phoenix2009 • 2010

52nd edition

phoenix2009 • 2010

Literary & Visual Arts JournalLanguage & Literature Department

Eastern Mennonite UniversityHarrisonburg, VA

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StaffBen Shank • General Editor

Greta Shenk & Dylan Zehr • Literature Editors

James Souder & Steven Stauffer • Visual Editors

Kevin Seidel & Andrew White • Advisors

Phoenix Recognizes:

Christine Bottles, Karissa Sauder, Amy Schmid, and Esther Shank for their help in selecting and editing the works.

Allison Glick, cover art - “Marble Tribute” - acrylic screenprint

The EMU print shop

Student Government Association

The contributors and community at EMU who promote artistic expression.

For consideration in our next edition, send works to:

phoenix@emu.edu

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The act of writing requires a constant plunging back into the shadow of the past where time hovers ghostlike. Ralph Ellison

The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. William Faulkner

These pages emerge from the past. Old memories infuse the words and images, ready to become new memories, future memories. The life within the art stirs, restless for revelation. These poems, stories, and photographs call on you, the reader, to connect time past with time present to make sense of sarcasm and sincerity, frustration and pain, questions and answers.

This wrestling with memories would not have been possible without our numerous contributors. Whether with words formed or formless or with thoughts framed or focused, they share a part of their souls. They weave truth between lines, through cracks of crumbling walls, around the wide eyes of a child. And at the end, truth dangles, waiting for memory to lead it on.

Ben Shank

General Editor

April 2010

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WeddingK-Rod

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the works

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LindiweK-Rod

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TimeJulia Johnson

Juice box between bare feetEnough crust for Mr. Duck Duck to eatSquealing with gigglesChasing Mr. Duck Duck awayFrom sun-made lava fields

He has no agendaNo 401kWhen we must partHe asks what will we do yesterday?TimeMerely caters to needEat timePlay timeRest time

When I say, “We’re out of time”He doesn’t comprehendHow can time dissolve?How can time empty?If time ran out - where do we get more?Only a foolish age of fourBut maybe he should stayIn endless supply of timeNever in excessNever in needEnough to eatPlayRestAnd pee

Maybe I’m the foolWho actually believed time ran out

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The Contiguous MeGreta Shenk

The Egyptians believed that thought arose from the heart,emotions and identity grew inside the chest

and Sometimes, lying in this body, with its spark of consciousness fixed firmly behind my 21st century eyes,I wonder,

What is it like to think from down there?

Down ventures the spark, the eye now vacant for a moment,The lark of thought gone off to find another bivouac to try on.

I remember the first such adventureIn the 6th grade, springtime P.E. soccer field, all the kids ran around in a herdas I stood on the sideline contemplating my self.

Now again the spark is seeking,Are we still a whole of parts?

Once again, this heart votes to join the Union, Grudgingly welcoming the sightseer back, – That internal Kansas waits, though not previously empty,for the plow.

Further afield, the explorer roams, laying claim to the foot and the hand.This finger, spit of action, still adjoined?Surely from the beginning it was destined to define itself so happily in relation to thehand.

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Here, close to home, the eyebrow of the eye.Purchased from the Swiss-Germans, you know,for only three cents a hair in 1718,a bargain, surely.

Now the spark at home again,the eye, the soul –Internal union, oft disputed – Borders only showing to the world.

CatacombsTaylor Harrison

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Where I’m FromBen Louis

I am from rugged mountainsfrom small coastal plains and river valleysfrom roosters crowing early in the morning.I am from the Caribbean islandwhich natural disaster often devastated.

I am from the roots of Africafrom Catherine Flon and Dessalines.I am from the suffer-it-all and never restand have-to-decide or accept it.I am from learning it the hard waywith no hope or rescue.I am from a grandfather tortured,treated like a thing with no respect,from the nation born of a slave revoltfrom the trunk of the tree of black liberty.

I am from the Republic of Haitifrom the French- and Creole-speaking.I am from the second native countrythat defeated the French colonial armyand declared its independence.

I am from the African and French culturefrom the mixture of Catholic and Voodoo.I am from Africa, Haitifrom a society where French, Spanishand Taino-Arawak influenceall aspects of culture,from the music style known as Kompafrom the cuisine unique in its own rightfrom painting and sculpture, distinctive arts.

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I am from Port-au-Princedescendant of Queen Anacaona and King Louisfrom the Haitian Diasporaliving in Harrisonburg, Virginia.

UntitledMark Fenton

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The Perfect DayErin Nussbaum

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An ItchBen Shank

I had a thoughtcrawl up my calf,a scratchy thoughtI scratched in half.One part kept crawling,the other dropped deadas soon as the otherarrived in my head.“Don’t scratch me please,”it halfway said,“I’m a great ideathat needs to be fed.”But it’s hard to feeda partial thoughtwhen its better halfhas started to rot.So I gave it a thinkwith half of my headand couldn’t believewhat it finally said:“Thoughts and calvesmay make the man,but thoughts in halveswon’t make him stand.”

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Between WinterZachary R. Taylor

Sometime, when the snow is melting,If you wait like one whose fate restsOn the tiniest of twigs

You will hear the birdsBegin singing love songsEven among the tears of winter

And when you grow oldYou’ll remember even what the sky tasted like that day

Visions From a Cold Winter NightMichael Showalter

Receive the arm of darkness forbearingThe white-laced glove of childlike dependencyWith red-faced tenderness and sorrowsA small dew-washed face appears, the yellow sunObserve the moss on our foreheads – green as grassAll the blue chunks of the sky fall to earthWhat lasts, except for a high, dimly-lit mantle?Spread across the wintry atmosphereWhere specks of dust come drifting out of spaceAnd clock time slows while the entire world waitsFor the arrival of the kind and peaceful childrenAt their arrival, the entire country fills with joyStars sing of the King’s worthiness without endHe comes with the shooting star overtop of the horizon

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Parking Lotby U. Commons

Hellacious stair-master, the snowplow is crying.

Cold SlumberLinda Alley

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PetMeg Brauckmann

I stand at the window, wringing my hands. Out in the yard the dog is stalking a bird along the fence line. It always fascinated me, the way his body tensed, every muscle poised for the aim of possession. He’s a machine, ready to spring, to strike, and yet so patient watching—as if time could lie down and beg at his paws. The power in that stance, it was the way I first saw you. I wanted to be absorbed by a power like that. Your desire was intoxicating. I tattooed my skin with that want; the strength it fed into my veins was a drug. The way your glance owned me, controlled me, dictated the way I flicked my hair, moved my eyes to meet yours. I wanted that want, which was a weak-ness you uncovered. And the more I loved, the more it fueled your power over me. I didn’t understand then, couldn’t have—or so I naively attempt to justify my youth, to transmit bravery where there was only ignorance and blindness. I didn’t know that freedom was not losing myself in you, to you. That freedom was not possession any more than drowning in a sea is freedom. The dog lurches into the bush; I see the fluttering wings, the desperate attempts at freedom. And I can imagine the teeth piercing through her breast, the crunching of hollow bones, the popping gush of warm, damp blood. I cannot imagine the rush of that domination, the godlike power of taking life, of deciding fate. I know why you crave it. I don’t blame you. I stand at the window and examine the dish in my hands. How many times have my hands cradled this fragile glass and my mind raced to its destruction? The desire to shatter it, to lift it and hurl it across the room builds in me with adrenaline. It’s a hysteric, chaotic force—power. But I rein it in. Perhaps that is my weakness. You conjured the colors to the surface of my skin with your hands, called my voice out of my mouth. And instead of hating you, I loved you the more for your possession of the courage I lacked. But no, that wasn’t love; it was something else, a blurry line between admiration and horror. Fear. Like my Sunday School teacher talked about trusting in God. I swallowed that lesson too easily. Love and fear… she was so wrong.

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The plate is cracked anyway. From all the days I have stood grasping it so tightly, straining it. It began as a fracture, a tiny crack in the surface. But with each increase of pressure it breaks into little fissures, spreading like spider webs underneath, invisible lines of breaking. I am sure one day I will hold it and it will dissolve in my hands. But that is not the finale I would like; there is less satisfaction in slow decay than the hurling. Is that why you always pushed harder? Were you trying to prove your strength, your superiority, or was it that you too were taught the wrong lessons? The dog is running to the back door, scratching to be let in. Eyes warm and brown and endless, and there are pale soft feathers curled in his gum, blood crusted on the hairs near his mouth. Why didn’t I see that, the first time I looked at you? I push him away angrily. A few months ago I would not have wept over the death of a bird, but I feel the liquid rolling into my eyes like the flash floods in this valley. He does not understand the disdain towards his accomplishment, his nature. He sulks. The melody of that bird used to greet me in the strawberry blonde strands of sun-rise. Now the mornings will rise silent, snuffed out. It is too much, too close to home. I set the plate down and saunter across the linoleum, my jaw set in determination. I pull out my suitcase. I hesitate before the door; I watch my fingers reach for the knob, then retreat, clenching the handle again. Those eyes bore into me, pleading, infinitely melancholy and apologetic. It’s only his nature. I sink to the cool tile floor and he nuzzles my shoulder, drops his head into my lap, and my hand involuntarily moves to stroke him. Forgiveness of the unrepentant, another lesson I swallowed too easily, learned wrongly. I wait for you to come home.

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Her Bright EyesKelly Brewer

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Twelvee. pants

Peace has no small hands as these.Guns, bombs, tops, toys.Young boys aged with many yearsI can see it in their eyes;The wrinkles ‘round their straight smiles.

Joy has no silent laugh as these.Guns, bombs, tanks, planes.Young mothers weeping in their huts.I can hear them in the wind;Their fingers gripped ‘round white blankets.

Love has no vulgar scent as this.Guns, bombs, fires,Young world up in flames.The rain cannot quench,Cannot cover, cannot clearThe destruction I see.

Peace, nor joy, nor loveMay ever twinkle in these eyes.

No, I see youAnd you are eighty-nineHaving only lived twelve.

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Dancing With TrollsWilliam Stutzman

There are trolls in my garden again, digging up carrots, rooting through the pota-toes, and eating my red tomatoes. Confound those rascals with their short plump bodies and bright pink hair. All seven of them have foolish grins splashed across their pinched faces. I should go out there with a broom and put a stop to their mischief. I voice my opinion of them loudly. I move to get out of my chair but my best friend stops me. Let the trolls go she says. I glance out the kitchen window. But they will ruin my garden I say. I was so looking forward to fresh vegetables. She shrugs and stares at the garden, looking past the plants, past the hideous little trolls, and into the infinity beyond. Does she not see those selfish brutes rolling through the strawberries? I would be more worried about those elephants she says. What elephants I say. Those elephants she says, pointing at an empty field. That big green one is their leader. Her feet did a little jig on the floor. Oh, I say, still not seeing. I turn back to look at the trolls - they don’t seem worried about elephants. The trolls don’t seem worried about elephants I say. What trolls she says. The trolls in the garden I say. What trolls and what garden she says. I point out the window. Hmm… she says, her feet tap-tapping to music only she can hear. The doorbell rings and our conversation ends; the pizza is finally here. I stand up and fish out my wallet. The doorbell rings again. Not so loud I say. That will be 19.95 says the pizza delivery boy with a Brooklyn accent. You’re late I say, as I pull out 19 one dollar bills and a handful of nickels. I throw in a few extra nickels to be generous. Keep the change I say. Yeah sure he says with a suspicious look. I block his view into the room with my body then shut the door in his cynical face. I hate people from Brooklyn. They give our fair city a bad name. I hear Brooklyn stalk off down the hall towards the stairs. I turn and look back across my crowded tenth floor apartment and am startled. The room is empty, the window is open; both my friend and the last tablet of LSD are gone.

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Harlem MeerStevn_

The Hunchback of Squirrel HillDylan Zehr

He walkedhalfway across the street.

Then

he walkedhalfway back.

Leaving him in a dangerous sort of limbo.

Rosesby Smith Street

When I was a littleshit my bestfriend told meto shut up.

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LoopBen Nelson

“I ran into a man crossing the street today,” he says, opening the door, home at last, “and he told me the strangest stories.” He bends to take off his shoes.::: “The one I remember best was--,” he says, opening the door. He rubs his head against the sudden shooting pain. “The one what,” she asks, raising a quizzical eyebrow, as he bends to take off his shoes. “The one story,” he says. “The man in the street who told me stories,” he hints, when she doesn’t respond. “We haven’t been talking about anyone,” she says. “You’ve only just gotten home.” She cocks her head to one side. “Are you feeling okay?” “I’m just trying to remember this story,” he says.:::: “It was about a friend of his,” he says, opening the door. His head is on fire now. “What?” she calls. “Nothing,” he shouts back, “I was on the phone.” He bends to take off his shoes, contemplating the amount of stress he’s been under lately. “I found the perfect crib for Julius,” she says as she comes out from the kitchen and kisses him on the cheek. “We have to order it soon. Or it won’t come in time.” She turns, hurrying back to the kitchen. “I’m making everything omelettes,” she says. He stands in the hall, eyes exploring the walls, searching for seams, waiting for reality to come apart. But everything appears normal. “Dan? Honey?” she calls back at him. “Has anything... weird happened today?” he says. “What do you mean, weird?” “I mean, strange. Like something that’s never happened before.” “No,” she says. “It’s been pretty boring here. Why? Did something happen to you?” “No,” he says, “I’ve just been having this awful headache,” and he massages his head. “It’s messing with my mind.” “You want to go to the doctor?” “I just want to lie down.” He flops down on the sofa. “Have you seen a guy who looks like me around town?” he asks. “No,” she says. “Did you find your doppelganger today or something?”

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“Yeah. The evil twin. He knocked me over on the subway platform.” He picks up a magazine and idly flips the pages. “Really? You never told me you had a twin, let alone an evil one,” she says, grin-ning. “No, it was strange,” he says. “He said something to me as I was getting up, but I can’t quite remember it. It was a story, I think.” “I bet you’ll--” “What happened to your fingers?” he asks.::::: “Wait!” he says as he comes in the front door. “There’s something weird going on here.” “What, honey?” she calls, clicking her mandibles frantically. Her head is now a shining metallic carapace reflecting the elegant chandelier, and gossamer wings sprout from her back. “I’ve got NPR on, I can’t hear you,” she says, and explodes into multicolored ribbons.:::::: “Get me out of here,” he sobs, opening the door. “I don’t even care about the story!” He bends to take off his shoes. “The story the evil twin told you?” she asks, and he fills with hope, and the old wooden flooring collapses underneath him with a splintering crash and he falls.::::::: “What’s happening?” he pleads to no one in particular, opening the door with cringing hands. “I know the story,” she calls, as he bends to take off his shoes. “What?!” he yells back. “The story,” she says. “Now let me see. How did it start?” “For the love of God,” he begs helplessly. “Don’t tell it.” “I have to tell it!” she says. “It’s the best story I’ve ever heard. I forget the ending, but I’ll remember it if I start telling it.” The house vanishes, and now they are falling, falling together at top speed, plummeting from an unimaginable height towards a red ocean below. “It starts out,” she says calmly, her hair flapping violently with the rush of their fall, “with this guy coming home from work. I think. I don’t know, I can never remember stuff like this. Anyway, he opens the door--” :::::::::

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Puddle JumperJames Souder

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HallucinationStewart Nafziger

I can always feel the fresh breath from its nostrilsResiding in the corners of my intellect,Under the anxious leaves in the park

They jump over my feet and across my pathAs I walk next to themThe dream stays with me even after I have

Leapt from my day and moved on.They say these encounters tear away at the soulBut I have no trouble with them.

Anytime I please I can simply walk down the hallTossing it to the back corners of my mindSlip outside through the door and wander down

The same familiar park pathFind the rusted green park bench,Set my coffee down, take some time

To chat with the trees and make otherPhilosophical reveries about my surroundingsSlowly lingering till the hair on the back of my neck

Rises once again to its feet as if it were like the rigid Old men as they reach for their spectaclesGetting up from an afternoon of chess.

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BaldAnonymous

ActuallyIt hurtSo badI lurched

ActuallyYour handsMy shortsYou searched

ActuallyI didn’tWant toPlay

ActuallyI thinkOf itEvery day

ActuallyIt’s meI’m fadingBut the memoryIt stained

Everything washed offAll the bruises drainedBut part of meWishes they had stayedSo I had something to showFor this bald girl Whose innocence You shaved

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Divorce, Early onDylan Zehr

Day:In our little red wagon,where I used to sit (barely steering),there was a sack of brown paperwith grapes and brieand the stuff of grapesand saltines.

And as we, still together,ran like children through the hills of Pittsburgha Frisbee, opaque, fluttered alongside.A little portal of murky plastic,passed from me to him to you.

Night:From the top floorI watched the Pittsburgh skylinethough floor-to-ceiling picture windows,and my white chocolate macadamia nut sponge cakesweetened the tiny smile at the corners of my lipsas tiny “Fucks” drifted past my motherto my sister at the door.

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Grandpa, OutsideStevn_

Grandpa went outside today.He went outside, and breathed the air he hasn’t breathed in months.

The dusky summer breeze drifts past his pajamas and through his bonesbent from a hard-earned living

The birds hold conversations unheard by ears muted from nail guns and table saws

We all sit with bated breath,all hushed, as if trying to find some wayto relate to his virtually silent worldto be able to hear what he is thinkingwhen suddenly he turns,

smiles,

and shuffles back inside.

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Grandpa, OutsideStevn_

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TravelerC. Bottles

I slept a fitful slumberAnd beat the run to riseBlisters burned withinHell drawing nighI floated to the desertTraversed the scorching sandsInvigorated meanderTime slipping through my handsI wandered through the faunaSnakes wrapped around my wrists

Table MountainK-Rod

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The morning sprang upon usHell chased me with a fistI glided o’er the waterSapphire ripples swallowCreatures fled in terrorScream caught in my throatI sank into the darknessCurrent crushed my skullSeaweed held me captiveHades gates prevailedI grasped and I wrestledBut tendrils of smoke erasedThe stench of smoldering fleshFlames clawing my faceTo die would be a blessingAn act of charityTo wither, and to shrivelNo more a traveler beBut alas, a handAnd with it hope!My finger caught its scarBut no wince of pain was to be hadNo confidence was marredHigh noon sun glowingNo dark, no fear, no frightTraveler of old, deliveredNo more traveler of night

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God Is LoveBen Shank

If God is love,then(after the long drive home,the rain,the phone call,the tearsand melting bodies,the screaming whys,the burning eyes,the long exhale,the collapse,we set to work,innovators,an Eden for our future)we made Godon the kitchen floor.

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BonitaKelly Brewer

An ElephantDylan Zehr

Turning over wire-brushed skulls,his trunk’s two nubs would linger, pause,and then move ondownin winding roomsand caverns.

When they found the eyethat they remembered,he sat and thought,“Why did you diehere?Your bones stinkand this cave is too small.”

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Eternity’s EnvyAlyshia Zimmerman

If the fair earth said to me, “Come, and be my love, - Forever shall I love thee!” I would turn my gaze above.

If the chaste sky did declare, “Come, and live with me, - If my heart to thee be fair!” I doubt I would agree.

If the songful sea should state, “Come, sing harmony, - For my sad heart cannot wait!” I would think it agony.

Cloud WatchingJason Godshall

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If the ardent fire cried, “Come, my dearest love, - Now, I shall not be denied!” I should not to her devove.

Only thou art mine, dear heart, None else can I take. After I have known thy heart, I could for none thee forsake.

Thy love is like ambrosia, Sweet nectar, my soul! I should but kiss thy lips and Never know the flames of Hell.

O, for thou art so lovely, And thy honey love Is sweeter than forever, And more precious than the sun.

If then I should say to thee, “Come, I shall offer Thee all my mortality.” Need thee with thy gods conferIf my love for thee be right? I proffer my all, And if the dark End should fall, Thou wouldst be my light. And I offer thee my all!

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What I Do Not Yet KnowMichael Spory

The smell of Paris in springtime, or this road that we travel; when the first raindrop falls,or the nature of water as it drips.How the grass can grow brownwhen everyone says it is green.The taste of whiskey, burning like fire.How forever feels when the oceans collide, or the hourwhen attraction’s cupfinally spillsover.If soulmates, the difference betweennever working out and happily ever after,really exist.What a first kiss feels like to the peoplespeaking behind closed doors.The sound of ants chatting underground,being so poor they cannot imagine their next meal.How deep and wide and tall and long;the bitterness from almost everything,or something, or nothing at all.

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Sonnet IVGreta Shenk

My love shall never have a Sonnet bold,All fettered, full of high-falutin praise.Such minstrelry as ever was of oldHas perished into oft-remembered days.Nor ever came my love by such high powerAs sped old pens and winged old hearts betimes;Nor lilteth she through such untroubled bower,With gazelle feet to forward glaze my rhymes.We two must venture on into the fieldAs unemblazoned entrées to the fray,Our hands without expect of higher yield, To this small triumph only we assay: To have and hold this simplest of line – That I am yours, and you are only mine.

Wishing for...Amelia Schmid

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Dat Smoky CupJames Souder

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Smilee. pants

Her porcelain faceHigh cheekbonesAnd rounded nose.The lips Stretched as ifTwo lengths of fishing wireAre sewn through each endPulling them into aSideways crescent moon.I want to take my pocket knifeAnd cut the stringsSnip the smile off Just to see if the moonWill fall to the floorInto piecesRevealing a broken soul.

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a girl, season, secret, etc.Adella Barrett

she learned how to walk on water across the bathtub while her parents were asleep

and when she slept, her dreams brought forth resurrection

she is a quiet cathedral, her hands a fluent sanctuary with opened doors and crusted lips

welcoming wasps to stingher blistered skin

her home is june, approaching the hurricane her eyes say severe storm warningcoming from the heat of her lashes

a drought under a wet blue symphonyswiftly waiting

sprinting with splinters chasing blood sisters

she is a sunflowerher pedaled fingers reaching the light

to cradle the big bangsbirth pangs

her ancestors in the humidity,inhales heavy summer

she does not despise the nightwhen guilt like a barbed wire fence

batters her backshe rests in the milkweed,

exhales a burning bush

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stuck in her rib cage, sky colored hymnsspeeding like the hummingbirds’ wings

seventy-five beats per secondrecurrent and repentant

she will wash your feet with tearsagain confessagain undress

lonely daughter, a prophetess

MelinaMichael Spory

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GenesisBen Shank

I’ve got the whole world in my hand,and my hand’s in my pocket.Nobody knows.At first it’s a baseballthat I want to hurltowards a nothingthat cannot catch.Then it’s a tennis ball,bright and furryand willing to be served.Love.Love.I squeeze gently.It’s an orange,sweet-smelling,waiting to burstwith vital juices.I squeeze harder,the peel bendingunder my pressure,and it’s a water balloonheld together,barely,and I’m nervousand the balloonburstsand the worldseepsthrough my fingers,criesin my pocket,lost.I had the whole world in my hand,but

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Linda Lefever Alley, spiritual director and seminary employee, practices noticing things in the world with her camera and her intuition. She is absolutely in awe of the Creator.

Adella Barrett is a junior culture, religion, and mission major. Her first mem-ory is smiling at a statue of Buddha. She has two older brothers who taught her how to wrestle. Her favorite word is “ineffable.”

Christine Bottles, a senior English education major, has a cool last name. She cuts her sandwiches into four triangles, believes in Nessie, and pays for Slurpees in change.

Meg Brauckmann is a wandering soul who is meandering at EMU for her last years of university. She is employed full-time in messy attempts at love and beginning and beginning. She writes compulsively, for sanity.

Kelly Brewer, a native of the bustling sub-urbia of West Chester, PA, is a senior nurs-ing student. She admits to a growing love for nursing, a weakness for chai tea lattes or smoothies, and a healthy obsession with her Nikon camera.

U. Commons is a poetry collective whose members seek to conflate the inanimate with the human to a degree greater than that of your antiperspirant.

Mark Andrew Fenton is an aspiring social and environmental artist. On his good days, he is a student at EMU studying photography and digital media, with a few tangents thrown in.

Allison Glick is a senior chemistry major who delights in systems. She will always like the sound of marbles rolling down slides at different pitches.

Jason Godshall loves photography but is majoring in business administration. He dreams of owning an awesome, popular, and fun restaurant, but for now he throws shot put and other objects for EMU’s track & field team.

Taylor Gray Harrison is a freshman photography major. She loves capturing priceless moments onto black and white film.

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Julia Johnson is a sophomore nursing major who enjoys movement of all kinds – be it by bikes, skis, boats or words. She likes to move and be moved.

Ben Louis is a junior biochemistry major. He is a native of Haiti. He grew up in a city called Croix-des-Bouquets, about 30 min-utes from Port-au-Prince where he went to school. Ben uses poetry as a way to express his feelings.

Stewart Nafziger is a sophomore psychology major. He sees poetry as a common place for thoughts and perspectives to come together.

Ben Nelson is a sophomore digital media major, and is perpetually uncertain.

Erin Nussbaum is a freshman nursing major from Union, Michigan. She feels that the best way to celebrate life and God is by embracing and celebrating the little things.

e. pants is an average EMU student studying English, education and writing. She approaches the world with the eyes of an artist, the ears of a musician and the soul of a writer.

K-Rod is a senior photography and digital media major from exciting Grottoes, VA. She thinks putting peas on a fork is a creative way to photograph peas.

Amy Schmid is a transferred should-be-graduate to EMU. She likes vinyl, iced tea, and rainbows. Her favorite color is blue. She sometimes wonders at the meaning of life.

Ben Shank, a senior English education major, falls asleep thinking about words. Once, he dreamed he was a root word. He met two old friends who were a prefix and suffix. Embracing, they made an awesome new word. Ben thinks that sometimes it’s tough to be a human and not a word.

Greta Shenk enjoys contra dancing, playing Diplomacy, and baking with choco-late. A senior English education major from Harrisonburg, VA, she always mutes commercials if the remote is in her power.

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Michael Showalter is a senior English and liberal arts major. He looks for the artistry in poetry and wants to share writing with the larger academic community.

James Souder, Harrisonburg native, is a first-year environmental sustainability major (subject to change/modification/additions - his diverse interests don’t fit nicely into one category). He appreciates you for taking the time to read his brief biography. Really, truly, he does.

Michael Lamar Spory is a junior art and photography major from a farm on a hill in Western Pennsylvania. He draws his lines straight but keeps the edges blurry. He seeks truth.

stevn_ a senior photography major, succumbed to peer pressure and got Twitter. Don’t judge him_

Smith Street is the distant cousin of Smith Jerrod, the longtime significant other of Sa-mantha Jones, Carrie Bradshaw’s close friend on the HBO phenomenon Sex and the City. While disappointed with his generic nomen-clature, Smith Street distinguishes himself by running perpendicular, not parallel, to the ground.

William Stutzman is probably an ama-teur at everything he does. Despite this, he still enjoys many things in life such as writing, fishing, watching movies, irony, and defining himself in 40 words or less.

Zachary Taylor was born in a small middle-class Michigan town, into an average middle-class home, backed up to a typical mid-western cornfield. Some-times it grew beans. He doesn’t believe in aliens, per se, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there. He’s agnostic about most things; not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t know.

Dylan Zehr is a woefully misguided senior who is perhaps finally finding his legs. After a decade of vaguely declaring that he “enjoys writing,” he’s realized that it’s actually true.

A·ly Zimm·er·man noun 1. Freshman at EMU 2. Messianic Jew 3. One who dances to no music while she eats see also Walks Behind Turtles