Elysian Literary Magazine
VOLUME 8 ISSUE 2
This issue is dedicated to originality and diversity of human minds.
Designed By: Sydney Breitenstein, Samadhi Diaz, & Ryan Zielie
The mission of Elysian Magazine is to inspire students at Aurora University to create unique works of art and to provide an outlet where creative voices cannot only be shared but also admired.
Cover Photo: Head in the Clouds
Photo Taken By Juan Gutierrez
“A print keepsake symbolizing creative voice and college memory."
Head in the Clouds
Photo Taken By Juan Gutierrez
A Secret Garden
Photo Taken By Ximena Torres Ramos
Can Caterpillars Fly?
Maia Deguzman
“Caterpillars have twelve eyes, except for some of them that have ten or fourteen.” My friend points this out with two wide eyes of her own as we share breaths and watch a striped caterpillar inch its way across a broad leaf. “And soon, when it’s warmer, she’ll become a butterfly.”
At the ripe age of twelve, soon we’ll transform too. But for now, we caterpillars are content to dig through Mama’s garden. Armed with nothing but stubborn fingers, the undersides of our fingernails and the grooves of our fingerprints embedded with soil, we excavate the flower bed in search of friends. She’ll make new ones when she moves to the big city, Mama said. I don’t know why she can’t just stay here.
“Bubba! Bubba, look!” The large Bug beside me squeals with joy and whips around, a pink earthworm wriggling in her open palms. I can tell it tickles by the scrunching of her face, like a drawstring pulled tight around her lips. It doesn’t stop her from asking, “Do you think we can keep her?”
Sitting in the clearing of a towering hydrangea forest, Bug looks an inch tall. Like a caterpillar, I imagine she’ll sprout wings and fly away once it’s warm, too. Leaving me behind.
“We need a good home for her,” I tell Bug. “Leaves and sticks and dirt and stuff.”
Leaves and sticks and dirt and stuff are exactly what we collect, carefully layering them all inside my overalls pocket before moving in our new friend. She has exactly what she needs in this new home of leaves and sticks and dirt and stuff, but she almost looks sad.
“Now we can keep her forever,” I say. Bug and I share loose-toothed grins, and I breathe in her Warm Vanilla Sugar air and wish we both had wings that could carry us far, far away together. But caterpillars can't fly, and worms can’t live in soil-lined pockets. Bug’s parents divorced after that summer, and it was years before she came home.
~*~
“Hey, Julia, look at this!” Bella calls from across the greenhouse. The spring sun looks just as close as it did that day. She looks the same, too, rays of liquid gold spilling through the clear roof to pool in pockets of her wide amber eyes.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon and we now-butterflies are fluttering about the greenhouse, readying the carnations for sale, though watering the plants comes to a screeching halt as Bella excitedly waves me over. There is a caterpillar crawling through a crack in the polycarbonate walls we had been meaning to fix for days.
“We should take her back to her home,” I tell Bella. The caterpillar inches its way towards a particularly leafy plant, promising slow but sure destruction.
“No!” Bella’s answer is immediate. “Can we keep her instead?”
“She belongs in nature, Bella,” I say, crouching down to pick off the leaf the caterpillar had made its way onto. The snap of the stem is sharp and the sap sticky between my fingertips. “We should take her to her home.”
“Bug,” Bella says suddenly. I stop, mid-crouch, and look at her with wide eyes.
“Yes, this is a bug,” I confirm, confused, but continue to reach for the intruder. She places a hand over mine, stopping me gently.
“You used to call me Bug,” Bella says, and there’s something that passes behind those round, amber eyes. After almost three months of working in the greenhouse, after almost three months of Bella crawling back into my life, I can almost decipher the question unasked: “We used to be closer. Where did you go?”
I try, the name foreign in my mouth after years of unuse. “I, uh, I’m sorry, Bug.”
“What for?” Bug asks. Her skin is almost clammy against mine, warm to the point of sweating.
I’m not sure myself. I’m sorry for a lot of things when it comes to Bug; I’m sorry she had to move across the country, I’m sorry for the letter I wrote a year after she left. I’m sorry I might move far away soon, too.
I shrug and give her a pathetic look. “I’m just sorry.”
Hand still over mine, she grips me tight and pulls me to my feet. Under the shimmering March sun, she glows.
She calls me by that nickname like no time has passed, like we’re the same girls we were a decade ago. The caterpillar steadily munches its way through my favorite carnation. “Bubba, it’s okay.”
It’s not okay, though. I need to make a decision soon. But with her hand in mine, I feel like flying again.
dreamer/dream
Percy Schulz
you’re you.
a real man. finally saw yourself fully
in the mirror, amongst a crowd of stars,
a promise of all you could be, despite
being strong enough in letting go of all that you are.
carrying every worry in the face of everything
with pride. you’re still laughing.
you’re still beautiful, despite what they tell you.
learning how to fit your joy
in the world. finally yours again
The Starry Rock
Photo Taken by Sydney Breitenstein
Let's Be Mice
For Ellie
Percy Schulz
it
isn’t a crime
to be small.
nor is it a crime
to be wanting. i tell you
the solution to desire
fits in the palm of our hands.
come to the table, or just a little closer.
pretend with me.
let’s sit, tails interlacing
in the cold basement on a bed of
patchwork blankets. your ears flick to the sound
of us laughing over comically small morsels
of crackers and cheese caught in my whiskers.
i say things like to whom am i squeaking?
or the scraps are bountiful tonight and in this fantasy,
the world outside is still cold and barren
but i still think you’re gorgeous.
you’re still soft and curious,
and there
isn’t
much
we
rodents
can
control
but
we
can
still
have
this.
chimerical and elusive
a stupid little game
where both of us end up
alive
Just that Glowing, Living Feeling
Kimberly Leslie
I clutch my bandaged hands
as I walk through the willows.
I know where I need to go
for my poor burnt hands,
temporarily protected from the fire
beyond this grove
by thin gauze hiding the blisters and scorched flesh.
Surrounded by the willows’ feather leaves,
a small creek glitters.
The cricket chirp their stories,
and the fireflies dotting the reeds glow in tandem,
shining miniature suns.
Instantly, instinctually, my body loosens.
I kneel at the creek like it’s a holy temple,
the grass on my knees a plush pillow,
and strip the bandages off
the toasted fingers I use
to hold my pencils and pages
and the blistered palms
I can no longer feel.
I know I’ve waited too long
to come back here.
Outside, I ignored the grove’s call—
the soft ripples, the crickets’ stories, the fireflies’ light—
because I thought time fled too easily
to hear crickets’ stories and find fireflies to share,
but the fires outside kept smoking
and cracking
and roaring
and licking,
and then I got burned
over and over and over
until my hands couldn’t bleed anymore,
numb to both the tongs of fire and the glow of stories.
I know I can’t keep waiting
because the stories in this grove
are what I stay alive for.
I dip my cupped hands into the crisp water
and open them like a clam bearing its pearl.
Little waves massage the surface.
From underneath chimes ring
as my submerged hands shimmer with gold
like they did all those years ago when I beheld the fireflies.
Millions of golden suns bounce off the surface.
The water smooths out the blisters with gentle wishes
and erodes the burns with cooling strokes.
I lift my healed hands out of the creek.
The crickets’ stories are louder now,
alternating between high and low pitches.
The fireflies emit enough light
to brighten the darkest caves.
A firefly flutters near me.
The yellow lantern on its back shines radiantly,
too radiantly for it to survive outside the grove
in a world that keeps burning
and in a world out to scorch stories and their lovers.
Yet it shines as radiantly as I once remembered
as a child who collected the stories in this grove.
I cup my hands
so that the firefly floats into my palms.
Its light tickles my skin
and imbues my bloodstream
with the kind of magic glow
I’ll hug and shield
so that it, and with that, I
can live and thrive.
Where I'm From (Island Girl)
Brianna Kuhn
I am from one nation,
from one love under the hot sun.
I am from the foundation of the family house.
(Concrete and rebar)
I am from the tall coconut palms.
Their water refreshing on a hot summer day.
I’m from curly hair and spice cake
From St. James and Montego Bay.
I’m from Yah maan and Wah Gwaan
from Ludi and Dominos.
I’m from island time
With praises we preach
For hours and hours.
I’m from Vincent and Violet’s Branch,
Coco bread and patty.
From the memories my grandmother lost,
to Alzheimer’s,
the secret my father kept for 17 years.
Under the warm summer sun
Stories are recounted.
Moments in history that shape the future.
I am from snippets of history—
Memories passed on by Aunties and Uncles—
Heritage passed on down the family tree.
I'm Just Not the Same as Them
Photo Taken by Sydney Breitenstein
My Old Kentucky Home
Photo Taken by Sydney Breitenstein
Diversidad es el Corazón del Mundo sin Duda
Artwork by Diane Fuentes
PrinceFF
Artwork by DaQuan Finley
Love is Love
Artwork By John Shippy
Life
Artwork By John Shippy
Family Dinner
Natasha LeClercq
Father,
Are you a cow who shits gold?
The Teddy Bear catapults up
From his Rawhide High-chair
Grab em by the Bomb, he says
Pick the shotgun up off the wall,
Deer eyes watching from the wooden walls
Grimacing from the weight
of being the savior
the only one who does anything around here
Does the cow eat all the grass
just so he can shit it out gold,
and so only the golden princes can milk him
…
the Founders said they’d plant seeds,
create a nursery
the ovum can’t grow
in a garden of paraquat
it twines itself around
seems too much to ask it to become
for when it does breathe
no, it does not live
Baby Noises
Scott Woldman
We all dealt with the divorce differently. My brother dedicated himself to becoming the undisputed master of action movie trivia. My sister gave up on talking, only speaking when forced to by a teacher, or if you turned the channel while she was watching The Facts of Life.
Being the oldest, I tried my very best to become the man of the house, which meant we all started the day with chocolate frosted pop-tarts, because in my world, men of the house made everyone breakfast, and that was all I knew how to cook.
And my mother, she sacrificed everything to keep the wreckage of her family together - sometimes working as many as three jobs to keep us in our tiny apartment and food on the table.
She was always there for us, somehow managing to never miss a school event, making sure all of us kids saw her, sitting in the back, waving like a lunatic and screaming, “Way to go! I love you” while we all pretended to be embarrassed to hide how grateful we were that she was there.
Unfortunately, however, becoming this amazing parent had a hidden cost, one that to this day, I still don’t fully understand.
After my father left, my mother, this strong, amazing, intelligent woman, only dated complete douchebags.
Case in point: 1978. Tony Pinelli. Tony wanted one thing out of life, and one thing only - to actually live Saturday Night Fever to the point where I’m pretty sure Tony wasn’t even his real name. I think it was like Elliot Rosenberg, but he changed it to match John Travlota’s character. And I think this because every now and then, my mother would say something like “Elliot, would you mind stopping? The kids need some milk.”
To which he would respond, “Hey, it’s Tony. Get your own milk.”
Tony’s mission in life was to win every disco dancing competition in the city of Chicago, so my mom was constantly forcing me to practice with her. I am still haunted by the images of my friends’ faces pressed against the window with mocking glee as my mother swung me around the room while Thelma Houston pleaded with me not to leave her this way.
1981. Stanley Cohen. A tremendously successful Sales Rep, Stanley was incredibly impressed with how cosmopolitan being from New York made him.
“Kids, this is Stanley. He’s going to be visiting this weekend.”
“Hey kids, nice to meet you. I’m from New York.”
We all mumbled a polite greeting. Clearly, Stanley was hoping for a bigger reaction, so he decided to let loose with a little of that Big Apple sophistication.
“Kids, what do you want to know about sex? General or specific – ask me anything!” My sister and I stared at each other - strangely enough, neither of us had any questions.
1986. Paul Rudman. Fireman.
Paul wanted to get in good with the family, so he decided to take all of us to Wilmette beach. However, as a pimply, overweight teen-ager with an enormous Jew-fro, the beach was the last place I wanted to be. Thankfully, Paul was there with some sage advice to help me with my poor body image.
“Can I talk to you for a second, Scott?”
“Sure.”
“Great. I want to just put this out there then. You know, you don’t have to look like that if you don’t want to.”
“Look like how?”
“Like this,” he said and reached over and flicked me in the man boob.
My mother would never discuss these men’s behavior, but I know it must have eaten at her because inevitably there’d be a moment, perhaps while she was washing the dishes and we were doing our homework, or maybe she’d be placing meals into Tupper-ware containers because she knew she
wouldn’t be home to cook, or possibly we’d be out to dinner and she’d be pretending she was on a diet so the meal would be cheaper - and she would nervously ask, “So what do you think of blank?”
And despite the fact we all knew the truth, I would look at her and say, “He’s great, Mom” because more than anything else, we wanted her to be happy. Usually, she’d immediately break up with these men anyway. I think she just needed to know we loved her enough to lie.
Which brings us to Aaron Leonard. Attorney at Law.
I first met Aaron as a sophomore in college when I was home for winter break. He was coming to pick Mom up for a night on the town, and all day long, she had been doing her best to mask how much she liked him. Naturally, I was terrified.
“Hi Scott, I’m Aaron. It’s so nice to meet you. Your mom’s told me a lot about you.” I looked at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did.
I was truly shocked. I mean, could it be? Was it possible that at long last, my mother had broken the cycle of douche bag-atitus? After they had left, I shared my optimism with my brother and sister.
“I’m so happy for Mom. He seems great.”
What happened next chilled me to the bone as my sister, the girl who didn’t talk, silently raised her head, fixed her mute gaze upon me, and for the first time in ages, spoke.
“Jusssssst. Waitttt.”
The initial incident took place during Sunday brunch - our first meal together. Everything had been going fine right up to the point where Aaron took that first bite of his breakfast.
“Ugh. This omelet is awful. It has no flavor! Waitress!”
“Is everything okay, sir?”
“There’s no flavor in this omelet. Take it back and add raw onions!”
Okay. So he liked raw onions and was a little rude. Nobody’s perfect.
“Here you go,” the waitress said as she placed the new omelet on the table.
“No-no-no-no-no. Are you stupid? This isn’t going to provide any flavor! Take a whole onion, cut it up, and dump it on the omelet. Got it? Or is that too difficult for you?”
We sat in stunned silence until the waitress returned. She placed the dish in front of him, and we all stared. There was now more onion than actual omelet. I watched in amazement as he took a bite.
“Not bad. It still needs a little more flavor though!” And that’s when he picked up the pepper, unscrewed the top and began to pour until his omelet was pitch black, then took a bite.
“Mmmm. Flavor.”
Equally disturbing was the fact that once we left the restaurant, he was an entirely different person.
“I just want to say how much I enjoyed brunch with you all. I know how important family is to your mom, and after spending time with you. I completely understand why. Thank you for including me.”
And that’s how it went. On the street, he was this nice, gracious man who treated my mother well, but get him in a restaurant of any type, and he was perhaps the most terrible man ever to frequent a dining establishment.
For example, there was the time when he sat down at a table at the Melrose Diner in Chicago, only to discover it hadn’t been properly wiped down.
“Senior!” he yelled to the teen-age Caucasian bus boy. “When I sat down, my stomach rubbed against the edge of the booth, and I got jelly all over my new Polo.” Sure enough, there was a strawberry smear on his bright yellow golf shirt.
“I’m very sorry,” the teen-ager replied, offering him a damp cloth.
“No-no-no! Don’t hand me a rag! You need to clean it off me!” He then proceeded to arch his back and stick his belly out for easier access.
And again, after each and every mortifying episode:
“Thank you for letting me be part of your family. I love you and your mom so, so much.”
In fact, it was so bad that for the next two years, I did my very best to avoid going out to eat with them, to the point where I actually attended summer school at the University of Iowa in order to minimize the possibility.
But then, one day, I received a call.
“Scotty, Aaron and I would like you to come to dinner at Mia Francesca’s with us. We want to make a special announcement.”
Dear God. This can’t be happening. I thought to myself.
“Scotty, please. I don’t ask much.”
“Okay, but it has to be early, like at 3:30!”
“Who eats dinner at 3:30?”
Exactly! The place will be empty! “I’m sorry, Mom. I have a thing later with the, uhh, Peace Corp.”
“The Peace Corp?”
“Yeah. And you know how the Peace Corp is. They lose their shit if you cancel on them!”
From the beginning, my plan was a disaster. The place was filled with senior citizens. Who knew Mia Francesca’s offered a blue plate special? Plus, there was a young woman with a baby sitting next to us. Unfortunately, the baby was like an octogenarian magnet - they all kept coming over to see the little bundle of joy, which allowed Aaron to maximize his offensiveness.
“Oh, for the love of Pete! Babies have no business being in a restaurant like this!”
The baby let out a happy chirp, eliciting oohs and ahhhs from the senior citizens and a stream of profanity from Aaron.
“Waiter! Is that baby going to be making noise throughout our whole meal? This is not a Cracker Barrel! You need to reseat them!”
Clearly uncomfortable, the waiter went and spoke to the host, who then went and spoke to the young mother.
“I’m sorry, sir. The woman is waiting for the rest of her party, and there’s too many of them to change her seat.”
I could see Aaron starting to blow.
“Hey,” I said, hoping to distract him. “Mom said you guys had something you wanted to talk about? Something important?”
“That’s a good idea,” my mom chimed in. “Let’s share the announcement.”
“All right. Kids, the reason we asked you all to join us is that your mother and I wanted to ask for your -”
At that moment, two things happened. The baby made a happy coo, and Aaron dropped his silverware onto his plate and let out the loudest shriek I have ever heard a human being make. It went on for so long that my brother, to this day, describes it as a cross between Cameron’s scream in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Mel Gibson’s Freedom from Braveheart.
When he finally finished, there was absolute silence.
“Sir, are you okay?”
We all stared at Aaron, hoping to hear just what was wrong so we could relay it to the paramedics we were about to call on his behalf. And that’s when he said it.
“If that baby can scream, well then so can I!”
The rest of the meal was kind of fuzzy after that. I remember the young woman standing up and moving to the other room, I remember my mother calling Aaron a jerk, and I remember foolishly thinking, well, at least things can’t get any worse.
After the meal, as we were standing by the front, putting on our coats and getting ready to leave, my brother began to shout.
“Oh my God! It’s Teasel! It’s Teasel!”
“Who?” I asked.
“First Blood! Teasel!”
I realized what my brother was saying as a hulking man bore down upon us. It was Brian Dennehey, Chicago actor, star of Rambo: First Blood, and apparently, one very pissed off grandfather of an adorable baby.
“Hey buddy! You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
The restaurant erupted in applause.
“This is not a family restaurant!” Aaron screamed back and then had the audacity to actually chest bump Brian Dennehey, the guy that took on John Rambo! And that’s when all hell broke loose. The applause grew louder, the other patrons started screaming for Brian Dennehey to kill my mom’s boyfriend, my mother screamed “Scotty, do something!” My brother repeatedly yelled, “they drew first blood, not me!” my sister said nothing at all, and I, I stepped between the two men, screaming for everyone to just relax all the while secretly hoping Brian would deck Aaron.
* * *
We exited the restaurant beaten, broken and completely drained, all of us shuffling zombie-like toward the car in complete silence with one notable exception:
“I just want to say I love you all more than I could ever possibly convey. Truly, I am the luckiest man alive. Thank you for being who you are!”
* * *
About a week later, my mother asked me to meet her for coffee. While we were there, she broke the news.
“Aaron asked me to marry him.”
I nodded and said nothing.
“So what do you think of him?”
At first, I was angry. Did she really need to even ask this question? Was it fair to put me in this position? Why was this my job?
I was about to share all this and more when I noticed how tired she looked. Tired from working three jobs, tired from being alone for so long, tired from her life turning out so differently from the one she envisioned.
“I think he’s great, Mom.”
She was quiet for a moment, grateful for the very same reason I was when I would see her at my school band concert, sitting in the back, waving and screaming “I love you” like a lunatic.
Sometimes, you just need to know that no matter what happens, your family is there.
“Thank you, Scotty.”
Six months later, Aaron and my mother got married, a marriage that lasted for more than 20 years. And through all the ups and downs of their relationship, there is one constant that defined both their marriage and us as a family - no matter what happened, no matter how badly the chips were down, no matter how high the odds were stacked against us,
We always, always, ordered in.
Body Electric
Tessa Danko
Warmth of forward motion
Sprinting into the city’s belly.
A man stands from his seat and preaches:
god is one thing
the devil is another,
which are you?
I don’t have an answer,
just the image of rusty nails
in Jesus’s palms.
On the platform, Snow falling now
My lungs filled with winter
And they sing, simple praise
For the sweetness of being here.
I know it’s the
Electricity of queer folks
That power the city through
Getting together and singing,
Blessed sore throats.
We hold each other the way
water holds a lily.
We arabesque in the streets
Twirling, holding hands,
Kissing when time allows.
We become the earth;
Her peaks and depths,
Her rivers cutting across the land,
Hearts ecstatic like wild wind.
Contemplating the Lifespan of a Sigh
Photo Taken by Ximena Torres Ramos
Lost Memories
Photo Taken by Ximena Torres Ramos
Eyes
Taylor Eiland
I’ve always found the eyes the most intriguing part of the body
Stuck between your brain and mouth, a powerful and persuasive middle man that affects
the two.
They are the supreme.
The eyes are a neutral arbiter–they can be used and perceived in any way deemed fit.
A simple gloss over the iris can invoke empathy. Dilation of the pupil can create fear or
display love.
The color and shape, though should be trivial, can warrant affection or dehumanization.
My eyes have never been my own.
I obtained them from my mother, who got them from grandma. I don't think they ever
got used to this body.
Like mini philocalists, they are able to find the allure in everything, everything except
the vessel they are attached to.
I spend my time trying to convince them that this frame, this skin, this soul–is worth
their awe too.
Still they continue to wander outward, seeking beauty in anything that isn't me.
Despite this, I don't stop them from looking, in hopes that one day, by way of pure
serendipity, they’ll turn inward, and finally see something worth keeping.
The Flinch.
Taylor Eiland
If I were a movement, I wouldn’t be a leap or a twirl or a cool dance move.
I'd be a flinch.
That split second recoil when something takes you by surprise. The kind of
movement that doesn’t ask for permission and just happens.
The flinch is instinct. It isn't graceful in any way–just like me. Someone who feels
things too quickly, too aggressively, even when I don’t want to. It's in my blood to
shrink back before registering why.
The flinch isn’t only fear, but awareness also. It's proof that I’m awake in a world
that can be violent. When I flinch, I’m alive. Sensitive to every shift in tone, every
look, any possibility of hurt. Me flinching is a show of my honesty. A glimpse into
the part of me that refuses to hide that things frighten me.
I used to hate it. Being called overly sensitive or jumpy, like those were bad things.
Now, though, I realize that the flinch is what has and will continue to keep me safe.
It's the reflex that helps me navigate who and what to trust, when to get close and
when to retreat.
After I pull back, I always lean in again. Softer and slower, maybe, but I still do. The
flinch is the small area between fear and courage, the place to gather oneself.
So yeah, I am the flinch. Cautious, fast, protective, alive. A movement that begins
with hesitation but always ends with return.
Today
Paola Ramirez
12:00 PM
Shyly sitting by the window pane
Clouds greeting, welcoming my wind
Intervals of coffee, guiding
Will I accept myself today
Soon…
6:00 PM
Minimally dancing
It is still there again, quite rash and rude
Ashamed of seeing, but a bit welcomed
Tarrying content, made renewed
Tiresome
12:00 AM
It might just swallow me soon
Vespered consciousness
Calling soon, will then touch
I am tired—still stayed
3:00 PM
Playful hair
Gold peaks through my ears, in heart
Recognized, ode to convey
Concealed—in hunger to reach out
Coffee still warm, odd
9:00 PM
Mine,
Knowing what
Memories and new foundations
I will see again
Bull Frog Sings
Sophia Wayer
The bumps in the road woke me up, the same steady rhythm as a scooter rattling over sidewalk cracks, each jolt nudging me closer to a place I knew by heart. That was how I always knew we had arrived after the long three-hour drive. Somehow, my body learned the timing before my mind ever did, like muscle memory stitched into sleep. We pulled into the driveway, and there she was: the big sunflower statue standing guard on my nana’s front porch, her yellow petals frozen in a permanent smile. Even before the car door opened, I could smell the cigarettes lingering near the garage, a scent that felt as familiar as a welcome-home hug. I knew, without checking, that the freezer would be fully stocked with popsicles, stacked like quiet promises waiting for us.
Inside my head, the house unfolded itself room by room. I could picture the drawer beneath the silverware where the bread fit perfectly, as if it had been built just for it. I could see the screen door leading out to the square of stone we called a deck, its hinges always singing a soft, tired note when it opened. The grass outside was always freshly cut, trimmed short and neat, like the house had dressed up for our arrival. We walked slowly toward the pond, careful with each step, trying not to scare the ducks. We tore pieces of bread with small, impatient hands and tossed them into the water, watching the ducks rush forward, bumping and splashing, fighting over each bite as if it were treasure.
Walking into the house was always the same, a ritual that never changed. My nana would be in the kitchen, moving from counter to stove with the quiet confidence of someone who had cooked the same meals a hundred times before. The kitchen smelled warm and lived-in, like cinnamon and grease and something sweet I could never quite name. My papa would be on the couch, sunken into the cushions, watching whatever sports game happened to be on, the television casting flickering light across the room. We took turns greeting them, our voices overlapping, before dragging our luggage into the den like offerings left at the door. We raced each other to the bathroom, having tried our hardest not to stop during the drive, laughter echoing down the hallway. Eventually, we gathered at the table, which was always covered with a red-and-white polka dot tablecloth that felt cheerful and permanent, like it had always been there and always would be. Spread across it were freshly cut fruit, cheese and crackers, and salami, arranged carefully but never delicately. Sitting at that table felt like being tucked in, full before we had even taken a bite.
My little sister went straight to the fridge in the garage, emerging victorious with a popsicle, while my older sister grabbed a soda and popped the tab with a sharp hiss. We chose our beds for the night the same way every time, without discussion: my little sister and I on the trundle bed in the back room, its mattress pulling out like a secret, my older sister on the sofa in the living room, and my parents in the guest room. The house seemed to settle once everyone had a place to sleep, as if it could finally rest.
The next morning, we woke to the sweet, heavy smell of cinnamon rolls and smokies drifting down the hallway, wrapping around us like a blanket. The kitchen buzzed softly with movement, pans clinking and the oven humming. After breakfast, our fingers sticky with sugar, we carried pieces of bread down to the pond again, the air cool and damp against our skin.
“Did you hear the bull frog sing?” my papa asked as we sat in the grass beneath the lone tree in the yard. The tree’s branches stretched wide above us, offering shade like an open hand. I shook my head every time, even though I had heard the bull frog sing before, its low call rising from the water like a secret meant just for us. “He said, ‘Sophi is a beautiful, kind little girl,’” my papa continued. “‘She always brings my duck friends a snack.’” His voice carried the certainty of a fact, not a joke, and I believed him.
I remember the last time he told me a bull frog story. It was shortly after my nana died, when we returned to the house to go through her things. The rooms felt quieter then, like a song paused mid-note. The air was heavier, thick with the absence of her voice. My papa sat on the couch and motioned for me to come closer. I sat beside him, the cushions dipping under our weight, as he popped some chew into his mouth.
“Did you hear the bull frog sing?” he asked. I shook my head, just like every time before. “He said, ‘I love you, Sophi.’” His words landed gently, like something being set down rather than taken away.
I imagine what this place might look like now. Maybe the pillowcases once decorated with red-and-white polka dots have been replaced with blue flowers. The fridge that used to be covered with pictures of her grandkids now holds a grocery list and drawings made by a little girl whose handwriting leans sideways. The bathtub is filled with rubber ducks instead of foam sharks, and the bread drawer is stocked with crackers instead of loaves. The house has learned new habits, the way people do when they move on.
The ducks have new friends and new snacks. I wonder if they color with fancy crayons or play Old Maid at the table, their laughter filling the rooms the way ours once did. I wonder if they eat cinnamon rolls and smokies for breakfast, if sugar still dusts the counter in the mornings. I wonder if a sunflower lady greets them from the front porch, standing watch like she always did for us.
I wonder if they know this house was once a refuge, a place where worry did not follow us inside. A place where we were taken care of by our nana, the way you take care of something fragile without ever calling it that. I didn’t understand then that houses can grieve too, that they can hold loss in their walls and floors. I wonder if, on quiet mornings, they ever hear the bull frog sing.
codependency is a death sentence
Amari Liebe
my journal has memorized your name
ink stained fingers tracing every page
i’ve never been one for subtleties
born with my heart stitched on my sleeves
sometimes i truly think
our souls were meant to interlink
can’t tell where i end and you begin
swear sometimes i still smell your linens
and it takes me back
to moments i hoped you would crack
and let me seep in between the lines
slowly but surely taking my time
i’m not trying to scare you away
i just wish you would allow me to stay
but you also won’t let me go
which one is it? i need to know
do i reek of despair?
it oozes out of me when your hands are in my hair
do you taste the pathetic on my neck?
if you stare too long in my eyes, you’ll know i’m such a wreck
you must see something in me
something terrifying, causing you to flee
i’ve mistaken inconsistency for affection
i’ve spent my whole life begging for attention
being used gives me a purpose
i don’t treat my heart as precious
i watch you toss it around carelessly
“at least you’re holding it” i think foolishly
i forget that you never asked for it
i’m a naive hypocrite
begging you to treat me with care
you never promised that, so you just stare
before at least you looked at me with lust
now i see nothing but pure disgust
i’ll overstay my welcome
bleeding out under your thumb
until i gasp desperately for a breath
and then you finally leave me, as i’m on the brink of death
your guilt, not mine
Amari Liebe
i hope my name puts you in turmoil
a thought of me out of nowhere
something juvenile
like a kids laugh imitating mine
or a toddler stomping her sparkly shoes
i hope it terrorizes your day
the facade of joy you’ve built crashing down
even just for a moment
i hope the memory of my name
rots your insides
turns your stomach so tight you swear you’re going to throw up
i hope you remember
everything you did
and it eats you up
until you are a shell of man
because you’ve always looked like that to me
frail, hollow, cracked
ugly, disgusting, putrid
i hope your karmic debt hits you out of nowhere
until you’re left with less than nothing
maybe then you’ll finally get a sliver of understanding of what you put us through.
To Corporal Hicks.
Anonymous
“This feels romantic”
But that word is tricky for me.
Your voice is the rich amber honey I stir into my morning coffee
Its properties holding the promise of ritual transformation
It’s 3am and I’ve become unhinged, still searching for an answer to the vague
concept of a question.
My mind wanders back to the night that I cried in my best friend’s arms as I
recollected the sight of you in the lobby at golden hour.
Something tender in me had revealed itself that night, even as I thought to myself
that I’ve never stooped so low.
This feels romantic.
But I am not in love with you.
I am not so sure that I am even in lust with you.
I don’t think about your body all too much…
At least not in that way.
I don’t long to be with you,
and yet I ache for all that is delicately wrapped up in the concept of you.
I feel . . . creepy.
I feel creepy despite hardly enough words shared between the two of us for me to
come across any type of way.
I just wish you would think about me, have an opinion of me, one way or another.
Not because I want you,
But because there is something so fundamentally lonely about this liminal space
between suffering and change.
I thought your silhouette might lead me someplace tangible again,
Where the ground is firm beneath my feet, the air crisp and invigorating,
But here I am running in circles.
This. Feels. Romantic.
I don’t think about your body much. . . not in the way you think.
You mindlessly run a practiced hand over the stubble on your face,
I give the motion a try before deciding that it’s mine now.
It isn't the first one I’ve stolen.
It won't be the last.
I want you to notice and come
looking for all of it.
I want you to find me and beckon me home.
But. . . I don’t want you.
I’m ashamed to look you in the eyes knowing all I really want to see
is myself reflected in something beautiful.
We Who Cried Moloch
Natasha LeClerq
For Allen Ginsberg
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by water-hogging avarice, a nation, a globe,
unperturbed by well pumps and dried-up children, praying only to ancient, twisted
trickles of false prophets, raging from down below,
coming up from the ground to the blind sands of Mar-a-Lago, and to Tel Aviv, being reeled
towards the predators and butchers as they lick their lips expectantly,
past the babes and into the rapid gaping orifices of the Gilded bunch, in a land of payolas and
power, past the hollow tummies, we are at the mercy of another,
we have married ourselves to an Icarus, who sees only in himself a He, and the God of mercy
remains in a drunken stupor, mismatching love for a tyrant with a million parched people,
we are lost to another we, a we who drinks and drinks and drinks, a we who values a people lost,
and a thousand trees vanished all the while,
we are left only kissing the feet drenched in golden water, just for a taste of the bittersweet
toxicity, longing for an estuary though it crawls with corpses and gravel walkways.
II
What happened when they all got homesick–did their tears turn into daggers and their brains to
mush?
Parasite! You reek of them! And you ooze them! You are one of them! Great Government who
lost his soul long ago!
Parasite! Parasite of the water! The Sun laughs at his ignorance! The Stars at his empty pit! The
whole Sky at his bullshit!
Parasite! Parasite of the water! The River laughs! The Swamp laughs! At the Parasite who drains
it! At the Parasite who carries a gun but cannot tie his laces!
Parasite! Mock-king! The Stars and Stripes weep! Weep as the Parasite blows the Star of David!
Weep as we evaporate! Parasite! You still drink! While we bathe – not in water – but in
the Parasite’s feces!
III
Oh, dearest Sireen! I sit beside you
when you feel empty
I sit beside you
as you tell me of your family
I sit beside you
because you remind me of my mother
I sit beside you
knowing you deserve to be free
I sit beside you
holding hope for a nation to sprout that sees you as a human being
I sit beside you
beside this Olive Tree, because against this sweet being, you are not a plague creating a
wasteland, here you are human like me,
and here, here you can drink in peace
The Final Call
Photo Taken By Ximena Torres Ramos
HOLD YOUR BONES
Artwork By Ryan Zielie
Instructions for Burning Yourself Out in College
Kimberly Leslie
1. Open your eyes. You can’t burn if you’re not awake because when you sleep, you’re too cold to feel the fires consuming your mind and tickling your feet.
2. Lay in bed and immediately teleport yourself to your classroom, sitting at your desk with your laptop covered with stickers from History Club sticker sales and Schingoethe Museum exhibits, your notebook, and your folders stuffed with papers.
3. Get out of bed. Envision yourself racing through the mountains of pages threatening to suffocate you and typing pages of words, your barricade against the flood of schoolwork.
4. Cram food down your throat in less than fifteen minutes. Preferably something quick like toast or fruit.
5. If you don’t have a morning class at 9:20 or earlier, start your schoolwork. You have several options:
a. Open your Google Doc or Word document containing one of many essays you have to juggle.
b. Grab one of several books you’re reading for class. Doesn’t matter what it is: textbook, novel, poetry, anthology. Whatever. Just grab it off your bookshelf and read.
6. If you do have a morning class at 9:20 or earlier, disregard step six until you’re at university, and drive thirty minutes to your class. The earlier you leave, the sooner you can find parking and the more time you have to work before class.
7. Sit through your classes. Note the assignments charging at you like that saber tooth tiger your ancestors fended off all those centuries ago before human civilization as you know it exists. Only instead of roaring and biting, they glow on your computer screen, whispering threats of failure and sleepless nights if you slack off.
8. Though to be fair, it doesn’t matter how early you start your assignments because you can never start them early enough. You’re always several days late, several weeks late.
9. On that note, no rest for the student, not when assignments are knocking at your door with a freshly sharpened axe. It’s never too early to wake up and prepare for the threats that have been brewing for several weeks, that can easily attack just by slipping into your email or your screen of choice. Besides, there’s never any time.
10. Watch the clock. Every second you lose to your commute, to your idleness, to your trivial needs incurs huge costs. The more minutes you have, the more time you have dedicated to outrunning your assignments and costs of failing or forgetting: the stain on your GPA and reputation, the voices assaulting you with paper daggers proclaiming your worthlessness, and, did I mention, even more work to do?
11. Unlearn the waste of relaxing. You’re being lazy when you distract your mind with the useless catnip of entertainment. Whoever said, “Work hard, play hard” is crazy. Working
so that you can play is conducive to failure. Who needs to know how to play when there’s always work to do? Play—laughing and chatting with friends, laying on your couch and reading junk food stories that are not important to your development and future— hurts work, your productivity.
12. No matter how hard you work, it’s never enough, not when work keeps coming and coming until you can’t run anymore. So always strive for new heights, no matter how your body protests or how loudly you scream in your mind at the assignments squeezing your brain dry until it cannot produce any more thought juices and then fail to hold its shape. You’re never good enough as your human self.
*Disclaimer: Instructions may not be beneficial to physical or mental health. Common side effects include: fatigue, decrease in motivation, feelings of worthlessness, numbness in limbs, decreased focus, emotional disconnection, irritability, anxiety, depression, headaches, stomachaches, nausea, insomnia, backaches, shaking, unexpected weight loss or gain, changes in appetite, and high blood pressure. Emotional outbursts involving either sobbing, yelling, or both during inconvenient situations, such as during the operation of a vehicle, may occur. If symptoms turn life-threatening, call 911. Consult your doctor before implementing.
Red Box
Artwork By Ryan Zielie
Life is But a Dream
Photo Taken by John Shippy
The Enshittification of The Mind
Kimberly Leslie
Everywhere, with millions pressing “enter” on prompts, falsely friendly chatbots generate
thoughts too sterilized to be alive. Wires coil around the faces of those typing “ChatGPT” in their
search engines or clicking towards Copilot and its rainbow noose. As the prompters gaze towards
the chatbots to ask how to live, decide, think, a hint of silver gleams in their skin. The metal
reprograms their faces. to be free of curves’ errors, and it gradually deletes their rivers of blood.
Their eyes dull, circuited by answers charging their electric brains with dopamine sparing them
from the imperfect terror of life. Their pupils fade into black glass as they copy the output—so
clean, too clean. They, unaware of their slow dying starting with their minds hacked by malware
and ending with their bodies decaying from sycophantic poison, submit and exchange the
generated outputs like they’re a product of a thinking life and not their mindless death
Swing First
Artwork By Ryan Zielie
The Digital Uncanny Valley
Kimberly Leslie
How do I know which words breathe and laugh
and which words are the vomit of a water-guzzling bundle of code?
The generated words look so pretty and elegant on white—
they almost smile and cry and laugh like a human—
but they glitch.
They warp language and meaning
in a hall of mirrors hallucinating visions,
repeating and rewinding incoherently.
Lines of fancy words and stylish em-dashes say nothing and lick egos
while wearing human masks constructed
from the harvested guts, brains, and tongues of human creators.
The seams of the smuggled words
blur, overheated from performing emotion.
As I read, scrambling for something, someone
who breathes and lives, just like me,
the stolen words grind my mind
with lies looking clean enough to be true,
looking so perfect because they’ve been sanitized
with our stolen saliva.
They dice my heart
with knife sentences
soulless enough
to stab human souls
with the reminder
that their hearts now exist
to be harvested and scraped
until only frayed veins remain.
They slice my eyes
with their vapid words,
so disjointed from any semblance of meaning
that reality is impossible
to know.
Where is the human?
Chicago
Photo Taken By Ximena Torres Ramos
Ink in Flux
Artwork By Amy Duskheart
The Void
Lyndsey Twitchell
Pain is beautiful, isn’t it?
It can impact you instantly,
as a sudden traumatic life event does,
like a gunshot.
You dont know your being targeted
until you’ve been shot.
Or, it can creep up on you,
overtime,
slowly,
like the night creeps up on
and swallows
the last traces of daylight.
Before you register that night is approaching,
the beautiful sunset is gone.
You have missed it.
The bright oranges and yellows
the beautiful colors faded into black
before you had time to capture their beauty.
Pain can hit you like a wrecking ball to the head,
spinning you out of control,
making you weep,
shake with overwhelming force.
It consumes you
Or, as a dull ache you may barely notice,
before it consumes you,
from the inside out.
You think it is nothing at first,
then it starts reflecting in other areas of your life,
and before you realize it,
it has taken full control over you,
and now all you can do is try your best to fight your way out.
Bittersweet Reality
Photo Taken By Brianna Kuhn
The Prophecy
Percy Schulz
for Trans Joy
a bell chimes, an affirmation:
i am real.
it’s going to be okay.
i learned this when
when i truly laughed again.
when i recognized my friends smile as a smile
and not just another contortion of light.
when i looked through old pictures
and stopped mourning the girl trapped in them.
when i put down the album
i knew i would be okay
because i always have been.
i always saw that being sad as a place
that would wander back to me,
without knowing i
could say the same thing
about being happy.
i always knew
happy would come back
even when i came out again
and was met
with another closet to fit into.
i like to think
that a version of me
was watching as i grew.
every wavering plume of incense
or properly tuned chime
an affirmation
that i would become
who i was meant to become.
i learned that i only grieve the person i was
because i loved her.
i had to.
i pay attention to the little things now.
the places to contour
the parting of hair
the aching of ribs
i know magic. i know loss.
i know that the first breath and the last breath
are the same spell
where everything is beautiful and terrifying
and you have no idea what happens next.
and yet i don’t think we need
to always know what comes next
i think we keep going
and we keep going
and we keep going
and maybe
somewhere in there
we breathe. we dance. we forget.
and then we stop.
and then we come back,
but different this time.
the glass melted into a mirror
holding everything that was
and will be