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.

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