Synecdoche Literary Jounal
22nd Anniversary Edition
By Vanguard University
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Acknowledgement
Our deepest thanks to Professor Doody, and all the other incredible professors of the English Department for their continous and marvelous support. Thank you all for your aiding our development in and out of the clasroom, for expecting excellence, and for believing in all of your students.
Thank you to the Editors-in-Chief for their leadership and resilience. Thank you to all the editors for their efforts in the selection process.
Thank you to our incredible parents, guardians, and mentors for shaping us into the people we are today. We wouldn’t be here without you all.
Thank you to the previous Production Manager, Rebekah Pinedo, for your guidance through the inputting process. Thank you to previous Synecdoche teams for the inspiration.
Finally, thank you to God and His glorious love. All glory and praise, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Letter From the Editors
As the editors-in-chief of this edition of Synecdoche, we began by expressing our desire to make it our own while still maintaining the integrity of past journals. How could we ensure we had a unique journal while still honoring those who have come before and the work they poured into past editions? The core requirements of this journal were and remain indisputable, so we began the search for something fresh that would still align with the values, standards, and goals of the journal as a whole.
The journal itself being titled “Synecdoche,” defines what it aims to achieve. In literature, a synecdoche is a figure of speech in which a part of something is used to express a whole. For the journal, this means that every work, poem, and piece of art represents Vanguard University as a whole. It is imperative to draw from all corners of the University to create a representation that is accurate to the values, cultures, and experiences that are present as part of the student body. Because of this, Synecdoche is open to all students. All majors, all class standings, and all ideas are considered and carefully selected to try and best represent who we are. Furthering our individual embracement of the meaning behind Synecdoche, our team has fashioned a new section named “Echoes from the Margins.” This section is dedicated to amplifying the narratives and voices of those who are often unheard, but it does not aim to depict their stories from a place of pity or untrue representation. It aims to celebrate and embrace the beauty and difference of lives often perceived as being lived on the periphery. The voices of Echoes from the Margins are not solely symbols of suffering, but also embodiments of resilience and identity. Through the lens of Synecdoche, we understand that
these voices speak to something much larger—an interconnected web of experiences for our community.
We view each student as an individual part of a larger shared experience, in the same way that a tapestry combines individual pieces of fabric into a larger intricate picture. For this reason, we have included the subtitle “A Tapestry of Voices” to represent the large picture that Synecdoche paints of our University as one. Every person sees the glory of God in a different outlet, and everyone has the chance to express that glory through the tapestry of Synecdoche.
Synecdoche
A Tapestry of Voices
By Vanguard University
Dogs on the Table
Jake Gutierrez
The Society of Humanity
Walker Smith
“Reed.”
“Reed.”
The Professor cleared his throat. “Reed, are you with us?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, sir. Yes.”
“Well?” The Professor lowered his glasses, giving me an eye of disappointment. He was old. I mean old. Must’ve been eighty years old. He wore this post-WWII type of academic uniform. The tweed suit and wonderfully shined shoes. Based on his appearance, in another life, he would teach art or a history course. Unfortunately, intro to accounting is his portion; God has a sense of humor.
“The answer is eleven, sir.”
“Does everyone see how he got there?” the professor droned on.
“With sales tax, in California, you multiply the subtotal by 7.75 percent. Then, you will have your answer. Does everyone understand?”
Three or four students silently nodded. The classroom was stuffier than I imagined college would be. The fluorescent lights and plain-colored carpet weren’t any help either. Fall came earlier this year. Cold weather combined with disappointment was a great start to higher education.
“Hey,” whispered a kid next to me. He seemed around my age. His eyes were deep in his head and owl-like. My dad used to love this author—Kafka was his name—when literature, or any art for that matter, was still taught in school.
Dad said the U.S. government came up with a great plan to increase jobs. Only science and math and the like were taught now. You could study linear algebra or chaos mathematics or if you’re unlucky like me, accounting. Well, before all of that, my dad read Kafka and told me about him. He was always sad. Dad showed me a picture of him once on the dust jacket of the book, and it looked just like the kid staring right at me.
“Hey!” he whispered again.
There was a big window on the far side of the room. The whole wall was practically a window. Outside, the leaves were chang-
ing. Autumn came soon this year. A small breeze shook a leaf or two from the bough of a tree in the courtyard that the window opened up to.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Hey,” I responded.
“You an accounting major too? First year?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Me too—accounting major, first year.” “Cool.”
“Passion for accounting?”
The professor was reviewing the list of states with income tax, or the lack thereof. I choked, trying to keep in a laugh.
“Not particularly,” I answered.
“Who does?” he joked.
He pointed to my blank notebook. It was blank except for the word “KAFKA” written in the margin. I do that sometimes…write what I’m thinking about.
“Do you read? I mean literature. Do you read literature?”
“Not much of a point in that, right? No money in it…can’t study it…no point doing it.”
“Is there something interesting I should know about?” the professor glared at the two of us talking.
“No. Sorry, sir. Just got a bit lost, he was helping me,” the kid answered.
The professor continued his lecture.
“There is something interesting you should know about,” the kid whispered to me. I met his eyes; there was something burning behind them—an idea or a belief. Whatever it was, it was the something he wanted to talk to me about. It was the reason he began speaking to me in the first place.
“It’s a society,” he whispered, quieter than he had been whispering before. “A secret society.”
“A society for what?”
I asked. If this class was even remotely interesting, I would’ve ignored the kid. Though, it did seem like the well-dressed professor was trying to say something he couldn’t say, or maybe something he didn’t have the courage to say.
“I can’t tell you any more,” he paused, thinking to himself. I thought he really could be Kafka’s son or brother or something.
“But, if you’re curious, and you are one who thinks there is more than meets the eye…” he looked around again, seemingly to make sure nobody was listening, “come to the old arts building. It’s pretty much abandoned, but there is an open door on the west entrance. Seven p.m.”
He nodded at me and then turned back to his notes. I don’t think I so much as saw him glance over at me for the rest of class. He just scribbled away at his notes, writing down the formulas for calculating gross vs net income. I wondered if it was a joke. Doesn’t everyone pretty much admit that there is more than meets the eye? My dad would tell me that all the time.
The fluorescent lights flickered on and off. The professor continued his lecture. The autumnal chill was creating a fog on the window. I always loved windows. They weren’t inside or outside. Windows weren’t doorways either; they didn’t mean to be a liminal space, but they were. I always imagined a window as a little frame, offering an idea of what was outside. Because, really, the outdoors (or indoors for that matter) never really look how they do through a window. There is no framing for a coastline or field of grass other than the limit of your two eyes. A window is like a friend offering their view on things…a way to get out of your own two eyes and see the world differently
As the summer turned to autumn outside the window, so did the day turn to evening. Inside a decaying room in a decrepit building, a meeting had begun.
“You mean to say, boy, the society had to be mentioned?” said the large man at the head of the table. He had a wrinkled face that very well could’ve been the face of evil had the room been properly lit.
“He had an air of literary intrigue, I swear it!” said a boy leaning against the wall. “I whispered to him, asking about a note I missed. But as I leaned over he was writing a name…Kafka it was. Is that not one of the Greats?”
“He has a point,” whispered another man at the table, hidden in the shadows.
“And, what is that point?” said the large man.
“That literature was, at least, on his mind. Who is interested in literature at all anymore? After the government removed the arts from universities—”
“We all know what happened, boy!” said another voice at the table. “Blah, blah, blah. All arts removed from education. Really, a wonderful plan they had. Outlawing books or movies or booze tends to make the masses want it more. But remove all interest in the subject… that’s rather ingenious. Something literary about it…”
“See!” cried the boy. “This kid was interested in Kafka, an author! That shows some promise.”
The man at the head of the table gave a great sigh. “So, boy, what is your plan? Invite him here and tell him our plan? Give him a copy of our holy text? That seems painfully logical.” Another figure at
the table cleared his throat, “What if we did exactly that? That is the most illogical thing a society could do! Tell our whole plan to the boy. Genius! Wouldn’t Father Chesterton applaud our plan wholeheartedly? How paradoxical, giving ourselves up to an outsider. But this may very well turn him into one of us.”
The whole room thundered with applause.
“Stay on that wall, boy. We must save a seat at the table for the new recruit.” …
I tried to peek through the soot-coated windows of the arts building. The windows were so encased in grime they were opaque.
I pulled the door of the west entrance. It opened with shocking ease. Inside, the building was practically decomposing. Roof tiles were missing here and there. The floor was covered with dirt and whatever else was left from its abandonment. I always supposed the dismissal of arts from education was a slow process—like taking apart a car. From the books and pencils and chairs thrown about, it looked more like a hostile takeover.
I walked down the first hall, hoping to hear any noise at all. Suddenly, I saw a distant light. A lone fluorescent light shone.
Pieces of glass shattered under my feet and something scurried in a distant part of the building. Finally, I came to the solitary fluorescent light. There was something written above the door it illuminated.
It read: “Thus were the six men who had sworn to destroy the world. —GKC” Although, the “six” was partially scratched out and a “twelve” took its place.
There was shouting behind the door. I slowly pushed it open.
“Hush! Everyone! Someone is here. Hush! I mean it! Gabriel, I’m looking at you!” said a voice.
In the room, around a big table I can only assume was once a conference table, sat eleven men. Six looked to be professors, dressed in tweed with tobacco pipes in hand. The other five looked about his age, probably students. One chair at the table was empty. “Who are you?” asked the large man at the head of the table.
“Well, uh, I am…”
“Oh, goodness me! You are…agh…I’m terrible with names so early in the semester. Reed! Isn’t it? He asked.
“Professor Johnson?” I tried to see the face that was hidden in the shadows. “You were teaching my accounting class today!” I laughed.
“Hello again, Reed! Though, around here you can call me Syme,” he responded. A younger kid was leaning against the wall. “I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he scoffed.
“I thought to look past what meets the eye,” I joked.
“Well, perfect timing, my boy!” said Syme. “We were only just getting started. This is a rather new little society we have here. Did everyone bring their materials?”
Suddenly, every individual in the room revealed a small book from their pocket and set it on the table. The title read, The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare.
“Don’t worry, Reed. We will obtain a copy for you. Have you ever seen a book?” he laughed.
“Yes,” I responded, “My dad read every so often. I’ve never met anyone else who did. There isn’t any money in it, you know.”
The whole room erupted in laughter.
“Isn’t much money in it? roared Syme. “Does it look as if it’s money we’re after? We sit around here to talk about something that will turn the entire world on its head. Father Chesterton calls it ‘cheating the prophet’, and that is what we intend to do.”
The room filled with cheers and applause.
“Take a seat, young man.”
“Sir! Doesn’t he need some sort of qualification to sit at the table? I stand in reverence of the society,” said the Kafka-esque kid.
“Don’t worry, boy. Your time will come,” responded Syme.
“But!”
“Please!” roared Syme.
The kid returned to the wall and slumped against it, letting out a groan.
“What is this society for?” I asked, hesitantly.
“For exactly that!” laughed Syme. There were cheers. “For questions and ideas. We’ve found out formulas and equations are just getting at the back of things, we try to get around to the face of it all. And, Father Chesterton’s greatest work is our holy text,” he said, holding the small book.
Everyone picked up their book and fingered through it, looking for something. The man sitting next to me treated his copy with delicacy and reverence I’d only seen in Church. “Shall we?”
The room read in unison: “The ordinary detective goes to pot houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea parties to arrest pessimists.”
I looked around in confusion.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t understand,” I said.
“IDEAS!” he roared. “Ideas, young Reed. Ideas are dangerous, they would rather us go through our equations, teach our math, and happily create absolutely nothing!” Syme pulled a piece of yarn from
his pocket. He twirled it in his fingers. “See the cat? See the cradle?” “Father Vonnegut!” a voice cried.
“Yes, my boy!” replied Syme. He turned back to me. “Reed, these aren’t books and stories, they’re ideas and ways in which to look at things. Hidden within these pages are the detective tools to judge crimes against humanity. And I don’t mean war crimes, no, I mean something far more sinister. I mean crimes against your humanity. Nobody must know we’re here. We stand at the edge of a new vision of humanity, and we mustn’t lose the little bit we have of ourselves.”
“Ideas don’t mean anything when you come to science and technology,” I replied. “You can fight a silly word, you can’t fight an atom bomb.
The room grew silent.
“Would you like to hear our plan?” laughed Syme.
“Simple, really,” came a voice from across the table. It was a man, maybe twenty years old. He had a glazed look in his eyes. His hair was long and knotted. “We show them what it is to be human again.”
I turned to a man near me. He made a “boom” sound and spread his hands apart, like an explosion.
“You mean to say you’re planning a bombing?” I yelled.
“Oh, no,” laughed Syme. “Bombs are completely logical. We have something lovely planned…” he trailed off, looking around. “It’s murder, young boy. And the victims are our souls!”
If it weren’t for the menacing room, I’d have laughed at the loons that filled the table. Their dramatic and verbose expressions were even becoming slightly annoying. Still, something about the room gave me a chill.
“Then, what is your plan?” I asked.
“We’re going to fill this university with traps. Some would call them puzzles. Really, we’re going to steal every beaker and flask and chalkboard on this campus! We’ll see what they can study then. If they can solve our puzzle, they can have it all back! I sure hope one student has read a detective novel.”
The entire room roared with laughter.
“You’re anarchists!” I cried.
“Worse!” replied everyone in the room, in one voice, “We’re poets!”
World Between Worlds
Jonathan Pirolo
World between worlds is where I reside, The place of dreams and nightmares alike. The sunlight lands of hopes and dreams, Of terrors and horrors that none can perceive. I am of fire and ice, I am of the cool wind and deathly desert gleam. I am of the passion and forest of death. And I am of the refreshing gentle streams of life.
Untitled Chloe McLeroy
Childhood Attachment Styles Effects on Adult Relationships
Anne Bernstein
Childhood Attachment Styles Effects on Adult Relationships
From the time a child is born, they enter the world of human connection. Relationships are the backbone of day-to-day functioning. Healthier relationships include consistent social interaction, resulting in improved cognitive functioning later in life (Sharifian et al., 2019). Naturally, the first social interaction a child is exposed to is that of their mother, father, or alternate caregiver. These first familial bonds are what the psychology field refers to as attachment, or the “unique relationship of [the] relationship between an infant and his caregiver that is the foundation for further healthy development” (Bowlby as cited by Flaherty & Sadler, 2011). These first bonds in early childhood are essential for functioning later in life. Researchers have found that early childhood experiences may be predictors of depression, anxiety, and other difficulties in relationships. According to the American Psychological Association, marital or intimate relationships are important in life to meet every person’s needs for companionship, support, and emotional and physical intimacy. These parents provide protection against mental disorders and physical disabilities and support healthy childhood relationships. Healthy marriages have a direct effect on both the couple’s emotional health and that of their children. Individuals who have satisfying marriages have, in fact, proven to live longer lives (Jia & Lubetkin, 2020). Therefore, it is imperative to maintain happy and healthy marriages. According to Bowlby (1969, as cited in Staton, 2017), early childhood attachment styles affect the self-image a child holds of themselves, and they will bring this image into the future.
The most substantial side effect of understanding the theory of attachment from early childhood experiences is its effect on adult relationships, specifically within marriage. In Mohd Hasim’s article (2021), he researched attachment within Malaysian culture and its meaning for the rest of society, showing an association between dissatisfying marital relationships and differences in attachment styles. Individuals who come into the marriage with secure attachment are more likely to have healthy marriages, ones rooted in solid communication and trust. Conversely, people entering marriage with insecure attachment, whether that be insecure-dismissing or insecure-preoccupied, often experience marital dissatisfaction (Crowell et al., 2002). The difference within attachment leads those with insecure attachment styles to bring
those thoughts, feelings, and responses of the past into their present relationships. Those with secure attachment view their marriage and other interpersonal relationships positively; therefore, the overall marital enjoyment is positive (Mohd Hasim et al., 2021).
Individuals who share a secure attachment have healthier relationships than those with insecure-dismissive and insecure-preoccupied attachment styles, who show less marital satisfaction (Crowell et al., 2002). In this paper, the reader will be able to understand the relationship between childhood attachment styles and marital relationships, which significantly influence marital functioning and can thereby promote healthier, longer lives.
The History of Attachment Theory
The idea of childhood attachment’s correlation to marital happiness and success can only be understood with an understanding of the history of attachment. The Theory of Attachment is rooted in the book series and research done by John Bowlby. In the late 1960s, Bowlby did research on the interpersonal relationships of tribes and communities in Africa. Bowlby (1969) stated that the theory of attachment is the reasoning and comprehension of a child’s response to the absence of his mother or primary caregiver. Bowlby came together with Mary Ainsworth in the development of the modern understanding of attachment, rooting their individual research in William Blatz’s theory of security (van Rosmalen et al., 2016). Bowlby performed his research specifically related to mother-child separation, where Blatz observed a nursery environment and obtained information to develop his theory of security.
Ainsworth designed a test in which she was able to categorize children’s attachment styles (Bretherton, 1992). Her experiment included placing mothers and infants in a playroom laboratory for twenty minutes. This twenty-minute test, now commonly known as “The Strange Situation” experiment, includes allowing the child to play freely with the mother and a stranger present, then the mother would leave, and finally, the stranger would exit as well. Eventually, both the mother and the unfamiliar face would return. Ainsworth carefully studied the reaction of each baby when the mother left and when she returned. This experiment allowed her to notice a pattern amongst infants and would later group children into four general attachment styles. Babies who showed a secure attachment exhibited confidence while playing in the laboratory with the mother present, mild distress when she existed, and then joy and desire for connection when the mother returned (American Psychology Association, n.d.). Conversely, Ainsworth also noticed that babies exhibited two different styles of insecure attachment: avoidant
attachment and anxious attachment. Avoidant attachment looked like not only a negative relationship with the mother while she was still present, but when she left, the baby showed little distress and, upon return, was seemingly uninterested. On the other side of insecure attachment, infants who showed anxious attachment showed a mixture of positive and negative reactions. According to Bretherton (1992), they would often be angry when their mother returned, sometimes to the point of kicking or hitting. Ainsworth then analyzed data from each child’s home setting and found that babies who exemplified an insecure attachment style had worse relationships with their parents. Babies who exhibited avoidant attachment were often associated with parents who did not pay attention to their child’s communication in the past and, therefore, were used to being ignored (Duschinsky, 2015). Infants who were classified under anxious attachment showed patterns of emotional outbursts of anger as their only way of getting attention. Finally, babies who fell into the first category of secure attachment found their secure basis in their caregiver and felt comfortable exploring their surroundings.
In the 1980s, a fourth attachment style was defined: disorganized attachment. This style of attachment is apparent through its instability of reaction: fear of the caregiver when present, anger when the parent returns, or a mixture of jerky and still physical movements. Babies develop insecure attachment when their caretaker is a source of fear, so instead of being able to trust their parents, they cause further fear (Madigan, S., 2006). Often, in stressful situations, parents will exemplify attitudes of distress, which causes the child to be even more distressed. From Bowlby to Ainsworth’s research, attachment theory has developed into the trust relationship seen between a parent and child.
Lastly, after the original theory of childhood attachment, proposed by Ainsworth, Bartholomew (as cited by Mohd Haism et al.,1990/2021) developed his names for attachment, which are synonymous with the earlier definitions of attachment. Bartholomew coined the term “secure,” which corresponds to Ainsworth’s childhood secure attachment, “preoccupied,” equaling anxious attachment, and “dismissive,” correlating to avoidant. Further, he added a fourth category of attachment, which he claimed to be fearful attachment, which has been related to Ainsworth’s disorganized attachment.
Secure Attachment in Marriage
Children who are categorized as having a secure attachment, as defined by Bowlby and Ainsworth, provide children with a basis
of security in their own self-image, and this provides security within relationships (Simpson, 1990). Developing from a secure child to a teen and, finally, an adult gives them a likable, friendly, and positive self-image. Simpson (1990) found that “securely attached people indicate that they find it relatively easy to get close to others, are comfortable depending on others and having others depend on them, and don’t worry about being abandoned or intimacy.” Children with this secure basis have a healthy foundation for relationships. In their future relationships, they are comfortable getting close to their partner, easily trusting their partner to support and stand by them no matter how difficult the situation may be.
Healthy, secure attachment is vital in relationships, as it promotes healthy communication, leading to marital satisfaction and longevity. Those whose parents promoted security enabled their children to feel comfortable communicating their feelings to their partners (Mohd Hasim et al., 2021). It is inevitable that there will be disagreements within a relationship; therefore, it is important for each partner to feel confident speaking about how she or he is feeling in a situation. Their healthy outlook enables them to trust that no matter what problem is presented, their spouse will not abandon them. Secure attachment “has been generally found to correlate positively with relational satisfaction and vice-versa” (Moh Hasim, 2020, p.3). Marital satisfaction is important, for it promotes healthy mate-retention strategies and protects against marital infidelity (Nascimento, 2022). Longevity of relationships works symbiotically: the happier individuals are in the relationship, the longer it will last, providing them with more fruitful, long lives.
Insecure Attachment in Marriage
Naturally, if securely attached individuals promote longevity and happier relationships, insecure attachment styles are correlated with high marital problems and dissatisfaction. According to Simpson (1990, p. 971), those who are anxiously attached believe themselves to be misunderstood, hesitant, and unsure if their significant other appreciates them for who they are. Conversely, individuals with avoidant styles are generally “suspicious, aloof, and skeptical” while perceiving their significant other as “basically unreliable or overly eager to commit” (Simson, 1990, p. 971). These poor working models and poor self-images of who a person is in a relationship propagate marital dissatisfaction (Mohd Haism et al., 2021). Ultimately, this research suggests/ demonstrates that insecurity in oneself breeds insecurity in marriage. Avoidant Attachment in Marital Relationships
People with avoidant attachment have proven to have trouble
with intimacy, trusting their significant other, and emotionally opening up (Simpson, 1990, p.972). Researchers within the field of attachment noticed a pattern: the basis of security children obtained from their caregiver later affects how they view future partners and relationships. Babies who had caretakers who did not fulfill their need for closeness, consequently, expect this same kind of treatment from their partner (Hatch, 2008). Children whom Ainsworth would have qualified as avoidant proved to be dismissive adults. According to Mohd Haism (et al. 2021), adults with a dismissive attachment style uphold a positive view of themselves but a negative view of others. They believe relationships, specifically intimate ones, are unessential. People with avoidant attachment go so far as to believe human nature is wrong, therefore never allowing others to get close to them (Mikulincer et al., 2010).
A negative view of others is detrimental to a couple and their communication, for even those who are dismissive of their attachment desire intimate relationships (Erikson, 1993). They may desire closeness but shield against hurt by drawing away. Often, this can look like guarding their “true selves” from their partner, never wanting to go past surface-level communication and contact (Mikulincer et al., 2010). Avoidance is characterized by not only putting up walls of protection but also further distancing post-conflict. Furthermore, in conflict resolution, people with avoidant attachment often close off their own emotions, truly believing that their partner will not want to engage in proper resolution tactics. They will redirect their attention from the problem, often focusing on lighter topics, in order to avoid rejection (Simpson et al., 1996). However, this reaction often causes distance between them and their partner, often resulting in more negative interactions. Avoidant-dismissive attachment results in individuals refusing closeness – drawing away from their partners, particularly when conflict arises.
Anxious Attachment in Relationships and its Effects on Communication
Individuals with anxious attachment, also known as preoccupied, have a positive view of others but a negative view of themselves (Mohd Haism et al., 2021). Kids who were raised in an anxiety-inducing environment bring that anxiety into relationships. This negative view of themselves often results in insecurity that manifests through constantly seeking validation from others. Anxious people search for excessive intimacy with their partner. Everything they do is centered around their partner’s time, emotional state, and desires. They may resort to constantly checking their significant other’s location or worrying why their partner has not texted back. Preoccupied individuals see
themselves as misunderstood and unappreciated, always believing their partner is “going to find someone better” and break their trust (Simpson et al., 1990).
Anxious attachment often results in extreme emotional highs and lows, which is dangerous in conflict resolution (Simpson et al., 1996). Highly anxious individuals tend to act drastically in contrasting situations; they may threaten their partner or demand answers from their partner. People who have insecure attachments will remember past pains and hurts and bring those feelings into the problem. In Simpson’s (1996) study, he found that those with preoccupied attachment have worse resolution skills, such as talking at their partner instead of picking a less effective way to resolve the conflict and often continuing to bear stress within the relationship after the disagreement. In fact, post-conversation, individuals with anxious attachment reported feeling less loved, less respected, and a greater hostility towards their partner. Anxious attachment does not only affect relationships but specifically weakens conflict management skills, resulting in further chaos within the relationship.
Fearful Attachment in Relationships
Finally, as Bartholomew (as cited by Mohd Haism et al.,1990/2021) remarked, the fourth kind of attachment is a fearful attachment. People under this category typically have a negative view of others as well as a negative view of themselves (Mohd Hasim et al., 2021). Fearful attachment, understood as disorganized by Ainsworth, shows itself as a mixture of both avoidant/dismissive attachment mixed with anxious/preoccupied (Dan et al., 2020). Only about 3% of the study they performed tested as fearful, showing symptoms of both a “stand-offish” approach and high stress and social anxiety (Borstein, as cited by Dan, 2020). Fearful attachment often looks like emotional delay and lack of response to the situation being presented. In relationships, they will search for difficult relationships in hopes of getting someone to help them (Mohd Hasim et al., 2021). At the same time, those who have fearful attachments are always aware that their partner may leave or reject them. Their attachment to their partner is a mixture of desiring closeness but also fearing affinity with the same person. In communication, their reactions can be similarly unexpected, which causes instability and discomfort in relationships.
Conclusion
Relationships are the multi-vitamin for the soul: providing support, companionship, and love, which supports a healthier and happier life. Through the work of Ainsworth, Bowlby, and modern research, one of the many approaches to better understanding this mental
medicine is the Theory of Attachment. The first relationship children experience is the bond between child and parent. Studying the response of a child to a parent and their coming and going explains a child’s attachment to his or her caregiver and, from that, provides the means for a secure sense of oneself. Furthermore, parents provide children with the means of trust and understanding, and this model of themselves plays into their future relationships. Securely attached children are likely to have secure romantic relationships rooted in trust, open communication, and unanimous support. Those with avoidant attachment in childhood dismissively pass their fears of being hurt onto their partners, often reframing from emotional depth and open communication in conflict. Anxiously attached kids make preoccupied adults who, in marriage, express great anxiety, neediness, and desperation for attention. Finally, those with fearful attachments express a wide variety of both avoidant and anxious attachments, expressing a lack of emotional response mixed with a high level of stress. Understanding attachment can provide marriages with better knowledge of how to support their partners based on their partner’s attachment style, hopefully providing improved marital satisfaction, leading to longer, more prosperous lives.
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Bottle of Black Lamb
Amanda Fagan
Bottle of Black Lamb
Gun in your hand
Wish I could persuade you
I know that I can’t
You’re stuck in the past
Looking at photographs
You could live for yourself
If you gave it a chance
But I know that you need
Somebody to believe in
And you thought that was me
You’re the one who deceived yourself
I missed all of your cries for help
I was standing outside
When the shot rang out
And the Saint Bernard cried
As snow fell to the ground
And I can’t tell you why
But I know deep down
In another timeline
You didn’t drown
At the bottom of a bottle
Scotch Whiskey, Black Lamb And I wasn’t just a model
Imitating a man
Stained
Nadia Sosa
When I was seven, I broke a mirror. It was square, and framed in stained glass. On my dresser, it leaned against the wall. The dresser was tall and made of dark cedar. Nothing could move it without great force, but somehow, the mirror fell. It toppled over just a few feet away from my bed, where I lay, watching.
All I could do was watch as the stained glass broke apart from its frame, and my reflection split into what seemed like a thousand shards. I saw myself in pieces, my hand, my leg, my left eye, the bridge of my nose, as I walked toward the tragedy. The stained glass had spread all over the floor, catching glimpses of sunlight, and painting the room in colors. A pile of bigger pieces from the mirror reflected my face, distorted, my eyes out of place, my smile crooked.
It was the first time I ever felt beautiful.
I can’t remember the fall or the crash it created. I only remember my reflection and the warm colors that danced on my ceiling, the floor, and my skin from the broken stained glass. Every night after that, I closed my eyes and saw the colors dancing as they lit up my distorted reflection. That was me, not the girl looking back at me now. In the bathroom of my therapist’s office, my reflection was clear, everything that was wrong was clear.
I started attending therapy sessions bi-weekly as a formality. My overseer thought it was necessary after Timothy. I was never formally assigned Timothy’s case, as his social worker, but I reported to his home on the night of a crisis. My phone rang as I cleaned up the dinner table and I was asked to intervene in a crisis involving a child under ten in my area. I was given no other details, but I immediately got in my car and drove to the location. When I arrived, there was a cop car outside of the home. The house was small and the lawn was overgrown with weeds. As Iwalked up the steps to the front door, I felt my foot crunch a red and white can. The same cans littered the porch. I reached out to knock, but just before I could the door swung open. A female cop looked relieved as she locked eyes with me.
“Are you the social worker?”
“Yes, where is the child?” I asked with concern as I looked behind me at the littered yard. “He’s just inside. Why don’t you get him out of here, he doesn’t need to see any of this. Take him to the station.” She turned and walked further into the house without saying anything. I followed. I looked into the living room from the doorway and saw a boy sitting on a large, brown couch that seemed to swallow him.
“Hi, I’m Mrs. M., you must be…,” I looked down at my phone to find his name in the file that was sent to me, “...Timothy.”
“Timmy,” he whispered, his hands clasped in front of his chest. He was wearing white gloves.
“Timmy, I’m here to ask you some questions, but I can’t ask them here. Can you come with me?” I asked.
He backed away slowly. His eyes were a light brown, perfectly matching the curls that lay messily on his head. I noticed how flushed his cheeks were and how often he sniffled as I walked through the door. The house was dimly lit with white fluorescent lights. There were no toys to be seen in the small living room.
Finally, he stood up from the couch and latched onto the hand I had extended. As I led him toward the front door, Timmy stopped, pulling me back.
“What is it?” I asked. He pointed toward the dark hallway. I made my way toward the hallway and saw a tall officer standing in the doorway of the room at the end of the hallway.
“Are you the social worker?” he asked while still looking into the room. “Get the kid out of here. Take him to the station.” I walked back through the dark hallway and into the small living room.
“Timmy, why don’t you come outside with me?” I said, extending my hand. Timothy’s left hand, in his white glove, reached out and grasped mine. He sat in my backseat as I drove down the icy roads. With the children whose cases I’ve been assigned to, it was always easy for me to ease into a conversation in which I could begin to gather rapport on their situation. Timmy was different. There was something about the way that the blues and reds from the police car had danced on the lawn and reflected off of the red and white cans that was seared into my memory. I could remember the broken mirror from all those years ago, reflecting the same colors onto my small hands. I saw them now, again on my hands, gripping the steering wheel, and on Timmy’s face in the rearview mirror. He stared out the window, silently. As I watched him in the rearview, the red danced on Timmy’s white glove. It seemed to grow and grow. I turned around and realized it wasn’t just my imagination.
“What happened to your hand, Timmy?” I asked. His open hand closed into a fist and the red began to drip from the white glove. I pulled the car over, got out, and walked to his door. He got out of the car and sat in the snow. I watched the red trickle down into the snow from his glove.
“Mommy broke a glass,” he whispered as his tears fell into the snow, mixing with the red that had fallen from his glove. He peeled his
glove off and revealed the thick piece of blue glass that sat in his small palm. I felt a knot form in my throat and my face was suddenly warmed by tears. I sat in the snow with Timmy and watched the blue glass catch the light from my headlights, painting the night a deep, dark blue.
After that night with Timmy, everything was tinted blue. When I met with my other kids, all I could think about was Timmy, and the red, and the blue. So I started seeing Dr. Tonali. Not because I thought I needed to, but because I could tell everyone else did.
Dr. Tonali hardly ever asked about Timmy. He’d just flip through the pages of my file and ask me about the mirror I broke when I was seven. I could never answer in the way he wanted, about the crash or what happened before it. I could only tell him about the colors, about my reflection. Not the reflection I saw now, in the bathroom of his office. I splashed some water on my face and walked into his office, where he was waiting.
“Is everything okay? This is the second time you’ve excused yourself to the bathroom,” he said, concerned.
“Yeah, I’m just tired today. Had another bad dream.” I said letting myself sink into the brown leather chair in front of him.
“Well, dreams can tell us a lot about how we might be feeling.”
“It’s the same dream as always. I wake up wondering who I am, but I can’t remember any part of the dream. I don’t like not knowing.”
“Well, who do you want to be?” he asked.
“I want to be someone beautiful.” I said. I could feel the knot growing.
“But, isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder? Wouldn’t you agree?” Dr. Tonali looked at me through the gap between his eyes and his glasses.
His head was tipped down and the lens of his glasses reflected a holographic light on his right cheek. The colors danced on his pale skin, the pinks, blues, and purples moving as he nodded.
I didn’t know what to say. I thought I had an answer when he asked the question, but then the colors danced, and everywhere I looked, there they were, dancing. They danced on the ceiling, then the floor, then on my hand, and all over the room.
“What is it?” he asked as he glanced at the floor, searching for what caught my eye. “It’s on your cheek, not in your eye,” I smiled. His eyebrow raised, as if jumping off of his face.
“What is?”
“The colors,” I whispered, “I mean, they bend. They bend to
the will of the light. If the light wants to, it can make anything pink and purple and blue.”
“But the lights are off Meztli,” he said.
A
Body Unsatisfied Abbey Gael
One Last Time
Kiersen Landes
I stood at the base of the driveway and peered up at the tall house in front of me. It had been so long since I’d been there. The baby trees sat freshly planted, their skinny branches ready to take on the outdoors. The birds chirped happily and their brown feathers contrasted against the pretty yellow home. The summer heat was the perfect blend of warm sun and soft wind.
I wiped the nervous sweat off my forehead and made my way up the chalk-decorated concrete. Up the newly-painted, wooden steps and around the scattered toys. For a brief second, I paused. I took a deep breath to calm my pounding heart, and knocked on the crisp, white door.
Almost instantly, the door flew open and a little girl about seven years old stood facing me. Her light brown hair matched mine and her soft features stunned me. Had I really looked like that? If only I’d appreciated my skin before the acne and fine lines. My eyes caught on the slight beauty mark below her lips. My hand moved up to my own, matching beauty mark.
If the girl noticed my frozen state, she didn’t show it. Her eyes sparkled and her face beamed.
“You made it!” She threw her arms around me and I stiffened. Then, just as quickly as she appeared, she ran back into the house, tugging me along with her.
I didn’t even have time to think as we scurried down the hallway and into the bright kitchen. The sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the doodles on the fridge and the pile of dishes in the sink. I glanced around, attempting to take notice of my surroundings. Despite the chaos, the room had a calming feel to it.
Shouts ran throughout the home and a puppy scurried through, chased by an equally energetic young boy.
The girl seemed unphased and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table.
“I missed you,” She said.
I faltered. It was all so strange.
“I’ve been missing you too.” My tone didn’t match my words. Something about her easy going nature struck me in the wrong places.
“I won first place in the spelling bee. Didn’t even study” She grinned.
I remembered that. “I’m sure Mom was so proud of you.”
“She was! But you already know that,” She replied. “I wanna know about you.”
I stared into her warm eyes and found myself at a loss for words. Her eyes were so eager, her spirit so cheerful. How could I tell her what would happen in just a few years? What would be her fault?
“I’m alright.”
“Then why aren’t you smiling, silly?” She giggled.
I couldn’t answer. I fidgeted, running my hand up and down my arm. Her eyes shifted and took sight of the long scar running along my forearm. Her eyes widened.
“What’s that?” She pointed.
“Some things have happened,” My lips pursed. “Some hard things.”
“Hard things?” She scooted closer. “Do you want a hug?”
My heart softened just slightly. She was almost cute.
“I’m okay,” I said.
Her smile came back. “Okay.” She squinted her eyes.
“You have a mustache.”
I reached up to touch my upper lip as she got back up and skipped out of the room. I could hear her yelling at the boy, telling him to quiet down because it was annoying. I squeezed my eyes shut. I wish I could tell her to be kinder, to give him a hug, to never let him out of her sight.
She came back into the room pulling the boy along with her. His green eyes brimmed with tears as he shuffled behind her. The English bulldog puppy sauntered behind, unaware of the conflict happening right in front of him.
“Lucas never listens,” She shook her head.
The second he made eye contact with me, my heart stopped. He was so young, so innocent.
“Hi Lucas,” I put my arms out. I wanted to hug him, to hold him, to never let him out of my sight.
He stared at me, unsure. Instead of coming towards me, he scooted over to stand behind the little girl. He didn’t know me, I realized.
The last time I’d seen him he looked different. His hair was longer, his clothes were baggier. He was much older, on the cusp of becoming a teenager. There wasn’t much I remembered about that day. I remembered the flashing lights, the screams, the crushed car. My stomach tensed.
“Are you excited for school?” I shifted my focus back to the little girl. Even though I wasn’t really interested, I couldn’t bear to look
at Lucas.
She eyed me. She could tell I already knew the answer. But no seven-year-old would pass up the chance to talk about themselves.
“No. I hate school. The boys are mean and the girls are ugly.”
The corners of my mouth turned slightly upwards. She had no idea how much that would change in the coming years. In fact, 2nd grade would be the one where she had her first crush.
“Let’s play,” Lucas had disappeared into a corner and returned with a bucket of legos.
He dumped them on the table and the little girl began to pick up the pieces and put them together. The little girl hummed to herself as she helped Lucas build a house.
I sat still enough for my irritation to melt into its true form. A deep sadness overtook me as I watched them play together so easily. Watching them create memories that would be impactful enough to talk about at a funeral. Impactful enough to leave little lego structures on the side of the road, next to a cross in the ground and a crushed fence on the side.
I should have been paying attention. I should have been watching the road. You’d think a fire truck with flashing lights and a blaring siren would have been enough to keep me focused. But instead, we were hit when I glanced away for just a second.
Almost as if he sensed it, Lucas looked right up at me. I was probably reading into it, but he almost seemed to recognize me. He couldn’t, he had never met me at this age. Thirty-four looked a lot different from sixteen.
“Wanna play?” He said simply.
His sweet voice reached the marrow of my bones; more than anything.
“Yeah,” I gently picked up a yellow block.
“Put it on my house,” He pushed over a collection of blocks that resembled nothing like a house. I put it on top.
For the next half hour, we stacked, built, and created. We created towns, people, stories. Stories that mattered, that didn’t end in heartbreak and death. Everything Lucas did or said was my new favorite thing. I relished every breath he took. His tiny being took up so much mental space that I almost forgot the little girl was there.
“I’m bored, let’s go outside,” I had been so focused on Lucas I almost forgot the little girl was there. She pushed her toys away and stood up. “C’mon Lucas, let’s go.”
Her attitude annoyed me. Who was she to think her desires were more important than his? I held my tongue as I went to follow
them. Even I knew it was a bit ridiculous to argue with a seven-yearold. We walked out the back door and soon the sounds of laughter and barking filled the warm air.
Time flew almost as fast as the first sixteen years of my life. The sun began to lower and turned the sky hues of pink and orange. Lucas and the little girl stood in the grass, gazing up in awe. I stood back and watched as the girl put her arm around him and drew him closer. Her fingers tightened around his shoulder and he relaxed into her.
My heart panged. I knew I had to go. But I just couldn’t. My breathing intensified as I began to panic. It was my only chance to speak to Lucas. And yet here I was, wasting my one day away. My body shook as the sense of urgency took over. My legs were moving, my arms were swinging. I was kneeling down and reaching over and pulling him away from his sister to face me.
“Lucas,” I started.
His eyes widened and he stepped away from my grip, into the safer realm of his sister’s space. As I gazed into his eyes, full of confusion and fear, it hit me.
He couldn’t understand. How could he? He was five years old. How was I supposed to expect a child who hadn’t even entered kindergarten to understand the guilt that had dragged alongside me for so many years?
Suffocating, my knees buckled and I slowly melted to the ground. My eyesight blurred as I gazed at the little girl. The person I used to be. The person I wanted to love but also couldn’t stand. I wanted to pull her aside and tell her to stay home, to wait to get her license, to pay attention to the road. I wanted to grip her shoulders and shake her until she understood that her actions had consequences.
“What’s wrong?” She asked quietly, her arm still wrapped around her little brother.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Lucas.”
I apologized for the only thing I could.
“It’s okay,” He replied. “It was an accident.” He relaxed and settled on holding the girl’s hand. “Can we keep playing?”
“I’m going to go,” I shakily stood up. Silently, they followed me to the front door. I turned around to take them in one last time.
Lucas stepped forward and put his arms around me. I gripped him tightly, tears streaming down my face. I felt his little heart beating next to mine and the softness of his striped shirt against my skin.
The moment was gone too soon and he stepped back before offering me a soft smile. Even though I knew he didn’t understand, I
said it anyway.
“I love you Lucas.”
He smiled. “I love you too.”
I watched his tiny body walk away, off to find a puppy to chase.
The little girl stared at me. I gritted my teeth as years of anger welled up in my heart. The blue eyes, the brown hair, the beauty mark. It was all becoming too much. The parts of me that I shut down on the day of the accident came rushing back in an uncontrollable force. The arrogance. The carelessness. The pride. Everything that the little girl embodied. This wasn’t fair. It was her fault. I was different now. But as she gazed into my soul I couldn’t shake the striking idea that I wasn’t staring at my younger self. I was looking into a mirror.
Those parts that I had shut down weren’t gone. They were hidden. Buried underneath years of the belief that I needed closure from my brother. Forgiveness to move on.
What if what I needed was right in front of me all along?
“I forgive you.” As I choked the words out, the little girl was mouthing the same sounds.
Her body began to expand and she grew. Around her, the house aged in seconds. Boards cracked, paint chipped, photos disappeared. She came closer and closer, until we morphed into one.
I blinked. I was on the porch. The weather had changed. There was snow on the ground and the driveway where the chalk had once been. The trees that used to be so young and ready to take on the world were now weathered and experienced.
The toys in the yard were gone and replaced with weeds. A rock had appeared at the base of the stairs, engraved with a picture of an old English bulldog. The title read “Spunky, 2004-2014”. The air that used to be filled with sounds of happy birds was now silent and empty. I shivered and held my arms together as I walked to my car.
Once I buckled my seat belt, I shifted my gaze back to the old house. Pieces of yellow still showed through where the dark green paint had chipped. A broken for sale sign still sat in the front window. A home that carried too much pain to be lived in after losing a family member.
I stuck the key into the ignition and turned on the engine. As the car heated up, the warmth went into my skin and sifted its way towards my soul. I felt a peace that was unlike anything I had ever known. For as long as I could remember, I had been so bent on returning to how life was before the accident. But maybe, just maybe, life wasn’t made to be stalled.
Turning away for the last time, put the car into drive and gently pressed the gas pedal. I was free.
Five More Minutes Cohen Swift
A Day in the Life
Luke Luttrell
My morning starts every day at 5:15; no earlier, no later. I slowly get out of bed in hopes of not agitating my knees or whatever decides to not work that day. Once up, I reach down to my toes to get the blood flowing for 25 seconds; no longer, no shorter. Following my “intense” stretching, I head to my reading room, once an office, to do my daily reading of one Psalm and two chapters of a Gospel. Then I pray in hopes of having the same day as before.
At 5:45, I stumble to my Mr. Coffee coffee pot, which is set to pour me two and a half cups of pure black coffee; no more, no less. While precisely sipping on my cup, I fry two eggs until the edges show a glimpse of soft gold, which is the only way an egg should be enjoyed. I reach for my toaster and grab the piece of whole grain bread that was toasted the night before and spread one teaspoon of butter; not that margarine crap that these hippies are into. I then carefully place the two eggs on the toast and break one yolk and only one. It moistens the bread just enough to not scrape my aging throat on the way down.
By 6:30, my breakfast is all taken care of, and I turn on the radio and sit on my couch. I wait patiently for the 7:00 program to come on: The Shadow. It’s an old show about a detective who solves heinous crimes and whatnot. I used to listen to it back when I was a boy. Every morning, they play three one-hour episodes, and by the tail end of the third, it’s my queue for my early morning nap, which I deserve after a morning of strenuous activity.
My post-morning nap concludes at 12:25, and it’s time to head to the grocery store for my afternoon walk. I waddle to the front door and grab my cane to assist me on this daunting excursion. The first step out into the startling sunlight always finds a way to make me a grouch. There is no need for Mr. Sun over here to be so obnoxious. Just say hello and go on with your day.
I hate going outside because that’s when I realize there are other people in this world alongside me. But Eleanor always told me to go out and get exercise, so I listen to her. It’s about a quarter mile to the store, which doesn’t seem like much, but when you’re an old hag like me, it’s like running a marathon.
“Well, good morning, Merle; great to see you as always,” greeted the mailman Antonio.
“Likewise,” I muttered with a straight face.
“Merle, It’s always a pleasure to see you!” shouted my neigh-
bor, Rose, on her morning jog.
“Ya ya whatever, keep on with your running,” I spewed as she smiled and continued on her run.
After a few other people interrupted my day, I finally closed in on the store. I look down at my left wrist to make sure I’m on schedule; 1:00 it reads. Not a second late, or a second early. I walk through the automatic doors and am greeted with a gust of air that feels nice after encountering that sun guy as I left my house.
“Merle, glad to see ya! Want your cart today?” The owner smiled.
“Yup, give her over.” They have always tried to get me to use those damn electric carts that you sit in. I’m not crippled, just old!
“Make sure it’s the pushing one,” I groaned.
I like to take my time in the store. I spend about 4 minutes in each aisle looking at what kind of deals they have for me that day. After avoiding personal contact for 40 minutes, I head to the deli.
“Merle! One turkey club, I’m guessing?”
“Yup.”
“Same fixings as always?”
“Yup. But no damn pickles, you hear me? Last time, you forgot.”
“Apologies for that, comin’ right up.”
Once the sandwich is made, I head back to the front to grab yellow tulips and check out.
“Merle, how’re we doing today?” The clerk said while scanning the sandwich.
“Same as always, fat and old.”
“Good to hear, good to hear.”
My total always rings up to $12.63, not a penny more, not a penny less. For some reason, they enjoy my presence in this store and like to give me one of those senior deals. Exiting the store, I look down again and see that it’s 2:13, which means all is right in the world. I head over to the crosswalk and patiently wait for that little white man to appear to let me go. At the end of the crosswalk is the most beautiful grass field in this town. Once my foot makes contact, I hobble 45 paces forward and then another 72 to the left and sit on the soft, cushioning grass.
“Hey there honey, I got your favorite.” I spewed as I set the tulips to the side of her.
“I know, I know. I didn’t come to see ya yesterday, but I promise, I’ll make that up to ya.” I smiled.
“Oh yes, it is. Turkey club, no pickles, and I made sure of it
this time.”
“It sure is nice out, ain’t it, honey?” I asked as I leaned back.
“Mhm, I was nice to the mailman today just for you.”
“Of course I had a smile on my face at the store.” I lied hoping she wouldn’t notice.
“I miss you too, Eleanor, but I’ll see you real soon, I promise.”
I rub the side of the headstone and peek at my watch, which shows 3:15. I lie down and close my eyes in hopes of never living the same mundane day again.
The quick nap was a tease of the life I have been wishing to leave. It is now 6:23 which means I have about 7 minutes to get out of here before I get berated by the sprinklers. They never like that I’m here for more than a few hours. I guess other wanderers find an old man lying in a cemetery off-putting.
“Bye bye sweetie, I’ll see you soon.” I softly spoke as I kissed the top of her stone.
I quickly tried to navigate my way towards the pavement to get my sense of direction back. I found myself back at the crosswalk from before at 6:30 which gives me just enough time to get my chicken noodle soup prior to bed.
Once the white man blinks on the screen, I hobble across the street hoping the afternoon breeze doesn’t ignite the arthritis in my knee. I head into the same shopping center where the mart is and walk into a place called The Bread Basket. They have all these fancy breads but I only come for their chicken noodle soup. Only thing this darn place needs.
“Merle, bad news. We are all out of your chicken noodle soup. But I have something else I know you’ll love. It had a hint of chi-”
“I don’t want none of your mumbo jumbo bread or fancy soups. You know what I want. So stop playing around and just grab me the soup.”
“I-uh don’t know what else to say sir. We don’t have any left.”
“Stop talking,” I yelped as I briskly exited this abomination of an establishment.
I look down at my wrist to see that the hands show 6:45. It is 6:45 and I don’t have that damn chicken noodle soup. In a panic, I head back over to the market.
“Merle, what in the world are you doing here this late?”
“What fresh soups ya got.”
“Soups?”
“I was just over at The Bread Basket, and they are out. They are never out.”
“Sorry about that, Merle, but we stopped selling different soups in the fresh market area a few months ago. Is there uh anything else I can get-.”
“Whatever. I’m going to bed.” This is the first time I have left the market this late.
As I walk home, I take one last peek down and see that it is 7:02. It’s been two years since I haven’t had my nightly cup by this time. The walk home was colder than usual, since I didn’t have the oozing warmth of the soup soothing my throat. I may be only 15 minutes off my normal schedule, but that means it’s unfamiliar territory all around me.
Where is the Swanson family on their nightly stroll on the corner of 32nd? The DeRozan brothers are nowhere to be seen on their bike ride across Baker Street.
“Merle! I haven’t seen you out here this late in years, how’re you doing?” Warren questioned politely.
“Just leave me al-... I uh am doing just alright tonight. How’s the family?” I began to slowly approach him.
“Oh man, everyone is just doing great. Lawrence is a freshman now, can you believe that?”
“Oh wow. Seems just like yesterday I was shooin him off my lawn.”
“He actually has his first basketball game tomorrow, we’d love to see you there.” “W-what time is it at?”
“It’s an early one, 2:15 at the highschool gym.”
“I’m busy, I go down and see El-... You know what, I’ll be there. Sounds like a swell time.”
“Perfect, I’ll see you then. You have a goodnight now.”
I slowly walked the rest of the way home wondering what omorrow may look like. Hopefully, Eleanor will understand.
The Waiting Room
Luke Luttrell
CHARACTERS:
JACK: A wealthy attorney who believes his only purpose in life is to become wealthy and fend for himself.
SHERRY: A strong mysterious woman who works in the wait ing room in hopes of instilling knowledge into patients who come in.
SHAWN: A regular in the waiting room, who finally under stands his purpose in life. . . .
JACK stumbles into a waiting room on a brisk Saturday for a work survey. As he enters, he encounters SHERRY. The receptionist of this waiting room.
SHERRY Thompson...Jack...Mr.Jack Thompson.
JACK enters.
Oh ya hey uh that’s me.
JACK
SHERRY
Please come up and grab these. Shouldn’t take long to fill out.
JACK
Okay yeah for sure. Sorry for uh being a couple minutes late. You wouldn’t believe the da-
SHERRY
Mr. Jack please grab the documents and take a seat. He will see you shortly.
JACK
What kind of questions am I answering, cause I don’t really like giving out my private infor-
SHERRY
Mr. Jack...It is fairly self explanatory now please do what I am asking of you. We both don’t have time for this unnecessary banter.
JACK
Name...Jack Thompson. Occupation...Defense attorney...Cases won? What the? Hey uh lady, I don’t really see why this is necessary or how it even asked that question, but I don’t feel comfortable answering that.
SHERRY
First of all, you can address me by name, and it’s Sherry, thank you for asking. Anyways, you must answer every question Mr. Jack. And don’t worry about our methods. Just focus on what’s in front of you.
SHAWN enters.
SHAWN
Mrs. Sherry, how beautiful it is to see you again. It’s been too long.
SHERRY
Oh Shawn I saw your name on the list for the day and I just couldn’t control myself. I hope you’ve been treating life well?
SHAWN
You know, I had a rough stretch for a little bit, but I’m feelin real good this time around.
SHERRY
Well hun you know the drill. Here’s your papers. Go ahead and take a seat, and we’ll see how you did. Also, tell Mr. Jack over there to focus on his papers and stop asking damn questions!
SHAWN
First timer?
SHERRY
First timer, and it’s really showin.
SHERRY and SHAWN laugh.
SHAWN reachest out to shake JACK’S hand.
It’s Jack right?
Yes? And you are?
SHAWN
JACK
SHAWN
Oh of course, where are my manners? Shawn Richardsan.
JACK
Man, these questions are a complete violation. It’s straight b.s, Shawn.
SHAWN
Hey now. Let’s calm down a bit, and please try and give my friend Sherry over there a break. She listens to enough people complain throughout the day. Just relax and answer the questions the best that you can. The more accurate the better.
JACK
Been here before?
SHAWN
I’ve come in a few times now. Best advice I can give you is to relax and everything will play its course.
JACK
Play its course. What does that even mean?
SHAWN
Jack. You need to stop questioning and just fill out the paperwork. It’ll all make sense soon. Trust me. I’ve been through this.
JACK
Okay okay. Relax Jack. Relax. Cases won...forty-three...Charity donations?...none
SHAWN
My man you’re tryna say that you’re some successful attorney and you don’t even dish out a dime?
JACK
Hey, everything I have in life is because I worked like a dog to get it. So why can’t everyone else do that huh? I wasn’t handed everything on a silver platter.If I can do it, then surely everyone else can too.
SHAWN
Some people just might need an extra hand, and you might too.
JACK
Let’s take a look at what you’ve done then hotshot.
SHAWN
By all means. Take a look.
JACK
Occupation; school janitor. Hours per week; sixty-five? Geez Shawn, do you have no life?!
SHAWN
What can I say. I love what I do.
JACK
Charity; one thousand a month towards Save the Children. Shawn, you gotta be kidding me. I know it’s good to donate and all but, that’s a bit obsessive. What is that, like three-fourths of your income?
SHAWN
If I can live off one-fourth of my paycheck, then what need do I have to keep the whole?
JACK
I don’t know? Maybe live a little? Take a nice vacation?
SHAWN
Those things aren’t fulfilling to me. They provide nothing but momentary joy.
JACK
Whatever floats your boat, I guess.
SHERRY
Mr. Jack. How’s the paperwork coming along?
JACK
I’m gettin there. A couple more minutes and I should be good.
SHAWN
Sherry, here you are.
SHERRY
Honey, you are gettin good at this.
SHAWN
Well you know, hopin this is the last time. Wouldn’t it be sad if I was still going about this like Jack over there?
SHERRY
Okay now. Let’s be nice. Trust me, I didn’t forget what you were like the first time I saw you coming into my office.
SHAWN
I wasn’t like that.
SHERRY
Shawn Shawn Shawn. How soon we forget. But it looks like you’re all good to go. He’s ready to see you. Good luck.
SHAWN
Thanks Sherry. I feel good about it. Good vibes only.
SHERRY
Amen honey. I’ll see you later.
SHAWN
I hope you don’t.
SHAWN exits.
SHERRY walks towards JACK.
SHERRY
Jack, would you say you are a good person?
Ya, I would say so.
JACK
SHERRY
How do you know this? What do you think makes a person good?
JACK
I work hard. I don’t steal for the most part. Might curse a little bit but nothing over the top.
SHERRY
But how does that equate to the quality of a person?
JACK
Sherry, why are you asking this? I don’t see the importance.
SHERRY
That right there is the problem. You not seeing the importance of the qualities that make someone good versus bad limits your perspective on what man’s purpose is.
JACK
I do what is best for myself, because that is the only thing I am responsible for.
SHERRY
Is Shawn a good person?
JACK
He might be a good person, but he surely is a dumb one too What kind of sane person gives essentially their whole paycheck away? I just don’t get it.
SHERRY
Its because he sees purpose with what he is doing. His intentions in life are to increase the quality of life ofothers, because he is content with the one he has. Are you content?
JACK
I’m never content, which is why I am this successful.
What’s your goal?
To be a partner at the firm.
SHERRY
JACK
SHERRY
So that right there, is your sole purpose of being?
JACK
Sherry, you’re reaching. Of course it’s not my sole purpose. It’s my passion. I need something to strive for.
SHERRY
Then what happens once you achieve that. Do you ever want a family?
JACK
Who knows, I don’t have the time or resources to have one at this point in my life.
SHERRY
We both know you have the finances for a family Jack.
JACK
I like the life I have right now, okay Sherry. I don’t need some nagging lady and whining kids around to wreck everything for me.
SHERRY
Shawn, the man that was out here with you.
JACK
What about him?
SHERRY
He is married and has two young boys.
JACK
You’re telling me that Mr. Sixty hours a week has a family?
SHERRY
Yes, and he’s a fantastic father and husband.
JACK
How can you be considered a good father and husband when you don’t have the proper funds? Meanwhile, all the money you do have just gets thrown at charities.
SHERRY
Because unlike you, Shawn is selfless. When you have the mindset of placing others first before yourself, the riches you gain greatly outweigh a dollar amount.
JACK
But at some point finances must matter right? The quality of life can’t be good for those kids.
SHERRY
When you have the heart of a giver, you will gain more than you could ever dish out. That’s when one’s life truly becomes a life of purpose. And I’m afraid that until you can realize that, you will find yourself stuck in an eternal roundabout with no exit.
JACK
Thank you for such great advice Mrs. Little Secretary.
SHERRY
Jack, do you know where you are right now?
JACK
Uh yea, I was sent through work to participate in some focus group.
SHERRY
So that’s what they are going with these days, interesting.
JACK What?
SHERRY
I hate to break this to you, but there is no focus group.
JACK
So what, they just sent me here to waste my day off? They really thought long and hard about pulling this off. Who called to set this up, I bet it was Larry. He’s always trying to find ways to get under my skin.
SHERRY
You must be confused, this is not a setup for a practical joke if that’s what you have in mind.
JACK
Then what is this?
SHERRY
An awakening Jack, and if you don’t eternalize this, then you really have no hope.
JACK
What am I supposed to do with that? Do you want me to impregnate some lady and become a father? Give money to a local church every sunday? Oh or should I start a community garden?
SHERRY
None of those things matter if it’s not from the heart. And sadly, this doesn’t seem possible right now. I’m afraid it’s gonna to take more attempts.
JACK
Attempts?
SHERRY
Yes, attempts. But then again, it’s not that easy.
JACK And why is that?
SHERRY
Jack...you’re dead.
Exploring the Relationships Between Genotypes and Phenotypes of Canis Lupus Familiaris Using RSPO2, FGF5, and KRT71
Husbaldo Gonzalez and Itzel Calleja-Macias, PhD.
Bring Me to that Land Forgotten
Jonathan Pirolo
Bring me to that land forgotten, That place of ancient, perilous deeds, Of tooth and claw, and shining scales, Of giants that walked the lands of dirt and desert. What did you look like, my ancient friends? Like primordial beasts or feathered friends? Did violence mark your nature, Or peace that did define you? Did you know your own glory? Or wait for others to crown you? For kings, you were upon the earth, For greater beings have not been, But humans who inherit the dawn, Who inherits the world you reigned? Dinosaur, dinosaur, where art thou? You have returned to the dust of time. Although gone your legacy remains, Deeds may be forgot, actions fade to not. Yet you live on in hearts of boys, Who, in dreaming, walks amidst those ancient lands, Who sees those shadows of that time, As though yesterday in their minds. No dinosaur, you are not gone, You live on in the imagination of the childlike.
Glimpses of Rest
Hannah Maes
Two Worlds
Levi Hall
The dry wind rustled the ancient pine above us. Her steps seemed to echo across the forest expanse, as she scrunched seemingly every possible stick and leaf below her battered moccasins. I was stupid and possibly out of line for allowing her to come along. I always hunted alone. It had always been easier that way. However, she insisted. With the incoming wave of death and another collapse of our so-called village, she felt she needed to. After all, her family was just as hungry as mine.
A large brown bird flew overhead yelling his song at us, interrupting my thoughts of our people’s dismembered attempt at a new home. As I sauntered through the forest, gliding my way across the stones, mossy rocks, and old beaten-down logs, I noticed her labored breathing. I slowly gazed back at her and looked at her gaunt figure anew. Her slim waist and cheekbones protruded more than ever. Her once-tight leather vest now drooping, exposing her collarbone and olive skin. Even her long, russet hair seemed dull compared to its luster last summer. Amongst all that, her bow strung across her back seemed to be the weight of the world. We were only a day into our hunt, but I too was feeling the effects of having less. The winter had not been easy on her either.
These paths we used to run carefree, knowing our next and every meal. The Malachim and all their depravity have taken that from us. It was only a matter of time before we would have to move homes once again. The chances of us being able to survive another trek were unlikely at this rate. These ancient beasts wanted their land back, and we were in their way.
The blight had taken over our lands, slowly killing the wildlife. Its infection spread from the North and slowly brought everything we knew to gray and ash. It has once again started to slowly breach our new home. Our third so-called home in the past five years. Its gray infestation begins by attacking the eldest of trees of our forest starting with the mycelium network underneath them. This begins to show at their base and roots as gray stains start to slowly creep into the moss, as the tree’s bark blanches in response. Devoiding it of all color and leaving its surface with ornate markings of their cryptic, old language. A marking of their magic and success over our lands.
The glow of those foreign letters can be seen from hundreds of feet away. They are an unforgettable sight, a portrayal of the mockery
and cruelty the Malachim inflicts upon us. Eventually, insects start to die at their base. All the insects then float from place to place in our forest, as the wind takes their lifeless bodies across the colorless land. Then the rodents and all other warmly bodied animals die. Finally, the birds fall from the sky and fish float to the surface of our lakes as the water becomes corroded and turns a dark, odious black.
Yesterday, a bird fell into our camp. Its eyes turned gray. Feathers completely withered out leaving the bird naked. I still remember the scene like it was a second ago, the elder’s face turning white with shock and pure ire. The first signs of what we called, an “ashen storm”, turning our world into a firepit after a long night. After the death-ridden bird fell, the moss started to warn us and show signs of the impending storm forming around us. The elders quickly got together and sent our strongest out to hunt. Our village bade us farewell with tears in their eyes. Some with hope, some with great remorse knowing we’d likely come back empty-handed or not at all. They sent us out not just for food, which would greatly help our next trek, but for a solution. The greatest tree in the forest, promised by our ancestors to give a solution to a crumbling world. A tree that helped them hundreds of years ago against the Malachim’s reign. A scroll promised to be inside revealing how they escaped their wrath so long ago. The only solution we have desperately held onto other than running. Constantly fleeing south leaving any hopes of a better life behind. A consistent state of heart-wrenching anxiety. Never truly being at peace where we were, always on the lookout for signs of the continued plague we were met with. Never being able to settle and truly build a self-sustaining village together. This lifestyle is new to us all after the Malachim’s seemingly random return after centuries of peace.
Our travels continued for another day. We ventured deeper into the forest than ever before, mostly from raw desperation. We settled camp amongst the side of a cave’s entrance that was unignorable in size. Its massive moss-covered stone tells an ancient story. I haven’t seen a cave with these imposing features in my own life. What better place to set up camp? Our bodies were pushed to their breaking point from our long fruitless trek, and a particularly cruel winter. One look amongst ourselves and we found ourselves resting, our backs slumped against the entrance of the cave. We softly laughed as our warm skin cooled on the old sandstone.
We stoked our fire amongst the starry night and shared childhood stories for what seemed like hours. Shared times before the blight and pain. Before the loss. Accompanied by nothing but ourselves
and the ancient forest, its trees reaching deep above us for hundreds of feet and exposing the cool, dry night. A small taste of peace, if just for a moment, that I have felt for a long while. Our hearty talks echo across the forest expanse without a care in the world from either of us. The ancient hollow trees bounce their sound across the valley. As we succumbed to our weariness and began to lay, an owl passed by and sang its lullaby. Reminding us of the open space we filled and that we weren’t truly alone.
I was awoken by the cry of a mourning dove in the early light. The horizons expanse a clear sky of amber and pink upon first light. As I painfully stretched my sore legs rising out of the deerskin blanket, I clung to last night’s images. Her smile and ocean-blue eyes invited me to more of her and her heart, as these features flashed and danced amongst the fire’s balmy light. Shadows encapsulated the scene we were creating behind us on the caves’ old stone. Very unlike me to enjoy the scenery we hiked so far to be a part of. Usually, I continue my search for forest life to hunt throughout the night. Ada always seemed to challenge my callous, solemn ways. As much as it pained me to see her out here with me, fighting for another meal, having her around always seemed to make me forget about our impending doom. Just for a second.
I could feel her laughter and heart still wrapped around my shoulders, just as that blanket once was. I filled my lungs with the crisp pine of the forest. The morning air brings a certain chill to my being. The sun has just risen, leaving the dew-covered forest floor shining with a great lambency. Flashing its leaves, sticks, and branches at us.
As I took in the scene, I slowly looked over to Ada, and where she used to lie. Her blanket was strewn. Her bow was missing. Panic filled my chest faster than an old leaf catching fire. I quickly snapped my head behind me in raw fear of the situation. How could I be so careless as to endanger her with my own selfish comfort? I hadn’t awoken to a single sound. My eyes ran their way up the backside of the cave -
“Don’t you see them?” Ada whispered to me from above.
She was perched upon a rock ten feet above our camp, bow in hand aiming at the entrance of the mighty cave. Relief rushed into my heart only to quickly be met with nothing but questions. I quickly reached for my scabbard and drew my long knife given to me by my father. Its hardened obsidian ebony handle was cold against the warmth of my hand. I looked over to the entrance, crouching behind a nearby shrub. I almost salivated at the sight. Two deer; one doe, one fawn. The rarity and luck to find one, let alone two in this fallen world.
“Do you have a shot?” I barely got out in a shallow whisper,
looking up hopelessly at Ada.
She didn’t answer but stood and aimed with great confidence. She had always been a better shot than me. I trusted no one else at this moment than her. She glanced over at me with those beautiful blue eyes, piercing through the distance between us. Her bow ready to fire, she gave me a soft, roughish grin and winked.
Winked.
Before I knew it, in one motion she drew her eyes to aim at the mother and shot, releasing a breath from her high ground and sending death to her target.
The arrow reached the deer perfectly right through the center of its torso. Striking through her heart and landed with a thud. Yet she stood tall.
The deer reared back on its hind legs, letting out a scream that echoed amongst the old forest and rattled deep in my chest. The animal in a swift movement reared its legs back and began a pained, bloodied run. Running towards the massive entrance of the cave and disappearing from our view into the black abyss. The baby doe follows the mother’s lead.
My heart dropped at the sight, my hands clenching beside me knowing what I must do. Impossible. The deer should be dead on impact. A perfect shot.
I looked back at Ada, with shock written on her face. She began shaking her head from side to side in fear of what I knew I must do. I threw her the same sly grin she threw me as I looked upon her peaky face, eyes shining with white rage. As I turned towards the cave, she let out a yell of dismay.
“Atticus! Wait!”
The cave was a mystery that we didn’t dare explore when we arrived. Not with how exhausted we were after our two days of traveling and poor efforts to hunt. We looked once at its huge entrance, and seemingly endless pit, we deemed it useless to our quest.
Before I knew it, I had entered into a smooth sprint towards the fleeing animal. I jumped and moved effortlessly amongst the scattered rocks at the cave’s entrance. Following the trail of crimson red the animal left behind. Its whimpers and cries echo violently off the hardened walls. Its shrieks sent chills down my spine as I stalked after my prey. As I turned the corner of the stone embarking its entrance, I investigated the cave’s expanse, seeing the deer run deeper into its offerings. I did not hesitate to follow.
As I ran further inside its wide walls, it became harder and harder to see my next step with every stride. The light running away
from me, just like the deer. Somehow the animal did not let up its relentless pace and spiraled deeper into the cave. This was impossible. A shot through its chest never resulted in pursuit. Always quick and honest death. I did not have time to heed this oddity. I continued recklessly towards the deer.
I needed this hunt to work. Ada did. We did. Our people depended on this.
I had to follow through no matter the risk, we would die of hunger regardless of our next trek. This deer could easily feed families for weeks. I quickly closed in on the animal as it limped its way across the rough, uneven expanse of rock. As I approached the ravaged animal in a close-to-blind run, I reached out for its back leg and missed. She stumbled further away from me amidst the boulders and jagged surfaces. It had become so dark I could only see the animal’s vague outline. I did not dare to look back and see how far I had come. I could have sworn I heard Ada’s cry behind me as I reached out and took another step and my world turned upside down.
I was falling. Falling fast.
My heart had dropped, and I reached for my head as I rolled down what seemed like a muddy, wet abyss. I tumbled bruising all parts of my body on the rough impacts. I lost track of how much I fell and landed with a thud on the wet surface below. As I slowly came to my senses, I reached around me to get familiar with where I had landed. I had to get out.
Wherever I had fallen, I was alive. Breathing. I quickly moved my body around to make sure I wasn’t left crippled. My breathing was heavy and labored as I lay on my stomach.
My hands reached out to the ground feeling the soft web of familiar ground. Grass. Green grass. I could see.
There was light and soft grass reminding me of a springtime meadow. A warm bouncing glow surrounded the chamber, leaving the shadows dancing wildly on the walls.
The line of torches was the first thing I noticed as I slowly raised my head to the left, and I lay defeated on my stomach. I then looked to my right only to find the fawn’s gray, lifeless eyes glaring back at me, neck contorted in a way that made its condition obvious to me. The doe next to her offspring suffered the same fate. The scene still did not make sense to me as I slowly raised my head to view the chamber before me.
I looked up to see a sight I would never, in a million years, forget.
Before me lay the torch-lit path amongst the plain of grass I
lay in. Around me were endless walls and a soft light up the muddy hill from which I fell, illuminating a small spot where the entrance was. Hundreds of feet up. Hundreds. The faraway ceiling was filled with thousands of spear-shaped rocks staring down at me. They were covered with light blue crystals, shining subtly in the soft light from the torch path. I quickly snapped my gaze back to what it led to. A mammoth of what appeared like the largest tree only dreams can conjure. The largest I have ever seen. Easily many times the size of any tree in our forest. Every part of me shook at the sight. My breath shortened as I realized what this could mean. I had heard the folk stories but never imagined a place so intricate, so beautiful, so surreal. I rubbed my eyes to the point of blurring my vision. Shaking my head, I sluggishly pulled my tender body to my feet and shuffled my way along the path.
I could not believe my eyes. I had to be dreaming. I had to have been killed by Malachim in my sleep. They have been known to fill the minds of humans with lunacy and send them spiraling with madness with their wicked magic. Thoughts of their influence left me as I gazed at the spectacle in front of me. I cursed under my breath as I took in the massive elder tree, wishing Ada could be here to see it.
I warily approached the gargantuan tree along the torchlit path. Its broad bark was filled with that same beautiful moss that lay on the sandstone entrance of the cave. As I looked up at its wild frenzy of branches at the top, hundreds of feet tall my neck ached. Its massive branches touched almost every part of the grand chamber I found myself in. The sea of greenery from its leaves fills the space and sways ever so gently. From this far down I could almost make out a reddish-colored fruit upon some of its branches. I ventured my stare lower down to its middle section where each strip of bark from the tree is quite literally longer than the length of my body. I glanced at its large base and let out a gasp. Its trunk lay open. Almost as if someone had carved a grand door opening its contents to the beholder. I realized the inside of this tree is larger than any room we have ever had within our hovel homes. What lay on a large crystal inside had me grabbing at my mud-caked face as if I was imagining this whole dream.
A single scroll lay on a stone holder on the large ocean-blue crystal. The crystal stood almost as tall as me as I approached its glimmering figure. It lay in the center of the hollow trunk. It derived from the same crystals staring at me from the ceiling of the chamber. The scroll lay there inviting me to grab it. I felt as if a hundred eyes lay upon my backside. I looked back once more for felt company and found no one but the dead deer lying in the mint-green grass. I turned to the scroll as I stood at the entrance of the tree. I was certainly being
met with the task of a lifetime. I reached for the old papyrus and held it before me in my shaking mud-caked hands. I opened it slowly and held it to the torchlight to the side of the tree’s entrance whilst trying to get a hold of my heavy, brisk breathing.
As I studied the scroll in search of a grand answer, opening its contents against the warm light, I was met with nothing. Nothing at all. I quickly turned the scroll to its back side. Utterly blank.
Turning it back once more, I held it closer to the light. This cannot be. The answer had to be here. Everything lined up with the myths we were told repeatedly as children. The great tree is unignorable in size and beguiling presence. And a scroll with the answer to the reigning power of the Malachim. The same ones that haunted us hundreds of years ago.
As I held up the scroll to the light I continued to see no writings. Only the crinkled papyrus and its emptiness are revealed on the scroll. I strained my eyes further and looked closer.
In the light, my own sunken dark brown eyes looked back at me on the scroll’s old reflective surface. My protruding cheekbones looked back at me. My thick shoulder-length brown hair sprawled on my face. I looked down at my cracked, sunburnt lips shaking my head. All this journey and time only to be met with myself. The elders would be disappointed to know the myth held nothing. I couldn’t remove my stare at the scroll. Looking at my heavy features. For what seemed like minutes, I finally looked behind me at the hill I fell from only to hear an excruciating loud popping noise. I knew that sound. The sound of an old, worn-down tree falling in our great forest. I shot a glance to the entrance of the great tree as I saw its sides splintering and starting to tip. Fast. The cracking noise grew louder and louder until–
The echo of that sound rattled in my head bouncing off the walls of my skull. I blinked a couple of times and forgot the smell of the forest I once knew. I look forward to my leather journal, my righthand throbbing and tired from my strenuous writing. I looked up at my stale, white walls. My various works of art on my walls looking back at me. Inviting me to fall into their landscape. My attempt to draw more life to the room. Pieces of art I have traveled with for years, remind me of the side of me yearning for more. I moved my hands through my dark, greasy hair. A long day of school, practice, and steady monotony of politics and playing the role. Amongst all of this, I still felt like I had to get this story out of me. From where it came, I do not know.
I let out a long sigh, questioning what I have created. Like awakening from a long slumber. The echo of the wood cracking remained in my head as I realized it was just the slamming of my room’s front door. My roommate had returned. I remained focused on the nowfilled pages before me. The gentle sounds of running water from the fountain I bought helped remind me of the gentle world from which I came. The running water was like a creek. I focused on its soft splashes to help me transition back to this room, not that starry night.
I slouched further in my chair as I gave a telegraphed response to my roommate’s greeting as he noticed my inattentiveness to this world. The world I had returned to after a long slumber of imaginative pruning. I stared at my desk, not near what I imagined I deserved as I pondered at how many sat before it in this run-down campus apartment. Emitting from a couple of salt lamps, I filled the desk with balmy lighting like that of a fire. I narrowed my attention to a particular work of art on my wall. The painting reminds me of the beauty and pain in between these two worlds I find myself in. A major I checked boxes for, coaches I gave politically sound answers to, and teammates I endured and sometimes enjoyed. I slowly gazed with my tired brown eyes down at the old leather encompassing my journal. What do I make of this other world I like to explore?
I do not know what to make of this story I have found myself in tonight. I have these imagined worlds in my head but no idea how to bring them to fruition. What use is this other world?
Feeling hopeless I get up from my chair to make myself a cup of tea. It was getting late, and I needed a reminder to sleep early for the next onslaught of classes, work, practice, and training schedules. Another packed day. I also still desperately needed to shower as I frowned at myself. I made my way into the dark kitchen, rising from my beaten wooden chair. As I entered, I was met with a mess. That and the rancid smell from my roommate’s ravenous laziness had spread amongst their cleaning habits just like the blight. The dishes were stacked unabashedly like fallen buildings with all sorts of old food. I had given up weeks ago on trying to control or compromise about the chaos. Not now. Not with my body and mind this tired. Always tired.
Somehow, the greatest peace I have found is expressing these foreign worlds Atticus and Ada find themselves in. Their troubles and quests are clear and righteous in every way. How do I continue these worlds? What’s the point in even expressing them? I cannot let go of these questions. Maybe it’s just meant for my own pleasure and my visions of becoming a writer are fruitless. As I watched my tea steam amidst the chaotic space I pondered these rich thoughts. I feel I would
be wronging myself not to continue to pursue these worlds. These worlds that seem so far away and mock the grimness of the one I find myself in now. So many possible roads ahead and none seem palatable. I scratched my head at the thought. I did love the craft I explored. The sport I played. The physicalness that I get to express daily. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling of the warm liveliness I get when I write or read about these far-off worlds. I crave them. Crave a deeper and more freeing world. I want more of them. I stared off at the white, pale surface of our untouched walls and thought.
“Maybe I will visit this world more.”
DJ Gummy and the Citizens of Charlotte Cohen Swift
Eventually
Jaden Massaro
Eventually, the garden of time will overgrow every wall but even covered in vines, your statue refuses to fall. I gather the flowers you leave on my grave and crown your statue with my daisy chains.
Eventually, the armies of time will overthrow us all but even covered in ashes, your empire refuses to fall. I gather the casualties, all lives you couldn’t save, and find myself alone in an unmarked grave.
The Archivist of Time
Amanda Fagan
I failed my position
The Archivist of Time
My ink strokes ceiled in stone
What truly was a lie
But am I still at fault
If I held it as truth?
Turns out I held pieces
You willfully construed
Your sharp, dark mosaic
Cut my hands deep and red
Only just discovered
The scars I have once bled
I told generations
To hold you in regard
Cemented your title
You tried so hard to mar
So hold tight to those
Who won’t shift their point of view
I’m smudging the ink
Of the lines I wrote for you
To some, you will always
Be flawless, plated gold
But time makes you tarnish
Uganda
Paloma Tapia
Open Ocean
Claire Williams
There are few things on this earth as ever-present, plentiful, and completely and utterly unfathomable as fish. Truly, they are the creatures of the earth that are arguably the most dissimilar to us humans. The mere fact that, in their view, the ocean is sky and the sky is ocean is nearly enough to make a person wish to walk directly into that vast expanse of blue and never look back. I often ponder fish for a time. But the pondering tends to turn to a mounting anxiety over just how many things in this world I will truly never be able to fully grasp. Their sheer numbers juxtaposed with the fact that the number is not nearly as much as it should be has a way of reminding me of all the ways in which true significance is able to slip through my grasp, much like, well, a fish through bare hands.
Despite the gut-wringing thoughts that the idea of fish has often brought me, the experience of them tends to be something much different. I have often been surrounded by fish in some capacity or another. Many of my family outings as a child were centered around fishing, and there is something comforting about the fact that millennia of evolutionary progress is able to be overridden by what is essentially a hook, string, and visage of a worm. Additionally, for a good while, my sister was the proud owner of a forty-gallon aquarium, until a fault in the glass claimed the lives of most of the fish inside, and the few remaining were rehomed to someone with a better tank. During the time when they were present, however, I would often enter her room in secret just to stare. In spite of the fact that there should have been a primal fear of sibling wrath for the crime of room trespassing, the fish seemed to absorb that fear in their truly unaffected manner.
The intersection of the aforementioned contradictory properties of fish come to a head in a place that had begun as a spot that had led to a significant decline in the population of a specific fish: sardines. I am speaking, of course, about the Monterey Bay Aquarium located on Cannery Row. The row, named after the John Steinbeck novel of the same title, has had a several-hundred-year history revolving around the fishing of squid, sardines, and salmon. Beginning in the 1770s, large numbers of Chinese, Italian, Portuguese, and Italian immigrants found their way to America through fish canning. This canning practice gave birth to a vibrant town that later proved essential to filling the high demand for canned food in World War I and fertilizer in World War II. Surviving both wars and several fires throughout the years, the industry
finally began its collapse due to the very thing that brought it about: fishing. The depleted supply of sardines from years of overfishing meant that Cannery Row was near its death. However, the polar opposite of fishing would be the saving grace of the row. With a priority of marine conservation, the Monterey Bay Aquarium has been a pinnacle of the town since 1984, and it is nearly impossible to mention Monterey without at least the thought of the aquarium.
I had been going to the aquarium ever since I was quite small. Being homeschooled meant that I had some advantages, one of them being dodging the ever-increasing price of patronizing the aquarium. Not only that, but I had often been privy to behind-the-scenes classes and the ability to visit on days in which most children were in school, giving me an insider pass into the world of ocean life on California’s central coast. Even as a young child, I had an understanding of fish as something far beyond myself. I had no concept of stress yet. My biggest fears remained limited to ziplines or messing up my lines in the school play. Nevertheless, in the consuming, blue glow of the open ocean exhibit, as I watched sunfish eclipse my small frame cast shadows over bottom-feeding hammerhead sharks, I was completely and utterly enchanted.
As the years passed, I was unable to return to the aquarium. I had since graduated high school and lost the privileges I once held since I was no longer one of those “weird homeschool kids.” I had made it through high school and three years of college with only a light amount of therapy and a brief spell of twenty milligrams of Escitalopram taken orally in the morning to try and stave off the manifestation of existential dread described by my physician as “unexplainable crying spells.” The summer had been, save for the birth of my nephew and a regularly scheduled trip to Oregon, wholly uneventful. My new boyfriend had planned several trips around the world before we had begun dating, and so most of my time was spent waiting for the brief eclipses of shared daylight we had on opposite sides of the world. Despite a cheery “We’re Hiring!” sign hung in every store window, twenty applications still went unanswered deep into July, and so I did nothing, each day thinking only of the distinct lack of resume-building happening that summer and the weight of what that may mean for a future career.
“I have to go to the bay for work on the 19th,” My mom brought up during lunch, cutting into my crafted wallowing time. “Ethan will be in town that day. Maybe we could all go together.”
“Do you think we could go to the aquarium? Or is it too expensive to be worth it?”
“I think the Carlson’s have guest passes. I can ask if you guys
can borrow them.”
This was the ace in my pocket I had been hoping for. While I was immensely glad for the opportunity Ethan had to travel the world all summer, part of me was insanely jealous, and another part of me was worried that the few weeks he spent with me would be a bore compared to a hike around Northern Ireland, a cruise through Europe, a week in Japan, and a birthday cruise to Mexico. But now I would be able to share not only an internationally known and loved place, but a piece of my childhood. This place was familiar to me, and not in the unfortunate way of my hometown, where I could point out which Walgreens had had a police shootout or where a murder victim was found.
Immediately upon stepping out of the car in front of the aquarium, I was greeted with a misty breeze, the sight of the foaming, churning, gray ocean, and a smell that I had forgotten I was so in love with: the immediate smack of fish, punctuated by salt, mellowed by car exhaust, and graced with a final note of sweetness.
“What am I smelling?” Ethan asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Saltwater taffy. I used to get it all the time as a kid.”
“Can we get some after?”
“Sure.”
It was nearly impossible to contain the rush of excitement I felt as we crossed through the lobby into the life-sized replica and homage to Cannery Row. The concrete floors and walls bounced the swell of life: the bustle of visitors just like us, the excited yelps of children running from exhibit to exhibit, the call of teachers ushering their class field trips around, crashes of water in the tsunami tunnel, screeches of seagulls, seal barks, and the occasional lecture of trained experts. It was almost as though the aquarium had an ecosystem of its own. The beloved smell of outside was immediately replaced by the unmistakable smell of sea life mixed with surface disinfectant. I immediately began showing—or maybe more aptly dragging—Ethan around every single tank my hungry eyes could find.
We began in the kelp forest. The waters teemed with all the local fish of the area as jewels of sunlight twinkled through the swaying translucent leaves of kelp. We had just barely missed feeding time, but small bits of chum still churned through the water, interspersing with the bubbles produced by the smaller fish taking the leftovers of what the larger ones had left behind. We leaned against the railing and gazed at the aqua and green, dotted with multicolored coral and starfish that lined the rocks and floor.
“You know, this is the first successful kelp forest kept in captivity.” I parroted a lesson I remembered from attending a feeding many
years prior.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Most aquariums haven’t been able to pull it off. Not enough natural light. This one is also the largest.”
“I wonder why that is.”
“If you look up, you can see the sun. It’s actually open air and fed by real sea water, so they don’t have to worry about getting the kelp enough light or minerals from the ocean.”
“That’s incredible.”
The otters flipped and dove, putting on a show for everyone pressed against the glass. The penguins jumped, honked, and splashed, although, unlike the otters, the presence of humans had little to no effect on their daily behaviors. The manta pool waters were just as cold as I remembered, but this time, my arms were just long enough to graze the smooth back of one as it flipped its fin around the edge of the enclosure. When we passed under the hanging whale skeleton and casts of whales, poor Ethan reminded me of his fear of whales and of the vastness of the ocean, so we decided to spend a portion of time in the more tangible area of the aquarium.
At the touch tank, I showed Ethan how to place his finger on a sea urchin, causing it to enclose around it while it mistook it for food, and where to touch a sea cucumber so it would be softest. We giggled at each other as the legs of the hermit crab tickled our palms. We spent a while in the international portion of the aquarium, mostly just to see if we could successfully identify and name each of the fish that appeared in the Pixar film Finding Nemo. I showed him all the games that I was never able to play enough of as a child that taught what animals lie beneath the rock layer and how to eat seafood without harming ocean populations. We tried to identify objects in the trash sculptures lining the walkways that had been made of materials found at the beach as we overheard volunteers discuss the need for conservation and proper waste removal.
The main event of the aquarium, like always, was the open ocean display. Upon entering the exhibit, we were immediately captured by the revolving halo of anchovies, endlessly swimming in the same circle throughout their lives, perfectly content to never travel anywhere as long as they find their safety in one another. The blue glow that punctuated the overall darkness drew us towards the massive glass tank that housed some of the great wonders of the oceanic world; however, I wished to save that for last as a sort of “grand finale” of our day. We stopped at the jelly exhibit for a while, discussing their aimless beauty, especially transfixed by the bioluminescent ones, who, despite
having no real evolutionary reason to, had one day just begun to glow.
When we had finally seen everything we wished to, we made our last visit to the massive display that had captured me so entirely as a child. Despite all the years of growing I had done in the time I was away, the effect was exactly the same. A sea turtle glided by, its slow-motion paddles hurling it through the endless expanse of cobalt as a shark soon took its place. Smaller fish dotted by, quickly broken through by a larger one. Suddenly, I was once again so incredibly small. The vastness of the ocean—a microcosm of it contained in this one tank—reminded me just how truly large everything is. How could I comprehend the entirety of the world when I still couldn’t understand how I was about three feet taller and still eclipsed by the same exact sunfish? Am I nothing?
I felt a hand grab mine and turned to see Ethan, staring up at that same sunfish. “Sunfish are weird, huh?” He asked, not breaking his gaze from the tank.
“Yeah, no kidding.” We both stood there for a while, hand in hand, bathed in blue.
Fin
Walker Smith
Living Through Windows
Amanda Fagan
Call me on a summer day
Just to sit and watch you play
On the outside, looking in I watched four lives begin again
Like branches woven, intertwined
I swore you’d stand the test of time
A family not born of blood
Was capable of deeper love
Looking through a perfect square I witnessed something beyond rare
Their laughter echoes in my mind I knew they’d stand the test of time
The lines of friend and kinship blurred I knew there was no other word
That could describe the world I found
The kind of love that was profound
I watched them through my window pane I swore it was more than a game
Their lives meant so much more to me I had surpassed all normalcy
But one day only three were there
Sitting in the summer air
One was sitting underground
Sleeping deep without a sound
The second one fell out of line
And almost touched his hands with mine
I almost fell out off of my post
His soul was icier than ghosts
He turned to strangle one and three
And something died inside of me I thought they’d stand the test of time
I found my life was intertwined
I couldn’t leave so easily
I knew it’d never break off clean And so I took my jagged branch And swung it through the window glass
The Stranger Rylee Orr
“Be careful, Amy!”
I smiled, balancing two hot to-go coffees in each hand. The man at the counter had ordered four Americanos by himself. I wasn’t sure if three of them were for some friends or if they were all for him. He looked very tired.
My smile widened when I set all four of the coffees down without spilling a drop.
“You’re getting pretty good at this barista stuff,” my manager, David, noted. “I appreciate you being so willing to pick up Lydia’s shifts for her this week.”
“No problem!” I said, rinsing off one of the milk frothing pitchers in the sink. Besides my manager, Lydia was my favorite co-worker.
My first day on the job had only been a week ago, but it already felt like I’d known her for a while. I was happy to help her... and get some extra money in the process. College wasn’t going to pay for itself.
“And you’re sure you’re comfortable working by yourself for the next two days?” my manager asked.
“I’m one-hundred percent sure,” I promised.
Despite being right across from the beach, the coffee shop never really got too busy. Plus, it would be a fun challenge.The ring of the bell announced another customer arriving: a tall blonde boy with tanned skin and wavy hair. He looked like he’d just spend time surfing or playing beach volleyball or something. He grinned at me, and I stared back like an idiot, all traces of confidence gone in the wake of his presence.
“Levi!” David greeted the customer.
Levi’s smile widened. “Hey, David! How’ve you been?”
“Same old same old... just running a coffee shop.” The two gave each other a fist bump.
“Hey, I need to grab something from the back real quick. Amy can take your order.”
I dropped the pitcher back in the sink as David vanished into the back room, leaving me alone with this boy.
“Hey!” Levi said, as if sensing my awkwardness and trying to help me out. “So you’re new here right?”
Ugh... this was so embarrassing.
“Um... yeah.” I moved to the counter and became very interested in staring at the order options on the point of sale tablet. His eyes were green... or maybe hazel... and they were staring directly down at me.
“What can I get for you?”
Why was I so bad at talking to cute boys? It was my greatest weakness.
Levi crossed his arms and stared up at the menu, still grinning widely.
“Hm... I’m not sure. I usually get the maple latte. That one’s pretty good. Especially with oat milk.”
“Oat milk makes everything better,” I agreed.
“Great minds think alike,” Levi said, winking.
My cheeks grew warm. “So do you want the maple latte, then?”
“I think I might try something new today.” He stared back up at the menu.
“What do you like to get?” he asked.
Think, Amy. Think. “Um... I like lattes a lot. The maple one... but also the caramel or cinnamon one. I also like our cappuccinos, if you’re into that. We also have bagels, if you want food. Food is good.”
I was officially making myself cringe.
“I’ll have a large cappuccino with oat milk, then,” Levi grinned at me again.
I fumbled to select his order.
“Cool shirt, by the way,” he said as I charged him seven dollars. “You like the Red Hot Chili Peppers?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I like all kinds of music, really. Except maybe country music. I can’t stand the songs... they all sound the same to me. I mean... no offense if you like country music...”
“Hey... I’m actually a country singer,” Levi said, his smile fading.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Country music’s great! It’s just not my thing. I didn’t mean to—”
Levi laughed. “Sorry, I’m just messing with you! I actually don’t like it either.”
I let out a sigh. “You scared me. I totally thought I offended you.”
“Nope!” Levi tapped the screen, leaving me an impressively high tip. I tried hard not to read too much into that. “I am a singer, though. I’m in a band. We play mostly alternative rock songs, though.”
“That’s really cool.” I began measuring out the espresso, taking extra care to pay attention to what I was doing so I didn’t further embarrass myself. The last thing I wanted was to make him the worst cappuccino he’d ever had.
I expected him to take a seat somewhere and wait for his order to be done, but he just moved to the pickup side of the counter, leaned over, and began chatting with me as I made the drink.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” he commented. “David said you’re new?”
It was the same question he’d already asked me, which meant he was probably just trying to get a conversation going. Again, I tried not to read too much into that, but I wasn’t as successful this time. Just relax, I told myself as my heart accelerated. Do your job.
“Yeah, it’s my second week here.” I began frothing the oatmilk. “I don’t normally work at this time, but I’m filling in for my coworker. She’s out of town.”
“And where did you work before?”
“Actually, I just finished my first year of college,” I said. “I’m back home for the summer, so I’m trying to work as many hours as I can to pay off that tuition.”
“Wow, that’s sick! I’m actually back home from school this summer too! I’m at community college right now, but I want to transfer after next year. I’d really like to major in business.”
I poured the milk into the espresso, trying to make a bit of latte art. I wasn’t too good at it yet, though. The leaf I’d been trying to make looked a bit more like a squashed caterpillar.
I handed him the cappuccino and watched as he took a sip.
“That’s probably the best cappuccino I’ve ever had,” he said, grinning at me. When had a guy like that ever smiled at me before? Or even noticed me at all? Never, as far as I could remember.
I managed to smile back.
We chatted for a few more minutes as the people in the coffee shop began to gather their things and leave before closing. Levi began to go into detail about his plans after college. I couldn’t believe this guy was real. He was talking to me like he’dknown me his entire life.
“I want to open a coffee shop, just like this one,” Levi said, glancing around the place as if it was already his. “I like the idea of it, you know? It’s fun to make coffee... and it’s fun to talk to people... and when you’re running a coffee shop you kind of get to do both. ”
I imagined myself opening the shop with him, building it together from the ground up... rhen stopped myself. We were barely
having one conversation, and already I was envisioning some kind of future with him? Talk about a hopeless romantic. It was probably all the rom-coms I watched.
“What about you?” he went on.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want to do after college?”
“I want to become a writer.”
Levi looked impressed. “Wow! Like what kind of a writer?”
“I want to write a novel,” I said. “Something fictional... fantasy, most likely.”
He looked genuinely interested in what I had to say, so I kept going.
“I’m working on a book right now, actually.” I leaned a bit over the counter. “It’s a fantasy novel about a war between dragons and humans.”
I went on to give him a synopsis, outlining every single chapter that I had written so far, and some of the things I planned to add in. I told him about my favorite characters, how I planned for it to be a trilogy, and how I needed to find people who were willing to read the draft before I sent it to publishing companies.I realized once I was finished that I probably sounded a bit strange. But Levi didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he still seemed impressed.
“I’d read that for sure,” he said.
My cheeks grew warm again.
“Hey, Amy,” David called from the back. “Can you help me put this stuff away? I had to do a lot of digging back here to find what I was looking for and now it’s a mess.”
“Duty calls,” I said, shrugging. I was surprised by how at ease I felt all of a sudden; like I was just hanging out with a friend I’d known for years.
Just a friend, I reminded myself. Nothing more. You don’t even know him...
“I’ll be out here,” Levi promised. “Do what you gotta do.”
He was going to wait for me?
It took much longer than I wanted to clean up the back room, and even longer to complete all the closing tasks for the day. Yet all the while, Levi sat at one of the tables, scrolling on his phone and sipping the coffee I’d made him. I had to remind myself to stop staring at him every few seconds.
“You’re good to go,” David finally announced, after what felt like hours.
I nodded, grabbed my bag from a shelf behind the counter, and
headed out the door.
“I’m gonna take off too, David,” I heard Levi say from behind me.
“I’ll see you around.”
“See you later, man! Always nice to have you around.”
I kept walking, sure that it was just a coincidence that Levi was leaving at the same time I was. Then I heard the coffee shop door close behind him and his footsteps behind me, and my heart skipped a beat.
“Hey, Amy!” he called. I turned, surprised by how close he was. Unsurprisingly, he was smiling.
“I was just thinking...” he looked like he was struggling with the right words to say, “that you seem really cool. Can I get your number?”
“Sure!” I said, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. I probably should have played hard to get... that’s what some of my friends always told me to do.
We typed each other’s numbers into our phones, my hand shaking a bit the whole time. I kept wondering if this whole thing was a dream or something, then reminding myself that, writer or not, I never could have imagined this. Guys like him didn’t go after girls like me.
“Cool! I’ll text you later tonight,” Levi promised. “It was really great to meet you.”
The look on his face as he said that followed me the whole way home. It stayed in my mind as I climbed into my bedroom that night, listening as my parents argued in their bedroom downstairs. It brought a smile to my face, which only widened when my phone buzzed at 9:37pm.
hey this is levi! it was super great to meet you, and i can’t wait to see you again. are you working again tomorrow?
I typed out a quick “yes” and sent it.
He got back to me right away.
great! i’ll be there!
I sent a response, set my phone on my nightstand, and lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly I was looking way more forward to work than I normally did.
. . .
The next morning, I half-expected him not to show up. I mentally prepared for it as I got ready, and as I made the drive to the coffee shop. The beach looked even more beautiful than it normally did, which actually added to my worries. With the sky a brilliant baby blue and the clear ocean beneath it, I figured he’d probably want to be
out near the water, soaking up the sun.
I didn’t remember until I got to the coffee shop that I would be working alone for the next few days. If Levi didn’t show up, I’d be extra lonely.
Yet sure enough—just ten minutes after I took my first order— he was there, smiling even more widely than he had the day before.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Can I make you a coffee?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You can’t steal my job! I’m supposed to make you a coffee.”
“Sure, and while you’re doing that I’ll make one for you.”
Levi made his way behind the counter to stand next to me.
“David lets me do it all the time. I’m practically an expert!”
“I’m pretty sure it’s not allowed,” I said.
”Who’s gonna stop us?” he declared. “The customers? For all they know, I could work here too. In fact...”
He grabbed David’s apron and put it on.
“I’ll help you,” he offered, pointing to the nametag. “See? I’m David now.”
I laughed. “You’re insane.”
“I try. Now let’s make some drinks!”
Sure enough, a line had begun to form. I took point of sale, while Levi took care of making the drinks. He was insanely good at it; and fast too. He could make three coffees in the time it took me to make one.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’re that great at this,” I told him, “since you’re trying to become a professional coffee-maker and all.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Levi acknowledged, pouring steamed milk in the espresso and making a swan out of the froth. It looked just like the one Lydia had tried to teach me to make.
“Do you work at a coffee shop too?” I asked.
“Nope... I just come here all the time! I started visiting my friend who works here, and now I just know everyone. They’ve taught me all the tricks of the trade.” He handed me the cup.
“One maple latte for you! You like that one, right?”
“Thank you,” I said, blushing again. I took a sip. “It’s really good.”
Levi’s smile widened.
“I guess I owe you a drink now too, huh?” I said. “What do you want?”
“I’m good,” Levi promised. “I’m just having fun.”
“Me too.”
I desperately wanted to ask him what his intentions were behind all this. Was he trying to be my friend? Was he going to ask me out? He’d already had a perfect opportunity to ask me on a date yesterday, when he’d asked for my number, so maybe not. My heart sank at the thought. Maybe, I was just misreading the whole situation.
If Levi noticed my mood shift, he didn’t comment on it. We talked the whole time as we worked, which eventually allowed me to relax a bit. He showed me how to make a latte art swan like he’d done, and we talked about ourselves, sharing our stories.
I told him about how my family had moved my younger brother and I to Newport Beach, CA from Boise, ID halfway through my senior year of high school, and how I went the rest of high school not having any real friends until I went off to college. I told him about the heavy workload required to be an English major at the local university, but how fun the homework assignments were and how it was all worth it.
I told him about my parents, how they fought all the time, and how they were in the process of getting a divorce.
Levi told me a lot about himself too. He told me about how his dad had passed away of cancer when he was eleven; how it was just him, his mom, and his older brother at home; and how he hoped to find a summer job that paid better than the surf lessons he taught. He told me more about his dream to open a coffee shop.
Mostly, though, he just listened to me as I talked. I wasn’t sure I’d ever had someone pay this close attention to me before. It made me want to ask him out—just make the first move—but I remembered how my friends told me it’s better if the guy does the asking-out.
I didn’t ask a single question about it, even when we both closed up shop together. I did ask, though, if he wanted me to repay him somehow for helping me work an eight hour shift.
Levi shook his head. “Nope. It was just fun to hang out with you!”
My resolve to ask him out myself almost crumbled, but I decided I’d wait a few more days to let him make the first move. If he didn’t though, I would.
“See you tomorrow?” he suggested as we headed back to our cars.
“You’ll be back?” I asked.
“Will you be?”
“Yeah, I work tomorrow.”
“Then yup, I’ll see you tomorrow!”
I was still blushing as I drove home. . . .
The next day was the same. Levi stayed behind the counter helping me the entire time.During the slower hours, when barely anyone was there, he pulled a deck of cards out of his bag so we could play games. I ended up nailing the latte art he taught me almost perfectly— at least, that’s what Levi said. To me, the swan definitely looked more like a squashed pumpkin.
“Just stop pouring the milk before the cup overflows next time, and you should be fine,” he joked.
I grabbed a towel to mop up the mess on the floor. “Next time don’t bump my elbow when I’m trying to work, then.”
“It was an accident... I swear!”
“Prove it.”
“You don’t trust me?” he shook his head. “That hurts.”
“I don’t trust anyone who thinks almond milk is the easiest milk to froth.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope.”
I was astonished by how comfortable I’d gotten around him in such a short period of time. Had I really only known him for a few days? It felt like we’d been friends for years... which was an accomplishment for someone like me. It’s not like I was the best at opening up to people.
It was him. He just had a presence about him that immediately made me feel comfortable. Maybe, it was how talkative he was; that certainly put less pressure on myself to keep the conversation going. More than that, it was probably the fact that he paid more attention to me than anyone I’d ever known.
Still, at the same time, I found myself getting more and more anxious as the day went on. What was he doing? Were we even on the same page?
I waited for him to say something—anything—that would clue me into his intentions, but the questions were still unanswered as we both left our third day of working together.
. . .
After two more days of the two of us working alone together, I decided I was done trying to figure this out. I just needed to be direct. Too bad I had no experience in anything like this. It would probably be painful and awkward—and I was certain it would end in rejection—but what else could I do? I couldn’t go on like this.
It was Friday, and the weather outside was perfect. I kept star-
ing out at the waves, trying to rehearse in my mind what I was going to say, but nothing sounded right even in my head. Levi kept asking me what was wrong, and I kept lying and saying “nothing.”
It was the longest shift I’d ever worked.
We finally finished our closing tasks and locked up the coffee shop at around seven in the evening. The sun was starting to go down over the ocean; the perfect romantic setting, if there really was something romantic between us.
I took a deep breath.
“Do you want to walk along the beach with me?” I asked him.
Levi gave me his widest smile yet, and my heart skipped a beat.
“Sure!”
We started off on the sand, and for a while it was just Levi talking. I tried to pay attention, but mostly I was just working up the courage to ask him what I knew would change everything.
“Hey, are you okay?” Levi finally asked.
“I’m fine,” I said.
It came out a little too harshly, and he definitely noticed. “Did I do something, or—?”
“No, it’s fine. You’re fine. More than fine... you’re great. I’m just...” I wasn’t even sure where I was going with that sentence.
“You’re just what?” Levi pressed. “Come on. You can talk to me.”
“I just... I don’t know what I’m doing, or what we’re doing, or what this is!” I blurted out. “I’ve never been in a relationship. The last guy that I had a crush on was in sophomore year
of high school, and he called me ugly... to my face. I’m not used to someone flirting with me, or giving me attention, or telling me they actually enjoy spending time with me. And you seem like the type of guy who has a lot of options dating-wise, so I just don’t get it.”
“I—”
“Please... just listen,” I begged. “I’m just saying... I’m new to this. I don’t get how it works. I don’t know how long guys normally wait before telling girls they like them. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to be even saying this, as the girl. Like am I supposed to wait for you? I seriously don’t know.”
“Amy.” Levi’s expression was impossible to read. He was smiling, but that probably didn’t mean anything. He smiled all the time.
“Amy,” he said again. “You seriously need to chill. You’re an amazing person, and any guy would be lucky to date you.”
The words washed over me, filling me with warmth. It was unlike any compliment I’d ever received, and it gave me the courage to say what I’d been too terrified to admit before.
“I like you,” I blurted out. “Not just as a friend. More than that. And I guess I want to know... if you feel the same.”
He stopped in his tracks, and for a second I wanted to backpedal. Then he took my hand.
I stared up at him, fumbling for something to say to fill the silence. I couldn’t think of anything.
“Don’t worry about that yet,” he whispered. “Let’s just take things slow. We’ll see.”
That wasn’t what I’d expected.
“You say that like... you’re not sure yet,” I whispered.
Levi didn’t answer. He just stared out into the sunset for a while. His hand still grasped mine, but loosely.
I stared out into the ocean with him, my heart pounding out of my chest. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. That easy comfort I’d felt around him was gone now. We just stood in silence.
“Let’s head back,” he said after a while, letting go. I was both relieved and disappointed.
It wasn’t until I was driving home, replaying the conversation in my head, that I began to think it might have been a rejection. I kept going back and forth about it in my mind, even as I drifted off to sleep later that night.
He didn’t say no, I kept reminding myself.
Still, he hadn’t said “yes” either.
. . .
The next morning was Friday, which meant I didn’t have to cover Lydia’s shift anymore.
Still, I was too nervous to sleep in.
I opened my phone to find one text from Lydia, and one from Levi.
I read Levi’s first. hey, i’m not gonna be at the coffee shop today. i’ll let you know if i’m free to hang out any time soon.
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as I read those words. I tried not to overanalyze it—or to search for hidden meaning behind every letter, comma, and period—but it was impossible.
I opened Lydia’s message to distract myself.
Heyyyyy girl!!! I’m back in town! Wanna come by while I’m working? I’ll make u a free maple latte!
Spending time at the coffee shop would probably make me think about him too much, but I couldn’t think of a better way to distract myself. Plus, it would be great to see Lydia again.
I got ready as quickly as I could and headed down to the shop. As always, Lydia greeted me with her warm smile as soon as I walked through the door. It wasn’t quite as great as seeing his smile, but it still cheered me up quite a bit.
Not enough apparently.
“Amy, are you okay?” Lydia asked.
“I’m fine. Just... well...” I hesitated. “You have a boyfriend, right?”
“Yeah, why?” Lydia lowered her voice. “If you need any advice, I’ve got you. My boyfriend and I have been through more stuff than I care to keep track of.”
I thought about confiding in her, but it didn’t feel like the right time. It was too fresh... and plus, I didn’t even know if I was supposed to be upset. He hadn’t technically rejected me.
“I guess I was just... wondering how the two of you are doing,” I said instead. “I’ve never been in a relationship, so I like to hear about other people’s.”
That last part, unfortunately, wasn’t a lie.
Lydia smiled. “We’ve been doing really great lately. We’ve had our rocky periods, but things have been so much better lately, and I—”
The ring of the bell interrupted her.
“Speaking of which!” Lydia observed, nodding towards the door. “That’s him!”
It was Levi.
In an instant, it felt like all the air had been stolen from my lungs. He froze as our eyes met, but not a single hint of emotion on his face betrayed him.
“Hey, babe!” Lydia greeted him, moving to stand beside him and giving him a quick kiss.
I was going to be sick.
“Amy, this is Levi,” Lydia said. “Levi, this is Amy. She’s new here, but she’s my favorite co-worker for sure!” She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell anyone I said that, though.”
I half-expected Levi to acknowledge the fact that we’d met before, but he said absolutely nothing. He just nodded in my direction. There was no trace of that smile I loved now.
“Um... I think I forgot something in my car.” I was dangerously close to losing it in the middle of the cafe.
“I’ll be right back.”
Lydia frowned. “Are you okay? You look really pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’ll be right back.”
The way out the door and back to my car was completely blurry, obscured by the tears pooling in my eyes. My chest heaved as I made it to my car and leaned against the door. I kept trying to take deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth—a tactic my therapist had taught me—but it did nothing to stop the wave of emotion crashing over me.
He was dating someone else. He was dating my friend. He was dating Lydia.
The injustice of it swelled inside of me. How could he do this? How could he have led me on... openly flirted with me...talked about “taking things slow”... asked for my number... while already dating one of the sweetest girls I’d ever met?
“Hey.”
I blinked the tears out of my eyes to find him standing there, staring down at me. The emotionless mask was gone, replaced by... what? Fear? Regret? Sadness? Anger? I couldn’t tell.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I told him, my voice coming out all hoarse.
“Well, I want to talk to you.”
“Yeah? Too bad. That whole exchange back there said enough.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t say a single word.”
I laughed—a cold, angry laugh—as the tears spilled down my face. “You’re a jerk.”
“Why?”
I took a step closer to him and was slightly proud when he took a step back.
“I gave you the chance to reject me. I made it pretty clear how I felt about you. And this whole time—”
Nope. I couldn’t do this. If I kept talking about it, I would start crying hysterically, and I wouldn’t be able to stop.
It was too late, though. I stared at the ground as the tears flowed freely and sobs racked my body.
Then I felt Levi’s arms wrap around me.
I jerked out of his grip. “Get away from me.”
“I’m trying to—”
“You have a girlfriend.” I violently brushed a tear off my cheek. “What is wrong with you? Are you trying to date both of us at the same time or something?”
“I can explain—”
“Are you serious?” I snapped, stepping up to him again. Once again, he took a step back.
“How could you do that!?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Yeah, because I’m not a jerk!”
“Just listen!” Levi pleaded. “It’s complicated.”
“You were willing to cheat on your girlfriend. Seems pretty uncomplicated to me!”
“I wouldn’t have done anything!”
“Ever heard of emotionally cheating? It’s a thing!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Levi said. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”
“Fine!” I snapped.
We stood there in silence for a moment. Levi stared down at me, his face a complicated array of emotions.
I waited. I wasn’t sure what for.
“Look, I don’t love her anymore!” he finally blurted out. “I’ve tried, but I’m sick and tired of it! But I don’t want to be alone! You can understand that! I can tell how desperately you want someone like me!”
“So, what? Your plan was to find another girlfriend before breaking up with Lydia?”
His silence was an answer in itself.
I laughed again—even more cold and slightly hysterical.
“You’re a jerk.”
“What else was I supposed to do?!”
I laughed harder. “You’re serious?”
“Amy—”
“I’m leaving,” I said. I couldn’t even tell if I was crying anymore. This whole thing felt unreal.
“Amy... please. I love you.”
I choked. The first time a boy had ever said those three words to me, and it was for this?
“You don’t love me. You don’t even know me,” I sobbed.
And I didn’t know him either. I never had. I got in the car, started the engine, and swung out of the parking space without bothering to see if he was out of the way.
“Are you going to tell her?” I heard him yell. I slammed on my brake and rolled down my window.
“If you don’t, I will.”
I rolled my window up and sped off, leaving that stranger behind me.
Echoes From the Margins
Echoes of the Mind
Emily Hon
The People We Became Cohen Swift
Sicaru Nadia Sosa
A museum in New York City. Evening. Right before closing.
A girl, JOHANNA, sits on a bench, viewing a painting in a museum in New York. MANUEL, security guard enters.
He taps her on the shoulder.
MANUEL
Excuse me, ma’am?
She looks up.
Yes?
JOHANNA
MANUEL
I wanted to let you know that the museum will be closing in 20 minutes.
JOHANNA
Okay, thank you...Manuel.
He looks down at his name tag, smiles, and steps away, watching the showroom from a corner.
JOHANNA turns to look at him.
JOHANNA
What do you think of this one?
MANUEL
One of my favorites. You like it?
JOHANNA
Very much, but I can’t figure it out.
MANUEL
You been here long?
JOHANNA
Almost all day. I came yesterday and the day before too.
MANUEL
I’ve worked here 15 years, I was like you too, at first. Now, I see more.
What is it?
Oh, it’s not that easy.
JOHANNA
MANUEL
JOHANNA
Come on, I’ve been here almost all day! Just a hint?
MANUEL
What do you see?
JOHANNA
Honestly? It’s just a mess of colors.
MANUEL
Then it’s just a mess of colors.
JOHANNA
I guess if I squint it could maybe be a whirlpool or something? But there’s no blue here, so it can’t be in the ocean.
MANUEL stands in the corner silently.
JOHANNA
What do you see?
MANUEL
It took me a long time to decide that. I would spend all night in this corner, staring, wondering. Sometimes I saw faces crying, suffering. But the next night they were smiling and weeping. For some years I saw a rainbow behind a tree.
JOHANNA tilts her head, looking at the painting.
I can’t see any of that.
What do you feel?
JOHANNA
MANUEL
JOHANNA
I don’t know. I feel something, but I can’t place it. I’m not happy, but I’m not sad. Do you understand me, Manuel?
MANUEL
I felt like you when I saw it for the first time. It was my first night on the job. I never saw anything like it before. I didn’t know how to feel.
JOHANNA
How old were you?
22.
I’m 22 now.
MANUEL smiles.
MANUEL
JOHANNA
MANUEL
That one has kept me here all this time. Standing in this corner, making sure nothing happens to it.
JOHANNA
You seem to really appreciate it.
MANUEL
I do. I appreciate art.
JOHANNA
I like it too. I study music here, I’m a cellist.
MANUEL
An artist.
JOHANNA
Chuckles
I guess you could say that. Did you study art? Manuel looks down and shakes his head.
MANUEL
No studying. I painted for many years in my country.
JOHANNA
Why did you stop?
MANUEL
I haven’t. I brought my country with me when I came here. My paintings made the journey. I couldn’t study, I was working. But I learned. This one taught me what I know.
He points at the painting.The two are silent for some time. Then, JOHANNA abruptly speaks.
JOHANNA
If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?
MANUEL
Mexico. I come from a small village in Oaxaca. Arrazola.
JOHANNA
Do you ever miss it?
MANUEL
I do, everyday. But this one reminds me of home.
MANUEL points at the painting.
MANUEL
The colors are in my Oaxaca. The leaves on the trees are bright like the green, and they stay that way. During Día De Los Muertos, we painted Alebrijes with all the same colors and set them on our ofrendas. The colors guide our ancestors. The same ones called me here. Sometimes I pretend I’m back in Arrazole, painting my mother’s alebrije, and that helps me get throughthis graveyard shift.
JOHANNA
I understand. My mom is from Morelia.
MANUEL
Ah, Michoacán.
JOHANNA
Yep. I used to spend most of my summers there, but now that I live in the city, I don’t get back as much as I’d like. I know if I miss it, my mom must long for her home. My dad was from Morelia too. He never got the chance to visit home, but he’s resting there now.
MANUEL
My soul is in Oaxaca now, too. A soul never leaves its home, even if it’s miles away. No border can keep it away. See?
He walks over and points at the harsh line in the midst of the watercolor.
JOHANNA
I think I can see it. It’s the tree.
MANUEL
It could be.
JOHANNA
And the rainbow’s behind it, just like you said, Manuel. It looks like a sunset behind the rainbow.
MANUEL
You see how the colors blur together? The harsh line can’t keep them apart. The rainbow, the sun, the tree, that’s like the soul and its home, that’s love. Nothing so dark and strong can keep it from blurring a line.
JOHANNA
It’s like time too then, right? The tree is dark, aged. But time still couldn’t take its beauty. The colors still surround it.
MANUEL
Time too. It circles around itself, like the rainbow behind the tree.
JOHANNA
I still can’t see the faces. She tilts her head.
MANUEL
You can’t see what you don’t feel. This one is like a mirror. It shows you who you are, what you feel.
JOHANNA
When you saw faces, you saw suffering.
MANUEL
That’s what I felt. I didn’t see the colors blending together, I saw them melting into each other, without resistance, with no fight left.
The two become silent, staring at the painting.
JOHANNA
What do you think it means? Do you think it’s about beauty or love?
MANUEL
I think there’s more to it than that.
JOHANNA
Maybe it’s about humanity.
MANUEL Maybe.
They become silent again. MANUEL walks over to the bench and sits down next to Johanna. They gaze at the painting for a long time.
MANUEL
There is no beauty without love, and no love without beauty. There can be no fight against love, it melts everything, it blurs it all together.
Time fights against all of it.
JOHANNA
MANUEL
Only if you let it. Look at the rainbow behind the tree. What do you see?
JOHANNA stares, puzzled.
JOHANNA
I don’t know anymore. It’s like I forget what I can see once I look away.
MANUEL
Close your eyes.
JOHANNA closes her eyes.
MANUEL
Breathe. She breathes in, and out.
MANUEL
Now open them. What do you see?
JOHANNA A spiral?
He stands up and walks closer to the painting. He hovers over it, tracing his finger through the air.
MANUEL
Do you see how it circles itself?
JOHANNA
Yeah, it’s kinda like a dog chasing its own tail.
MANUEL
Exactly. It wants back what it had, but instead it creates it for itself. That’s the spiral, it continues with no end. It’s like love, no bounds or border can contain it, not even time. Time works like a spiral with love, it flows like a steady stream. Sicarú
JOHANNA Sicarú?
MANUEL Beautiful.
JOHANNA
That’s not Spanish, is it?
MANUEL
No, in my village we speak Zapotec. Spanish too.
JOHANNA
I always wanted to learn Zapotec. I speak Spanish and Purépecha.
MANUEL
Purépecha is a beautiful language.
JOHANNA
My parents used to speak in Purépecha to each other so I couldn’t understand, but I caught on. I asked my dad to teach me when he got sick, but I never learned enough to be fluent.
MANUEL
We taught my daughter Zapotec, but she’s forgotten most of it by now. Your dad must have been very happy to teach you his language.
JOHANNA
He was. He was always happy. I was angry. I thought time beat us in the battle, but I can see him here now, in the rainbow. Time keeps him here and guides him to his home land. He’s everywhere at once.
MANUEL
Now you see.
JOHANNA
And somewhere, maybe in Oaxaca, a child paints alebrijes
MANUEL
And he’ll come to study art in the city once he’s older.
JOHANNA
Just like you. You studied right here in this room.
MANUEL
Study and learning aren’t the same. I learned from the leaves in Oaxaca, and the creek too. I learned here by standing in the corner. I have lived the same life in both places; learning something by being nothing.
She stands up and walks over to him, they’re both centered in front of the painting. He smiles as he gazes at it.
Slowly, she turns to look at him, watching him gaze intently at the painting. Her voice is now a whisper.
Are we out of time, Manuel?
JOHANNA
He turns, looking at the clock.
MANUEL
There is still much to learn.
The lights shut off. The colors of the painting glow brighter. Johanna has exited the stage. MANUEL turns back to the paint-ing.
MANUEL Sicarú.
Brain on Fire Phatima Campa
End of Echoes From the Margins...
Boundless Becoming Emily Hon
Flesh and Blood or Bread and Wine?
Joseph Maalouf
Throughout world history, debates around church history and the proper Christian practices have been significant in many historical debates. Likewise, in many church topics, there are numerous theological discussions over many sacraments, texts, and Biblical interpretations. In church history, the Great Schism of 1054 was one major event that marked a key point in the life of the Church–between the Orthodox East and the Roman Catholic West. Many events like this have layered the foundation of the Church today. In the twenty-first century, disagreements from long ago have carried over to the present day. A prominent hot topic in this area is Communion. With many denominations and beliefs, Communion has been interpreted in various ways. Within the sacrament of Communion, there are debates over details and theological implications for the present day. Thus, a concrete understanding of this profound doctrine is needed for unity and enlightenment of the truth. Hence, this paper will explore the roots of Communion’s history regarding transubstantiation, what Communion and transubstantiation are, what is believed to be true about them, and the implications they hold for the modern Church in the twenty-first century.
The history of Communion and transubstantiation is significant in church history. The first recorded institution of Communion occurs in the synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke). For context, Communion has many names (Passover, Eucharist, The Last Supper, or The Lord’s Supper). No matter its name, Communion is the practice of honoring Jesus and His sacrificial death and atonement for the world’s sins, proclaiming the truth of His love, and remembering Christ serving as a suffering servant (Isaiah 53). This practice began a tradition that would spark one of the most famous sacraments still practiced in churches today. The Biblical accounts of Matthew, Mark, and Luke are all similar (cf. Mark 14:12-25 & Luke 22:7-20). Matthew’s is here for reference:
Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” And he took a cup, and when he had give thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you I will not drink again of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.” (Matthew 26:26-30)
This account of the Lord’s Supper will forever set the tone for how the modern church implements the sacrament of communion. It is also important to note that the accounts in the Gospels come from eyewitnesses, giving a narration of what is being spoken and done.
A separate account from the apostle Paul, who existed after Christ’s lifetime, gives the account in this way:
For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.’ For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes. (1 Corinthians 11:23-26)
This shows that both primary and secondary biblically historical sources approve of the accuracy of this tradition. Thus, the church does not err in partaking in this tradition from long ago. As a whole, the understanding of where Communion comes from is clearly stated in the Bible. However, transubstantiation is a belief that comes much later than the first century.
Transubstantiation, simply put, is a belief that the elements of bread and wine are Christ’s body and blood, respectively, in a literal sense. This belief comes from the Roman Catholic Church. It is stated in their catechism, by saying that, “the heart of the Eucharistic celebration [is] the bread and wine that, by the words of Christ and the invocation of the Holy Spirit, become Christ’s Body and Blood” (Catholic Church 1333). The substance of the bread and wine remains bread and wine before consecration, but after it is consecrated (blessed, or declared sacred) then the substance is believed to be turned from bread to flesh and from wine to blood. The logic behind this belief comes from the Aristotelian philosophy of substance and accidents. The substance refers to what makes up the object, while the accidents are the physical features. Therefore, in “the Eucharist, then, the substance of the bread and wine are changed into the body and blood of Christ, while the accidents remain the same” (Karr 2). Thus, according to transubstantiation, when the flesh and blood are eaten, they still taste like bread and wine, smell like bread and wine, look like bread and wine, and digest the same as bread and wine. A major supporting text that is used to back up transubstantiation is John 6:53, which says “Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” The Catholic belief takes this
verse and prescribes a literalist meaning when practicing Communion. The language that Paul uses, and from where the Catholic belief derives their belief of transubstantiation, is deemed more straightforward than figurative speech. For instance, when Paul talks about Christ’s body, Paul is saying that Jesus “meant that really and physically the bread is his body” and that “Christ was not merely saying that the bread was his body; he was decreeing that it should be so and that it is so” (Ripley 1). Thus, the heart of transubstantiation is a belief taken literally from Christ’s words and applied to every communion going forward.
How or why transubstantiation is an insisted-upon belief can be complex. Transubstantiation has a history that, if not understood, can be confusing concerning the discussion around bread and wine. There are many ambiguities regarding transubstantiation, making it hard to understand how the belief arose and where it came from. For instance, the “Catholic Church does not explain how transubstantiation takes place but affirms that it happens mysteriously, ‘in a way surpassing understanding’” (Fairchild 3). The divine presence of God in the flesh being the substance of the bread and wine is truly a miracle like no other. Colossians 1:17 says “He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” This verse shows how God is omnipresent. Interpreting this in the context of transubstantiation allows for the logical thought of Jesus’s flesh and blood being able to be the substance of the bread and wine.
From a broader perspective, the history of transubstantiation has developed on the slower side. The practice and belief of transubstantiation has been in place before there was an official written statement of belief about it. In other words, there “was more of a gradual development that then reached a decisive moment at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, where the teaching and belief were officially affirmed” (Karr 2). However, according to Karr, even as early as the second century, the belief that the bread and wine contained the substance of Jesus’s flesh and blood was already in motion.
Ever since transubstantiation was institutionalized, many alternative beliefs have arisen. One significant view has been the alteration of transubstantiation–consubstantiation. Consubstantiation was proposed by Martin Luther in the 15th century, thus representing the Lutheran point of view, which takes a middle ground in the transubstantiation debate. Luther “taught that Christ’s body and blood are substantially present alongside the bread and wine” (3). This is different from transubstantiation because, in transubstantiation, the substance is changed to flesh and blood. Still, in consubstantiation, the bread and wine remain bread and wine with the added presence of the body and
blood being with the communal elements, but not turning into flesh and blood itself. Another view that arose during the same time frame as Luther’s was from Huldrych Zwingli representing a not-so-literal view, saying “that the Lord’s Supper is symbolic and is solely a memorial of Christ’s work on the cross” (3). Most churches in the Protestant belief take this view. Most communal practices take Communion as a way of remembering, honoring, and respecting Jesus’s suffering, death, and salvation purchased by His resurrection. Nonetheless, scattered among many denominations, there is a slew of beliefs and views on Communion.
With all views considered, the modern church is left with many ideas on Communion. There are overlaps in agreements, but disagreements still exist. For instance, there is major agreement among Roman Catholics, Lutherans, Anglicans, and the Reformed that Christ is truly present in the Lord’s Supper (Sproul 3). Christ being present in the supper indicates that He is frequently repeating His sacrifice. This would not only go against transubstantiation, but also what the Bible teaches itself.
Overall, the history of Communion and transubstantiation in the eyes of the Catholic belief and the Protestant belief is interesting to see, the topics of Communion and whether or not transubstantiation is accurate is a whole debate in itself, and the debate existing still to this day without total agreement shows the depth of this sacrament. With all things considered, the majority belief in communion and transubstantiation is split between Catholics and Protestants, while some denominations take the middle ground. The Catholics believe a more literal application of Communion, while the Protestants believe a more figurative application. Their intention is often colliding because they can not see eye to eye over which interpretation is accurate. But in the end, the heart of both sides insists that their interpretation is correct, which is often misunderstood, and the fact that both sides are well-meaning must be noted. While it does seem that transubstantiation arises from an exterior source of including something that does not align with God’s character–eating flesh and drinking blood, the intention behind it is taking into account every detail. No matter what, both views must be tested against Scripture, prayed about, and sought after with God’s wisdom to preserve the heart of His glorious feast.
Works Cited
Catholic Church. Catechism of the Catholic Church. 2nd ed., Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2012.
Fairchild, Mary. “What Is the Meaning of Transubstantiation?” Learn Religions, Aug. 26, 2020, learnreligions.com/meaning-of-transubstantiation-700728. Accessed 3 April 2024.
Karr, Reid. “Transubstantiation: What Catholicism Teaches about the Supper.” Desiring God, 13 Sept. 2022, www.desiringgod.org/ articles/transubstantiation. Accessed 3 April 2024.
Ripley, Francis. “Transubstantiation for Beginners.” Catholic Answers, 2019, www.catholic.com/magazine/print-edition/transubstantiation-for-beginners. Accessed 3 April 2024.
Sproul, R. C. “The Battle for the Table.” Ligonier Ministries, www. ligonier.org/learn/articles/battle-table. Accessed 3 April 2024.
Location SkyFalls
Sarah Snow
True or False
Joshua Tribble
Mr. Mudd turned off the radio to cut out the laughter. The sick, maniacal, nonhuman laughter. The laughter that ruled his life. The laughter that ruled his wife’s life. Mr. Mudd looked at her in the passenger seat of their blue pickup. “I’m sorry,” he said. “At least we tried.”
Making a u-turn in the middle of the empty highway, they headed for their home. They headed for their prison. They headed for True or False.
Falling asleep at the wheel was the least of Everett’s problems. The ditch he drove into, however, was. He had borrowed the car only that morning, but there it was, totaled in a ditch off of Interstate 25 somewhere in the middle of New Mexico. He pushed the airbag away from his face, now fully awake, and felt for all his teeth. They were all there, which meant his blood pressure could lower. As he moved in his seat, he felt bruised but nothing seemed broken. A lot of things terrified Everett, but a broken bone, let alone a tooth, was enough to make him feel faint.
He unbuckled himself and exited the car. Staggering for a moment, he gained his footing and stared at it. The ancient, green El Camino was a steaming hunk of wreckage. How he had survived, Everett couldn’t guess. For that matter, how did he even fall asleep? Sure, he was insanely sleep deprived, but falling asleep at the wheel just wasn’t like him. Not that he’d ever had a chance to do it before.
Pulling his gaze from the wreck, he looked down the highway in one direction, and then the other. Not a soul in sight. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, the sun was nearing the western horizon.
[Who are you? What are you doing here, in the middle of nowhere?]
He didn’t know why his mind suddenly decided to talk with him; perhaps it was a side-effect of a near death experience. “I’m Everett Weber. I’m a journalist. I—I don’t know,” he thought.
[Why are you here?]
“I don’t know! It’s not like I tried to get here.”
[Are you sure?]
“Yes! All I want is to get to Tijuana! I didn’t ask for this mess!”
[All right then.]
Everett adjusted his glasses only for them to snap in half. “Oh great,” he thought. “Second pair this trip.” He sat back in the car, taking
a gamble that it wouldn’t explode with him in it.
As he sat there, he was reminded of the heat. His Vermont body was not built to endure such hell-like conditions. The heat didn’t relent even with the sun slipping towards the horizon, which seemed in character for the middle of August.
Reaching behind him, he grabbed his duffle bag and searched its contents, hoping that he somehow hadn’t left his phone at the last gas station. Computer, power cable, files, clothes, passport, wallet, but no phone. No chance of him calling his boss. But what would he even say? That he was stranded in the middle of New Mexico and nowhere near Tijuana, where he was supposed to arrive yesterday? No phone also meant no chance of calling for—
Suddenly, Everett heard, or at least imagined he heard, a vehicle approaching. He scrambled out of the car, looked south down the highway, and saw a blue pickup coming his way. Too relieved to know what he was doing, he jumped and waved his arms. Almost immediately, the truck slowed its speed despite being some distance away. Everett stopped, suddenly wondering if there was such a thing as modern desperados. With the way his luck was running, he might have just found some.
But as the passengers came into view, Everett laughed. Instead of two mustached bandits, it was an elderly man and his wife. Perfectly harmless. Or he assumed they’d be. As they slowly approached, both looked less than thrilled to stop.
After what felt like ages of awkward waiting, the pickup finally came to the wreck. The passenger window rolled down, revealing an elderly woman in the passenger seat who stared at him in fear.
The driver leaned from behind her and shouted, “Who are you?!”
“I—I—” Words fled his mind. “I’m sorry, I wrecked my car.”
The man narrowed his eyes and said, “Now did you?” Everett looked back at the car, then back at his potential rescuers.“Ye—yes. I seemed to have... fallen asleep at the wheel.” Even saying it sounded strange in his ears.
“Hm. Lucky you survived.” The way the man said it made Everett squirm.
“Yes.” Getting his wits about him, Everett said, “Could I trouble you for a lift to the nearest town?”
By the look on the woman’s face, he might as well have asked to put some radioactive metal in their truck. With a sigh and a heave, the man exited the truck, lumbered to Everett and slowly looked him over. Something in the man’s eyes seemed unsettling to Everett. He
got the feeling that there was a reason that he didn’t want to help him, beyond the inconvenience.
With another sigh, the man asked, “Got any stuff?”
Everett paled, a thousand meanings to the word stuff fired off in his head. Money, lug— “Bags. Do you got any bags?”
“Oh, yes!” Everett snapped to work and grabbed his duffle bag from the wreck. “This is all.”
“Good.” Before Everett could stop him, the man grabbed the bag and flung it into the truck-bed. “M’wife don’t like sittin’ in the middle, so that’s where you’re goin’. Where I can see you.”
As they walked around the car, the woman continued to stare at him. With more than a little hesitation, Everett climbed over the ripped leather of the driver’s seat to the tiny middle seat of the pickup, and found the woman’s face within inches of his.
“Oh. Hello.”
“That’s m’wife,” the man said as he climbed in, causing the already thin Everett to be squeezed between their larger bodies.
Aside from the strange odor that Everett presumed was coming from the other passengers, the truck stunk like wet dog hair and a long lost tuna salad sandwich hiding somewhere beneath the seats. The heat, smells, and claustrophobia all made Everett want to vomit everything he had eaten in the past week.
Shutting the door, the man said, “Now, I’ma say this nice and slow so you don’t get confused: Who are you, where are you from and why in blazes are you wreckin’ an El Camino in the middle of the desert?”
“Well it wasn’t my El Camino,” Everett said, becoming defensive. He then realized just how bad it sounded. “That doesn’t help my case, does it?”
“Nope.” With a rattle and lurch, the car heaved forward. “Get talkin’.”
And so Everett did. He talked about how he went to college for journalism and graduated with honors. About how as hard as he tried, none of the big papers would hire him. But then one day he finally got the job, and after two grueling years as an underling he was finally able to do a story. A story that required him to go to Tijuana. His job paid for him to fly there, but then the plane was forced to land because of bad weather. A bus, a train, and two Ubers later, he was able to buy a car from a guy for a hundred bucks. It was a beat up El Camino, but it was a car! Insanely sleep deprived and running on adrenaline, he sped the car down highway 25. But then, of course, the ditch happened. All this for Tijuana. But it wasn’t just Tijuana. If he got to Tijuana and
did good on his story, then his whole career could finally take off.
“You sure like to talk, son.”
Everett sighed, winded from his dissertation on his woes. “Not usually.”
“We don’t talk much where we’re from. So shut yer trap.”
Everett kept his composure, but he was beginning to really dislike these folks.
“Where are we headed anyways?”
“Tru’r Falss’”
“Truerr Falls. I didn’t imagine waterfalls in the desert.”
The man growled and said declaratively, “Not True’r Falls, True or False. True or False, New Mexico.”
“The town is called True or False...?”
The man glared down at him. “That an issue for you?”
“No, certainly not,” Everett said, striving to seem at ease. “It’s just very memorable, that’s all. Do you live there?”
“Yep. Longer than I’d’ve liked.”
Everett glanced at the woman, whose gaze of fear still had not left him. “I’m sorry. Pardon my rudeness, I never asked you names.”
“Mudd. And m’wife is Mrs. Mudd.”
“A pleasure to meet you both.” Everett had never told a bigger lie in his life.
The rest of their journey was spent in silence. By the time the sun slipped beneath the desert horizon, they were entering True or False.
Upon exiting the interstate, they were welcomed by a dilapidated sign that read, “Welcome to True or False, NM. Home of the World Famous UFO Landing of 1983.”
“Funny,” Everett remarked. “It says ‘world famous’, and yet I’ve never heard of it.”
Mr. Mudd released a singular, scoffing laugh. “And you called yourself a journalist.”
Few people were out; a woman walking her dog and a couple teens on bikes stopped their activities and stared at the pickup. Apparently True or False could smell when a stranger was in their midst. Everett was surprised, however, when he saw the town sported not one but three streetlights. It took getting past all three to reach their destination: a rundown motel with a neon sign that said, “Th- Bur-ow-ng Owl I-n.” Several of the letters were burnt out. Only one car was in the parking lot, and by the general look of things, not many people wished to burrow down in this motel.
Pulling into the spot nearest to the front office, Mr. Mudd got
out and opened the door for his wife. Intensifying her fearful glare one last time, she finally turned her head and exited the truck. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Everett felt like he could breathe.
He slipped out of the truck and retrieved his bag from the truck bed. When he turned around, Mrs. Mudd was already exiting the office with a key in hand. Resuming her stare on Everett, she handed the key to Mr. Mudd without a look to her husband.
“Room 13. Second floor. That’s yours.” Mr Mudd stuck the key out to Everett. He received it and attempted to smile, but he was too fatigued. As strange as they were, the Mudds gave him a room without him having to ask. He nodded to them in gratitude and went in search of his room.
Finding the stairs was harder than finding the room, but soon enough he stood in the room’s doorway and stared in. The walls were a ‘delightful’ tangerine, while the bed spread was a deeper shade of orange that clashed terribly with the walls. The brown carpet looked like it hadn’t been changed since the ‘80s, so he couldn’t guess what color it was actually supposed to be. But Everett didn’t care. It was a bed. He had never been more physically or emotionally beaten in his life, and a room with a bed and a shower was all he could ask for.
His first order of business would’ve been calling his office on the motel phone, but he knew they had already left, so he could wait until the morning. Throwing his bag on the floor he scrounged around the room for a towel and then made for the bathroom.
The moment he looked in the mirror, he nearly screamed, thinking he was seeing a stranger. He left Boston clean shaven and put together to a T. Now, his sand colored hair stuck in every direction, a beard was beginning to form, his plaid shirt was half unbuttoned, and his new glasses were split in half. Looking at his dejected state made all his stress hit him full force and caused him to vomit in the toilet. Once the few agonizing moments were past, he thought that he felt a little better than he had before.
The motel’s plumbing squealed and groaned as the shower’s water began to flow, but the water hitting his body made all his muscles ease.
“I was in a near-death car crash today,” he thought. “No wonder I feel terrible.”
[But remember,] the voice in his head said, [its all for Tijuana and what awaits you there.]
That internal voice was right. But something still wasn’t sitting right. The way he fell asleep just didn’t feel right. Something just didn’t make sense…
He could have stayed in the shower for several hours, but the thought of Mr. Mudd, or worse, Mrs Mudd, pounding on his door to stop wasting water made him finish.
Pulling on a pair of sweats, Everett collapsed into bed without a second thought. Not even bothering to get beneath the blanket, the last thing he saw was the bedside clock. 8:05.
[Get your rest. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.]
. . .
Two hours later, Mr. Mudd came into the small motel kitchen. His wife set their plates of food on the small table and both ate in silence. Once they finished, Mrs. Mudd took their plates and began to wash them. The entire time she refused to look her husband in the eye.
“I don’t think he’s a messenger,” said Mr. Mudd. “If he was sent to vaporize us for our...‘crime’, he’d have done it sooner.” At least that’s what the voice in his head said.
Mrs Mudd turned around, her eyes burning with fear and anger. “I’m not convinced. You heard what that thing said when it came on the radio. He thinks all this, our existence, is a game. This man is just the person it’d send to gain our trust before blowing this whole place up with a snap of his fingers!”
“What do you want me to do?” he said through gritted teeth, gripping the table edge.
“I... don’t know. If he isn’t just a messenger, is it right that we—”
“What?! The thought of his fate not sittin’ well with you?!” Mr Mudd grew red and slammed his fist on the table. “I could have left without you, you know! It’s because of you that I had to turn back when I finally had my get-out-of-jail card! And now that we finally have a chance set this whole place free, you’re scared?! It’s eatin’ my conscience too, but I can’t spend another day in this God-forsaken dust bowl.”
Mrs. Mudd bit her lip to hold back the tears that were escaping down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry. Do what you have to do.” Mr Mudd stood.
“I’m goin’ to bed.” As he turned to leave, he glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:05. . . .
Everett’s eyes snapped open. Something was wrong. Not daring to move, he swiveled his eyes around the room. Light was just barely seeping in through the windows. As his eyes fell on the clock, he saw the time: 8:05. Suddenly, he heard the zipper on his bag open. He didn’t know what possessed him, but Everett leapt from
the bed with a shout.
The figure by the bag toppled over in surprise. Instead of attacking, Everett ran for the light switch and flipped it on.
“Mr. Mudd?!” Everett said, his eyes meeting those of the intruder. “What are you doing?”
The old man glanced around him tentatively. Letting out a sigh, he said, “I’m looking through your stuff. I ain’t too dumb to deny that.”
“But why?” Mr Mudd staggered up.
“To be sure you’re not someone else.”
“But—” Everett knew he should be more concerned, but a senile old man was the least of his worries. If he hurried he might still be able to make it to Tijuana. “Whatever. What time is it? The clock’s broken.”
“Early. 5:45 I’d say. And all the clocks are like that.” Mr Mudd stared at Everett hard, but he didn’t notice.
Rubbing his eyes, Everett said, “Alright then. I need to get moving. Could I borrow your truck? I’d have it back in less than a week.”
“No.”
“What about someone else’s car I could borrow?”
Mr Mudd frowned. “No.”
“What about someone who might be willing to go to a city? And I could rent a car from there.”
His eyes narrowing, Mr Mudd said, “You seem awfully keen on leaving.”
“Did you hear nothing I said yesterday?” Everett said, on the brink of shouting. “Everything I’ve worked for for the past ten years is about to fall apart if I don’t get to Tijuana. This story is what will make my life finally start!”
“Most folk don’t leave True or False.”
Everett didn’t know what happened, or why it was then, but his final nerve snapped. “You don’t, no, you can’t possibly understand what’s at stake. You’ve lived the entirety of your miserable existence in this God-forsaken dust bowl with no hopes bigger than running a dump of a motel and driving a pickup truck that smells like tuna salad. I’ve wanted this all my life and I’m not gonna stop now.”
“No, Everett, you don’t get it. You think you and your big city smarts have it all figured out. But you don’t. Want something to flip your lid? I worked in a world class financial corporation in California once upon a time.
“I don’t–”
“Hush, I’m not finished. I had vacation time, and we going to Texas, but we had to stop here in ‘Nowheres-ville’ New Mexico because of a bad transmission. That was June, 1983.
The year 1983 rattled around in Everett’s head. Where had he heard it...?
“The year of the UFO landing?”
“The very day. We didn’t know what it was at first. Eventually we all thought it was a UFO. We called the feds but no one answered. They painted the sign so people would come off the highway but no one came. Ever. For all we knew the world had disappeared. As m’wife and I were heading out of town, going down the 25, we crashed. It was bad. Others tried to leave and it was the same. They all crashed into the invisible walls that had been made. Prison walls.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Everett said, scoffing. “What about all the other people who use the highway?”
Mudd diverted his eyes. “I don’t know. All I know is that you’re the first outsider I’ve seen in thirty years.”
Everett didn’t want to believe it, but a hollowness in the man’s eyes spoke volumes. Something about it seemed to ring true. And Everett didn’t like it. “But–what about you and your wife? You were coming from the same direction that I was. How did you get beyond your invisible walls?”
“The truck. He gave us that truck and allows one person to leave town every five years. I thought he wouldn’t notice if my wife snuck out too, but he did. Came on the radio and said he’d have us vaporized if we went any further, so we turned around. That’s when we found you.”
“But how does the truck get–”
“Stop trying to analyze this, Everett!” Mudd barked. “I’ve been trying for twenty years and I still can’t beat him.”
Everett suddenly felt a cold chill run over him. “Who’s he?”
“Come on,” Mudd said, his face hard. “We’re going to the crater.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Mudd pulled the pickup to the edge of a large crater just outside of town. Under other circumstances, Everett would have been terrified to get out of the car, but he was inclined to look at the crater to disprove Mr. Mudd’s wild theories. But as he exited the truck and came to the crater’s edge, he saw at its very center a small concrete pedestal and an orb that eerily glowed in the twilight. Leading the way, Mr Mudd descended into the crater with Everett close behind.
“Get behind me,” Mudd whispered.
The ground of the crater was gravely and slid beneath their feet. Slowly but surely they reached the bottom and were mere feet away from the orb. It was a milky, pale blue and hovered just above the pedestal.
Everett was about to comment on the tackiness of their little set up, when he heard a voice say,
[Well hello, Everett Weber. It’s about time you showed up.]
Stiffening, Everett whispered to Mudd, “Did—”
“That’s him.”
Everett felt the blood rush from his face. The voice was in his head.
[Ahahaha, charming isn’t it? I speak with all my subjects this way, so it’s nothing special.]
Raising his voice, Mudd said, “I brought you an outsider. You said only an outsider can free us, so here one is. What’s he gotta do?”
[You don’t think I know that, Raymond Mudd? I sensed him since he crash-landed in our little world. We got acquainted right away, didn’t we Everett?]
That was no existential voice he had heard after the crash. It was this... thing! This thing had been invading his mind ever since the crash.
“I said,” Mudd shouted, “what’s he gotta do?!”
[I wish you wouldn’t raise your voice so, Raymond. Hm, that’s better. Now, Everett Weber, I have a little proposition for you. See that truck up there? When we’re done with our little chat, if you get in the driver’s seat and you drive away from here, I can jump you forward to Tijuana so you get there by noon today. I can organize things just perfectly so you can do your story! And let me tell you, I think it’s gonna be a grea–]
“Shut up, ball!” Mudd screamed. “What if he doesn’t play your game? How can he set us all free?”
[Oh. Yes. There’s also that, Everett. If you choose not to drive away, and give me the keys instead, I’ll set the town free. Except for you.]
“What?!” Now it was Everett’s turn to shout. “Why?”
[Like any living creature, I crave connection and fear isolation. Simple as that, my friend. And the choice is that simple.]
Mr. Mudd turned around and glared at Everett, his face beet red with rage. “I won’t let you–”
[Oh no you don’t.]
Suddenly a bolt of lightning shot from the orb and struck Mudd in the back. The man convulsed for a hideous moment before
collapsing. All Everett could do was stare in horror while the orb laughed; a sick, maniacal, nonhuman laugh.
[Now that that distraction is out of the way, let me make my offer again. You go up to that truck and you get to drive away. But if you don’t, you’ll be spending the rest of your life alone in a God-forsaken dustbowl while this town of morons gets to live their lives any way they wish. That’s not fair, is it? You, who’s life is so full of potential, being wasted.]
[You can forget all about this little in your journey. Just get in the car, and I’ll wipe away this little mishap from your memory, so there’s no chance of any guilty conscience. I can even make sure that your bags get in the car; new glasses, new phone. Trust me. Just get in the car and go on your way. I’ll take care of them. So... what will it be?]
. . .
Everett sighed with relief, finally past the Mexico border. After all his trials, he was finally in Tijuana. And it was just past noon. Couple days earlier than he had expected in light of all the delays. He didn’t get how he got there so fast, but he had somehow!
As excited and relieved as he was, a dream he had the night before was itching his brain. Something about a crater. And mud. A lot of mud. He also thought he borrowed a green El Camino, but now he was driving a blue pickup.
“Oh well, he thought. “No big deal.” He was off to conduct his interview, to write his story, to start of his life.
Mr. Mudd limped across the motel parking lot for the front office as the sun breached the horizon. By the door stood Mrs. Mudd. As their eyes met, Mr Mudd shook his head.
Coming to meet him, Mrs Mudd took her husband’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “At least we tried.”
Together they entered their home where they’d spend the rest of their days. Their prison where they’d spend the rest of their days. True or False, where they’d spend the rest of their days.
Adrift in Glacier Ily Attinger
A Perfect Day
Delaney Miniger
The perfect day, once promised by the sun, is undone by an unexpected audience of screaming kids. Clouds roll in, thick and grey, swallowing the warmth that was meant to carry me through the afternoon. The water, which should have been a refreshing coolness, now feels unbearably cold, biting at my skin like an unwelcome reminder. I should pack up, head home. There’s no space on this beach—no peace to be found in this noisy crowd, and it’s far too embarrassing to be here alone. Maybe I’ll try again on a day when the whole world isn’t against me.
But then again, what would home offer? Here, I can watch the sunset, the one experience left that hasn’t been stolen by the chaos. Reluctantly, I sink into my towel, the wind tugging at my bangs as my spitefully cold smoothie drips down my chin and stains my book. A sigh escapes me, drowned by the screech of a baby nearby. I look around, ready to condemn the parents, when I see the joyful smile on the enemy’s face as she watches her daughter, gleaming with delight over her sad excuse of a sandcastle.
I soften. I suppose I’ll allow her inconvenient cheer. But that boy—his face twisted with vengeful purpose as he chases after his sister, wielding a piece of seaweed like a sword—he must be dealt with.
Yet, as I watch him, something familiar stirs inside me. His mischievous grin reminds me of my younger self, relentless in my own playful mischief. A flicker of nostalgia pulls at me, and I can’t help but smile despite the noise.
The seaweed weapon is discarded near a woman visibly savoring her first weekend off in ages. She uses her limited time to spend time with her two daughters. She herself has no interest in the water but is completely content to sit on the sand, watching her daughters splash in the freezing waves. She hopes they never realize the water is too cold for comfort and that dad was never there as much as he could have been.
As the day wears on, the beach gets smaller. The space around me shrinks, but instead of spreading out my large towel to claim what
little is left, I pull it in closer. I wait, not for peace, but for whatever comes next. Three women in their thirties arrive, squeezing into the remaining gap. They exchange compliments about each other’s beach chairs, followed by stories of their fathers. One of them says she misses her dad and fears how new immigration laws will affect the family. Her friends share sympathy and their lives, like their chairs unfold in the spaces between words.
Behind me, a couple embraces—silent, yet unmistakably relieved. I wonder what brings them such peace. Maybe they’ve escaped an unexpected pregnancy, or perhaps have finally received the raise they’ve been hoping for, enough to cover rent. Or maybe, just maybe, they’ve found their way back to each other, their love rekindled. Whatever the reason, I can feel the weight of their relief in the air, and it makes me wonder: How often do we find ourselves surprised by the gifts we don’t expect?
The cold and the grey have refused to budge, and my knee is inches away from one of the early-thirties empty seltzer cans, yet the fog rolls in, and I forget to mind. The fog makes me feel invisible and reminds me I’m alone, yet the world around me pulses with a quiet energy. The love between these strangers, the tender moments shared, is clearer than ever. It hums in the background, vibrant in a way that transcends the noise.
Today, I thank God for a perfect day on the cloudy, cold, and crowded beach. For the shrieking baby, the seaweed-swinging boy, friends, mothers, and daughters building sandcastles and relationships in defiance of the cold. For the fleeting moments of connection and reminders that life is rarely what we expect, but always, somehow, enough.
Untitled Jake Gutierrez
The River
Jonathan Pirolo
When I think of the days I spent out in the woods, before I moved out to the city, I think of my father. He had been a big cat; he had a broad face and long, white whiskers. My father was a grey cat, like me. I remember him with big paws made strong from all the lifting that he had done. I was his only daughter; I don’t know what happened to my other siblings or my mother. I know something about an illness but that is all. I wish I had known them, even if only for a few years. I wish I had at least one memory of my mother or any of my siblings. Without any other family, my dad was the only one able to provide for us, he made his money selling firewood to the town down the road from our little wooden house.
The woods were a quiet place. Sometimes, when I look out at the streets full of cats from my apartment window, I begin to miss the peacefulness of home. It is so loud out in the city, and I often long for the days that I spent in the woods with my dad; I will return to those woods again. I do not know if I will ever go back to those woods on my feet, rather I will return through pen and paper.
When I think of the woods, I remember the river a little way from our house. If I listened closely at night, I could hear a gentle flowing noise like a glass of water being poured. For a time, I would put my head against the window to listen for the sound of the river before going to sleep. Once I heard the river, after checking if it was still there, I would crawl under my warm blankets and sleep. My mother made all the blankets in the house with her paws. I knew this was my connection to my mother, so I would hold onto that moment before sleeping, thinking of what she had been like. I imagined her sitting beside me, knitting another blanket together for me. She was always quiet in my mind; I never knew what her voice was like or what she would say.
When I think of the river, I once again remember my dad. He loved to go out to the river and sit at the banks with me for hours. We would talk, but mostly we would sit, watching the river together and waiting for a fish to bite the line that we had set. I had a few books which I would read along the banks. My father taught me to read with the little knowledge that he had. It was enough that I was able to write a letter to a distant aunt who let me live in her house for a time, before I settled into the city.
One day we went out to the river, but this time it was different. My father was taking me out onto the river. He had a wooden rowboat,
and it was the first time he let me go out with him on it. I was excited, he even let me carry it with him to the bank. I took the rear of the boat, and he took the front. I labored as I tried to help carry the boat; he did most of the lifting.
He brought the boat to the shoreline and then he picked me up.
“Here you go, time to get inside, little Susan,” my dad said, putting me down in the boat. I squirmed in his arms as he let go of me.
“I’m not little anymore, I’m nearly half your height,” I complained.
I was only seven and I was still quite small. Standing next to him, I was almost up to his waist. He gave me a wide smile.
“Okay, you are bigger than you had been. Would you like to be called Big Susan now?” he asked.
“No, it’s just Susan,” I said. He laughed.
“Pleased to meet you, Just Susan,” he said, tipping his straw hat towards me. As he spoke, a concern came over me.
“How are you going to get in?” I asked, “You’re not going to send me out by myself?”
I couldn’t imagine my father doing such a thing, but the idea of being alone out in the river petrified me. I feared drifting off to wherever it led, maybe to a waterfall or even to the sea!
“Don’t worry, Just Susan, I’ll be getting in,” my father said and then began to push the boat out into the water.
I let out a silent gasp. He was pushing me out into the river, my fear had come true, and I would drift away forever! My panic was relieved when he hopped into the boat after it was pushed a little way into the water. He smiled at me and leaned back in the wooden boat.
“I got my boots a little wet, but it was a success. Wouldn’t you say so?” He asked me and I nodded. His boots were soaking wet.
“How are we going to move around?” I asked him.
We seemed to be drifting forward towards the other side of the river. The river was calm and gentle now, a calm serenity made my heart quiet as I looked around at the river. The water seemed to disappear as it became a reflection of the sky.
“Here, grab the oars,” he said, grabbing his own set of oars as I grabbed my own.
“You row it like this,” he made a few example rows and then nodded to me.
“Now you try,” he said.
I did the best that I could, but the water resisted me as I rowed My dad began to row with me, and the boat took off down the stream.
“Where are we going?” I asked him after a few minutes.
“There’s a place that I know, I want to see if it’s still there.”
He had a calm smile which was faint and different from the broad exclamatory smile that was always on his face.
We kept rowing until there was what looked like a log down the river.
“I’m surprised that it’s still up,” my dad said with excitement. “What is it?” I asked my dad.
“It’s a raft, but it’s not any raft!” my dad said.
We reached it and he had me get out first, helping me get out. Once I was out, he leaped out and the boat rocked back and forth. He grabbed it before it could slip away down the river and tied it to an old decaying rope.
“I can’t believe this is still up, can you believe it, Susan?” my dad asked, getting excited, and he spoke faster.
“How old is this?” I asked. I felt the boards under my feet creak with my every step.
“It’s older than I am, it was here when I was a child. When your mom and I were young, we would come out here,” he said. Stuttering over his last words, he came to a halt.
“What I’m trying to say is this is a special place and it’s a miracle it has remained up all these years. I thought it would have collapsed when…”
My father again fell silent and then suddenly grabbed his fishing kit with the poles.
“Let’s set these up, Just Susan,” he said.
I helped him set them up, but my mind was occupied with this place my mother had been. I wondered if some piece of her remained on the dock. I looked around for her but I saw nothing, except for the still soothing river around me.
We waited for a fish to come along and bite the line. Most of the day we sat together in silence, it was what had formed my relationship with my father. Sitting together throughout the long hours of the day, passing the time in each other’s company. I would have had it no other way, I had grown to love the soft, gentle, and tender hours that we sat together, enjoying the day.
I laid down on the boards and peered into the river, I saw my reflection in the water. A young grey cat, my whiskers were only beginning to grow. I was quite small, even for my age. I watched myself in the water’s reflection when a big, grey fish swam beneath the water’s surface.
“Dad, look! There’s a big fish!” I yelled, pointing.
“Hold yourself, Susan,” My dad said in a calm voice, “You
don’t want to scare him off, do you? Look, he’s going for the bait.”
The big fish bit onto the bait and the fishing pole was yanked from where it was lodged in the raft. It flew towards the water, but my father grabbed it before it went in. For a moment, he stood at the edge, swinging one arm for balance, and then he toppled backward into the raft. He cranked the reel with such intensity, I had never seen my father as tense as he was in that moment. His forehead was creased with tension and his whiskers curled up. He smiled and laughed the entire time.
“Look how big that is!” my dad said as the fish flopped in the air where it hung from the line. “It’s as big as my arm!”
It was quite a large fish and we both marveled at what we had caught.
“Wanna hold it?” he asked. Before I could answer, the fish was in my arms. It flopped as I struggled to hold it. After my father had a good laugh, he unhooked the fish and threw it into the river.
“Why did you do that? We always eat them,” I asked. The fish was swimming away from us in the stream.
“Sometimes it’s better to let a fish live another day than to eat it,” my dad said, his voice carrying finality.
“What are we going to eat tonight then?” I asked. The fish looked quite delicious, and I was sad to see it be released.
“How does a bowl of nuts sound?” he asked after a few moments of pondering.
We sat on the raft for a few more hours. We talked a little, but we mostly sat. We watched the river together and the beauty of the forest with the blue sky overhead.
I don’t remember how the rest of the day passed; we ate a bowl of nuts later, but I can’t recall anything else. We must have rowed back from the raft.
My father has passed. I often think back on my time with him in the woods, and on the day that we rowed out to the raft. I knew the raft mattered to my dad, it had something to do with my mom, but I never found out why. It has crossed my mind to return to that raft, to look for any secrets that may show the answers. Even more, I want to visit the raft to remember my father, and in that, my mother, whom I never knew. The woods are long behind me now, only a few years behind if truth be told, but they will always be a part of who I am. I am a city cat now, but I know a piece of my heart will remain with my father in the woods.
Using Epitope Mimics to Block the Interaction of Autoantibodies Against Collagen to Prevent the Clinical Manifestation of Rheumatoid Arthritis in the CIA
DBA/1 Mouse Model
Alexander Reyes, Kate Baranski, and Jorge Mauricio ReyesRuiz, P.hD
I
Call Him Father
Vanessa Bedient-Mitchell
Yellow Roses Under a Flag
Jenna Bolar
It’s frightening how quickly and unexpectedly a life can end. We were driving to a birthday party, wearing swimsuits still dry
Before we’d left the neighborhood, there they were: A lady collapsed on the sidewalk, Husband crouched beside her, Their grandson in a stroller, all but forgotten. My brother and I were silent for a moment Then he asked if we should turn back to help I said I didn’t know, but I was already changing course.
I’d never seen death before.
I watched as the woman’s heart stopped beating Even so, her lungs kept gasping in air every few minutes
As if they hadn’t yet realized that their master no longer had use for it.
Somehow, I ended up in my mother’s van, weeping for the woman’s family For her husband, who would have to spend the rest of his life without her, For her baby grandson, who would never remember her.
The next day, there was a tiny American flag in the ground where she’d lay. I picked yellow roses from the front yard, carefully wrapped them with ribbon, Walked solemnly down the street and placed them under the flag.
Yellowstone
Jacob McDonald
Critical Review: Middlemarch
Jocelyn Velazquez
T.R. Wright’s critical essay “Middlemarch as a Religious Novel, or Life without God” examines the novel’s stance on religion. Responding to George Eliot’s notorious rejection of religion, Wright asserts that Middlemarch is a “novel of religious yearning without religious object” (640). Middlemarch is important in Christian literature as it accurately paints an image of the anguish experienced in learning to live secularly in the nineteenth century. (641) Wright then applies attention to the society of Middlemarch, appearing to be grappling with aiming towards a higher version of the community as a result of their epistemological egoism. Wright comments, “No-one, it seems, is immune from subjectivity except, perhaps, the omniscient character” (642). With this, Wright segues into his argument that epistemological egoism is explained through different medians in Middlemarch. Epistemological egoism’s function in the novel is being a social substitute for God, as the town of Middlemarch lives without divine power. Wright identifies these medians as perception and interpretation, providence and the narrator. He views perception, interpretation, and providence as medians of how the characters’ egoism filters through their knowledge. The narrator offers a way to mitigate epistemological egoism by recognizing the problem that there is no way out of being self-centered, as it is innate to human nature.
In analyzing epistemological egoism, perception and interpretation are the first elements Wright addresses. Wright states, “the inevitability of a certain epistemological egoism and the need for an informative constriction of hypothetical systems by which to interpret individual experience” (642). In Middlemarch, the characters, in the example of Dorothea Brooke, Wright highlights the epistemological egoism whereby Dorothea can not look upon the world without incorporating her personal experience. Drawing attention to Chapter 21, where Dorothea begins “ to realize the ‘alterity’ of Casaubon” (642). Pointing to the change in Dorothea as she recognizes the severity of her husband’s situation, Wright highlights the retraction of Dorothea’s egoistic knowledge and retrieves her from being extremely self-centered, unlike Rosamond, who is obsessively infatuated with the mirror and can not progress from the primitive stage. Dorothea’s realization exemplifies that “progress in perception is marked by decreasing self-centeredness” (642). Without the realization that perception and interpretation are strung from self-centeredness, there can be no true realization that they
are different ways of depicting epistemological egoism.
In continuing to address epistemology and egoism, Wright examines providence in the novel. Middlemarch, being an irreligious town, does not have a divine force pushing for a greater purpose. Wright asserts that the characters in Middlemarch believe “in some form of special providence” (642). Characters lacking a providence to guide them towards a higher good should create a depiction of what providence should look like to their advantage. Wright highlights the ignorance of characters, such as Fred Vincy, who provide a biased argument for their inclinations. Fred, who is looked down upon for his “primitive faith in the providential nature of his uncle’s gifts,” believes that if his desire to inherit Mr. Featherstone’s will is fulfilled, his socio-economic issues will disappear (642). In the continuing chapters, it is apparent that Fred’s providential influence is wealth and power, which continually leads him to disappointment. Similarly, as in Chapter 71, Bulstrode believes that “it was Providence that had delivered him from his worst fears” (643). However, because providence in Middlemarch does not exist, characters create biased protective care for themselves. All characters relying on self-centered protective care grapple to unite into a higher form of community. Ultimately, because of self-interest, Wright argues that providence is a stand-in for epistemological egoism.
The ultimate point Wright focuses on is the omniscient narrator, who brings attention to the attempt at objectivity and its failure because of epistemological egoism. Recognizing the character’s attempt to “achieve a degree of objectivity” (645), the narrator asserts that characters are subjective, resting on imagination and experience. Wright states that the narrator draws readers to acknowledge the ignorant nature of the characters. In that, the narrator attempts to propose the inability of objectivity in the novel because the character’s knowledge is shown to filter through themselves. Come forth with the idea that there can only be an attempt towards objectivity if a relaxation of innate subjectivity is acknowledged. Ultimately, Wright concludes that, as George Eliot surveyed, human beings cannot bear the full truth of life, sticking to a limited view.
T.R. Wright’s “Middlemarch as a Religious Novel, or Life without God” can be utilized in academic and religious conversations as it surveys religion and secularism. Just as Wright asserts early in his work, Middlemarch is a “novel of religious yearning without religious object” (640). Wright explores the characters’ struggle with ethical choices in a secular world where there is no push towards a divine community. The essay can also serve as a broader view of religion in
the novel. With George Eliot’s notorious denial of religion, the text can become an analysis of Eliot’s critique of religious beliefs.
Works Cited
T.R. Wright “Middlemarch as a Religious Novel, or Life without God.” p.641
Glimpses of Rest
Hannah Maes
Jacob
Swiift Jonathan Pirolo
In Sunlight Lands, did Jacob Swift
A dreamlike castle fort he built, Near Sa, the ancient river, ran
Through caves never seen by man
Down to the void sea.
So thrice two miles of fertile land
With towers and banners placed round; And there were weapons of war in all places, Which for violence their purpose made;
And here were woodlands ancient as hills, Enfolding the grand castle of the owl.
But oh! That dark measureless chasm which slanted
Down to red hills full of oak trees!
A deathly place! As evil and wretched
As life beneath a waning sun was haunted
By woman yelling for a death-begotten lover!
And in this chasm, with endless creatures screaming, As if this world in great heavy gasps were breathing,
A mighty gravestone momently was forced:
Amid whose fast uncontrollable burst
Great fragments rebounded like falling ice, Or fresh grain beneath a farmer’s hand:
And mid these spectral phantoms
Flying up a moment the river Sa.
Eighty miles meandering in a lazy motion
Through forest did the river Sa run, Then reached the caves never seen by men, And sank in screams to a lifeless void;
And mid the screams Jacob heard from far, Midnight voices prophesying death!
The shadow of the dwelling place
Floated midway in the void; Where was heard the twisted voices
From the gravestone and the caves.
It was a miracle of strange decree,
A bright castle entangled in ruinous woods.
A lost one with a piano In a vision I did see: It was a forest-born wild cat And on his piano, he played, Singing of Mount Ethadi Could I rebirth inwardly, That beautiful bright song, To such a full delight I’d be undone, That with music jovial sound, I would make that castle in fire, That bright castle! That ruinous woodland! And all who travel shall see it there, And all shall cry, Glorious! Glorious! His fire-born eyes, his iron-cast helm! Creatures of darkness flee him, And hide their eyes with deathly fear For he has drank deep of power and life, And is drunk on the wind of change.
Untitled Hannah Finch
Bring Me to That Land Forgotten
Jonathan Pirolo
Bring me to that land forgotten, That place of ancient, perilous deeds, Of tooth and claw, and shining scales, Of giants that walked the lands of dirt and desert. What did you look like, my ancient friends? Like primordial beasts or feathered friends? Did violence mark your nature, Or peace that did define you? Did you know your own glory? Or wait for others to crown you? For kings, you were upon the earth, For greater beings have not been, But humans who inherit the dawn, Who inherits the world you reigned? Dinosaur, dinosaur, where art thou? You have returned to the dust of time. Although gone your legacy remains, Deeds may be forgot, actions fade to not. Yet you live on in hearts of boys, Who, in dreaming, walks amidst those ancient lands, Who sees those shadows of that time, As though yesterday in their minds. No dinosaur, you are not gone, You live on in the imagination of the childlike.
Uptown Upscale Macey Walton
Hoodie Weather Cohen Swift
The Struggle of Free Will: John Donne’s Holy Son-
net 14
Kate Kurimay
The theological concept of free will in the face of a sinful world emerges as a paradox; it is a divine gift that empowers and challenges humanity, offering the ability to choose to love God, yet the nature of sin does not allow for a perfect relationship with Him. John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 14 approaches this problem as Donne grapples with his sinful, fallen nature keeping him from full devotion to Christ. He uses this sonnet to contemplate the theological concept of free will, a God-given gift that grants humanity the power to make choices. In A Defence of Poesy, Sir Philip Sidney claims the purpose of poetry is to teach and delight the audience, as poetry is the superior teacher. History can present “the particular,” in explaining the literal occurrences, whereas philosophers teach more complicated arguments and precepts (Sidney 1057). While history and philosophy can introduce definitions and examples, poetry presents both; additionally, theology would have been recognized as philosophy because of the lack of separation between church and state. By Donne utilizing poetry as his means of communication, and through the lens of Sidney, Donne can share his experience with a broader range of laypeople. Through the visceral poetic images that intertwine theology with personal human experience, John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 14 uses poetry as the superior teacher to immerse his readers into his intimate spiritual struggle, revealing how Donne grapples with his free will and desire to be in a deeper relationship with God.
In A Defence of Poesy, Sir Philip Sidney argues that poetry offers a powerful message that teaches in a superior way because the audience can partner with the poet in their emotions through images and examples. Donne allows his words to reach a broader audience by sharing his struggle through poetry, instead of using a theological framework only understood by the educated. Sidney addresses this by saying, “I say the philosopher teacheth, but he teacheth obscurely, so as the learned only can understand him [...] but the poet is the food for the tenderest stomachs, the poet is indeed the right popular philosopher”
(Sidney 1057). Donne speaks directly to human emotions instead of explaining his beliefs in complicated, specific philosophical language. The images offer complex theological ideas in a form that readers of varying intellectual backgrounds can emotionally consume. Yet, the violent nature that solves the Sonnet can transcend scholarly dialogue by allowing more emotional accessibility.
By using this poetic form, Donne can include more personal thoughts and examples, presenting his sonnet violently by immediately asking “Batter my heart, three-personed God” (line 1). He claims that God is too gentle with him, remarking that until this moment, God has pursued him by “Knock[ing], breath[ing], shin[ing], and seek[ing] to mend,” gently pursuing him but leaving the choice to Donne (line 2). God is acting more passively to Donne through his gentleness, as though he is desiring for Donne to approach Him. Yet, Donne quickly declares that this passive action is not enough, and he wants God to use more extreme actions to, “Make me new” (line 4). The conventional formation of the Petrarchan Sonnet would make the speaker the active subject, while the object is passive with a constructed voice. Typically, the content of the Petrarchan Sonnet is a lovesick speaker begging a maiden to love him back, with the speaker constructing her voice in response to his plea. Instead, Donne makes himself this active speaker and God the constructed passive lover that Donne desperately wants. Although one might interpret the poem as suggesting God is ignoring Donne’s struggles, Donne’s deep religious devotion reveals his profound grief over his sinful nature and inability to connect with God fully. Donne demands and pleads with God, challenging the idea that humanity should remain passive in communication with God. Donne actively instructs the divine rather than passively receiving instruction.
After presenting Donne’s struggle with God’s passivity, Donne points out a major contradiction with free will; his soul desires to be in a complete, synchronized relationship with God, yet his sinful nature will not allow him to live sinlessly. In lines four through eight, Donne uses an analogy of a “usurp’d town,” making himself the town, and reason is an overthrown viceroy. Reason has claimed the throne of his life instead of Truth, yet reason, “But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue” (Donne lines 7-8). A viceroy is a representative leader who
serves when the king is gone; therefore reason is standing in as the ruler of his life instead of God. However, Donne can no longer submit to these leaders. He believes that his reason has been captured by the sin in his life, overshadowing his ability to choose to be in a relationship with God. By expressing this in poetic form, Sidney would claim that his poetry is, “More philosophical and more studiously serious than history” because poetry invites more universal consideration (Sidney 1057). By including a line about reason, Donne attempts to move his poem into a historically relevant space within the Protestant Reformation.
By using the theological idea of reason paired with the historical context of the Reformation, Donne begins to incorporate his reasoning in the face of Truth with poetry. Sidney argues that history can only focus on “the particular,” stating an account of who died or won a battle. Poetry moves beyond the concrete to imitate the event, allowing Donne to interact with the idea of reason in his sonnet (1057). The role of reason was highly debated between the Catholic and Protestant churches, showing a thought shift that occurred during the Renaissance period. The Catholic Church advocated for a centralized, unified church with ultimate authority to preserve the inerrancy of the Biblical teaching. However, Martin Luther believed that the Catholic church was deeply corrupted in desiring a single source of Biblical knowledge. The Protestant denomination instead emphasized that “Reason” can allow an individual to experience and interpret the Bible. Intelligent and educated individuals had the power to become enlightened through personal readings of Scripture, thus removing a substantial amount of control from Mass and the clergymen (Greenblatt et al 537-538). Yet, by depicting reason as “captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue,” Donne illustrates the Protestant understanding that human reason, while valuable, will fail when confronted with the divine unknown (Donne lines 7-8). By claiming that Reason is “untrue,” Donne states that it does not hold the same power as Truth. Donne uses his knowledge as a Catholic convert, merging it with the Calvinist and Protestant perspective to state that while reason has an amount of ability to guide, this guidance is not enough in light of the guidance from God. Donne advocates for a more direct relationship with God instead of relying on human will
and intellect, claiming that our human free will will always be weaker than God. Humanity must rely on the Truth and guidance from the Lord instead of depending on human thoughts.
After Donne introduces a more historical metaphor of an “usurp’d town” in lines five to eight, he introduces strong marital images in the sestet. Petrarchan Sonnets often held romantic themes, yet Donne’s words carry more gravity than a frivolous romantic endeavor. By using language like, “dearly I love you,” “betroth’d,” “divorce,” “chaste,” and “ravish,” a connection between Donne and marriage to God is portrayed (lines 9-14). These words also refer to Biblical concepts that outline what a holy and God-ordained marriage would look like. Scripturally, God’s desire for marriage is for a lifelong, monogamous, chaste, and loving relationship. Donne shares this desire to be in a life-long, serious relationship with God and pairs this philosophical concept with the marital image. He paints a verbal picture of his marriage to God where he is attempting to remain chaste, yet he feels he is instead, “Betroth’d unto your enemy” (Donne line 10). His deeply personal ideas show his passionate plea to God, elevating his sonnet into an experience with which his readers can interact. Sidney states, “There are many mysteries contained in poetry,” advocating for the deep mystery to be discussed in poetry, allowing a wider audience to understand these struggles in beautiful language (1083). Donne seems to use poetry as his means of communication to include the layperson instead of strictly the educated. Through his strategic use of marital and governmental metaphors, Donne portrays a multifaceted longing that reveals the deep desire for a personal, chaste relationship with God.
Keeping in the romantic theme of a Petrarchan Sonnet, Sonnet 14 uses the metaphor of a romantic relationship to illuminate the image Donne is expressing; He allows his readers to, “not only show the way, but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way, as will entice any man to enter into it” (Sidney 1060). Yet, the images portrayed are not “sweet” in nature, but provide an experience for the reader. The poem’s volta states, “Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov’d fain,” introducing the turn where Donne begins to plead for God to overtake his life and remove his free will (Donne line 9). This volta introduces a more violent aspect of the poem, as Donne asks God to take action. This catalyzes
into the sestet, which attempts to “solve” the poem. In the final lines, Donne states, “Take me to you, imprison me, for I” (line 12). Donne’s words conjure an image of God forcefully taking Donne, imprisoning Donne with Him, and forcing him away from public life. The poem’s final lines hold heavy emotions, as Donne states, “Except you enthrall me, never shall be free/Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me” (lines 13-14). Donne is bleakly stating that the only way he can be in a perfect relationship with God is if God removes his ability to choose, using the gruesome analogy of rape. This word may bring images like helplessness, loss of value, and complete removal of choice or power for Donne to show how God must forcibly overtake his life and sinful will. By using this violent and repugnant image, Donne is attempting to create a visceral reaction in his reader to portray the magnitude of his emotion. His passion creates an experience through his extreme language, showing a skill in his poetry that Sidney would admire. Throughout the poem Donne shows this experience of free will, exemplifying how humanity is truly unable to choose freely because of sin. Although this is his deepest desire, Donne cannot choose to be in a perfect relationship with God because his sinful nature will always push him to sin and fall away from God.
Donne is not the first theologian to struggle with his free will, as Paul holds the same confusion in his letter to the church in Rome, commenting on the nature of sin by saying, “For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it” (Romans 7:19-20 NIV). Paul uses his letter as a philosophical comment, addressing that his soul knows to act correctly, yet the sin that lives in his body causes him to continue in sin. Paul’s proposed solution comes a few verses later; through the redemptive work of Christ, Paul is saved from his sinful nature. Paul, widely regarded as one of the most significant Church leaders, struggles with his free will, yet he shares his experience with a different tone. Paul’s solution is to allow God to take action and save him through salvation, which offers a more positive tone than Donne’s solution in the sonnet. Paul provides examples of his emotions, yet he does not create the same passionate experience as Donne. Sidney states that philosophers
cannot show passion because their goal is morality and universal principles instead of evoking a deep, emotional response (1081). Donne’s words show an issue reflected in the human experience and question why humanity holds a propensity to sin instead of remaining in a holy relationship with God. Donne argues that humanity does not have agency in the face of our sinful nature, as our will is weak. Donne and Paul humble themselves and their audience by claiming humanity holds no power, as God is the only one powerful enough to grant their request. Donne shares his profound desire for God to take control of his life, knowing that God will not remove his free will and mental reasoning. While Paul provides examples in a hopeful tone, Sonnet 14’s passion, and emotional language offer a more engaging experience that reveals how powerless humanity and reason are in light of the almighty God.
John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 14 reveals Donne’s struggle with free will, which he made more accessible to his readers through his poetry. Donne’s proposed solution to the battle of the propensity of sin is for God to fully take control of his life, imprisoning him and using a relational metaphor to request, “Except you enthrall me, never shall be free/Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me” (Donne line 13-14). Yet, Donne knows this is an impossible task because God will not remove his free will and take control of his life. Donne’s passionate request reveals a deep desire for a genuine, perfect relationship with God that cannot be swayed by the matters of this world. Donne is expanding on the idea that free will is truly not free, as humanity will continually fail, and his passion creates an experience for his readers to engage with in a way that philosophy could not. Donne’s use of the poetic form allowed his readers to engage with his emotions and desires through his visceral and violent analogy, teaching and creating an experience that could only be achieved through poetry.
Works Cited
Donne, John. “Holy Sonnet 14.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature, edited by Stephen Greenblatt, 9th ed., Vol. B, W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 2012, pp. 1413-1414.
Sidney, Philip. “A Defence of Poesy.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature, edited by Stephen Greenblatt, 9th ed., Vol. B, W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 2012, pp. 1053-1083. Stephen Greenblatt et al, editors. “Introduction to the Reformation.”
The Norton Anthology of English Literature, 9th ed., Vol. B, W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 2012, pp. 537-539.
The Holy Bible. “Romans 7:19-20.” New International Version. Zondervan, 2005.
Crowned in Silence
Emily Hon
The Goddess of the Lotus Joshua
Tribble
The sun burned low on the western sky, with the cloak of night coming close behind. The sky’s blending of orange, crimson, violet, and blue reflected upon the glass desert in a wild dance of color. And there, foraging his way across that violently beautiful landscape, was a single man. The lonely creature took heavy step after heavy step. Although the pack he bore was weighed upon him, the burden of his knowledge was heavier. The glass sand crunched beneath his boots, grinding like the desires of his soul. The man shielded his eyes, the glare of the dazzling sunset too much for him to handle. Night would come soon, and then he could continue faster.
Suddenly, his foot caught on a glass stone, which sent him sprawling to the ground. The thousands of tiny shards would have inflicted a pain worse than death, but the thick leather jacket, pants, and shoes he wore protected him. Sitting up, the man grunted towards the sun and turned his back to it. He gazed back at the straight line of steps that went all the way to the horizon and off into the night sky. How long had he been walking through this endless desert? He had lost count around day seventeen. No one in his right mind would pursue him here. No one could follow him here. Here, in this vast wasteland, where the key to his life lay.
His stomach ached with hollowness, and his throat felt like sandpaper. Lifting his skin of water to his lips, he drained the last of his resources. But it was no matter. Tonight, his quest would come to an end, and he would have no need for water. No need for anything.
Narrowing his eyes, he turned around and found that the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. He stood, filled with a renewed vigor, and continued on his way. Dusk slowly gave way to night. Soon, the glass sand reflected the sky of stars, giving the illusion that he walked through the heavens, that he had ascended to a higher plane of existence.
“Not yet,” he told himself. “Soon, but not yet.”
For hours, he continued on, his body threatening to give
out with every step. Suddenly, in the distance, he saw something. His heart skipping a beat, he stopped and pulled a parchment from his pack. Holding it out to compare, he smiled. No illusion, no heat mirage. It was indeed the Shrine of the Lotus. Fueled with sudden energy, the man ran forward. He stumbled and staggered from fatigue, but his goal was so close. Thirty long years of searching and bribing and killing had not been in vain.
About a hundred yards away from the shrine, he stopped, reaching a tall, narrow tower. Four towers stood at the north, south, east, and west. In the middle of them was a great cylindrical building with a domed roof. The structure shone white-blue in the moonlight. Pulling another parchment from his pack, the man read it several times over before returning it. Despite the bloodstains on the paper, he could still read the paper’s instructions. The man he had taken these from had not been killed for nothing. The old man’s death gave him the path by which he might enact justice. Spurred on by the voices of his people, he took a deep breath and stepped beyond the tower.
And the world went dark.
The man staggered, suddenly lost in a void. Keeping his wits about him, he followed his parchment’s instructions and blew a breath. In the stream of his breath, he saw through the void and to the shrine. He moved quickly, but the little he saw soon began to be engulfed in darkness. Taking another breath, he blew again, and his path reappeared. Slowly but surely, he made his way to the door of the shrine. As he set his hand upon the door handle, the void retreated, and his full sight returned. The man paused, catching his breath. If such an anomaly existed outside the shrine, one could only imagine what would await within. Whoever wrote the parchments he was looking at had given no warning of what lay before him. But he had to go on. For life. For death.
Setting his teeth, he pushed the ancient doors open. He entered and found himself at the top of a spiral staircase that wound down to the bottom of the chamber. The place itself was clearly from a race more ancient than his own. Great swirling designs and hieroglyphics covered the walls with scenes of a woman rising in power and slaying her enemies. The shrine, to his surprise, was brighter than the night, illuminated by a quiv-
ering light below. Descending slowly, he stared in wonder at the thousands of stories the designs on the stairs told.
When he reached the floor, he saw the light source. A wide pool of water, glowing with a sky-blue light. The light drew his eyes upward, and he gasped. Set into the wall opposite him were three enormous statues. The one on the right was an owl, the one on the left was a leopardess on her hind legs, and the one in the center was a woman of great beauty.
He bowed reverently and whispered, “A thousand praises be to you, goddess of the lotus.” Lifting his head, he turned his attention to the pool. Staring down into its pure depths, he made to enter it when he heard laughter.
Springing upright, he looked across the pool, and there stood a woman at the water’s edge. She stared at him with a smile, her skin radiant white in contrast to her black hair that fell to the floor, forming a train behind her. She wore a simple gown that shimmered with a silvery light. The man staggered back in surprise, making her laugh again.
“Who are you?” she asked through her laughter. As human as it sounded, it was strangely like the tolling of church bells.
“I—I’m Jem. Jem Menclev.”
She cocked her head and frowned. “Never have I seen you, yet your name rings familiar in my ears.”
“Where did you come from?”
The woman laughed again. “One does not come from somewhere when in their own home.” Suddenly, without warning, the woman was a leopardess and strode around the pool towards Jem. “It is I who should be asking where you have come from. But I have a greater interest in where you are going…”
“I was lost in the glass desert,” Jem said as the leopardess passed him. His knees and hands shook violently. “I found this place and hoped to fill my water skin from your pool.”
The woman laughed, suddenly becoming the owl. “No one reaches this place by simply getting lost. So I ask again—” Suddenly the creature was upon him, and was all three beings at once. She had the woman’s face, the leopardess’ body, and the wings of the owl. “—where are you going?”
Jem trembled at the gaze of the creature, his back against
the wall. “I lied. I was in search of you, oh goddess of the lotus.”
Backing away, the creature returned to the woman’s form. “I am no goddess.” She slowly made her way to the other side of the pool. “For what did you seek me?”
“Your lotus, oh… mistress. I have heard stories. Whether they are true, I do not know.”
The woman became the leopardess and lay beside the pool. “Few have ever made the trek to my dwelling. Anything you may have heard is undoubtedly false.”
“I’m told that your lotus can bring someone back to life.”
The leopardess jumped up, staring at Jem. “You have heard falsely. Now leave this place.”
“Please!” Jem knelt, tears streaming down his face. “My wife has died, and I must have her back, I must.”
“You—you do not know for what you ask. My lotus cannot revive a person.”
Jem paused his weeping and looked up at her, now an owl. “Then what does it do?”
“Why do you, a mortal, dare to trifle with such things?” The creature laughed again, this time filled with bitterness.
Rising from his knees, Jem said, “Because, unlike creatures like you, we only have so many days in this world. We do not have all of eternity to fathom the mysteries of the universe.”
A leopard once again, she hung her head. “Finite minds. You call yourselves intelligent, and yet you do not realize a fundamental truth.”
“Which is?” Jem now stood at his full height and slowly began to make his way towards her.
“Death. You consider it a curse, the worst thing in existence. The thing that ends existence. But it is beautiful. And it is what keeps humanity alive. If men did not die naturally, they would end humanity in far more gruesome ways than natural death. Do you understand?”
Jem stood near the leopardess. She looked up with imploring eyes, yet Jem did not reciprocate. “Perhaps one day I will, but for the meantime…” Holding out his hand, Jem muttered, “Ingfylamat—doomshaba,” and a flaming whip appeared in his hand. Cracking it over his head, Jem screamed, “Where is
the lotus?!”
Shifting to a woman, the creature ran and cowered in terror. “The Blazing Whip… how do you, a mortal, bear it?”
“What does it matter?! I’ve asked you a question, oh ‘goddess of the lotus’, and demand a response. I bear the only tool that can kill immortals, so if you value your endless life, tell me where the lotus is.”
Suddenly, an owl, the creature, leapt into the air, narrowly missing the whip’s strike. “You do not know what you demand. It is more dangerous than you can imagine. Why do you think I created the glass desert? To keep humanity away from the lotus! I already told you, it cannot save a life.”
Now it was Jem’s turn to laugh. “And you mock my finite mind! I have no dead wife. All I want is the lotus, and I will leave in peace.”
“The lotus is not something to be taken from my house,” the creature said, a woman once again, on the other side of the pool. “Believe me, I made the same mistake as you, hundreds of years ago. I thought I could use the lotus for my own means, yet I was wrong! The lotus is— is…”
“You would do whatever you had to do if you were the last of your kind!” Jem screamed.
The creature became a woman and stared deep into him. “You alone remain of your people?”
Jem lowered the whip. “Yes. My people were slaughtered, slow and gruesomely, and only I remain to carry on. I must carry their legacy on; it is my calling, my burden to bear in the world.”
Suddenly, a leopard, the creature cried, “Who, who are the despicable souls who would commit such horrors?”
“Give me the lotus, give me the power to serve vengeance on the fiends who slaughtered my nation.”
“No, no. You cannot have the lotus; such a thing cannot be used for revenge. The lotus is too powerful a tool to be used for such an action.”
“Fool,” uttered Jem, his voice dark. “I don’t want to use the lotus.”
The creature morphed into a woman, trembling violently. “You wish to consume it. No! Flee while you can! Do not do it!”
“Tell me where it is!” Jem swung the flaming whip, narrowly missing the woman’s forehead.
Transforming into the owl, she slipped a glance at the pool before swiveling her head around.
Staring deep into the pool, Jem’s eyes beamed with excitement as he spied the white flower on the pool’s floor. “Anoch was right…”
Jem tore off his coat and made to jump in when he was seized from behind and was suddenly staring into the eyes of the threefold creature. “What did you say?” she hissed.
“Anoch, god of the Magnolia. Yes, I killed him, and I shall do the same to you!” Jem swung the whip, but the creature was swifter than him.
Leaping into the air, she landed on the staircase. “And you’ve eaten of the Magnolia of Life. I see it in your eyes!”
Jem maniacally laughed, all his actions coming before him. “Killing the old fool was easier than I anticipated! And yes, I ate of the flower, and you will not stop me from eating of the Lotus of Death.”
“When I said that I committed the same mistake, you did not comprehend! There was a keeper of the Magnolia before Anoch, and I killed him with his own whip to eat of the Magnolia. And I killed the other Keeper to eat of this Lotus. I implore you! Do not do the same!”
Suddenly, the owl dove for Jem. Before he even had a chance to swing the whip, the owl’s talons locked around Jem’s neck, sending both into the pool. Jem wrestled and struggled, the air cut off from his brain. The two thrashed in the pool, sending water throughout the whole shrine.
Slowly but surely, darkness began to engulf Jem. Was this how he was supposed to end? Drowned at the bottom of a goddess’ pool? The creature released its hold and let him sink to the pool’s bottom.
As the darkness closed in, he felt something touch his hand. It was soft and delicate and almost warm with life. Jem’s eyes snapped open, his fleeting consciousness coming back for a moment. It was the lotus. Feeling the claws of death seizing upon him, Jem shoved the flower into his mouth. But it wasn’t enough. As he swallowed the lotus, Jem knew that he was gone.
Without warning, a surge of energy shot through him, like pure fire and solid ice melded into one, and he began to breathe freely in the water. He felt himself ascend to a higher plane of consciousness. Having consumed the flowers of Life and Death, he knew he had become immortal.
Jem shot upward, threw the water, and landed on the floor of the chamber. The woman stood on the other side of the pool, trembling with fear. From the horror in her eyes, he knew that she knew he was immortal. Harnessing an agility he had never felt, Jem seized the flaming whip, leapt over the pool, and killed the woman with a single strike. She gave no cry; she did not writhe in pain. She only exhaled and collapsed to the ground.
Jem stood over her body as a fire surged through his veins. He had done it. He had slain two immortals, and now he himself was one. With this power, he could do anything. He could rule empires. He could unleash his vengeance on the swine who had slaughtered his people. He could— Suddenly, the world went dark, and he found himself swimming in a void. He tried to send out a stream of breath to see, and yet it did not work. Just then, a great form appeared before him. An indescribable entity like Jem had never before towered above him in the void. Its massive, pupil-less, glowing eyes stared down at Jem. Immortal or not, Jem knew he was entirely helpless.
“Jem Menclev,” the entity boomed. “You have consumed the Flowers of Life and Death. Such an act is forbidden for mortals to commit. For your crime, and for the deaths of Anoch and Quillo, the Keepers of the Flowers of Life and Death, you are revoked the passage of death. You must remain in this prison until the end of time or until another mortal commits your crimes against you.”
Jem stammered, staring at the dreadful entity. “But—but, I killed Anoch, and yet I was not bound there! You cannot do this to me!” He raised his hand to summon the whip, yet no blazing light appeared.
“I am the one who gives the immortals their power and takes it from them. The Whip of Venwae is of no power here. When you killed Anoch to steal the Magnolia, he was simply reborn, for life continues. But death creates a void; thus, when
you slayed Quillo, the Keeper of Life, you created a void. A void that you must fill. The blood of immortals is on your hands, Jem Menclev, and you must suffer the consequences. My edict I give, and none can revoke it.”
Slowly, the void disappeared, returning Jem to the shrine. His hands trembling, he ran up to the door, but there was no door to be found. He threw his weight against the walls, panic seeping into his soul. No door emerged; not even a crack was made in the stone. No way of escape. Suddenly devoid of any emotion, he descended the stairs.
He cast a glance at the walls and noticed that the hieroglyphics had changed. No longer were they of forgotten events; they were ones he knew all too well. His birth into poverty, the massacre of his people, the day he learned of the lotus from his grandfather, the day he murdered him for the parchments. All his efforts, all his crimes, everything he’d done to attain immortality was there before him. All the lives he had taken, only to be bound in a chamber for all time.
When he returned to the floor, he stared into the pool and saw a lotus just like the one he had eaten at its bottom. Lifting his eyes, he saw the statues of the owl and the leopard, but instead of the woman, he stood there. He, the god of the lotus.
Isaiah 43:18-19 Cohen Swift
2025 Synecdoche Editorial Team
Claire Williams Jocelyn Velazquez Editor in Chief Editor in Chief
Luke Luttrell
Cesar Yanez Editor in Cheif Production Manager Scholarly Works Editor
Nadia Sosa
Kate Kurimay Creative Works Editor Artistic Works Editor
Katie Alexander
Dylan Proctor Scholarly Works Committee Scholarly Works Committee
Gavin Bonds
Rylee Orr Creative Works Committee Creative Works Committee
Phatima Campa
Warren Doody Aristic Works Committee English Department Chair
Editors in Chief
Creative Works Committee
Jocelyn Velazquez, Luke Luttrell, Claire Williams
Rylee Orr, Gavin Bonds, Nadia Sosa
Artistic Works Committee
Phatima Campa, Kate Kurimay
Scholarly Works Committee
Cesar Yanez, Katie Alexander, Dylan Proctor
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