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Front Cover Art:

“Skateboarder” by Amanda Gurene

Back Cover Art:

“All in a Semester’s Work” by Veronica Love

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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

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Winners

Fine Art

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st Place: “Silence” by Quinn Lin

2nd

Place: “Candlelight” by Quinn Lin

3rd

Place: “Limón” by Jayme McKeever

Photography

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st Place: “Memphis Bridge” by Shannon McDonald

2nd

Place: “Guitar” by Cameron Bowman

3rd

Place: “City under Our Knees” by Simon Hua

Poetry

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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

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st Place: The Gentle Forest by Anna Swearengen

2nd

Place: Dream Logic by Thomas Swett

3rd

Place: Errors by Liz Kellicut

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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

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“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

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“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

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Third Place: “City under Our Knees” by Simon Hua

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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,

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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

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“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

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First Place: “Silence” by Quinn Lin

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“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

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“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

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“Golden Touch” by Simon Hua

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“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.

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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.

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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

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Second Place: “Candlelight” by Quinn Lin

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“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?

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First Place: “Memphis Bridge” by Shannon McDonald

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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.

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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.”

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“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.

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“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

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Third Place: “Limón” by Jayme McKeever

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“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

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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

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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

49

Second Place: “Guitar” by Cameron Bowman

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

64

Copyright Christian Brothers University 2011