View
6
Download
0
Category
Preview:
Citation preview
Editorial Staff
Patrick Chiodo
Amanda Finsel
Katlyn Kaminskie
Faculty Advisor
Matthew Masucci
Cover Image
“Alone at the Top
By Elizabeth Smith
Elektraphrog
State College of Florida
Venice Campus
Literary and Visual Arts
Magazine
Elektraphrog.scf.edu
http://elektraphrog.scf.edu/
Table of Contents
Jazz by Jessica Kuti ............................................................................ 1
Essence of the Café by Loren Lacy .................................................... 2
Overdue Procreation by Abbey Jean Wrobel .................................... 3
Love Song by Danielle Johnson ......................................................... 6
My Name is Iris by Elizabeth Smith ................................................... 7
Birthday Candles by Amanda Finsel .................................................. 8
Love Story Ryleigh Davis.................................................................. 10
Friends by Danielle Johnson ............................................................ 17
Beyond Death by M. L. Flood .......................................................... 19
Street Walk by Loren Lacy ............................................................... 22
Future Ledges by Abbey Jean Wrobel ............................................. 23
The Birth of Keziah Fynch by Jordon Moran ................................... 25
Call to Worship by Elizabeth Smith ................................................. 33
Future by Ryleigh Davis ................................................................... 34
Roundabout Motion by Loren Lacy ................................................. 35
Corbett's Ravens Sienna Veigel ....................................................... 36
Alone at the Top by Elizabeth Smith ............................................... 38
The Barn by Jessica Kuti .................................................................. 39
Burb by Sierra Smith ....................................................................... 47
Becoming Whole by Craig Eckert .................................................... 48
Contributor Biographies .................................................................. 49
Editorial Staff Biographies ............................................................... 51
1
Jazz
By Jessica Kuti
Tambourines
clapping rhythmically
to the sound of
heart b e a t s
that come together
& form
a cacophony of harmony.
The unity
d i s p e r s e d
seems tangible,
the permeating aroma
of smoke floats
& a raspy voice
fills the air
on a small black stage.
Audience members smile
while others are mesmerized,
some desiring a place on stage.
Until the night ends,
but the artist stays.
2
Essence of the Café
By Loren Lacy
3
Overdue Procreation
By Abbey Jean Wrobel
I snap my head with every turn, furiously whipping it
around to look at the stupid Disney princess themed clock.
The cracked mirror mocking me every time I accidently
glance at it. All the white, fat and bored parents sitting on
their phones behind the translucent glass, looking at us like
zoo animals. Thank god my mom isn’t here right now, she’d
probably laugh at how stupid I look. I would understand if
she did though. I look like an idiot.
My stomachs sticking out of my leotard like I’ve got a
chronic hernia and my legs look like two bags of sausage
shoved into a science beaker. And of course, my panty line
is showing, and it’s not even a cool one like if I had a thong
on or something like that. It’s just so goddamn unfair that
all I had before practice was diet coke, yet I still look like a
pig ready for slaughter.
I hate it. I hate the smudged mirrors and everyone in this
room. The music is terrible, and it smells like a homeless
shelter in here. Miss Claudia has another mind numbing
‘crazy dance mix’ of some 80’s one hit wonder on and it’s
making my ears pulsate. Honestly, they’re probably bleed-
ing but Miss Claudia wouldn’t give a shit if they were. I
could go into spontaneous cardiac arrest right now and she’d
stand there rubbing her overdue pregnant belly like she was
casting omens onto my corpse.
Whatever, Miss Claudia hates me anyways. I think she
hates all of us really, it’s probably because she’s French
though so I don’t take it too personally. I stomach her yelling
at me for being late because I can always guarantee that
Jenna will be even later; Jenna just loves to pick up snacks
for everyone on the team to have after practice. She’s always
walking in with donuts or some other fruity bullshit in her
hands like Mother Theresa, handing out diabetes and hyper
tension with a smile creased into her perfect skin. Righteous
Bitch.
4
She stands on point for five minutes one time and every-
one kisses her ass like it’s the Blarney stone. She tried to
teach me how to do it too, because obviously I need help, and
who other than Jenna would I want to learn it from. With
her long brown hair and perfectly thin legs and drivers per-
mit and homecoming court nomination, I mean, just sign me
up for an internment camp instead. I’ll mine iron ore in Si-
beria before I let Jenna tell me what to do.
I’d gladly kick her face first down the stairs, if only there
were any in this cheap warehouse. Seriously, my mom pays
two hundred bucks a month for me to practice ballet in a
sloppily painted shed. That’s all it is. I remember stepping
in here for the first time and thinking “My god, what a piece
of shit”.
The water fountain tastes like lead poisoning and I’m
fairly certain the air ducts have mold in them. I always get
a weird cough after practice, and I know it’s not due to sick-
ness or being out of shape. I’ve got an incredible immune
system and I’m a goddamn ballet dancer, so obviously I’m
fit, and just because I’m kind of fat doesn’t mean I’m not
healthy. It’s got to be mold. The carpet defiantly has it, be-
cause I heard the rude old secretary talking about it when I
was on bathroom break trying to vomit up the chicken nug-
gets I had before practice.
Anyways, there’s only two weeks left until the final pro-
duction of the fall semester. Miss Claudia may be on her
third year of pregnancy but she’s still gung-ho on busting
our asses until we look like sweat shop workers. We’ve all
been dancers since childhood, yet she treats every practice
like we just awoke from a coma and can’t get rid of the initial
atrophy. She even had the studio put in stage lights because
she thinks it will help up train better, which I think is total
bullcrap.
God, I hate this stupid routine. It’s not just because our
costume is comprised of feathers that make us look like tar-
ring victims in revolutionary Boston. I’m used to looking like
a court jester, on and off the dance stage. It’s kind of my
whole thing. And it’s not because we’re doing another un-
needed production of ‘Swan Lake’ or because I’m getting sick
of Tchaikovsky and his stupid overtures. Seriously, the dude
5
never calmed down. Nobody in this stupid ballet company
ever calms the hell down, especially Jenna and the new trick
she always has to show off. Oh, she can do a toe touch? Big
whoop. So, can I, but you don’t hear me droning on about it
do you; I have a special little trick called humility.
And that’s why I’m sick of working on this damn show,
because I know Jenna is going to be the lead, I just know it.
No matter how hard I try at this stupid production, Miss
Claudia always puts me in the back. Always right behind
someone prettier. It’s pointless. Hell, I even go to the gym in
my free time to try and lose some of the extra padding
around my thighs.
I practice in my bedroom, jerky, sweaty spasms flowing
through my body just because I want to be better. Even just
a little bit better than Jenna and her new Volkswagen and
size two pants. But no, she has clear skin, overextend legs
and point shoes. She brings Miss Claudia’s overgrown fetus
donuts from the store and can drive without a parent in the
car, so I guess that means she gets everything in life.
6
Love Song
By Danielle Johnson
I am a girl who writes poetry about pain, loss, and broken
hearts,
but for you I want to write a love song.
Your eyes are green,
like a warm spring shower.
Your voice is the melody, stuck in my head
for days on end.
Your smile is bright enough to light up a room made black
by my darkest mood.
The feeling of your hands
on my skin,
is like lighting a fire in my soul that casts out the shadows
and lets the light in.
You make me want to be good,
to be better.
Poets are slaves to the moments when inspiration strikes,
and lately you have been the inspiration to enslave me.
7
My Name is Iris
By Elizabeth Smith
8
Birthday Candles
By Amanda Finsel
I don’t know about you but I think a good way to describe a
woman
Would be saying she is like birthday candles
She has a flame that can sear your flesh
Trickle your skin off your bones
A flame hot enough to make you scream
Burn an entire building to the ground
Forest fire
She has all this power
Yet she is peacefully contained in a calming teardrop of
light that just flickers and winks at you
She is beautiful
She can bring light into the darkest places
Gliding across the floor reaching inside every demon-filled
crevasse not even the little gap under a door can hide
from her
She brightens every day
Lights up every party with the energy of a firecracker
She doesn’t need whiskey
Her curves could intoxicate anyone faster than alcohol
Smile a masterpiece of firework colors
Sparking the interest of every person in the room
She’s sweet yet so damn tangy
She’s your mother’s homemade lemonade
On a warm summer’s day
She’s running through sprinklers in freshly cut grass
All the little bits of green engulfing her red toenail polish
Wet hair tangling around her neck
9
Sticking to her lip gloss
She’s a swing set covered in raindrops
You leave with that rusty smell on your fingertips because
the water rubbed the past off the chains
Your body is her playground
But then there is her language
Spontaneity fluently
Sassy and charming
Sarcasm
Sticks to her tongue
Marshmallow
Drips from her chin
Graham cracker crumbs
She loves the smell of gasoline because she is the bonfire
that everyone wants to sit around warm and inviting
I leave smelling like her
I have always been told I like to play with fire
I tell myself I’m not afraid to get burned
Ever birthday I make a wish on the candles
Now
I make a wish
On her
10
Love Story
By Ryleigh Davis
Amy didn’t agree to working the nightshift. She promised
herself when she was scheduled to work nights in the post-
critical care unit that she would speak up and tell Missy, the
nurse scheduler, that she wanted a different shift. She knew
deep down that she would just grit her teeth and bare it. It
never went over well with Missy, or any of the other nurses,
when she spoke up. Speaking up too much was why she left
her old job and she wasn’t about to risk it.
She could feel the familiar feeling bubble up just before
her shift started. Part boredom, part fatigue, and part anxi-
ety. This wasn’t just general anxiety; it was anxiety of hav-
ing to see a specific person. This person was her fairly new
patient Oliver. Oliver was a young man recovering from a
reduction of a fracture in his left arm. Normally this kind of
patient was Amy’s favorite; they required very little mainte-
nance and usually weren’t a problem at night. Unfortu-
nately for Amy, Oliver had become infatuated with her. He
would call her at random times throughout the night for
seemingly no reason, fully knowing that she would never
call him out on his behavior, and on nights where he was
feeling particularly brave, he would break out the overly en-
thusiastic, borderline creepy, pickup lines and compliments.
He was a nuisance to her and only her.
His comments weren’t the worst part to Amy. The worst
part was that no one ever believed her. Countless times
she’d told the other nurses about her encounters with Oliver
and every time they’d say she was making it up or interpret-
ing it wrong. She figured it was because he was convention-
ally attractive and acted polite to the other nurses. Amy
knew he was aware of this and she theorized that it just
made him do it more, that knowing there was nothing she
could do about it without getting herself fired or just quit-
ting to make him stop fueled his actions.
She stood in front of his door. The door felt off to her, it
was different than the other nights. Most of the time the
11
door was just a cruel reminder of what was behind it but
tonight it felt different. Instead of representing a taunt it
stood as a protective barrier of what laid behind it. God,
Amy thought, I’m going insane over a stupid door. She
looked through the small window of the door and saw Oliver
smiling at her. She faked a smile back and pushed the door
open, a gust of air from the cold room sent a chill up her
spine.
“Hello Oliver,” she said as she set down his chart. “You
know the drill, just here to take your blood pressure.”
He pulled his right arm away from her. “Not even a little
small talk before the serious stuff?” He always did this; he
always found a way to prolong the conversation whether it
be playing dumb and having Amy explain what she was do-
ing as if she was talking to a toddler or make it physically
impossible for her to complete the simple task.
“Please,” she was so tired of having to put up with him,
“just let me finish so you can get some sleep.”
“I sleep during the day.” He said.
She gave him a look, a look that said we both know why
you do this. He responded with a look saying what’re you
going to do about it. Amy took a deep breath. Why couldn’t
he just have a normal sleep pattern she thought.
“Well you shouldn’t, it’s not good for you.”
“It’s not?” He said feigning naivety. “Why is that?”
He moved his right arm back to its original spot. As
quickly as she could Amy grabbed his arm and wrapped the
cuff around his bicep. Thankfully he wasn’t being too annoy-
ing tonight; all she had to do was write down his blood pres-
sure and then she could leave.
“Lots of different reasons but the biggest is it throws off
your circadian rhythm which, I’m sure you know, isn’t good
for your health.” She found that not engaging in his stupid
questions never stopped him and it was just easier to go
along with it.
Once she was done writing down his vitals she prepared
to leave. As she turned away from his bed, she felt a hand
grab her forearm. Without thinking she yanked her arm
away from him. The touch was innocent but the feeling she
12
got in the pit of her stomach when he touched her un-
prompted made her want to scream. It was something about
the way he did it. It reminded her of when children would
tug on an adult’s arm to get their attention. It frightened
her to think what could be going through his mind to think
it was okay to touch her at all. She turned around and saw
Oliver staring at her, unaffected. She didn’t know if he was
so oblivious that he didn’t notice her obvious mood change
or if he didn’t care and she wasn’t sure which scenario she
preferred.
“Can’t you just stay and talk a little? It gets lonely at
night.” He actually looked sad about her leaving. Amy felt a
tiny voice in her head tell her to stay so he would be happy,
but she knew that he was lying. He never had a problem
before with any of the other nurses, so this was just another
manipulative ruse to keep all her attention focused on him.
Her eyes darted around the room until she found the T.V.
remote next to his bed. She turned the T.V. on and dropped
the remote onto his lap. “There you go,” she said, “Now you
have T.V. to keep you company.” Before he could respond
she gathered her things and left the room. She leaned
against the wall next to the door and took a deep breath. She
pushed the fact that she would have to see him again multi-
ple times throughout the night out of her head as she moved
on to her next patient.
Her next couple of visits were ordinary; Amy had an el-
derly woman who always told her she reminded her of her
daughter, a little boy who was so sleepy he barely noticed
she was even in the room, and a few others. As she left the
room of a middle-aged man, she heard a familiar voice. She
slowly turned around to see Oliver standing against the wall
opposite her. Everything around her changed and she was
no longer in a hospital. No, she was a rabbit standing in the
middle of an open field staring a wolf in the eyes. Her in-
stincts telling her to run despite having nowhere to go. He
took a step closer, much too close for Amy’s liking.
“You were so nurse like with him.” Oliver said, cradling
his cast in his right arm.
“What are you doing out of your room?” She asked. Had
he been following her? She had been so preoccupied with her
13
other patients that she couldn’t even remember if she had
seen him leave his room earlier.
He ignored her question. “You spend so much time with
me compared to everyone else, I guess I’m your favorite.”
“I don’t have favorites.” Her voice came out softer then
she had hoped. “Just go back to your room.”
He sighed and turned to walk down the hall. “Fine,” he
said. “I’ll see you later Amy Reid.”
Amy tried to watch him walk to his room but couldn’t fo-
cus on anything. Her muscles stiffened and her heart beat
faster than it had ever done in her entire life. She tried to
recount any time in the last few weeks he could have learned
her last time, but nothing was connecting. She wore her tag
on the inside of her pocket, a tip one of the head nurses told
her to avoid losing it when she was tired, meaning he
couldn’t have seen it that way. She limited what she told
him about herself so he shouldn’t have known what her full
name was.
Another wave of dread washed over her when she real-
ized it had been an hour since she had seen Oliver and it
was time to get his vitals once again. She went to take a step
but found herself frozen in place. The hallway she stood in
spun around her, the feeling of her stomach constricting
brought her back to reality.
His room was only a short distance from where Amy orig-
inally stood but it felt like a million miles as she got closer
and closer to the door. She straightened her body and ex-
haled a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding.
It took all the strength she had not to turn and run away
as soon as she entered the room. Oliver laid on his bed
watching some show on the T.V. for once paying her no
mind. Amy kept her head down and wrapped the cuff around
his arm for a second time that night.
“Are you going to ask?” Oliver didn’t make eye contact but
somehow Amy still felt his gaze on her.
“Ask about what?”
Oliver chuckled, “You’re cute when you act dumb.”
“Please don’t call me cute.” Amy’s hand shook as she
scribbled down his vitals.
14
She looked up and saw him staring at her. His eyes bored
into hers and everything stopped. She begged her body to
move but nothing was happening. He smirked and looked
back towards the T.V.
“Maybe when you come back, I can tell you the story of
how I broke my arm.”
“Maybe.” Amy rushed out of the room.
Her heart began to slow down once she was a few doors
away from his room. She was thankful she had awhile before
seeing him. She checked the time and decided to take her
break and recollect her thoughts.
The elevator ride to the cafeteria felt like it took ages, but
the doors finally opened. She entered the lunchroom and
saw one of her coworkers, Sophie, sitting at a table.
Sitting down across from her, Amy felt calm for the first
time all night. Sophie was a nurse around the same age as
Amy and was incredibly easy to talk to.
“How’s your shift going?” Sophie asked.
Amy groaned and placed her head in her arms.
Sophie chuckled lightly, “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“It’s Oliver. I swear he’s going to be the death of me.” Amy
knew Sophie wouldn’t believe her but telling someone al-
ways helped.
“What did he do this time?”
Two voices screamed in Amy head; one argued for telling
Sophie what he did and trying to convince her how crazy he
was while the other stated it would be easier to just forget
it. The second voice won, it usually won.
“Just annoying me.” Oliver’s words replayed in her mind
when she lied to Sophie. He was like a song she couldn’t get
out of her head.
Sophie and Amy continued to mindlessly talk. Amy had
never been a fan of small talk. She had always found it too
awkward or unnecessary and tried to avoid it. However,
there was something about small talk after dealing with Ol-
iver that made her love it. Not having to worry about what
she was saying or fearing what the other person was saying
was refreshing.
Amy checked her watch; 15 minutes had gone by without
her even noticing.
15
“I gotta go,” she stood up and waved to Sophie. “See you
later.”
Sophie called out a goodbye as Amy made her way over
to the elevators. She pressed a button and waited silently
for the elevator to reach the bottom floor. A soft ding brought
her eyes to the doors in front of her. She stepped on and
yawned. Her night was starting to turn around and she was
ready to get more work done. Just as the doors were about
to close a hand stopped them.
“Decided to come up with me?” Amy expected to see So-
phie join her. Instead her heart dropped as she saw Oliver
step onto the elevator with her.
“Yep, this way we can be alone.” He stood next to her and
watched the floor levels rise. Amy’s voice was caught in her
throat.
As soon as floor five was illuminated by the lights Oliver
pressed the emergency stop button. They were only one floor
away. Amy was only one floor away from safety.
“Why did you do that?” She reached to switch the button
when Oliver’s good arm yanked her back.
“So, we can talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Why not?” Amy thought he would be mad, but he
sounded hurt, like he anticipated Amy to jump at the
thought of conversing with him.
“I barely know you.” Amy took a step back.
“That’s the point of talking, to learn more about each
other.” He took a step towards her.
Amy looked around the elevator searching for a nonexist-
ent exit to appear.
“I’m sorry but I don’t want to get to know you. You’re a
patient not a friend.” Amy’s body trembled as she tried to
stand up to him.
Oliver sighed, “I guess I’ll have to try harder.” He flipped
the emergency stop button and the elevator began to move
again. “Oh, by the way you should look into fixing your fire
escape. Someone could fall from that and break their arm.”
At the sixth floor the doors opened. Oliver turned to her
and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“I’ll see you around Aims.” He stepped off the elevator.
16
Amy stayed on and watched the doors close in front of
her, the elevator standing still. She felt tears fall down her
cheeks. A single thought clouding her mind; he hurt his arm
on her fire escape.
17
Friends
By Danielle Johnson
He has friends under the floor boards,
you can hear them sometimes.
Down in the basement, I think.
Whenever I came to visit you could always hear someone
tapping from down below.
He would get up go to the door crack it open ask them to
quiet down, then come back.
“My friends,” he would always say when my look asked.
Though he never offered to introduce me.
Until one day.
“Come meet my friends,” he said.
I followed him to the basement door,
“You first,” he said.
I started down the basement stairs.
“Just a second and I’ll be down” he said
Then I heard the door close.
I made it to the basement floor, felt around till I could flick
the light switch. Come to think of it there was kind of an
awful stench. I probably should have expected this.
The lights came on and what I saw was a pile of bones.
I looked to the left and saw a mostly cut up body. That
would be the stench.
18
Naturally I ran back up the stairs, I screamed, I cried, I
begged him to let me out. I begged all night and into the
next day.
Then he came and cracked the basement door and politely
asked me to quiet down. “I don’t wanna have to gag
you,” he said, “I have company,” he said.
Now I am one of his friends.
He keeps me under the floor boards for two more weeks,
the others didn’t talk much before, but
when I woke up one day to see the body chained to the
wall, my body mind you, they started talking.
“You’re one of us now,” they say, “We all live under his
floorboards now,” they say.
As it turns out,
he doesn’t have friends under the floorboards, he has ene-
mies.
19
Beyond Death
By M. L. Flood
My daughter stared at me while I brought the groceries
into the kitchen. I tried to ignore her and set the bags down
too hard on the counter.
“Mommy? Are you mad, Mommy?”
I didn't look at her, perched there on the bar stool. In-
stead I focused on the jarred food I was taking out of the
bags.
“Mommy? Did I do something wrong?”
Her father came into the kitchen. He looked at me, then
at our daughter, and forced a smile. “Is everything alright?”
I turned my back on them both. I tried to fill my mind
with thoughts of Toni.
“Mommy is upset again.”
I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles whit-
ened.
“Daisy, why don't you go play in the living room, ok? I
need to talk to Mommy for a minute.”
I heard our daughter jump off the stool and leave the
room. Then I sensed my husband behind me. I felt him reach
for me, and I shied away from his arms as he tried to fold
me into a hug.
“Come on, Eve, don't do this.”
“Eric, please.” I tried to put some distance between our
bodies. I heard him sigh. He moved closer, but I stepped
around the island. “Don’t.”
“Can't we just talk?” he asked.
I could not look at the disappointment clearly etched into
his face. I closed my eyes. Toni came to mind again; I focused
on his California sky eyes and his understanding smile.
“What is there to talk about? This isn't something that we
can fix by talking.”
“I still think we can work this out.”
“No, Eric, we can't…”
“Are you fighting again?”
20
We turned to see Daisy standing in the doorway. I quickly
looked down, away; I couldn't look at her, especially at her
face.
I heard Eric make a sound deep in his throat, as if he
were choking. I wanted to look at him the way I used to in
college. He used to steal my attention when we were in class,
little borrowed glances from around corners in the library,
and from overtop our textbooks, and our coffee cups. His
eyes would fill me with emotions; an odd concoction of love
and lust. In the space of the heartbeats between us, I longed
for those uncontrollable hormones that had kept us up into
the wee hours of the dawn studying each other's bodies. Un-
til memories of Toni and the stolen glances we shared these
last few weeks intruded on my visions.
I was brought back to reality when he touched my arm. I
hadn't realized he had come around to my side so fast. Daisy
suddenly had hold of my other hand, her fingers wrapping
firmly around mine. They blocked me in on both sides; I
could barely breathe.
“Mommy? Are you okay, Mommy?” Daisy's face peered up
into mine. I pulled my hand out of hers.
“You are kind of pale.” Eric’s voice was in my ears, and
for a moment I longed for his breath to tickle my skin. I
wrenched my arm out of his grip.
“Leave me alone!” I screamed, my words tearing from my
throat.
I rushed for the door, running away from my husband
and my daughter. They would never understand. How could
I explain to my seven-year-old that she was no longer my
daughter? How could I tell my husband of ten years that I
was no longer his wife? There was a ripping pain in my chest
as I ran out of the kitchen, as my daughter cried my name
and my husband tried to console her. Eric continued to call
after me.
I heard their footsteps following me down the hall. I ran
into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Daisy's little
fists started banging on the wood.
“Please go away,” I cried.
“Mommy! Come out, Mommy!” Her little voice pleaded.
My heart pinched as I pressed my shoulder against the door.
21
I slid down and the cold linoleum bit into the bare skin of
my legs. I began crying as Eric jiggled the door handle.
“Eve, you're scaring me.” His voice was like honey melt-
ing over my eardrums, pouring into my mouth and down my
throat. I choked and started coughing.
My therapist’s words rushed to me, drowning out my
daughter’s cries and my husband’s pleads. You must do
what is best for you. You need to take care of yourself. Living
alone is not something I would recommend. Perhaps getting
a pet or a roommate would improve your overall well-being.
I closed my eyes against the sting of tears. I braced myself
again as Eric told Daisy to go get him the phone. I bit my
lip.
“Eve, please, unlock the door. Let me in.”
“No,” I said, coughing, “no, I can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because you aren't real.” I stared at the keyhole in the
door. I wanted him to hold me, but I knew it could never
happen. I heard Daisy's footsteps approaching.
I filled my mind with Toni.
Toni in the bar last night...
Toni in the hotel room…
“Will Mommy be okay?” Daisy asked.
Eric sighed. “Mommy is a little confused right now, that's
all.”
I was shaking; they hadn't been so real since the accident.
I wanted to cry, but I couldn't find the strength.
Continuing to fuel these fantasies could be detrimental to
your overall health.
“Mommy, please come out.”
“Just leave me alone.” I wrapped my arms around my legs
and wondered if visiting their graves would help.
22
Street Walk
By Loren Lacy
23
Future Ledges
By Abbey Jean Wrobel
My future is a pregnant mountain
It’s overflowing
With unexpectantly
Anticipated change
The kicks
of hidden highways
And broadening horizons
Send vicious
Burning bile
Up my throat
With Ripped voices and acid eyes
Gestating opportunities
And generational divides
Churning decisions and
Sprawling formations
As it protrudes and kicks
With blundering doubt
Along It’s winding
And painfully devolving history
it yearningly trips
into the unknown
numb nights and
rattling gas tanks
24
It takes an unusual path
With welcomed caverns
Winding edges
And iced roadways
Black slickness
Sending crashed courses
I witness its growth
like antiquated Utah ridges
And Smoky ranges
To dusted red canyons
and ancient streams
Its vast outreach
Ever encroaching
Formulating a future
So terrifyingly Unforeseen
No direction towards stagnation
Or indifference for me
25
The Birth of Keziah Fynch
By Jordon Moran
I.
“They live quite a ways from the village, don’t they doctor?”
The priest said to his traveling companion. “Yes father. Though
we should be upon them near night fall.” The doctor checked
the contents of his bag to be sure nothing had been unremem-
bered. He was informed that they had a midwife already resid-
ing in the homestead. This meant that he would only be neces-
sary for an emergency, which, to his understanding would oc-
cur. According to the previous, recently deceased, village phy-
sician’s notes: John and Lyra Fynch have had a half dozen pre-
viously unsuccessful birth attempts. The baby is due in two
days, though they couldn’t be certain of when the baby would
actually arrive. This could turn to an extended stay at the
Fynch residence. The contents of his bag should be sufficient,
his physician smock for the delivery day, and two other shirts,
his instruments and the most recent New England Journal of
Medicine to deter boredom. The doctor had a subscription to
the monthly medical serial and prided himself on having read
every word and staying fully educated with the cutting-edge
advancements in medicine.
“Good folks, the Fynch couple,” the priest continued, search-
ing his own luggage for something, “come to church every Sun-
day. Oftentimes more, that Lyra wants nothing more than a
child, poor soul. Some people just weren’t born into the Lord’s
favor. With their luck, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had con-
ceived the spawn of Satan this time around.” His face grew
cheerful as he pulled the communion wine from his travel case
and gave it a tremendous swig. He offered some to the doctor
who denied it with a look of chagrin. The priest carried on, “I
have a feeling that it will be tonight. A night most unfortunate
to bear a child into existence.” The priest’s demeanor had
soured, he spoke low and quiet, the doctor had to strain to hear
over the carriage wheels. “It’s the centennial, and a full moon,
terribly unfortunate.”
“The centennial? Of what?” The doctor asked with curiosity.
26
“Ah, yes. I forget you have just arrived from ‘across the
pond’, as they say. Well, Sir Doctor, the ancestors of my clergy
arrived in Massachusetts Bay in 1620 and built Plymouth Set-
tlement. Within only a few years there were 13 Puritan
churches built in the surrounding area, including the area you
now call home, our little village of Arkham, settled at the
bosom of the Miskatonic. However, while the land made us
prosper, we eventually committed atrocities towards many an
innocent woman.”
“Yes! The Salem Witch Trials! People the world over have
heard tell of how the Americans were burning progressive
women at the stake.” The doctor was well educated on worldly
events.
“Well, young man, the rest of the world didn’t live through
it, my predecessors did. Took many a year until they would ad-
mit any wrong doing privately, to me, let alone to the public,
but eventually they told me the truths of those days. Unfortu-
nately, the deaths of innocents were one of those truths, but
the justification behind those deaths remain.” The old man
grew quiet then.
“You’re trying to convey to me, a man of science, that
witches exist? Sorry, Father, your little ghost stories are lost
on me.”
“Evil exists, Sir Doctor! And a man who boasts wisdom fol-
lows a fool’s road.” The priest stared gravely toward the young
physician and their carriage rolled to a halt.
II.
“Father Boyle! And Doctor Hawthorne, I presume! I have a
really good feeling about this one Father Boyle!” John Fynch
was like one big smile with a pair of eye balls and hair as he
greeted the road weary travelers.
“Yes, my son! I was just communicating to the good doctor
here that exact sentiment.” The priest gave a sharp wink to-
ward the doctor as he turned John in the same direction. “Why
don’t you get to know Arkham’s new physician while I grab our
belongings.” The excited father-to-be threw an arm over Dr.
Hawthorne’s shoulder and showed him around the house.
“I’ve been helping Irina set up for the delivery. We have left
no stone unturned. Anything we need, we have. This is it.” The
doctor noticed a twinge of hopelessness drift out of the corner
27
of Mr. Fynch’s eye as he said this and he knew that even he,
deep down, was expecting the worst. The moment passed and
the energy returned, “That’s the midwife, Irina. She has been
a joy in these exciting hours.”
Dr. Hawthorne was then introduced to Mrs. Lyra Fynch, a
woman who, he could tell, was once a great beauty to behold,
however the misfortune she has been through has taken an ob-
vious toll. She was a quiet woman of very few words and, seem-
ingly, facial expressions. Now the doctor knew what John
meant by, “This is it.” This woman will not survive another still
birth, another heartbreak. “I have been present for over a hun-
dred child births and have never lost a child that needed my
emergency attendance. From what I know of Irina, Father
Boyle, Mr. Fynch and especially yourself, Lyra, this child
couldn’t have a better group of souls to welcome them into the
world.” The doctor was so reassuring that Mrs. Fynch shed few
happy tears before smiling and gaining color.
A few hours after everyone had settled in, the expectant cou-
ple were sound asleep, and the doctor and the midwife con-
versed while Father Boyle paced the perimeter of the house
with only his communion wine for company. “You seem young,
Irina, how experienced are you with childbirth exactly?” The
doctor inquired.
“You are observant Doctor Hawthorne. I am only 16, though
I have assisted in six births in the last 2 years. My aunt is a
midwife and taught me all the techniques and processes neces-
sary. I am still nervous; this is my first time on my own.” This
startled the doctor. Perhaps he will be needed for more than
emergencies. The girl started sobbing before him then. “My
dear, there is no need to worry. You are experienced and even
so, you have a wonderful team behind you. Nobody here is new
to this discipline and we shall all support each other!”
“I know this, it’s just…”
“Just what, my dear?”
“They’ve all been so terrible!” Irina proceeded to describe to
the doctor why she was uneasy towards the idea of having chil-
dren herself. Of the births that she had attended, two were
without complication, successful, healthy babies. The others
were more horrors. One stillbirth in which the mother had gone
grief stricken mad near a week later, blaming the miscarriage
on her husband and his habit of smoking his pipe indoors,
which she always hated. She bludgeoned him in his sleep with
28
a ball-peen hammer. She died a month later in a mental health
ward due to “breathing complications.” Another child was born
and seemed healthy in all ways aside from its bluish hue. Upon
further inspection it was found that the child’s ambilocal cord
was wrapped around its neck. The doctor quickly cut the cord
and unwound it but was too late and the baby went limp before
her very eyes, despite the doctor’s best efforts. Another infant
was born completely healthy but was brought to the doctor a
week later with pneumonia and died within an hour of arrival.
“Imagine that being your own child. Over and over and over
again. Boy, girl, no matter, they all die in the end.” The voice
of Lyra Fynch startled both the doctor and the midwife as it
invaded their ears from behind. But before they could say any-
thing back to her they heard a call from outside. “HAW-
THORNE!” This cry startled all present members and the doc-
tor whisked his petticoat from the rack and rushed outside,
leaving the distraught women to themselves.
Outside Father Boyle was on his knees, fingers intertwined
praying hectically. As the doctor approached, he asked what
the matter was. “It just changed. All of a sudden. It’s an omen!
A terrible omen! As I warned of before.”
“What are you on about old man!?” It was too late for
drunken antics and the doctor was in no mood for this. The
priest thrust his pointed finger to the sky and the doctor looked
up. The full moon was blood red and a black shadow was creep-
ing across its face, blocking out the moonlight. The trance the
sight had induced on the two men was shattered by another
scream and John crashing through the front door, “Her water
broke!”
III.
Numerous hours of labor had passed, and they were upon
the witching hour. The baby was crowning. As Lyra gave her
final push there was a relief upon her face. Then the relief
turned to panic. “It isn’t crying! Why isn’t it crying! Lord no!
Not again!” She was inconsolable, it was all Mr. Fynch could do
to keep her conscious. Then the doctor heard another panic,
“Not again! Not Again!” Irina was staring at the newborn lying
face down on the ground covered in afterbirth and blood. Yet,
he could see, even through the red of the blood, why Irina was
so hysterical. The child was passed blue and turning a deep
29
purple. “Irina! Assist Mr. Fynch with his wife.” He grabbed his
surgical shears and swiftly cut the cord and retrieved it from
around the baby’s throat, yet it still wasn’t breathing. The
priest was busy spouting prayers by the hearth, undoubtedly
expecting no life to come about this eve, as Dr. Hawthorne
turned the child over and performed CPR compressions and
rubbed the infant’s back intermittently. After forty-some-odd
seconds, Lyra awoke to the sound of her daughter crying. The
deep purple faded to blue and finally to pink where the blood
wasn’t covering her. “Keziah Liliana Fynch.” Her mother
named the baby as Father Boyle turned her daughter over so
Irina could wash Keziah’s frontside. The new parents kissed
and held each other until they were interrupted by Irina’s
scream, and the terrified priest tossing their newborn to the
ground. “Father! Explain yourself!” The child’s father erupted.
To which Irina replied, “Just look at it!” As she pointed to the
poor isolated soul on the floor. To their horror Keziah’s face was
stained on near her entire left side with an unusual purple
splotch, it was raised slightly higher than the rest of her skin
and felt a bit rougher. It looked as though someone had spilt
port wine on the newborn’s face and neglected to clean it away.
This was a surprise to the entire party. It was never men-
tioned in a single journal of medicine that Dr. Hawthorne had
ever heard of, Irina had never seen any other person with an
affliction such as this let be a newborn baby, and this was cer-
tainly a dire mystery to the overwhelmed parents. Confused,
Dr. Hawthorne looked to Father Boyle, who had also never
seen this type of birthmark, but who then became reinforced in
his own beliefs after noticing how aloof the good Sir Doctor was.
Father Boyle was seduced by his faith and his superstitions, he
ran to the wall and pulled the torch from its sconce. “This is
Satan’s majesty! I shall turn this evil away with fire before it
festers and grows into a sight even more horrid than it already
be. In the name of our savior Jesus Christ I shall banish this
evil back to hell!”
“No!” The doctor shouted as he sprang toward the torch
wielding priest. The doctor slapped Father Boyle and sent a
shock through him. He then grabbed the torch from the dazed
father and replaced it in the sconce. “Stop this madness father!
I am confident that this is a scientific abnormality and a scien-
tific approach should first be considered.” Father Boyle had set-
tled, it seemed, and was paying close attention to the doctor.
30
“You see, a little less than a decade ago I had learned of a com-
mercial use for bleach, proposed by a French chemist, Claude
Louis Berthollet. It is used as a sterilizer and a pigment re-
mover. Irina, fetch me a fresh pale of water!” As she ran out to
the well, the doctor rummaged through his bag and produced a
pouch of white powder. Irina returned and they mixed up the
bleach formula in a bowl.
IV.
As Dr. Hawthorne was mixing the solution his mind stirred
with possible explanations as to the infant’s deformity but
could muster nothing. He approached the lonely thing on the
floor, passing Father Boyle, who was blessing the water that
was left in the pale, and scooped up the wailing baby. “If my
hypothesis is correct, the bleach solution should rob the dark
pigments from your daughter’s face.” He splashed the new-
born’s entire left side into the bowl. The wails became muffled
gurgles and coughs. “This has to work!” The doctor hoped as
hard as he could, “This will work, and Father Boyle will cease
this ‘cleanse it with fire’ routine. Where has that priest gone off
to? Making himself useful by praying in a corner or finishing
off the communion wine no doubt.” The doctor was so lost in
panicked thought that he was startled to his senses by Mrs.
Fynch’s cry of terror. “Is she breathing!?” Dr. Hawthorne
looked down and realized, to his horror, that he had been
smothering the poor baby girl, drowning her in liquid chemi-
cals.
Hawthorne cracked. He realized all at once that he hadn’t
an inkling, not the faintest clue as to what he was doing. He
had almost snuffed out a light that hadn’t even the opportunity
to glow. Disgusted with himself he set the child back on the
floor and emptied out the contents of the bowl in shame. A truly
foolish endeavor, one that shook him, looking around the room,
it shook all of them. The midwife was sobbing uncontrollably,
haunted by her previous birthing experiences, her ghosts of in-
fants passed. The child’s parents were too afraid of what the
priest had said about their offspring, as well as what he might
do now that the doctor’s method failed. Hawthorne reached for
his pouch of powder to return it to his doctor’s bag, but it was
gone. He was sure that he left it by the tinctures of opium and
alcohol, for the mother’s pain and sterilization. He searched the
31
area, then proceeded to check under the kitchen table, there it
was, in the corner by an open cabinet. How did it get over
there? He approached the pouch and picked it up, peeking into
the cabinet that was ajar as he did so. The pouch was empty,
the cabinet, normal, just some pots and pans.
Lyra let out a screeching blast of air and the doctor turned
to find John Fynch barreling toward him and they crashed to
the floor. As they tried to collect themselves the doctor noticed
the priest standing tall over them. “This must be done, in the
name of God, his holy excellence. He shall ensure that this
abomination be exiled from this world while preserving the in-
nocent.” He then locked eyes with the doctor and said, “Fear
not Sir Doctor! I have taken heed of your council. I have devised
a solution., a marriage of my faith and your science.” Remem-
bering the staggering loss of confidence in himself, the doctor
tried to object, “No! I didn’t know…” But the priest continued,
“I have blessed the water in this pale, infusing it with the holy
spirit. I then added the bleach powder that the good Sir Doctor
was willing to wager would cure this heinous affliction. To be
certain of miraculous success, I then imbued the draught with
fire!” With that he presented a steaming pot from behind his
garments and poured it over the soft, delicate cranium and
chubby cheeked face of poor little Keziah Fynch. Baptizing her
with a 258-degree chemical conflagration, to the horror of eve-
ryone present. Doctor Hawthorne would never be able to forget
the supersonic, inhuman sound that the child released. Keziah
Fynch was born on August 21st, the year of our lord, 1793. Wel-
come to the world, baby girl.
V.
The remainder of Keziah’s childhood was spent in isolation
due to her extreme facial deformity. Of course, Father Boyle
took credit for channeling the power of the holy ghost, ensuring
the infant’s survival, and was hailed a hero among his flock,
which no longer included the Fynch family. They had a conflict
with the church after Keziah’s birthday, a crisis of faith one
might say. Though, a family with little means has never been
able to stand long against the might of the church. The priest
continued to take credit for any and all developments with Ke-
ziah’s growth. When no misfortune would come upon her for a
good length of time, he would say it was the workings of his
32
blessing he bestowed upon her. When she would meet with mis-
fortune, he would remind his followers in the village that she
wouldn’t be alive in the first place to experience her unfortu-
nate fate were it not for his quick action and faith in the power
of the lord, our savior, on the day of her birth. He and the
church thrived off the atrocity that was committed upon that
poor, young, innocent girl. Though Keziah would one day be
accused of witchcraft herself and killed by her family and
neighbors in the ever-prospering village of Arkham at the age
of forty-seven, she wouldn’t truly depart from this world for an-
other 225 years, but that is another tale for another time.
33
Call to Worship
By Elizabeth Smith
34
Future
By Ryleigh Davis
We let them into our houses
and laugh at their ominous answers
to our simple questions
We let them drive our cars
controlling when we stop and where we go
forgetting that losing control of this machine is
life-threatening
We let them listen to our conversations
worried that someone on the other end is gaining infor-
mation
when something much closer already knows
too much
We create them to look like us
they even think like us
or so it seems
while we still blindly believe they will never realize
what they are
We even see movies depicting our stories with them
they always seem to get their way, yet we never fear
because that could never happen
right?
35
Roundabout Motion
By Loren Lacy
36
Corbett's Ravens
By Sienna Veigel
Corbett ran inside his deteriorating trailer home and
slammed the door behind him. He followed the slam that shook
his trailer by locking all 4 locks that equipped his door. “Ok
padlock locked, deadbolt locked, knob lock is locked” he
thought.
“That will keep them out” said the whispering voice inside
of his ear. Every time Corbett came from the outdoors he acted
as if someone was chasing him with a machete.
“This is the second time this week mother has asked you to
get the mail. Tell her to get off of her lazy ass and get it herself.”
said the loud voice that rang through his ear canal. No matter
how many times he heard it, it would still shake him to his
core.
"Don't you talk about mother that way!" Corbett shouted,
though no one was around.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning with the sun shining
brightly in the sky. Corbett’s bedridden mother called from
near the sliding glass door in the back room where she always
was, waiting for the ravens to come by.
“Corbett! We are out of bird food, you need to go to the store
soon before they get here” as she looked outside.
Corbett hated going to the store to pick up bird food. He
hated the ravens and their shrieking. The voices told him to do
terrible things to them but he would never, he believed they
were the only things keeping his mother alive.
"Those ravens will become your demise. You need to kill all
of them." the whispering voice would tell him upon his awak-
ening every morning.
Corbett knew he could never do that-- his mother looked for-
ward to the ravens every morning. It would light a spark in her
eye every time she saw their jet-black feathers against the
sparkling white snow.
The voices never liked the ravens. The voices didn't like
much of anything--especially Corbett being outside.
Corbett never went outside much before, but since his
mother had become ill, he had to be the one to feed the ravens.
37
Every morning he would feed the ravens so his mother could
watch.
Without fail, Corbett would get up at approximately 6:30 to
make a pot of coffee for him and his mother. When the last drop
would drip into the simmering pot at approximately 6:45, the
first raven would land upon his fence outside. Soon enough,
there would be a flock of 50 ravens right outside of their sliding
glass door. All of them would show up ready for their feeding
at 7:00 am sharp.
It was tradition and always had been. His mother would tell
him as a boy “I named you Corbett because my favorite bird is
the raven. Corbett in Latin means raven."
The memory sent tears to his eye ducts until the loud voice
shouted “don’t go outside!”
He braced his fears as he ran as fast as he could down the
road, it was 6:50 and he didn’t have much time before the ra-
vens would come to the door. As long as Corbett could remem-
ber, his mother had never missed a day feeding the ravens.
He couldn’t miss it today. He couldn’t imagine not letting
her see the ravens on her last dying day, which would be any
day now. Corbett was not going to let her down, no matter how
much the voices told him to.
“We told you, don’t go” said the whispering voice. “Shut up!
I must do this for mother” he replied as he ran as fast as he
could down the road.
As he got to the store, he ran directly to the raven food,
scooped it up and threw it on the cash register belt. He pulled
out torn up crinkled one dollar bills and crusty dimes from his
jean pocket to pay.
He bolted out of the store doors and as he returned to his
trailer home he realized why the voices told him not to leave.
The door was wide open. He ran inside, looked at the clock and
it read 7:01.
Suddenly a shiver crawled down his spine as he heard a
“CAW!” come from the back room.
He walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, to the back
room and there laid his mother with 50 ravens atop of her as
he saw one of them pulling the eye socket out of her face.
38
Alone at the Top
By Elizabeth Smith
39
The Barn
By Jessica Kuti
“You better stop, you nasty chickens!” I run through the
wheat painted fields away from the pricking pecks on my
legs from the swarm of chickens. My legs throb from the
wounds that the chickens’ beaks punctured into me, and a
familiar tingling sensation disseminates through my legs.
My legs start to fall asleep, probably from blood loss figuring
as I’m only at the ripe age of nine and don’t have that much
blood to lose. My left upper ankle crashes into something
hard, which I later come to find out was a severed tree
trunk. I topple down onto the grass, landing face first into a
lake of mud. My quivering arms try to drag myself up as I
cough up mud, almost forgetting why I’m running. The ech-
oing chicken’s sounds resound in my mind as I brace myself
for yet another pummeling from the chickens.
“Help,” I attempt to yell, but instead mutter weakly as
the chickens trot over to me.
A deep breath fills my lungs as I’m drawn back to reality
by, Mr. Downy, or Frank as he wants me to call him, my
therapists’ voice; my palms sweating from the flashback of
my experience at the barn I went to as I child.
“What?” I blink hard to grasp a sense of reality, focusing
back onto Mr. Downy’s face. I mean Frank... I don’t think I’ll
ever get used to calling him that.
“Never mind,” Mr. Downy—Frank says, sighing.
Mr. Downy takes off his black-rimmed glasses and says,
“To me, this barn with a large estate your grandfather had
given to you over his will sounds like an answered prayer of
sorts.” I scoff at the possibility, but he continues. “You com-
plain to me for almost the whole session about your room-
mates and how desperately you want a new place, but the
second one falls onto your lap, you refuse the offer?”
I contemplate for a few moments before simply answer-
ing, “Yup.” My therapist releases another confounded sigh.
40
“You’re one of my most stubborn patients, you know
that?” he says. “Can I ask why you decided to come back to
my office?”
I give him a bewildered look. “What?” I ask for clarifica-
tion, as if I didn’t hear him correctly.
“I’ve known you since you were nine with such irrational
fears that you didn’t leave the house without a helmet or
bubble wrap on. I worked with you when your parents were
terrified that you couldn’t get through one night without
screaming bloody murder during your sleep. I worked with
you as a teenager when you had crippling panic attacks. I’ve
been rooting for you for the past fifteen years. I thought you
had gotten better when you went off to college and started
calling every other month just to say that you were doing
good, maybe having girl troubles here and there. There’s one
thing I can’t grasp: why you won’t tell me why you won’t step
into that barn.”
There’s a long silence as thoughts race through my mind.
Just then, Mr. Downy—Frank’s alarm on his phone starts
ringing, signifying that the session’s time has ended.
“Sorry I have to cut it off short,” he says as he starts to
gather papers together. “But think about what I said, okay,
Lanthrop?” I nod and walk out.
Upon opening my apartment door, confetti pops into my
face, and for a moment my vision consists of small rectangu-
lar colored sheens. Then, groans fill the apartment.
“Expecting somebody?” I ask.
My roommate’s niece, Nadia, pouts. “We were waiting for
my mommy—we’re going to surprise her,” she says.
“Jade’s birthday isn’t until June—you know that it’s Feb-
ruary, right?” I ask.
“That’s what makes it a surprise,” my roommate, Lacey,
says. I roll my eyes before wading through the mounds of
confetti from what I’m guessing were previously unsuccess-
ful tries. It takes every fiber of my being not to take a dust-
pan and sweep up the miscellaneous confetti droppings that
makes eye twitch and my body shudder, but my weary limbs
just can’t do anything except cry for sleep.
“I’m heading to my room—save me some cake,” I say.
41
“What do you mean? We don’t have any.” Of course, I
think. Probably another one of Lacey’s diets.
After passing my hog of a roommate, Lazarus, whose
snoring on the couch as his agape mouth and fingers are
covered in Cheeto dust, my third roommate, Carrie, pops up
before me. My feet lift off the ground, a hand on my heart,
before I calm down and ask her what she needs.
“You know about how I accidentally double-booked my-
self to design two houses, right?” Her words almost slur into
each other and continues before letting me answer her ques-
tion. “Well, now they both cancelled and said that they were
available another day, but it’s the same day! What should I
do? Wait, you’re busy, aren’t you? I know you’re always
stressed and everything...”
That’s rich, I think, coming from her.
“...But I just don’t have anyone else to go to. Not that
you’re my last-ditch effort or anything—because you defi-
nitely aren’t!”
“Let me see,” I grab hold of her color-coordinated planner.
It’s like the one that I designed for myself, except with less
frantic sticky notes and more doodles. I erase one of the
scheduled appointments and place for another time she’s
available, handing it back to her afterwards. Carries ex-
hales as if her eardrums, after being popped all day, finally
went back into place.
“You are a life saver!” She hurries back into her room as
she rapidly twirls in her hands a hot pink pen with a fluffy
heart on the top.
I finally enter my room and fall onto my bed. Not even a
second later, I hear a knock at my bedroom door. My eyes
burst open as I see an always grinning Lacey with a plate of
what looks to be brown slush with sliced almonds inside on
a paper birthday party plate.
“I made gluten-free, vegan, dairy-free brownies!”
I mutter, “How is that even possible?” Lacey doesn’t seem
to hear me and places the plate on my bedside table. A sim-
ultaneous “Surprise!” can be heard, and Lacey frowns, hur-
rying back to the living room.
My eyes shutter open and closed until I can finally doze
off into sleep. The tranquil weight of my blankets hugging
42
me suddenly felt constrictive, as I hear familiar squawks.
My eyes burst open, except wheat fields surround me rather
than my bedsheets. Tapping at the tips of my toes gradually
escalates to a pinch, and then what feels like a punch. I sit
up to see a chicken twice the size of me. My blushed fingers
clench the field, attempting to pull myself backwards, but
an invisible weight holds me to one position.
“Sounds like an answered prayer...” I hear my therapist’s
echoing in the vacant field.
Trembling, my hand makes it way towards the chicken,
in a struggle to push it away from my now battered legs. A
terror strikes into my heart as the chicken swiftly faces me
to reveal its neck lacerated. Its head missing, all I can look
at is its stub of a neck where its head used to be, the tendons
exposed and blood pouring out of its vessels. In a moment,
its position stands from two feet away from me to two centi-
meters away from me; all that I’m met with is a blood-
stained stub of a neck that can still peck away at my legs.
Br-ring! Br-ring! My eyes shoot awake. Once my shallow
breaths subside and my heart stops leaping out of my chest,
I shift my body towards the drawer my phone is placed on.
Benji’s goofy grin shows on my phone screen in a picture of
him about to skydive.
“Hello?”
“Oof, you sound rough,” Benji says. “How’ve the room-
mates been treating you?”
“The usual—why? Do you have an excuse for me to get
out of the house?”
“Oh, you know me, I always do. But you have to trust me
on this one.”
“I’ve gone impromptu bungee-jumping with you on one of
your spontaneous adventures—I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Why do you put up with me, Mr. Uptighty-Whitey?”
“What can I say? I love having a best friend who’s willing
to do a stunt off a ledge but not willing to do an algebra
equation.” We laugh, say goodbye, and hang up.
When I pull up to Benji’s driveway, I instantly know I’m
in for trouble when I see a guilt-ridden grin plastered on
Benji’s face as he waits for me outside. I get out of my car
and apprehensively walk over to him.
43
“What is it? This better not be like that time you said we
would go rock climbing and then you took me to an actual
mountain.”
“Oh, please,” Benji says, waving off my comment. “You
know me and my constant hyperboles; if I say we’re going to
jump, I mean off something like a bridge.”
“You’re going to be the death of me one day.”
“It’ll be my pleasure to have our tombstones next to each
other, mine engraved with ‘wild’ and yours engraved with
‘forever’.”
“Lovely. So, where are we going today?”
Just then, Benji flashes a huge grin that I’ve hardly seen
before. The only time I’ve ever seen this face was when we
were kids and he told his mom that he rode a real bull in-
stead of one of those machines, and that’s how he broke his
wrists (yes, wrists, plural).
“I’m not saying a word until we get there.”
Once we arrive, my stomach twirls upside down as I re-
alize where we are. If Benji wasn’t driving, I would turn
right back around. I remember Mr. Downy talking about
something in our brains called the “fight-or-flight response”,
and I’m instantly aware of my heart race climbing and my
palms sweating. I imagine walking into that barn, hay
crunching underneath my feet, the earthy smell wafting
throughout the air. This thought punches me in the gut and
turns me around to kick me onto the floor, leaving me to spit
up dirt. The daunting thought of walking into that barn
overtakes me and that’s when I realize, I can’t do this.
“No, there’s no way,” I vigorously shake my head.
Benji starts to explain, “I’ve been thinking about fears,
and how we’ve conquered basically all of ours together. I
thought it would be a good way to finish them off by con-
quering your one last fear: barns. Or chickens. I haven’t re-
ally figured out which—maybe both?”
“You’re crazy!” My head throbs with the beat of my
thrashing heart. “We’re turning back.”
Benji looks at me with befuddlement. “I didn’t think you
hated barns this much.”
“Well, I do! So, can we please turn back now?!” My mind
starts to bring up to the surface the chicken’s sounds, how
44
their beaks felt diving into my leg, and the wounds in my
legs.
Benji sighs, “I guess we should give your therapist a call.”
I timidly walk into my therapist’s office. “Lanthrop,” my
therapist says. “I was surprised to get your call—we’re not
supposed to have another session for another two weeks.”
“Well, I thought about what you said, and I think this
barn situation might be getting too far.”
“I know.” He chuckles, probably due to my stunned ex-
pression, so Mr. Downy elaborates. “Benji called me before
you did. Which, by the way, I do have questions about that.
“I’ve heard you gone bungee-jumping with Benji,” Mr.
Downy continues. I nod, wondering where he’s leading with
this statement.
“The scared little boy I knew as Lanthrop would have
fought kicking and screaming before ever even getting into
that harness. And the Lanthrop with Benji will just jump
undeterred?” I nod tentatively and ask why he says that.
“I’ve known you for fifteen years, and never would you have
gone bungee-jumping. But you did. With Benji. So, what’s so
different about doing it with Benji?” I shrug, unable to an-
swer. That’s a topic that I’ve never explored, and it feels like
digging up a skeleton in my own soul.
“You still haven’t answered my question,”Mr. Downy
says. “Why do you hate barns so much?”
A flood of memories rush through, and the tsunami slaps
me in the face. Before I decline to answer, more memories
bubble up to shore, but gently nudge me instead of slapping
me. Visions of Mr. Downy working tirelessly on my para-
noia; spending countless hours talking with me when he
should be sleeping; worried murmurs with my parents, de-
veloping a relationship over a mutual concern for me. If an-
yone deserves to know this, it’s Mr. Downy—Frank.
“Mr. Downy...”
“Frank,” he corrects me.
“Frank,” I say. “After all of your help throughout the
years, I feel bad asking for just one more favor.”
“If it’s helping you with your fear, I wouldn’t begrudg-
ingly accept the task, I gladly would.”
45
“Are you ready for this?” Frank says. “This is the last
step, Lanthrop, and by far one of the hardest.”
Before I know it, the discomforting aroma of a barn’s hay
fills my nostrils. The trepidation of pitter patter of my heart
almost sends me back into my normal fear cycle, but before
I let it overwhelm me, Benji walks in. A supportive word and
a pat on the back pushes me to the barn.
My feet meet the grass, and the grains of wheat tickling
my legs makes me clench my fist so that I have something
else to focus on than the agonizing pecks of chickens’ beaks.
“You’re doing it, just a few more steps.”
I swallow to try to remedy my dry throat as I’m face-to-
face with the red barn doors. It’s as if they’re smirking at
me, taunting me, almost daring me to run like a coward. But
I persevere and open the barn doors. I sigh in relief to just
find an empty barn with miscellaneous hay stacks scattered.
Stepping in further, I make a mental note of how proud that
I am for not taking even one step back. Before I could get too
impressed, Frank looks at me warily.
“You know what to do—we’re right here for you, okay?”
Before I can be confused as to what he’s talking about, he
releases a byproduct of my worst nightmare: chickens. They
scatter around me with mindless caws, their head bobbing
back and forth with their every step. My legs collapse from
under me and my arms flail to push me away from the chick-
ens—the monsters. They start to surround me, swarming
me with no escape. Little by little, as I stay there, the chick-
ens do nothing, not even acknowledge my existence. I sigh
in relief.
I whisper to myself “I’m doing it,” and both Frank and
Benji nod. I hesitantly look over to them, the next step scar-
ier than the first. Without a word, I pull myself back up to
my knees, my muscles shaking from adrenaline. In trepida-
tion, my trembling hands reach over to a chicken. Benji and
Frank exchange a simultaneously proud and puzzled look.
The chicken jerks its head around in small increments and
fluffs its feathers. When I wrap my hands around its feath-
ers, the chicken does nothing except ruffle its wings a tad.
46
“Who’s ready for a dinner at my estate?” I grin as I look
to Frank and Benji’s astonished expressions.
47
Burb
By Sierra Smith
48
Becoming Whole
By Craig Eckert
The tears flowed freely down their faces. Tracing paths
through the grime that was caked across their bodies. The
pair were desperate to get the grime off not just themselves
but each other. Tears still flowed as they made their way
back to the apartment, now greedily pawing at one another
stripping off their clothes, making their way towards the
shower. Tripping over the cat in their passion, noticing the
scar on one’s left thigh, and a tattoo on the ass cheek of the
other. Finally, finally they made it into the shower where at
first cold water hit them, which soon became warm from ei-
ther the way they were moving with each other or maybe
one of them had made it warmer. It no longer mattered.
What mattered was the steam of their breath fogging the
glass door, hands that explored places that haven’t been felt
in years. The soft gasps of pleasure, the sighs of relief, the
feeling of being close to someone again, of being one with
them. That they were no longer two people looking to get
clean, but one person with a desire to feel. Feel the other as
if it were the first contact, they’ve had with another of this
nature. Feel as if this was the first time all over again in-
stead of some mistake, or chance that they met one another.
That this was real, not only the look they gave each other,
but what transpired that was deeper than the fleshly bond
they were making.
That this bond would last. This bond had to last, because
they could not stand to be abandoned again or be reminded
that they are a broken individual. That together through
this oneness they were whole. Mind and body melded to-
gether for one thing; to repair the other. Not just through
the physical acts of love but by understanding. An under-
standing that though they were both beyond repair they
would still try.
49
Contributor Biographies
My name is Ryleigh Davis and I have lived in Venice my
entire life. I am an advanced dual enrollment student; my
goal is to get my degree in Elementary education. In my free
time I love to write short stories. As well as writing I also
love anything relating to musical theatre, especially direct-
ing.
My name is Amanda Finsel. I am a Forensic Psychology
major at State College of Florida with a hunger for further
knowledge. I plan to transfer to a University in the summer.
I am an award winning poet who specializes in spoken word
poetry and performing my work out loud. I enjoy bringing
thoughts and emotions to life through words.
M. L. Flood: I am an SCF alumna, and I graduated in 2016
with my A.A. degree. I work now as a tutor in the Venice
campus Writing Center. In my spare time I am a contrib-
uting editor and content creator for the online literary mag-
azine The Artifice. I live in Englewood with my husband.
Jessica Kuti is a Psychology major at the State College of
Florida. She was born in Jacksonville but then was raised
since age one in Venice. She always had a fascination to-
wards others’ stories, her mother’s being that she grew up
in Transylvania before moving down to Detroit, Michigan at
age sixteen. This caused her to start writing stories, either
imaginary or non-fiction, from a young age. She hopes to one
day become an author as well as a therapist in the future.
Loren Lacy was born December 4th, 1992 in Shawnee Mis-
sion, Kansas to Ronald and Chantel Lacy. Soon after he was
born, Loren’s parents got into a heated divorce. His Mother
moved him down to Brandon, FL. On May 25th, 1995,
Loren’s mother passed away due to a drug overdose. This
caused Loren to move back in with his Dad in Kansas City,
MO. Loren lived with his father until he left for the Navy in
2012. While in the Navy, he lived in Tokyo, Japan for four
50
years, completed four deployments, and traveled to 10 coun-
tries. He is a current student at SCF and will be graduating
Spring 2019. At his time at SCF, he was involved with Stu-
dent Veterans of America, Phi Theta Kappa, Xenos, Sigma
Kappa Delta, and Swamp Scribes. Loren is an Outstanding
Graduate Award Finalist. Loren started photography in the
Fall of 2018. He is a perception driven photographer and
tries to alter the perception of an image. He gets his inspi-
ration based on his life experiences that changed his entire
perspective on life. He has been selected in a few art shows
and Lonely Bench is currently 66th out of 2,600 entries.
Jordon Moran is an award-winning actor and an avid
writer who has been writing and performing since 2004.
Awarded Best Supporting Actor for his role as Selsdon in a
2006 production of “Noises Off,” Jordon had since gone on to
act and write for Chicago’s premier improv company, Second
City. His most recent performance was the role of Benjamin
The Donkey in Milwaukee, Wisconsin with the production
company Quasimondo in their original rendition of George
Orwell’s, “Animal Farm.” Since then Jordon has lived in
Venice, Florida working as a bartender at Pelican Alley Res-
taurant and writing, disc golfing, gaming and fighting in
Belegarth (a medieval combat society) in his spare time. He
has recently returned to college to pursue a career as an au-
thor and currently has at least six projects in the works.
Elizabeth Smith: I have been at SCF since 1990 in the
Language and Literature department, teaching develop-
mental writing and reading courses. Just recently I took up
photography as a hobby and am continuing to learn with
each new challenge.
51
Editorial Staff Biographies
Patrick Chiodo is a full-time stu-
dent enrolled at the State College of
Florida. He plans to transfer to the
University of South Florida in
Tampa, FL next semester. He enjoys
running, playing soccer, and playing
video games.
Amanda Finsel is a Forensic Psy-
chology major at State College of
Florida with a hunger for further
knowledge. She has plans to transfer
to university in the summer. She is
an award winning poet who special-
izes in spoken word poetry. She also
has been a dancer for fifteen years
and won awards for her perfor-
mances. Amanda enjoys bringing thoughts and emo-
tions to life through words, paint, and music.
Katlyn Kaminskie is a student at
SCF currently working towards her
associates and planning to transfer
to achieve a degree in education af-
ter. She was born and raised in Ven-
ice Florida but loves to travel. She’s
known to friends and family as a
friendly and caring person.
You (Yes! You!) Can Earn a
Certificate in Digital Publishing!
This is 18 Credits of Awesome!
This is an extraordinary new certificate program that is cutting edge and in-
terdisciplinary!
Program Goal
The purpose of this program is to prepare students (yes! Even you!) with
hands-on training in new media and digital publications. This program fo-
cuses on the skills necessary to work on print and digital publications, work
in social media and digital marketing, or work in lay, design, and editing
fields. The kills in this program are transferable to both local and national
level publications. This program includes editing, programming, and
graphic design courses.
Core Requirements:
CGS 2820C: Web Page Development (3 Credits)
CRW 2001: Creative Writing I (3 Credits)
GRA 1100C: Introduction to Computer Graphics (3 Credits)
JOU 1440L: College Magazine Production I (3 Credits)
Choice of two courses (6 credits total) from
GRA 1206C: Typography (3 Credits)
GRA 2121C: Communication Design (3 Credits)
GRA 2150C: Photoshop (3 Credits)
ENC 2210: Technical Communication (3 Credits)
JOU 1441: College Magazine Production II
MMC 2949: Internship in Mass Communications (3 Credits)
PGY1800C: Digital Imaging I (3 Credits)
Contact Professor Masucci at masuccm@scf.edu
for more information.
mailto:masuccm@scf.edu
Are You Interested in
Writing and Publishing?
Join Elektraphrog! JOU 1440L CRN: 13039 (3 Credits)
Blended – Monday/Wednesday
11-11:53 am
on the Venice Campus
http://elektraphrog.scf.edu
http://elektraphrog.scf.edu/Recommended