COURTNEY GARDNER

The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 5

CHRISTIAN SCHMITZ 17

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Leave the World Behind

KYLA SCHLINK

aqua tofana

COURTNEY GARDNER 19

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Retail Princess

AL SHEETS

The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 6

CHRISTIAN SCHMITZ 21

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The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 4

The Mirror Breathes Better Than I Do, 1

CHRISTIAN SCHMITZ

CHRISTIAN SCHMITZ 23

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FICTION

You’ve Got Mail

KAITLEN WOOD

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May F.

Those Under Sakura Blossoms MAY F.

A bright full moon sat high in the sky, shining its light upon two figures: a man and a woman. They stood close to one another, standing beneath a canopy of a cherry blossom tree. The two were silent as they basked in moonlight, letting flowers fall into their hair.

The woman, dressed in a simple, ocean-blue yukata with yellow flowers adorning the skirt, looked at the man from the corner of her eye. Her gaze went unnoticed by him, his attention focused on the beauty around him. The man’s black kimono z ri hidden underneath a blue cloak contrasted with the blossoms slowly falling around him. One fell directly in his face and landed on his nose. Before it could fall he grabbed it and placed the blossom in the palm of his hand. The woman looked at the moon and sighed inwardly. “Why…” His head turned towards her as she spoke. “Why do you act so vulnerable around me?” His head tilted to the side, communicating his confusion. She turned slightly at his silence and giggled upon seeing his expression. It quickly turned into another sigh as she faced forward. “I ask because, when you do, it confuses me. I do appreciate your trust in me but what about the others?

They have risked life and limb for you and I have not. Oikawa nearly froze to death because she overexerted herself to protect you during one of your missions. I haven’t done anything to show you even half that amount of loyalty.” She bowed her head, her midnight black hair covering her eyes. Her body turned to face the man beside her. “Will you tell me why?”

She whispered softly, her tone pleading. He couldn’t help the small grin that formed on his lips. “If that’s what you want…”. His hand reached out and grasped hers, giving it a slight squeeze. “I’ll do just that.” He gazed down at her intensely, his eyes showing how serious he was. “Why wouldn’t a man trust those closest to his heart?” Her eyes brightened at his words, any uncertainty or negative emotions replaced with bright happiness. The brilliant glow that emanated off her was almost blinding. It seemed to push away all the darkness that clouded his mind and warmed him with its light. A gust of wind blew at the cherry blossom trees causing the petals to float in the air around them. “Woah how pretty!” She said softly, walking closer to the man beside her. With only a few steps they were touching, their hands still tightly grasped in the other, afraid to let go. His blue cloak brought warmth to her chilly, exposed arms and face. He’s always so nice. I feel safe whenever I’m around him. She shivered as another gust of wind ruffled her hair slightly, her action not going unnoticed by her partner. “Are you cold?” He asked, already knowing her answer. She shook her head hastily but her body betrayed her as it shook from another breeze. An exasperated

sigh escaped his lips. “You are so stubborn you know that?” In one swift motion, he grabbed her by her shoulders and picked her up. A confused look passed her face until she realized her situation and began to fight against his hold. “Hey, put me down! I told you I’m fine! I was plenty warm right there! These actions aren’t decent for a man of your standing. Put me down!” He sighed once more before setting her down but not in her original place. Instead, he put her right in front of him and wrapped his arms around her midsection, resting his chin on top of her head. She gaped at the sudden change in position, unsure of what to do.

He inhaled deeply, feeling peaceful with her so close. Cherry blossoms. She smelled of cherry blossoms, a beautiful representation of her. Soft, delicate, gorgeous, and one of a kind. A true beauty to behold and he never wanted to let go. He wanted her with him. No. He needed her with him. She squirmed slightly as his grip on her tightened. The man spoke softly in her ear, “Marry me.” Her eyes widened at the words that left his mouth. M-m-marry…?

A long, peaceful silence passed over the couple. He patiently waited for an answer, continuing to hold her close. No matter what she wanted he would deliver and she knew that, but she’d only ask for one thing only. Something that he wasn’t surprised she would ask. A simple wish he’d fulfill until he couldn’t feel his own heart beat anymore. After a few moments a sound, as soft as a twinkling of bells, filled the void of silence. She was laughing. He gave her an uncertain look, worried by the sudden outburst. Her head turned to look him in the eye, his own widening at her expression. Thin streaks of tears ran down her smooth cheeks and shimmered in the moonlight. A smile was plastered on her face, as if to say ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask silly!’ He let out a breath of relief, spinning her around and crashing his lips on hers. She swung her arms around his neck, tugging him closer. He set her back on the ground, their foreheads pressed against each other as the two of them basked in the other’s presence. Together under the moonlight with the cherry blossom tree as their witness, the man and woman created a different bond by the end of the night. This bond was not like the one they had created before, one founded on a sense of duty. This one was not created due to the desire to fulfill a wish and restore a lost soul. Their bond was one of love and trust, founded from the desire to never be apart from each other. To seal their marriage, he gave her a gift, placing it in her hair. It was a glittering cherry blossom ornament. His gift was also a sign.

That if they ever got separated or if something ever happened to either of them, it’d always be in her hair so he’d recognize her.

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William Williams

Sister Hawk

WILLIAM WILLIAMS

A cold morning. Too cold for October. Too damn cold to be sitting in that big old Hackberry tree on the hill. But there I was. Mad as hell and shivering. Back at the house, three dead chickens and the rest eaten or scared off to hell and gone.

All gone. No birds when I went out to feed this morning. Didn’t take long to figure it out. Coyote sign and bloody feathers. And those three dead birds.

I hit that dying rabbit call again. A terrible noise. Sickening squeal. No way to tell if any coyotes were still around but I was trying. Squeal. Squeeel. I had to try something Dammit. We’d raised them from chicks last spring. Squeeeel! So cold.

Didn’t dress for it. In a rage. Not even my coffee yet. Squee…eel. Just grabbed my Remington 870 and a box of Turkey loads. Just a ball cap. No gloves. Could use a warmer hat. Wasn’t thinking right. Squeeel!!

I heard her before I saw her. That call they make. The one my dad taught me to do. He said I was better than him. I did sound pretty good. I practiced that whistle and some others he taught me but my Red-tail Hawk was the best. She called again and I saw her. East, with the sunrise, just above the treetops. Swooping down.

Looking for her breakfast. Rabbit breakfast. I answered her and she called back.

Coyotes forgotten, I put the rabbit call away and whistled again. Here she came.

Right on in. Man, she was always something to see. Talons first. Stretched out.

Wings spread open wide. Eased up on her speed and sort of floated down to the same big branch I was perched on. We looked at each other. Her head tipped left and right, first one way then another like a curious young beagle pup. Her eyes bright. Never left mine. She hopped closer on that branch. A few inches, a foot. Closer. I stayed stock still. I didn’t want to scare her but I never scared her before. My friend let out a soft kind of coo. Coo, coo. No. Not my friend. My sister maybe. My spirit animal.

Maybe.

She opened her wings a little and hopped right to me. I slowly reached out and smoothed her neck feathers and down her back. Coo, coo, cooo. And then she toppled off the branch toward the ground like it was a game. With one graceful flap she soared up to a nearby tree. A maple I think. She sat there a minute or so watching me and then just flew off. And without her breakfast.

It wasn’t only her either. But she comes often. And there have been others over the years. The first time it was a big male. I was about 12, I guess. In the edge of our back woods practicing my Hawk whistle. Have you ever heard them make that call? No? I’ll do it for you sometime. That male just swooped down and landed in the corn stubble. I hadn’t seen him or heard him either. I guess he heard me. I was startled, you know? But not afraid. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t. He looked at me turning his head like they do. I called again and he called back. We spent some time together. It is hard to explain to someone. Then he was gone. I don’t remember him flying off. He was there and then he wasn’t. Not the last time he came to me.

I like birds. I mean, who doesn’t want to fly like a bird? I like all birds, but I feel a strong attachment to the Red-tailed Hawk. I never knew why. There are other species of hawks. The Kestrel is one. There are small birds, large birds. The Bald Eagle is just amazing. Wild Turkeys out in a field are very interesting to watch.

In the winter I keep a bird feeder full. Cardinals, English Sparrows, Blue Jays, an occasional Titmouse and other hungry birds come to the feeder on cold days.

I enjoy them all.

The Red-tailed Hawk is different. It isn’t a regular bird, not to me. And not to my Cherokee ancestors. I feel a spiritual connection. Maybe she is my Spirit Animal.

Recently I found out the Red-tailed Hawk is called protector spirit of the Cherokee and is revered and believed to be sacred. Maybe that is the reason for our connection.

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Junior

MIA BRUNO

Nonfiction

As I sit here in my confined dorm room filtering through exactly what I am going say about the functionality of nursing homes, COVID, my future career, everything expected of me from you and my other professors as a pre-nursing student, I come up blank. The only thing that I see are the radiant blue eyes and benevolent smile that could melt any heart, no matter how cold, of a pleasant, aged man that I was fortunate enough to meet in my time here on Earth. A man so tall you could only imagine how he towered in his younger years. So kind that you wonder just how marvelous he was before the burdens and bruises of old age struck him. A man that I will never forget.

Junior.

I sit here with tears in my eyes as I recall the first time we met. I knocked, gently, on the wooden door posted with a white sheet of printer paper that read “Junior, 96 years old, legally blind, dementia” before entering his room. I was taken aback when I witnessed the fullest, yellow-white head of hair you could possibly imagine on a 96-year-old man. He laid there with head and feet nearly grazing each end of the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling with his hands cupped over his chest. So placidly that you felt the need to behold the subtle rise and fall of his chest each and every time you set foot in his room.

In the most dulcet tone I could manage, being wary not to startle him, I whispered, “Hello Junior, I am going to be your CNA today and I just wanted to see if there is anything I could do for you.” He replied with a sentence that is eternally inscribed in my memories “I reckon’ not sweetheart, but I’ve got to get back to my farm. My son sent me here with nothing but the shirt on my back. What good is a man without even his own razor to shave with?”

My body instantly filled with perfuse, blinding anger and immediate heartbreak.

Who could drop their father off here with nothing but a stained, white Fruit of the Loom t-shirt that was 2 sizes too small and an old pair of worn jeans? I frisked through his closet and drawers hoping to find at least one personal item, anything, that could tell me this man still had someone who cared.

Anyone.

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Junior

Mia Bruno

That night, I took a crucial trip to Walmart and purchased the smoothest razors and softest pajamas I could get my hands on, not once stopping to examine a price tag. I had never felt this much passion and sympathy for an individual whom I had only met once in my life for solely 15 minutes. If only everyone had been fortunate enough to meet Junior, I guarantee they would feel the same.

I could hardly wait for my next shift on C-hall at Madisonville Health and Rehabilitation, so much so that I got to work nearly 45 minutes early in anticipation of showing Junior what I had gotten for him. With tears in both of our eyes, he told me that he would “pay me back when he could.” My tears turned to sobs. I have never beheld an individual with a complete lack of greed or urgency for demand.

The perfect example of selflessness, compassion, and dignity.

I will never be able to forget the way in which Junior would try to make my job as a CNA as easy as possible, even on his weakest days. When I had to shower him or change his brief in the bed, he would forcefully grab his own wrist and place it on the opposite rail. With all of his might, we would yank himself towards it in hopes of turning himself for me. I watched his strength decrease day-by-day. I watched a man that I cared for so very dearly withering away right before my very own eyes.

And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

At this point in my life, only a few months ago, I had never even come close to witnessing someone I care for struggle with health issues, let alone start to parish as I grew even closer to them.

This was my first case of true loss. And it was only a man that I had known for a matter of three months.

I one day looked up Junior online because he told me he had been a farmer and detailed cars in my hometown for decades. I came across an entire article dedicated to him. I learned that from the age of 14 on he would ride 10 miles to and from work every single day on the putridly skinny horse his family owned. He would give whatever he made to his father and save only enough to buy him a coke a day.

As he got older, he secured a job at a car-detailing shop and as he told me many times, he could “turn any old car into something brand new.” I believe it, wholeheartedly.

The last part of the article encompassed his later years of life and how he built his own farm from the ground up and his greatest, most prized possession was his homegrown tomatoes. If only I had been able to try just one.

After reading this article, I returned to work and asked him all about what I had read. He confirmed this life of many adventures and hard-work, all while possessing a soft smile on his bony, pronounced face. One night as I tucked him under his big soft blanket to let him go to sleep for the night, he told me “I love you, sweetheart.” My heart instantly grew three times its normal size and heavy tears ran down my warm cheeks. We bonded over a time in his life that he could still remember, almost all that he could remember at this point. These conversations will be in my heart for an eternity.

There was not a day that passed by that I worked, regardless of my hall assignment, that I would not feed Junior at least one of his meals or ensure that he

had lotion on his body and Chapstick on his lips that he mumbled would hurt him when he spoke.

At this point, Junior was unable to get up anymore or even help me turn him on the shower bed. He simply laid in his room talking to himself day and night.

I would hear full blown laughter and enter his room to see only himself answer in response. My heart ached for him.

I had to stop seeing Junior as much as I did when school started for me here at USI. I missed him dearly and would ask my mother, who also works at the nursing home, how he was doing. Every day, his prognosis worsened. Eventually, she informed me that he had been put on comfort measures for end-of-life circumstances.

I cried in my dorm room for at least an hour straight. His birthday was only 6 days away. September 13th. I thought, surely he can make it until then. Junior passed away, peacefully, in his sleep at approximately 10 pm on September 12th. He never made it 97.

96 years of Junior and I guarantee he brought joy to any and every single person he met for every day, minute, and second of those many decades. I know I am not the only one that misses him dearly. Junior was the type of man that I know, with upmost certainty, will be remembered for as long as there are people on this Earth to keep his name alive. I can promise that I will tell as many people as I can about the man that has touched my soul.

I could not sit here and write this essay on something more scholarly or “professional” when I could, instead, tell the story of one man that has changed my life for the better. Who in a matter of a few months was able to show me the meaning of life. It’s not about writing essays and conducting scientific studies to graduate with a fancy cord. It’s not about obtaining a sophisticated degree to work a high level job making loads of money to purchase a gaudy house and car. It’s about doing the things you love without doubt and fear of who you are letting down. It’s about loving and caring without holding back. Our lives are short, and as we age, they only get shorter. We cannot consume ourselves with stress and anger and self-loathing.

We can only do our best and, no matter what, find something that is ours. Solely ours. It does not have to be fair-winning tomatoes or riding a horse 10 miles a day to and from work, but anything. Something that, at the end of the day, is still there.

Even when there is nobody or anything else. Even when you’ve only got the clothes on your back and not a razor to shave with.

Junior, whether or not you are out there, somewhere, in this insanely complex universe that we live in, thank you for caring about me even you did not know who I was. Thank you for telling me each and every single one of your incredible stories.

Thank you for making coming to work something I looked forward to every single day when you were still here.

Remember, I love you, too.

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

EDITORS’ NOTES

Mia Bruno is a senior nursing student at USI.

Maria Farrar* is a 2023 graduate of the University of Southern Indiana where she received her degree in English with a concentration in professional writing and rhetoric and minors in creative writing and social media. In her free time, you can catch her hanging out with her pug puppy, Dolly.

May F. is a statistics major on the pre-med path, to hopefully become a pathologist or medical researcher someday. Sydni enjoys reading fiction and studying different cultures and languages as differences mean uniqueness and that makes the world special.

Courtney Gardner is a senior photography major who creates work that keeps you curious and on your toes. She enjoys working with her best friends in the Art Center’s Print Lab. She wants to spread knowledge, awareness, and show how powerful art in photography can be. Stay curious, readers.

Amanda Meuth is a senior pursuing an art degree with a focus of photography and graphic design. She enjoys creating artwork that deals with complex and personal subjects in hopes to spread a message to those who need help that they are not alone.

Ruby Robling is a sophomore English student at USI. Tegan Ruhl is a junior double major in journalism and English with a concentration in creative writing. She formerly worked as the assistant lifestyle editor for The Shield. She aspires to become a screenwriter after college, creating innovative stories that inspire others to follow their creative passions.

Christian Schmitz is a senior art student, pursuing a degree in graphic design.

He believes that everything created is a product of his past and present relationships with family and friends. He often makes art to try and identify the walls of vulnerability and awkward interaction placed between himself and others, in hopes of breaking them down.

Denise McKenzie is a sophomore at USI pursuing an English major with a creative writing emphasis and a publishing minor. When she’s not scribbling stories in a notebook, you can find her playing Stardew Valley or gushing about her two black cats.

Kyla Schlink* is a 2023 graduate of the University of Southern Indiana, having received her bachelor of science in English with a professional writing and rhetoric concentration and a minor in anthropology and gender studies. While she loves writing, she loves her dogs, cat, and ferrets even more.

Brenna Swaney is a 2023 graduate of the University of Southern Indiana where she completed her degree in English. She enjoys writing fiction and creative nonfiction projects and currently works as a children’s librarian.

Kaitlen Elaine Wood* is a senior at the University of Southern Indiana pursuing a BA in global studies and a BS in English professional writing and rhetoric.

While she’s on campus, she enjoys being involved with Sigma Tau Delta, USI’s Honors Program, and tutoring English and French in both the Writer’s Room and the Miller Language Lab! * denotes an editor who is also a contributor

Al Sheets is a non-binary illustration and graphic design major in their final year at the University of Southern Indiana. Their goal as an artist is to deliver commentary on the mundane and quotidian by drawing out the whimsy that hides in unsuspecting moments.

Pandora Wells is a creative writing major with a lifelong passion for writing, especially poetry, song lyrics, and short fiction. She hopes to share her words with the world, and plans to get a career in the publishing industry so that she can help others share their stories as well.

William Williams is a senior psychology student at USI.

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