1
Front Cover Art:
“Skateboarder” by Amanda Gurene
Back Cover Art:
“All in a Semester’s Work” by Veronica Love
2
Castings Literary Journal Christian Brothers University
Thanks to the Judges:
Divya Choudhary
Rena Durr Scott Geis
Federico Gómez-Uroz Stephen Grice
Karl Leib Teri Mason Beth Nelson
Maureen O’Brien Nicholas Peña
Sarah Pitts Kristen Prien
Jana Travis
Faculty Advisor: Dr. Karen Golightly
CBU English Department
Editor: Anna Swearengen
Published by:
CB Printing and Solutions
3
Winners
Fine Art
1
st Place: “Silence” by Quinn Lin
2nd
Place: “Candlelight” by Quinn Lin
3rd
Place: “Limón” by Jayme McKeever
Photography
1
st Place: “Memphis Bridge” by Shannon McDonald
2nd
Place: “Guitar” by Cameron Bowman
3rd
Place: “City under Our Knees” by Simon Hua
Poetry
1
st Place: “Silhouette” by Jessica Ambers
2nd
Place: “With a Crinkle, Crisp, Crunch of the Sheet”
by Nida Pathan
3rd
Place: “Today” by Angela Toomer
Prose
1
st Place: The Gentle Forest by Anna Swearengen
2nd
Place: Dream Logic by Thomas Swett
3rd
Place: Errors by Liz Kellicut
4
Table of Contents
“City under Our Knees” by Simon Hua…….....7
“Silhouette” by Jessica Ambers……….……….8
“Mirror” by Quinn Lin………………………….…9
“Tapping “by Anna Swearengen……………..…..10
“An Empty Morn” by Connor Robinson...……….10
“Silence” by Quinn Lin..………………..…….11
“Home” by Camille Caparas….…………………..12
“Flower” by Michelle Fair………………………..13
“Golden Touch” by Simon Hua……………....…..14
“Waterfront” by Alicia Russell….....…..…..……..15
The Gentle Forest by Anna Swearengen…........15
“Hope” by Simon Hua………………………...….18
“Candlelight” by Quinn Lin…………………..19
“Street” by Nathali Blackwell...…………………..20
“Will You Wait for Me?” by Stephanie Moll.……20
“Memphis Bridge” by Shannon McDonald..…21
Dream Logic by Thomas Sweat………………22
“Sweet Mystery” by Glynis Wilson...…………….26
“Elderfly” by Connor Robinson.……………….…26
“Limón” by Jayme McKeever……………...…27
“Flower-Studded Poet” by Anna Swearengen...….28
5
“Bubble” by Amanda Yates………………………28
“With a Crinkle, Crisp, Crunch of the Sheet”
by Nida Pathan……...……………………….29
“Girl with Horse” by Cassie Beaver..…………….29
Error by Liz Kellicut…….…………………….30
“Tock” by Connor Robinson……………………..34
“Drizzle” by Simon Hua……………………….…35
“UnStAbLe” by Stephanie Moll………………….35
“House on a Hill” by Keara Lipscomb……..…….36
“Sands” by Michael Berry………………………..36
“Mom‟s Garden” by Brittany Jackson……………37
“Today” by Angela Toomer……………….….37
“Slender Beauty” by Jayme McKeever…………..38
“Distorted Eyes Are Dying” by Bridget Fowler.....39
“Three by Four” by Danielle Morris..……...….….39
“Schmetterling” by Connor Robinson……………40
Operation Butterfly by Amanda Yates..………….40
“Saying and Doing” by Simon Hua…….…….…..46
“Colored Thread” by Anna Swearengen……….....46
“Portrait of a Duck” by Connor Robinson………..47
“Earphones” by Camille Caparas...……………….48
“Sea Inside” by Anna Swearengen…………….…48
“Guitar” by Cameron Bowman……………….49
“Succession” by Travis Whiteside..………………50
6
“No Fairytale” by Keara Lipscomb…..…………..50
Breadsticks by Thomas Sweat……………………51
“Earnestine and Hazels” by Lauren Pintar………..53
“Little Blue Surprise” by Free McCay.……….…..54
“Cow” by Michael Berry…………………………55
“Awaited Voyage” by Zaniesha Davis..………….55
“Clock Tower” by Brittany Jackson..………….....56
Pool Party by Thomas Swett…………………….57
“After the Rain” by Sarah Longoria...……...…….61
“Old Man” by Michelle Fair……..……………….61
“Woodpecker” by Nathali Blackwell………….….62
“Wedding Limbo” by Nida Pathan.………………62
“Portrait of a Girl” by Quinn Lin…………………63
“Fence of Dreams” by Jayme McKeever
8
First Place: “Silhouette” by Jessica Ambers
Our lives are like a movie
And, as I replay scenes of you,
You materialize as a figure on a screen,
Light shining over the memories,
Casting a shadow on what‟s left,
A silhouette
Standing tall in a fisherman‟s hat,
A single hand holding your pipe.
I remember
The buttery aroma of eggs and toast
Pulling me from the warm comforter,
Pitter-patter upon cool tile flooring.
The kitchen I could stride in ten steps,
Filling with laughter and learning,
Knowing to thank you when
Santa brought that Easy Bake Oven.
Growing green beans and blackberries,
Rows and rows of red, ripe tomatoes,
Skin browned by afternoon sunshine,
Staying outdoors all afternoon
Plowing and planting in the garden.
You taught me to sing to the plants because,
Like me, they would grow up big and strong,
And a little encouragement never hurt anything.
The man-like maple tree
Growing sturdy in the backyard
With a single hole in the heart of it,
Protection for squirrels and bunny rabbits,
Not just the grown up ones, but the babies too.
You would swing me high up
To play between the brawny arms,
9
A “y” that formed a perfect seat.
The faded, stained tie in my closet
Still permeated with your special scent:
A cologne of tobacco.
In time, that movie in my mind
Rarely reels of memories.
But even today,
When a breeze blows that fragrance,
Your silhouette stands next to me.
“Mirror” by Quinn Lin
10
“Tapping” by Anna Swearengen
My feet lie bare unto my mother.
Soil smothers the soft white skin,
Walking the tap, tap, tapping,
Rapping on her door,
Begging to enter,
Beseeching to return
To the womb of rooted richness—
My white clay melting
Into red, yellow, brown, black,
A smack of oneness,
A final, peaceful
Death.
“An Empty Morn” by Connor Robinson
12
“Home” by Camille Caparas
Love them.
Two soft brown hands care for twelve
with planned precision
they wash, weed, warn
watch six buds bloom
despite (to spite) the thorns.
Tell them.
Two tired brown hands gesture
to twelve tiny puzzled eyes
“Your daddy is far away now”
(in the land of whites
a better place)
“but he‟s doing it for us.”
Hold them.
Two strong hands explain to her
who is feeling her mother‟s hurt,
“I cannot take the pain away,”
(though I want to
for your sake)
“but I am still here for you.”
Remember them.
Two wrinkled brown hands—
the lines that have seen and trace back
to hills of missed birthday parties
to jungles of “When is he coming home?”
to mountains of lonely nights
to rivers of infidelity
that have flown underground
raging and unseen for so long—
leathery, capable, scarred
grown in the wilderness of domesticity.
Forgive them.
Two aching brown hands hold
no one now; empty as this house
13
“When are you coming home?”
(where coconuts fall
from killing heights)
“I miss you.”
Love them.
Two brown hands care for twelve.
“When are you coming home?”
Twelve eyes look back
say “Soon,”
but continue to live in the land of whites
while two brown hands hold only each other.
“Flower” by Michelle Fair
15
“Waterfront” by Alicia Russell
First Place: The Gentle Forest by Anna Swearengen
Have you ever stood at the highest vantage
point in a place where the green goes on and on—
from beneath your feet out to the very saw-blade
edge of the blue sky? Cloudless, so the indelible
green is a book fold to the indelible blue and both
book pages envelop you in endlessness. You are
standing apart, yet you have never been more a part,
never more inseparable from anything and
everything.
Ever thought: I could have sworn I heard it:
the trees talking? Whispers passed from leaf to leaf,
carried on the wind. A rustling symphony of sound.
Their shadows documenting their gay discourse as
the branches dance with the passing wind.
16
I use to be those trees. That green. I use to
soar over the sky that settled over me, and envelop
the people that looked down on me and up through
me, and I inspired expansion in the smallest of
creatures: the human. And they expanded me to
beauty and awe and reverence and religion.
I knew such unity with them. I felt their
heart beat beneath my knotted breast. I felt their
spirit pulling me from trees and soil and birds and
beetles to immeasurable vastness. I knew how such
unity was created, by simply strolling through me,
on me, beneath me, into me. Like a whisper enters
an ear and the spoken words are locked forever
within the mind. Like a crying heard from far away
that seems to echo regretfully within your own chest.
Like embracing an old friend who is both a comfort
and a pain. I know how such unity was created and
broken. Like splitting the earth from the sky. A
mother from her child.
By walking out of me and never turning
back. An indifference that begins the story of how I
was made human—to the last inch.
You do not know loneliness until all the
edges of the world begin to fray and all the unity
turns to dissipation. I grew quite lonely. Miserable.
Like I had lost a part of myself when the humans
turned and walked out. And then I actually began to
lose parts of myself. No one ever expects such a
thing: a friend to cut your right arm from your body,
a father to take the left leg, sister an eye, lover your
heart.
Trees falling, falling everywhere and not a
sound heard. The humans could not leave without
cutting me from them. Cut from them any
recognition of grandness in me.
17
I heard the trees being felled. The saw
scratching upon the bark with a dreadful, chilling
sound that cut my silence. This silence cracked—
streaks of breaks flooding across the surface of the
air as the saws cut into the flesh and worked across
the surface of bare skin. The trees creaked, as the
last bit of flesh gave way under the weight and
crashed on the floor of me. Unearthly crash, like the
sea when it sucks into itself to throw a jolting wave
onto the shore.
I felt the trees being burned. Ageless miles
of jet black spears and stumps, jutting from the earth
like mangled arms. Turned to flint stone, bone-hard
and smooth. Acrid taste and smell.
I slowly began to rot like a half-eaten
carcass. My soil grew brittle and cracked. My
creatures perished or fled. Bits of me strewn here
and there and everywhere. No longer enveloping and
endless. Just patches and strings trying to hold a
fraying fabric together.
The smallest things they made with me:
mocking little wooden buttons adorning lapels,
polished pencil splinters weaving in and out of
fidgeting fingers. And they hid from me in boxes
they made with my bones. Trees lining the floors of
brass-plated businesses up to a brass-plated door that
would open occasionally to remind the wood of
what it was. Green to a dead polished gold, umber or
naked gray.
I was dead. Trapped in a long sleep of
hopelessness. Trees still stood, birds still sang,
plants still grew. But I seemed to hold my breath in
one bursting intake that made my edges burn and
ache. The unity was fizzling away into a neverness I
had never known.
18
First, I felt myself creep from the creatures
and the plants, and then from the trees down into the
earth. I stayed there in the soil, so asleep that time
passed like moments of crystallized eternity.
Hanging weightless in the breathlessness. Then I felt
it: the fingers. I awoke as from a sleep and
imagined—thought I imagined—fingers. My
fingers. My feet. My chest, a heart beneath.
Pounding, pounding, thud-d-d-thud-d-d. And then I
realized that I was suffocating, breathing dirt. I
pushed up through the earth. Breaking and cracking
about me. And I saw that I was human.
With nothing more extraordinary than a
memory spanning over billions of years, I look no
different than any other human. If you passed me on
the street, you would never know the difference.
The trees still speak to me. They whisper of
the seasons and times come and gone. I see the trees
that once flourished where the cities lie. A ghost of
them, a whisper. I try to touch their age-engraved
bark, but my fingers meet air.
“Hope” by Simon Hua
20
“Street” by Nathali Blackwell
“Will You Wait For Me?” by Stephanie Moll
I awaken from slumber,
rise from bed,
and touch the floor with my naked feet.
The shades are open;
I feel the pain
from the luminous light
of the morning sun
shatter my tender, weak eyes.
I prepare for today‟s unknown,
for the battle ahead.
As I step outside,
the cold air rushes into me;
my body becomes brittle.
I retreat to my car,
start it up,
and listen to the crackle
of the awakening engine.
I am on my way.
Will you wait for me?
22
Second Place: Dream Logic
by Thomas Swett
“I dreamt of killing you last night,” Julie said
without preamble, as Bill poked at a breakfast of eggs,
toast and orange juice from behind his thin fortress of
newsprint. A fortress which he lowered to regard Julie
with raised eyebrows.
“Huh?” he grunted.
It was still early in the morning, which to him
meant before noon. He had never quite gotten out of
the college mentality that weekends were meant to be
slept through.
“I dreamt of killing you. Last night. It woke
me up, and I couldn‟t get back to sleep, so I just lay for
hours staring up at the ceiling, wondering whether I
should wake you up or try to smother you with a
pillow.”
The eyebrows twitched higher, a pantomime
of alarm.
“That‟s how I killed you in the dream. By
smothering you with a pillow. I think I stabbed you or
poisoned you a few times too, but it was mostly the
pillow thing.”
“Yeah?” Bill managed non-eyebrow
communication.
“Yeah. You struggled a lot, but you were
really weak, or maybe I was just really strong. Either
way, it didn‟t do you any good.”
“Ah.”
He paused on a swig of orange juice, swishing
it in his mouth as he considered what to say next. He
swallowed. “I dreamt about sleeping with your sister,”
he said, and instantly realized that was probably the
wrong move with a wife that was already dreaming of
homicide.
23
Julie regarded him coolly over her cup of
coffee. She hated breakfast and didn‟t get hungry until
well past noon, but she liked keeping Bill company,
liked how unguarded he was in the morning, like a
sleepy puppy.
“That‟s so sweet, honey.”
“Is it?” he asked, blinking.
“Oh yes, it is. You‟re trying to make my
dreams come true.” She smiled a smile that had humor
mixed in with something all-together more jagged.
“Ah,” he said. It took a second for the threat to
filter through. “Ah. Well, in my defense, you were
there too.”
“You‟re not helping yourself,” she chided.
“Your mother may have also made an
appearance.”
“Bill!”
“The Gray Fox strikes again,” he mused. A
distant part of him wondered to where his instinct for
self-preservation had run off.
“You promised you‟d stop calling her that!”
Julie glowered. She had a very fine glower,
Bill decided. It brought a brilliance to her eyes, a spark
of vitality that had been lacking of late. He squashed
that thought with a tremor of guilt. It was not her fault.
It was not her fault.
He mustered another response. Fan the flames,
the devil inside him said. “It‟s not my fault she has legs
to die for! Eyes like limpid pools! Hair like white silk!
And her ears…” He shuddered in apparent ecstasy.
“Her ears?” Julie asked, caught in the
borderlands between a smile and a moue.
“Don‟t get me started on her ears,” Bill said.
“We could be here all day.”
Julie snorted. “Why did I marry you again?”
“I‟m a paragon of manliness?” Bill suggested. “Yeah, no.” Julie shook her head sadly.
“Ouch. Okay, I‟m a poet. Chicks dig poets.”
24
“Heh. Try again.” True, he had written her a
love sonnet when they were in college, mostly, he now
freely admitted, as an unsuccessful sally to get into her
pants. But she had never seen him put poetic pen to
paper since then. Whatever art that lay in his soul was a
shallow well—easily drained and painfully slow to
refill. Still, she remembered the sonnet, the movement
of emotion behind it, the soul, if not the words.
Bill, meanwhile, had paused to consider.
“Hmmmm,” he said, and bowed his chin into his fist.
“Then you must love me.” He spoke like a man
discovering some great and secret truth, some hidden
knowledge that redefined existence.
“Must I? Why would I do that?” She teased,
but there it was again, the jagged edge beyond the
teasing—half hidden, half poking out like glass in the
sand.
“Honestly, I‟m not sure. I suspect it‟s a freak
occurrence, a lapse in judgment from a woman of
otherwise impeccable taste.”
“Sounds about right,” she agreed.
They smiled at each other and that was that.
She sipped at her coffee, eyes dark and hot to match
the brew. He drained his orange juice in one victory
swig and rattled his fortress of paper and ink. They sat
in silence for a while, a warm, comfortable silence, a
morning silence, filled with sunlight and freshness.
In that silence, time seemed to stand still, like
the waters of a pond. Each moment lived a full life
before dying. Finally, after generations of moments,
Bill asked, “So, why did you kill me?”
Julie started, as if she had forgotten him.
“Huh?”
“In your dream. Why did you kill me?”
“Maybe I sensed your dream, and my dream-
self decided to wreak bloody vengeance upon you, O despoiler of sisters and mothers.”
25
“Nah. I was just smothered, right? If you knew
about my dream, it would be so much worse.” Bill
smiled to himself, mischievous, self-satisfied—an
imp‟s smile.
“True.” She paused, and trouble stirred in her
eyes, a darker shade of black. “I can‟t remember and
I‟m sorry.” She began to cry, clear, crystalline purity
sliding effortlessly out of those dark eyes.
“Why are you sorry?” he asked. “Oh, shit,
don‟t cry.” And he reached out to hug her close, to
crush out the tears, to blot them away with strength and
warmth, all he had to offer.
He tried to at least. He was confused as the
tiled kitchen floor rose to meet him. His glass, blurred
with a film of leftover orange juice, shattered on the
floor next to him, knocked down by his fall. He tried to
pick himself up, to brush himself off and joke it away,
but he could not stir.
And then she was there, still crying. “I‟m
sorry,” she said. “In the night, I was so sure, but now I
can‟t remember.”
Bill‟s eyes asked her why.
“Can‟t remember,” she sobbed. “It faded away
I‟m sorry, so sorry, I‟m sorry.”
And Bill‟s eyes asked her why, and Bill‟s
brain remembered, “Then you must love me.” And
then he had no more questions, only dreams, dreams
not of murder or sisters or gray foxes, but different
dreams, dreams clear and cool and wholly alien.
26
“Sweet Mystery” by Glynis Wilson
Hard, cold, round mystery,
Tough skin like a frog‟s back,
Smooth, slick, and slimy.
One bite of the sweet unknown
Quickly ran my childhood days
Of jumping rope through my mind,
Sticky hands and dirty faces,
As the smell of nectar filled the air,
As the mystery of the unknown
Squirts down my throat.
Unwillingly, I swallowed,
Bitter skin left in my mouth,
Blue stained tongue,
As if my oxygen were cut off—
Memories quickly turned to regrets.
Here I go again,
Longing for more,
Left with a little piece of heaven
On my heart.
I thought I would never get enough
of this liquid sweet sunshine
forcing down my throat.
“Elderfly” by Connor Robinson
28
“Flower-Studded Poet” by Anna Swearengen
If poetry grew like flowers
Through my many written hours,
I would be covered with blooms
And from lack of room
Would grow flower on flower
And bud on bud
And would be the flower-studded poet,
Whose skin would bloom in spring
And who would never die,
As long as I was rained on by the sky.
“Bubble” by Amanda Yates
29
Second Place: “With a Crinkle, Crisp, Crunch of the Sheet” by Nida Pathan
With a crinkle, crisp, crunch of the sheet
He flung his thoughts into the cerulean sea
Ripple, tinkle, the sheet drowns never to be seen
No more crinkle, crisp, crunch of the sheet, sheet,
sheet.
He escapes to a Shangri-La far beyond ordinary
With a small sip, slurp of bliss he washes away
reality
Sinking into quicksand, the waves whoosh and whip
over him
As his thoughts forever in sapphire sink, sink, sink.
Whereas his corpse clashes, crashes like bells of a
chime
For once the scenery is tranquil like his tears, tears,
tears.
If the crinkle, crisp, crunch of the sheet resurfaced
He could have another chance to breathe, breathe,
breathe.
“Girl with Horse” by Cassie Beaver
30
Third Place: Error by Liz Kellicut
Okay.
Nothing is happening. Nothing‟s moving at all.
Computer, this is not cool of you. Not at all. Are you
even remotely aware that I have a paper due by 9
a.m. tomorrow?
Of course you are. That is why you do these things
to me. I‟m on to you.
Why do you do this every single time? All day, all
month, all the damn year, you work just fine. Until a
paper is due. Then you decide, “Uh oh! Liz has a
paper due! Time to go batshit crazy!”
And you do. And I‟m surprised. Every time.
Let me click a few times. I know nothing‟s going to
work, and so do you. But it helps me to visualize my
frustration.
Come on, come oooonnnn.
Nothing.
Okay. Stay calm. Breathe in, breathe out. Did I save
what I‟ve written so far?
No?
Shit.
31
I‟ve really got to stop winging these things and
realize that computers don‟t cooperate.
I‟ve already written three pages. If I lose those three
pages, I‟m going to have to write from memory, not
to mention redo all those citations that every student
dreads. The writing‟s going to be shoddy, and then
the professor is going to know that I did this the
night before.
Er…I mean…last week, according to the date on the
paper, which I will more than likely have to retype.
Okay, okay, okay. This is not a big deal. Hit
Control-Alt-Delete. Maybe if I can get the Task
Manager up, I can—
Damn it. It‟s frozen too.
I hate you Bill Gates. You have bestowed upon the
world a machine that we can use to our advantage
that now takes advantage of us. Suddenly all those
Sci-Fi movies are starting to make sense. These
things really could kill us in our sleep if we let them.
Well, that, and if they didn‟t freeze up all the time.
Oh, I‟m sure you‟re laughing about that on the
inside, computer, laughing maniacally like the evil
machine you are.
Alright, you stupid computer. You better let me do
what I want or I will throw you across the room and
then beat you with a baseball bat until you are a
million little pieces on my carpeted, bedroom floor.
You hear me? I‟ll totally do it!
32
…Yes, you called my bluff. Not only did I pay
seven hundred bucks for you, I don‟t even own a
baseball bat.
Maybe that‟s why all you computers are so
expensive, so people don‟t have money to get a
baseball bat to beat the living hell out of you with.
Maybe…
My finger is hovering over the on-off switch. My
brain knows what I have to do, but my pride won‟t
let me do it. How can I possibly let you, a machine,
win? I am a human being, created from ridiculous
amounts of genetic code! I have a brain and a
nervous system and all other things functioning! The
only thing I need to survive is food and water—
—Oh and money. And music. Oh! And
shelter…and…never mind. I‟m still a living,
functioning being, that doesn‟t need to be plugged
into a wall in order to work.
So I should be the superior one here. I‟m in my
second year of college for crise sakes! Surely I can
make this work. I‟m no technophobe.
But this isn‟t an issue that can be taken up with my
nerdy friends, or with Geek Squad or whatever.
You, computer, have made this personal. You can‟t
do this to me. I created—
33
Well, I didn‟t create you, but I had a lot to do with
the fact that you‟re not stuffed in a box in a
warehouse. Was it cold and lonely there, Toshiba? I
hope it was. I really do. I could get a new one of
you, you know. I don‟t have to deal with this.
There‟s a new one of you every day. Every single
minute, you‟re growing a little older, a little more
obsolete. That‟s right. I can go out to Best Buy or
whatever, right now, and get one.
…You caught my bluff again, didn‟t you? I‟m a
college student. I don‟t have any more money.
I spent it all on YOU… and the occasional chicken
sandwich.
Damn. I really don‟t want to push the button, but
this paper isn‟t going to rewrite itself, and it‟s not
like I can wave a magic wand and presto it‟s fixed.
I‟m not Harry Potter or anything. Hell, even if I was,
you probably would just explode or something
because you don‟t cooperate with anyone. Maybe
that‟s why Harry Potter writes all his papers on
parchment. Old school, but productive, I guess.
I don‟t think my professor would find it very funny
if I turned in my paper on parchment, written in
quill, though. Or…he might find it absolutely
hilarious before demanding I turn in the typed copy.
I say if anyone ever tries it, he or she should get at
least twenty extra points for effort.
Then he‟d at least get a twenty.
34
All right. Fine. You win. I‟ll turn you off, let you
rest. Maybe I‟ll go cry on my couch for a few
minutes because I‟m so irritated. Then I‟ll slump
back to my room, lesson-learned (for now at least),
and type this damn paper all over again—making
sure to save early and often, as the teachers all
through middle and high school told me to. Is that
what this is? Teaching me how to be a good student?
Because I would be an awesome student if you
didn‟t freeze up and ruin my hard work, just because
I forgot to save.
I guess, in the end, it‟s still kind of my fault.
But I still hate you.
“Tock” by Connor Robinson
35
“Drizzle” by Simon Hua
“UnStAbLe” by Stephanie Moll
The tempestuous wind
swirls about me. My
flimsy body flung
to and fro.
I feel light
as a feather.
Picked up by the
swirling winds. The funnel of my
feeble body ceases.
I plunge
down, down, down.
SPLAT!
36
“House on a Hill” by Keara Lipscomb
Through a film of dry dust,
Peeking out of thick, scratchy air,
Lays a lopsided house.
Rotting walls, dumpster dragged,
Flapping blue-tarped roof,
“Home Sweet Home.”
Small calloused soles step
On a stairway of stripped tires,
Meet a welcome mat
Of grainy dust and dirt.
At the decaying doorway
Of the house on a hill.
“Sands” by Michael Berry
37
“Mom’s Garden” by Brittany Jackson
Third Place: “Today” by Angela Toomer
Today, when I woke up,
I felt the old heaviness put to rest.
Spring called out to me
To come outside,
To participate in the green and blue world.
To roll my shoulders back and align my spine.
So what can I do but obey?
Follow this irresistible pull,
This tugging at my fingertips?
Come play.
Come laugh, and shake off the dark.
Let it slide down my back.
The fragments of you still rattle around in my brain,
Some broken shards of glass that my hands are
drawn to,
38
Red and purple stained glass, each distinct and
sharp.
Mostly shoulders and a familiarity.
The extraordinary creation of a habit and a rhythm
Of being with another.
It all whispers in my ear, asking me to remember.
Asking to destroy, to toss everything through a
window
In a new sort of passion.
But today.
Today I can celebrate myself and sing myself.
Because this was how it began.
“Slender Beauty” by Jayme McKeever
39
“Distorted Eyes Are Dying” by Bridget Fowler
“Three by four” by Danielle Morris
Grit, grease, pain, and anguish.
She keeps her head high as she walks the path.
To class, to the bus, to home.
She is not ethereal, shimmering blonde hair and deep
green eyes.
The boys, the girls, the lovers.
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.
The tears, the prayers, the begging.
She smiles, and it illuminates the world.
The screams, the scowls, the bruising.
She is enamored with life.
The abuse, the neglect, the whimpers.
She needs the support of those who pass right by.
The running, the hiding, the cowering.
She grits her teeth and pushes through the barricades.
Over mountains, through oceans, across plains.
Her creations are the children of her stubborn effort.
Paint, charcoal, clay.
The pain she feels tapers off when she makes herself
forgive.
Again, again, again.
The anguish, though, is almost more than she can
handle.
Insanity, insanity, insanity.
40
“Schmetterling” by Connor Robinson
Operation Butterfly by Amanda Yates
It was summertime and I was seven. The
pavement scalded my bare feet as I lugged the blue
plastic wagon across the sidewalk towards his house.
“Why‟s his house have to be so far away
anyway? There are tons of houses next to mine, but
his is on the other side of the world.”
But Zane was my best friend on Countryside
Road, and it was a big road, so it was okay that I was
missing Arthur for this. I stopped for a minute to
refasten the overall strap that always came
unsnapped, and I let my feet cool off in the wet grass
in our neighbor‟s yard. I opened the top of the
wagon to check on the goods; they were looking
kind of dead so I poured some of my water in there
to wake them up. The wagon contained everything
we‟d need for our business: the Hello Kitty cash
register that my sister had gotten for Christmas, the
two quarters that Zane had contributed (it was the
money the tooth fairy brought him for his big
chewing tooth in the back), the butterflies we‟d
41
caught in Mama‟s flower garden in the back yard
(they were ugly butterflies, and small ones, but my
teacher said butterflies always start off ugly and
small), and the sign we‟d made with Zane‟s smelly-
good markers that said, “TIN SINTS APEESE.” We
were all ready to start selling and I figured we‟d be
rich as millionaires by the time second grade started.
Zane had told me to meet him at his house
before Arthur came on, but I was late because Mama
would made us have naptime after lunch while she
ate her sandwich with the orange stinky pepper
cheese called “pamintow,” and watched her bad TV
show, the one where people kissed on the mouth in it
(I saw that on a commercial but Mama didn‟t know).
She always said, “It‟s not a little girl show,” but I
wasn‟t a little girl anymore. I was a big girl, and I
was plenty old enough to see people smooch. And I
was going to prove it by starting Operation Butterfly
with Zane. I was going to become a grownup.
It all started in the back yard. Zane had
come over and we were bored, just sitting outside,
eating pretzels and fighting over who got to be the
car piece in Monopoly, which we didn‟t really know
how to play. But to me, boredom was a natural part
of summer. If you didn‟t spend summer outside,
then it wasn‟t really summer at all. In my mind,
there was no place so magical as my backyard; the
sun was huge and it beat down on us relentlessly, but
the grass was always cool, even wet somehow. The
big patch of tall sunflowers that grew by the fence
was perfect for a game of hide-and-seek, and a
variety of interesting creatures lived in its shadows.
When a breeze picked up, it sounded as if the entire
world was whispering its secrets, its stories, to me—
the things it would confide to no one else. I was the
confidante of nature. The smell of summer was one
42
of my favorites; it smelled of sunlight, of grass, of
chlorine, and of happiness. It felt of cool sheets; of
warm wind coming from electric fans that exhausted
themselves trying to circulate the still, humid air; of
damp grass prickling my knees and the palms of my
hands; of hot concrete, scraping against the tires of
my bicycle; and most of all, it felt of opportunity.
Summer was endless, in those days.
And I had a plan. If I could start my own
business, and if me and my assistant Zane could
make a trillion dollars, and if I could show all that
money to Mama, then she would believe me that I
was a grown up and she wouldn‟t make me have
naptime and she would let me watch her kissing
show with her. And then summer would be perfect.
“So, do you think it‟ll work?” Zane asked,
while using a stick to dig a hole in the ground for the
burial of one of our less fortunate butterflies.
“Of course it will,” I replied, as I tied
wildflowers together into strands as decorations for
the funeral. My confidence in our business had not
yet faltered, despite the multitude of damaged
merchandise. I was invincible, and so was my
business. Just the butterflies weren‟t. “We‟ve got to
start feeding them, that‟s all.”
“I guess so.” With a loud crack, Zane‟s
digging stick snapped. “Darn it! I‟m sick of doing
this. It‟s your turn to dig.”
“I can‟t. I‟m busy.”
“No you ain‟t. All you‟re doing is playing
with flowers.” Zane didn‟t like when I did girly
stuff, like making flower decorations.
“Yeah, flowers for the funeral. Funerals
have to have flowers. And crying and stuff.”
“Well you can cry all you want, but I‟m
going inside to watch Arthur.” He stalked away,
43
leaving me alone with a hundred butterfly corpses, a
wagon, a Hello Kitty cash register with fifty cents in
it, and wounded pride.
“Yeah? Well Arthur‟s already over. So ha!”
I was characteristically determined to have the last
word. Plus, he wasn‟t the only one disappointed
about missing our favorite TV show.
“Nuh uh, my mom got it on tape!” And with
that final, devastating blow, he slammed the door.
I walked home that afternoon in solitude,
hauling the wagon behind me at such a furious pace
that I stubbed my big toe on the sidewalk and
scraped half the pink nail polish off of it. But by the
next day all was forgiven, and I knocked on Zane‟s
door that morning with a box of Goldfish as a peace
offering.
“Circle, circle, dot, dot, now you got the
cootie shot,” I said, poking his arm. This was our
daily greeting, and he cheerfully returned it to me. It
was our big day, possibly the biggest day of our
careers. It was the day we began selling butterflies.
It was early on a Saturday morning. Plenty
of people were out: old guys with headbands were
running very slowly, though they looked as if they
thought they were running very quickly; boys on
bicycles throwing newspapers at people‟s houses (I
always wondered if the grownups knew about that);
blonde ladies with poodles walking swiftly down the
street. So I really could not understand why we
hadn‟t sold a single butterfly. We had the sign we
made, which was still very pretty even though it had
lost some of its smelly-goodness. Zane was holding
it high above his head and waving it in the air where
I knew people could see it.
“Butterflies are way cooler than lemonade,”
Zane grumbled in the general direction of the kids
44
running the lemonade stand across the street. But
the lemonade stand was actually making money.
And we were not.
Some time later, we spotted a group of boys
walking towards us. They didn‟t really look like
nice boys; they looked like sixth graders. Everyone
knew that you avoided sixth graders. It was a life or
death kind of thing.
“Zane, hold up the sign!” I hissed. We had
been taking a Hi-C and Oreos break, but now it
looked like it was time to get serious.
So Zane raised the sign above his head, and
I put on the politest, most businesslike smile I could
manage. As the boys moved closer to us, I could
hear that they were laughing. So I made my smile
even wider, because I wanted to be in on the joke.
“Hi, do you want to buy a butterfly? They‟re
only ten cents,” I said, breathless with excitement.
But my statement caused the boys to laugh harder.
They had found something humorous in my question
that I did not understand.
“They‟re really good butterflies,” I added,
my smile fading.
“It‟s true! Want to see?” Zane blurted. He
opened the top of the wagon, and the boys peered
inside. But instead of quelling their laughter and
replacing it with a burning desire to buy a butterfly,
as Zane had intended, it only fueled their giggles,
and I half expected them to fall over.
“What‟s so funny?” I demanded, growing
angrier by the second.
“You‟re trying to sell us…” One of the boys
paused to catch his breath, and then began again.
“You‟re trying to sell us moths? What in the world
would I want with a moth?”
45
Very few times in my life had I ever been
unable to think of something to say. This was one of
them.
But Zane, the shy one, used this moment to
find his courage. It was like he‟d been to Oz and
back in half a second.
“These are not moths, they are butterflies,”
he said, shockingly calm. “If you don‟t want one,
that‟s fine. But you can‟t stand here and laugh at
us.” I could‟ve sworn I felt my jaw touch the
pavement.
The sixth graders laughed even louder, but they
didn‟t say anything else to us. They just walked
away.
Later, when I asked Zane why he wasn‟t
scared to talk to the sixth graders, all he said was,
“That‟s what the boyfriend‟s supposed to do.” I
didn‟t know that Zane was my boyfriend until that
day. But I guessed it was okay as long as I didn‟t
have to kiss him or anything. Not even the cootie
shot could protect me from lip cooties.
Zane and I went home after that. We hadn‟t
sold a single butterfly/moth, and we never tried to
again. But what I learned that day was something I
never forgot. Being a grownup was not about
having a business, or an assistant, or a trillion
dollars. Being a grownup was being brave, like
Zane was. It was standing up to the sixth graders
and telling them to back off, without calling them
“stupid heads” like I would have. It was letting
Zane be the car piece in monopoly, and giving him
back his fifty cents from the tooth fairy even though
he said I could keep it. Even though I still had a long
way to go, it was the first step I took towards
becoming a grownup.
46
“Saying and Doing” by Simon Hua
“Colored Thread” by Anna Swearengen
Just at the thought of losing you,
I am lost within a misshapen, moth-eaten tapestry—
Made with bands of sorrow and worn threads of
your face.
I find my pen bleeding black onto my fingers,
The paper unstained by words,
And my feet, once a rosy glass weighted to the floor,
Seem to melt into pale sand,
And my heart, once fresh with bluest blood,
Pulls in all that made my skin a rosy pink
And turns to coal dust, smearing my veins black,
And my eyes instantly dry,
Turning the surface to copper-colored rust.
I am pulled free only by a single, colored thread:
47
It is not your skin or face I love,
But the colored thread within you,
Dyeing your every ring and grain,
Threaded in me like tree roots woven and spun into
the earth.
After memories deteriorate with gray matter
And pictures brown with tips of salty fingers,
After your face wrinkles and sags and is dappled
brown,
When your lungs are as dry and wrinkled as old
newspaper,
And my bones no longer gleam white,
My body rotting and worm-eaten six feet
underground,
I will never be without you.
“Portrait of a Duck” by Connor Robinson
48
“Earphones” by Camille Caparas
A bit of gold
connects precious waves
to roads of circuitry
tangled with use
but familiar just the same.
And though science
can and could
explain the journey
from drive to drums
the destination between two extremes
is up to you.
“Sea Inside” by Anna Swearengen
50
“Succession” by Travis Whiteside “No Fairy Tale” by Keara Lipscomb
Laughing to hide the pain
Memories don‟t feel the same
Things change, people move on
Happiness does not exist in my home
Praying day and night, “God PLEASE HELP.”
Why does it feel like no one‟s there?
My life‟s no fairy tale, I‟m no Cinderella
Never finding true love,
No one can find my glass slipper
It‟s lost never to be found
Heartbroken, never to be mended
Why piece it back together
Only for it to be broken again?
I‟ll never love again
Took my heart out and threw it away
Now my only happiness is my peace of mind
Knowing I‟ll never be hurt again.
51
Breadsticks by Thomas Swett
“Waiter.” Bobby waved at a man in a
server‟s uniform who may or may not have actually
been their waiter. The restaurant was all shadows
and candlelight, which, Bobby supposed, was meant
to be romantic, though it just gave him a headache,
and all the waiters had on the exact same uniform of
crisp, button up shirts, red vests and black pants. It
made it extremely hard to tell them apart, but in the
end they were all waiters, so it probably didn‟t
matter anyway. At least the darkness helped to hide
his stained and rumpled suit. “Hey, waiter, can we
get some more breadsticks over here?”
“Put your hand down,” Donna said. Her own
hand, flashing freshly painted red nails that matched
her dress, shielded her face from view as she stared
down at the pristine white table cloth. “You‟re
embarrassing me.”
“What? I‟m just asking for more
breadsticks,” Bobby protested. “It‟s not my fault
they only give you a dinky little basketful. Price of
this place they should wheel them in by the barrel.”
“Listen, this is a nice place. There‟s no
buffet. There are no arcade games, no mascot
characters, no screaming children. The waiters speak
with accents, there‟s a wine list and everything on
the menu is in a foreign language.”
“I still don‟t see—“
She held up one freshly manicured hand to
silence him. “This is a nice place, a classy place. Try
to act like it.”
“What does that have to do with
breadsticks?” Bobby asked, leaning on the table with
his elbows, making the water in their glasses slosh
and the lone candle between them jerk and waver.
52
“It‟s…please, just trust me and leave the
breadsticks alone. You can have all the breadsticks
you want when we go to Olive Garden, but not now,
okay?”
“I don‟t see why you‟re getting so worked
up about this.”
“I‟m not—” Donna paused to breathe, in,
out, in, out. She smoothed her hands down her red
dress. “Do I ask a lot of you?”
Bobby blinked. “What?”
“Do I make demands? Nag you constantly?
Remind you of your many, many personal failings?”
Bobby tried to process the question, his
brain working overtime. Still, all he could say was,
“Um…What?”
“No, I don‟t. I don‟t complain about having
to take care of the kids all by myself because you‟re
too tired after work—”
“My job‟s stressful, honey, and—”
“I don‟t complain when you‟re out of work
and still won‟t help with the kids because you‟re
busy looking for a job. I don‟t complain when your
mother visits. I don‟t complain when I have to skimp
on the groceries or risk bouncing checks, or when
you go out drinking with your friends and come
back smelling like cheap cigars and someone else‟s
perfume. I don‟t complain, but…I do want one
night. One night every once in a while when I can
pretend things turned out differently, like how I‟d
planned instead of…” She gestured vaguely at him
with her screaming red nails. “Instead of this.
Instead of you.”
“I‟m sorry, honey. I think I understand
now.” He placed a comforting hand on top of hers
and offered her a tentative smile. Their waiter came,
bearing plates of food and a new basket of steaming
53
breadsticks, which he started to set upon the table.
Bobby stopped him with a dismissive wave. “That‟s
okay. We don‟t need any breadsticks.” He smiled at
his wife and winked.
“That‟s not—” Donna started, but choked
off into a wordless growl. She grabbed the basket of
breadsticks, threw it at her husband and stormed
away.
Bobby sat covered in garlic butter and oil.
“And she wonders why we don‟t go out more.” He
turned to the waiter who was looking on with the
wide eyes of someone who had just witnessed a car
accident. “I think I‟ll need the check, and a few
boxes for the food.” He sighed, picked up one of the
breadsticks and, after a moment of silent
contemplation, bit into it.
“Shouldn‟t you go after her?” the waiter
asked.
“It‟s fine,” Bobby assured him, smiling with
a mouthful of chewed dough. “I have the car keys.
She‟s stuck
with me.”
“Earnestine and Hazels” by Lauren
Pintar
54
“Little Blue Surprise” by Free McCay
yours is a strange
request
open your mouth
lean back
wait
my eyes close tight
I plead under breath
let this time be
different
wait
breathy giggles
disguise
bubbling perspiration
my mind races back to
boyhood
embarrassment
vivid slow-motion
replays of
Charlie Brown football
fumbling backseat faux
pas
my heart
secretly screams now
a throbbing coward
perched in my throat
wait
your laughing
demeanor
belies unflinching
insistent commands
open your mouth
lean back
exploding anticipation
quenched
the promised surprise
placed on my tongue
little
blue
berry
damn…
55
“Cow” by Michael Berry
“Awaited Voyage” by Zaniesha Davis
Pride swelled in the beating sea,
Like a roaring tide
Wringing out tears in flowing streams on a smile.
As he placed his left hand
On the wheel and the other to the sky,
Swearing to steer his passengers in this journey,
I could, the late Captain King, declare
“We will get there.”
My first ride of choice,
Age permitted.
56
Miles away,
I can see the shore
In the distance.
The breaking line
Of the sand and tide
Push me to swim in the deep waters
Where my ancestors store their treasures.
So I wave at the future,
Just as this virgin Captain O
Waved at his reflection in me,
A passenger,
Greeting the hush of the sea as kin
Because for the first time,
I am a part
Of We the People.
“Clock Tower” by Brittany Jackson
57
Pool Party by Thomas Swett
“God does not want me to go to this pool
party,” Chase said, staring out the car window
sullenly.
“Did he tell you that? Because personal
divine revelation isn‟t admissible without some
external sign, so unless it‟s written on a stone wall
somewhere in a fiery hand, you‟re still going,” his
mother replied, attention mostly on the road.
“I‟m not saying he‟s specifically against me
going. I‟m saying that he isn‟t specifically for me
going either. There‟s no commandment that says
„Thou Shalt Go Unto Youth Group Pool Parties.‟”
“He did say to honor your father and your
mother. Since your father isn‟t around, that means I
get twice the honor.” His mother swerved over into
the oncoming lane to pass a fleecy-haired old lady.
Chase could tell she was feeling particularly
Christian that day as she refrained from flicking the
other driver off as she passed.
“I don‟t think that‟s how that works,” Chase
said.
“Of course it is,” his mother said. “It‟s
simple math.”
“I don‟t think math and religion mix.”
His mother looked at him, her eyes
narrowed. “I think there‟s also that proverb. How did
it go again? Ah, yes, I think it was „The eye that
mocks a father, that scorns obedience to a mother,
will be pecked out by the ravens of the valley, will
be eaten by the vultures.‟ Do I need to break out the
birds?”
“No,” Chase said, wishing she would keep
her eyes on the road.
58
“Are you sure? I‟m feeling a little scorned
here.”
“No, no, no scorn at all,” Chase assured her.
“Good,” she said cheerfully. “We‟re here.”
She jerked to a stop in front of a large, white house
in the suburbs. “Get out. Have fun. I‟ll be back in a
few hours. Probably.”
He shot her a sullen look as he got out.
“Scorn,” she warned. He rolled his eyes and
left, not looking back as she peeled away.
He made his way to the backyard without
going through the house. He could hear splashing
and the chatter of dozens of people. He could smell
the chlorinated water and roasting hotdogs. When he
pushed open the splintered wooden gate, he saw the
party in full swing. People clustered everywhere,
swimming, talking, eating, beating the hell out of
each other with those little flotation noodles. He
twitched at the sheer number stuffed into that one
backyard.
After the first few minutes, it wasn‟t that
bad. People mainly stuck to their individual social
groups, not bothering him beyond a few perfunctory
greetings, after which he was able to safely sink into
the background. Then they started organizing games
in the pool and he was stuck, forced to participate or
be singled out.
Category was not his idea of a fun pool
game. However, he found himself lined up under the
diving board with everybody else as someone called
out types of candy. When the guy hit M&Ms, half
the line surged forward. It hadn‟t been the candy
Chase had been thinking of, but he figured it was
close enough and surged forward a second later,
hoping to lose himself in the crowd. The boy on the
diving board jumped after them. Chase, due to his
59
second of hesitation and spindly arms, lagged behind
just enough to get body slammed by the jumper. He
struggled, thrust underwater, unsure which way was
up or what had happened, the only thing in his mind
the impression of force and brief skin to skin
contact. When he finally found the surface, one of
the group leaders pulled him out of the pool.
“Are you okay?” the group leader asked,
visions of lawsuits no doubt dancing in his head.
“What?” Chase answered, still a little
concussed.
“Great. It‟s your turn to dive.” He sent
Chase stumbling towards the diving board.
The new category was dinosaurs, so Chase
stood on the diving board, trembling with
nervousness, his back towards the pool, listing off
every dinosaur he knew. “Brontosaurus,” he said.
“Brachiosaurus, Panoplosaurus, Camarasaurus.” He
was burning time, he knew, and his legs weren‟t
getting any less shaky as he went, so he took a
shuddering breath, blurted out “T-Rex,” turned and
dove into the water.
Most of the line, a good twenty kids, took
off when he said T-Rex. He only had to tag one and
it was over. This was complicated by the fact that he
had all the aquatic dexterity of a brick, a spindly-
armed, mildly concussed brick. The other swimmers
swept past him and he floundered even more
desperately towards them. Out of the corner of his
eyes he saw a flash of yellow, and he lunged toward
it. He felt skin against skin and almost smiled in
victory, except when he drew back his hand
something yellow was clinging to it. He looked at it
curiously, a sudden horrible suspicion growing in
him. He looked at the brown-haired girl he had just
tagged, who was staring at the yellow thing in his
60
hand with a kindred expression of growing horror.
She had on a yellow bikini top. His eyes trailed
down. Through the distortion of the water, he saw a
distinct lack of a matching yellow bikini bottom. He
looked at the thing in his hand again.
The brown haired girl screamed. Chase gave
into his first impulse and fled the scene. Or tried to.
As he floundered away, bikini bottom still in hand,
one of the group leaders decided he was in fact
trying to steal the bikini bottom and dove in to stop
him. The group leader overtook him easily and
grabbed for the yellow fabric, incidentally shoving
Chase underwater in his scramble for it. He had
almost wrenched the bottom from Chase‟s flailing
hands when he saw an expanding cloud of grayish-
greenish-yellowish-pinkish something in the water.
Chase had accidentally swallowed pool water and
quickly returned it with interest.
The group leader surged away, forgetting
the bikini bottom in his hurry, and vacated the pool
along with nearly everyone else. Chase was left
spitting and spluttering, holding a stolen bikini
bottom, treading water in a milky cloud of his own
vomit, his only companion the brown-haired girl,
who was trying to stay afloat one-handed, as she
used the other to cover her privates.
Distantly, from behind a swimming veil of
barely suppressed tears, Chase wished he had
scorned his mother and taken his chances with the
vultures and the ravens. It couldn‟t be worse than
this.
61
“After the Rain” by Sarah Longoria
Tree trunks glistening wet
and black.
Roads dark and glittering,
doused
here and there with pools
of pale blue sky.
Flowers dripping drops
of color.
Grass turned gloss by
Nature‟s tears.
The world is lovely after
the rain.
“Old Man” by Michelle Fair
62
“Woodpecker” by Nathali Blackwell
“The Wedding Limbo” by Nida Pathan
Oh, how I gaze wildly upon the sight before me,
The exuberant colors piercing my soul.
The echo of Urdu across the hall fills my ears greatly.
Restlessly, I wait for my family and friends to enter.
Today, oh, today is my sister‟s wedding day.
Much excitement is bursting through my veins.
Her pomegranate red dress captivates the sun‟s rays
Causing the sun to set with the expected omen of rain. The elegance in her posture draws the crowd to silence.
63
Now, the women begin the traditional Pakistani
customs,
But inside I am torn for my happiness is taken for
ignorance.
My dearest sister I do not want to let go.
I keep my feelings hidden in my heart;
The slanted smile on my face I still show.
It is presently midnight—a new day has begun.
Happily, my sister departs to her new family,
Leaving me to my lonesome.
Oh, how I gaze indifferently upon the sight before me;
The realization of change is hurting my soul.
“Portrait of a Girl” by Quinn Lin