Medaille College Presents
Prelude 2019 1
Table of Contents Bad Hair Day [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 18
Equinox [Mj Stoll] …… Page 4 Avocado (For Mark Doty) [Mj Stoll] …… Page 8
Bored To Death [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 21
Snow [Jeanette Holmes-Leski] …… Page 11
Falling [Kailin Auman] …… Page 23 Villain [Sarah Hannel] …… Page 24
Feeling [Chrystal Washington] …… Page 11
The Mob [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 25
Flight (Fist) [Hannah Carrick] …… Page 12
Summer Waves [Kyla Hobbs] …… Page 29
Donald Trump Rally Speech August 31st, 2016 [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 14
First Communion [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 30 Jayln’s Cave [Jayln Putman] …… Page 33
You Are Not Alone [Sarah Hannel] …… Page 16
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Table of Contents (CONT.) Dark Sea [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 54
A Pirate’s Life [Danielle Lipford] …… Page 35
Reflections [Chrystal Washington] …… Page 55
Voices [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 39 Boo Radley [Codi-Lyn Filyaw] …… Page 41
The Worst [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 56
Oh Fire [Ga’vintay McGhee] …… Page 43
The Desert [Mj Stoll] …… Page 57
Untitled [GiGi Gaczewski] …… Page 44 Today Is The Day [Jessica Elston] …… Page 45
Front Cover Photo Credit Untitled by Leonard Murray JR
The Storm [Kailin Auman] …… Page 46
Back Inside Cover Photo Credit
Domed And Dangerous [Soleil Santana] …… Page 48
Buffalo is Beautiful Series #4 by Chelsi Thompson
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Equinox Mj Stoll Footfalls on the earth echo in myst-
nestled in the eye socket of a doe skull,
ifying simplicity, resonate with haw-
her voice resounds.
thorn and ancient crepuscular pines beset by fog, to bedim the path
Dare you exhume the tomes?
where lantern light——smothered by primordial spirits——
You’d much rather ignore the whispering, spectral questions masquer-
dares not dance. You fear the swamp-scented hands
ading as the soft stream of autumn's arrival. Change, she beckons with hands
that creep up like strangler figs and drip through
unseen and swamp-steeped, continues
to linger even in dreams so
labyrinthine branches—— weeping not for willows
cease your procras-
but for lovers weighted down
tination. The season’s
and drowned
seduction sweeps over your lips, eclips-
in half-moon rivers. Grotesque and lovely
ing your lantern’s unfinished struggles
as spider-webs blessed with dew drops
to ignite. A match flick awakens
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Wet spatterings of Spanish
the sooty scent of cinder—— moss
golden-rod cast weary
smell deceptively of summer rains
into mere-lands to revive the spirits
despite the standoff of seasons;
long-since immersed in lagoons
the rebellious promise of winter’s
where creaking branches chime
endless frozen pines remind you
like bones——tintinnabulate with
of your unfinished runes
whispers of names unspoken.
in tomes that conjure the haunting taste of harvest-time, falling leaves
Turn the page—steady, hesitate
like chiming fiddle-strings, and the
no longer. She serenades you, step closer,
occasional but not unheard-of bite of metal——
to the outskirts of the spellbound shore— her spectral siren-song a melody
You miss that sage-smudged kiss for the moon that rides the ripples
of autumn more than you’d like
of collapsing leaves onto the shore. Intangible
to admit—winter’s uncertain embrace seems all-consuming, too much to bear——
hands brush past, chilling companionships that stretch beyond the fellowship
especially when the will-o'-the-wisps
of yawning brambles and ghosts.
gather close to glaciate
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your lungs on the shore—— not in haunting susurrations of shadows,
and your mistress sleeps deep below the veil of sinking stars, waiting
not the stagnant sprays of fungus and rain-
to light your way with her voice.
water. Instead the silken tarot of autumn’s
You can all but see her, mere inches away,
spread, across the lake reflects her spell——
but miles beneath the surface. The dances
and the complexity of what you’ve
of leaves upon the surface mirror
left unfinished.
the way your fingertips sweep onion parchment and ignite phosphorescent swells of cyan. Much like her sorcerous existence, your words submerge in thunderous silence. Stall
no longer, she guides, clear your inhibitions and listen: resolution comes only with patience. As her voice fades into the November sky, you recognize that the heartbeat of this place resounds
Untitled by Narjah Renaud 6
75 Minute Sketch by Dan Tarbell
Bamboo by Emma McElliggot
Flower Ink by Sohee Oh 7
ntly divorced
Avocado (for Mark Doty)
lawyer who
Mj Stoll
threw it into the gleaming snow
It belongs in the kitchen;
before the thaw.
not because I’m particularly
It belongs
good at cooking——
in the kitchen when
I’m not; truthfully,
I’m banging the tea-
I’m much mo-
kettle, cursing the o-
re of a Julie Andrews
atmeal, at my wit’s
than a Julia Child in a-
end. I don’t know
ll ways except bo-
where my wit go-
dy type but I digress——
es or where it starts,
it belongs in the kitchen
but all I know
to entertain the eggs
is that it’s go-
I entrust eagerly
ing, going, go-
to my fridge every Tue-
ne, like Do-
sday, like a crow
ty’s Bobby.
stashing the effulge-
But not to-
nt ring of a rece-
day. See, maybe I’m
8
wrong and inst-
ebullient, like early risers trying
ead my depression
to make conversation before
belongs in the kitchen
an all-important cup (or three)
because nature
of Rainforest Allegro to wa-
demands homogeny:
sh down the tiny, sparkling white cir-
like analogous greens gather and grow tog-
cle of escitalo-
ether. And where else
pram. Or with
but among the avocados——
the self-satis-
their achy and mushy
fied, crystal-
insides hiding under
line jar
an all-too-thin layer
made jam from a farm-
of vile crocodile-like skin——
er’s market three
will my depression ever
months back. And absolu-
find its kin? Certainly
tely never with the manic
not with the apricots
Positivity of my fruit bowl——
and their honey-glis-
the cheerful mangos mi-
tening skin. Absolutely not
ngling with sunshine yel-
with the spinach and radic-
low lemons and the sweet
chio—their vibrant leaves too
scent of a ripe canta-
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loupe—just below its alligator-like exterior—— luscious peach-orange insides.
Hiro by Mj Stoll
Face Pastel by Kaylee Olmstead 10
Snow
Feeling
Jeanette Holmes-Leski
Chrystal Washington Do you feel what I’m feeling?
Mother nature has gone into a wrinkle of time,
We all have feelings we can’t explain, so
caught by the hands of ages gone by.
don’t you wonder where feelings come from? Confused and deluded, unsure of herself,
Do you ever wonder how can we stop
she thinks white rain is pretty.
the feelings we’re having? Or wonder why we have feelings?
Her calendar blew away like a soft summer breeze——
I know we’re all human and
she thought it was already fall——
we all feel things we don’t want to feel—— but don’t the feelings you have help to make you
so to her the frigid, white rain is appropriate for sunny September.
the person you are? If that’s true, can you imagine a life without feeling?
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Flight (Fist) Hannah Carrick Flying is the freedom to escape from the damages,
Beauty and Grace come with a fist to the face.
the damages that can never be undone.
Beauty and Passion both have a certain complexion that one is almost always familiar with.
So when that repetitious fist connects with your face, you can never rise up from the ground.
Slurs on the street become unwanted interrogation,
Cemented hands protrude from the freezing hard Earth, seizing your body, and holding you down.
that outfit you wore just became your main complication, and traveling alone, you must proceed with severe caution.
And your wings, those beautiful fragile wings—— they have sunken so low into the soil you can never fully fly again.
Every sense in your body has become heightened. Every sense in your body is telling itself to fly away.
Yet there is never a true act of flying.
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Face Oil Pastel by Sohee Oh
Plant Charcoal by Sohee Oh
Plant Charcoal—Elizabeth Walters
A Study of Leaves In Charcoal By Medaille Art Students Plant Charcoal by Elise Stempien 13
Plant Charcoal by Jasmine Fisher
great leaders, but they're going to
Donald Trump Rally Speech August 31st, 2016
pay for the wall. On day one, we will begin
GiGi Gaczewski working on intangible, physical, tall, power, beautiful southern border wall.
I've met with the people
We will use the best technology,
directly impacted by these policies.
including above and below
So important.
ground sensors——
Number one, are you ready? Are you ready?
that's the tunnels. Remember that, above and below. Above and
We will build a great wall
below ground sensors.
along the southern border.
Towers, aerial surveillance and manpower
And Mexico will pay for the wall.
to supplement the wall, find
One hundred percent. They don't know it yet,
and dislocate tunnels and keep out criminal cartels
but they're going to pay.
and Mexico you know that, will work with us.
And they're all great people and
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I really believe it. Mexico will work with us. I absolutely believe it.
Social Justice by Jasmine Fisher (Contest Winner)
Social Justice by Aisha Bawani
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You Are Not Alone Sarah Hannel
On cold, October evenings, you can hear the rustling of leaves being blown by the wind.
You scale stairs that creak with each step, like an eerie tune that brings brief life into the home.
Your neighbor's dog barks with an echo down the street.
The bristle of cat fur brushes against your goose-bumped skin.
The giggling of children surrounds you as they play games under the glow of dim street lights.
You are not alone.
You are not alone.
In the stillness of your bedroom, the hall light peeks through from under your closed door creating shadows in the darkness.
And then there's the sunset—— Colors graze what is left of the autumn leaves on the trees——
The light lets you know someone is still awake in the quiet house, as you try to close your eyes and shut off your thoughts.
it is time for you to situate yourself back into your home.
Quiet sobs turn into hyperventilating, as the blanket you're clutching crumples and your grip tightens.
There's a quietness to your house; bodies linger nearby but don't present themselves.
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You feel cold and helpless fighting internally with the dark shadows making their way into your mind.
Their arms wrap tightly around your shaking body, as you gurgle your fears out of your throat——
Your gasping breaths abruptly stop by the beat of rushed footsteps.
is the warmth you’ve been craving. "You are not alone."
The swinging open of your door creates a wave of light that masks out the nothingness in your room.
Serenity by Kyla Hobbs 17
Bad Hair Day GiGi Gaczewski
I fear what we cannot see. She told me not to, but she feared them, too. These things may look shiny and new, but they’re terrifying. They can wear a mane, like a horse, or with greasy, long black hair these monsters can eat at what you believe is wrong and right.
Sometimes, they make me afraid to write
I’m afraid, like I could be drowning in the sea. I’d hide, but I can’t, they’re in my head. I’m pulling out my hair. I see them now, they’re walking two by two, plodding toward me and it looks like the main one is trying to speak to me. Trying to tell me things I already knew.
He wasn’t telling me anything new,
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he was trying to mess with my sense of right. He started to pull on my curly mane, trying to drag me out to his dark sea. What goes on there I knew all too well and they say you get eaten alive, starting with your hair.
They mess with reality, trading the tortoise and the hare, erasing what you already knew that slow and steady wins the race. Now the fast one gets to win. I try to write all of this down, so others can see the record of what I see, so people all over, even in Maine,
can understand my pain. My main goal is to get out of this alive, like a hare escaping a fox. I can’t wait to see if anyone else has read the record, if they knew about these horrid things, and I’m right in being afraid, and they’re terrified too.
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I need to grab someone by the mane, tell them they’re not right that they have ugly hair, they don’t look new or shiny, and throw them back into the sea.
Now I can see nothing, only how I always knew things should be. All I can see is my ugly hair.
Look Ahead by Kyla Hobbs 20
Bored To Death GiGi Gaczewski
-in tribute to Blink182
I go to the bathroom, the porcelain cold against my skin so warm from being bundled up for hours. I brush my teeth. The dog brushes up against my legs and scares me. I’m afraid of any kind of tiny furry monster that can devour chew toys in two minutes flat. Pull yourself together. I tiptoe through the dark, my toes like warm little beans on the arctic floor. I get dressed in the dark, put my backpack together in the dark; I grab my phone and my keys in the dark and walk outside to the frigid 5:30 am October air.
I would love to be out of the ordinary. Unfortunately, I’ve been born to a very dull set of parents. Don’t get me wrong, they aren’t bad people, just not very interesting. I proceed through my everydays with the same boring routine. I’m so warm while everything around me is cold. I smile at the lady that walks past me with her adorable little dogs. They look like little rats, but the cute kind, and the lady looks just like her dogs. I still smile at her. She ignores me and keeps on walking her rats. I look both ways before crossing the street just like my mom has taught me. It’s hard to see down my street because the neighbors park their cars and big trucks all along the curb. I’m small, almost like a hedgehog, big enough not to
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get stepped on, but too small to matter. Some days I almost get hit by the cars whizzing past. Today there’s no car coming, so I walk across the street with a quiet calm. I get to my car, small and bright red. My boyfriend jokes that I’m just like my Hyundai, a tomato. I throw my bag into the back seat, slide into the driver’s seat; grab the wheel, the rubber, cold to my hands. I drive away. One of my favorite songs is on the radio, I turn it up. The lyrics give me a hug, they understand: Bored to death
and fading fast, life’s too short to last long. I sing along softly, in a whisper, as I motor through the Starbucks drive thru. I always try to make small talk, but they’re all too busy with their morning to even tell me how
their day is going. I pull ahead; let the Honda behind me experience that same cold shoulder. When I pull up to the window, the radio is still singing in its nasally tune,
the pictures in her head are always dreaming, each of them means everything to me. When
Self Portrait by Courtney Kuppel
I inch forward to the street, no cars are coming, so here I stay. A semi-truck’s barreling down the boulevard, and I zone out. My eyes follow, but I’m not thinking anything. The lyrics make me so happy, and it’s a
scream and I’m, I’m not coming home. I hit the gas. Turning with all the gracefulness of a ballerina, I feel pain like I’d never heard before.
long way back from seventeen, the whispers turn into a
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Self Portrait by Michael O’Farrell
sides, my body in the position as though I'm doing a back-float upon water. I don’t know why I’m not scared but I seem to feel more content in the fact that...
Falling Kailin Auman
I’m falling and nobody is going to save me. I’m falling.
I know nothing, I see nothing, smell nothing, taste nothing, and feel nothing but the feeling in my chest that assures me that I am, in fact, still falling. My mind remains blank of anything, except for this feeling. I don’t have time to think upon it, though, as soon enough my eyes open...
Not in love, but rather down. I’ve lost the ability to push the air in and out of my lungs, my heart is racing so fast, I can't even feel it. Is it even still beating? All these thoughts and so many more flood my mind, yet at the same time, none of them even cross my mind. All that really resonates through my head is...
And one thing is for sure, as I clutch my blankets to my chest... I’m not falling anymore.
I’m falling, still. To where? I don’t know. From where? I’m not sure. It feels as though I've been falling for infinities without end, yet I know it has only been seconds. As the air rushes up past my falling body, rustling through my hair and clothes, I know that soon enough I will meet my end because... I’m falling, helplessly. My arms aren’t reaching up hoping that somebody, anybody, will catch me like in the movies, but rather they’re relaxed out to my
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Self-Portrait by Mj Stoll
Villain Sarah Hannel Fairy tales have always had an antagonist, an evil witch or vengeful pirate
Sometimes you are the one preventing yourself
plotting against the beloved hero,
from completing a task,
but not all these stories are realistic.
celebrating a victory,
There are villains out to get you,
or capturing the damsel.
but they can be a lot closer than a broom ride
Sometimes, the person in distress is you,
away.
and the hand locking it away can be your own
The ones glaring with
twisting the key.
glowing eyes from the shadows can emerge and you recognize yourself in that reflection.
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Two Faces by Jasmine Fisher
The Mob GiGi Gaczewski
I don’t know how I got
remember coming back? Coming
explain, but it probably
here and I don’t even know
to? Waking up from I don’t
doesn’t matter, since it’s not
where here is. I have no
know what.
like anyone could help us.
memory of anything before this morning. At least, I think it was this morning. The guy next to me has the
“Why do you feel trapped? Would you like to talk about it?” I ask, trying to get him on my side.
same problem. The guy next to him does, too. The guy behind me claims that he feels
We’re in a five-by-five block of Caucasian males all about early twenties, walking in a forest for what I believe has been about four hours now. If
“I can’t leave.” “I can’t leave either.
you ask us why, we wouldn’t be able to tell you. None of
trapped——trapped like a rat
Have you actually tried?” I
us would. None of us can
in a cage. I feel trapped too,
respond, and he continues to
remember how we got here or
but I want to start some
stare past me, not making eye
when or why. The earliest
conversation to pass the
contact, as he stumbles
memory we have is the
time, although it’s been four
forward. No response from
clearing in the forest, and
hours, I think, since I can
him. I suppose that I should
now we’re in the thick of it.
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There’s barely even a path
“Of course, you’re
want to apologize, maybe
for us to wade through.
supposed to!” he booms loudly.
shake his hand and tell him
Surprisingly, a mob of men is
The man in front of him
that he’s doing a great job
actually fitting in between
leaps, startled.
walking, but I remember that
the trees and a lot of us don’t feel the least like talking. My mind starts to roam
“I think it’s…” I look around glancing, processing every object I could set my
little, and I want to impress
interrupted by the man to
him, considering that he’s the
the left of me.
first man to ever try to talk
bucko?” he whispers with a
to our small conversation before.
eyes on. He intimidates me a
until my thoughts are
“Psst, what’s your name,
he hasn’t taken very kindly
to me. “Rock.”
“So, Leaf… Do you know why we’re walking?” “Nope, haven’t the slightest idea,” he says, then turns to me with a terrifying
“Rock? That’s a fine
grin. I can tell that he’s
deep Southern accent. I think
name, bucko. Mine’s Leaf.
trying to be sympathetic, but
about it for a long while
Thanks for asking!” he slaps
he looks like he’s about to
before I answer.
me on the back, startling me,
devour me. I don’t want to
so that I trip. The man
talk to him anymore. I face
behind me grunts angrily,
forward and continue to
although I catch myself. I
walk.
“I seem to not have a name. Are we supposed to?”
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Step after step, my feet
thought of that. Maybe I’ve
my voice dripping with
crunching on the leaves on
been overthinking things
sarcasm and frustration.
the ground, yet occasionally
way too much.
I step on a stick, when it snaps underneath my weight, it kind of makes me feel powerful—as far as I can remember what that word might mean. “You’ve gone silent
“I don’t want to, Bucko.”
“Stop,” I whisper to my feet. My brain, sending electrical impulses through the synapses, I wait for my command to come true, but it doesn’t. What should have
taking an hour. I try it
everything alright?”
again. I tell my brain to
knew what was going on.” “Have you tried to stop walking?” Leaf suggests. I look at him, with the most “you must be insane,” look I
to go insane, it seems as if my only “friend” in this situation is about as nuts as I feel right now. I turn to the man to the right of me.
taken milliseconds, may be
there, Rock, my bucko,
“I’m fine, I just wish I
Feeling as if I’m about
stop. It still doesn’t happen.
“Do you want to stop?” I ask. No response from this other guy without him even acknowledging that someone
“Leaf,” I plead, “If you’re so smart, have you tried stopping?” Only after I’ve finished my prayer do I realize I’m almost screaming,
can muster. Why haven’t I
is trying to speak to him. His head doesn’t turn one inch, so I scream, “HEY FRIEND, DO YOU WANT TO STOP?” He doesn’t even flinch. Great. I have crazy Bucko on the left of me, and
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a deaf/mute on the right.
puts a hand to his face and
What do I do to stop?
strokes an invisible beard.
Frustrated as hell, all I can do is try to remember how I had almost tripped earlier. How did I do that, can I do it again? “Leaf, can I tell you a
“Rock, Bucko, I don’t get
He hits me so hard this time I’m flat to the ground. I’ve stopped walking. I didn’t even have a moment to be
it.”
grateful, before the guy “Oh. How about this one? Did you hear about the kidnapping at school? It’s fine, he woke up.” With this
joke?” I shout, without moving
one, it seems like Leaf had
my head. I didn’t wait for him
woken up himself. Leaf starts
to answer. “Two goldfish are
to chuckle, before I knew it,
in a tank. One says to the
his hand slaps me on the
other, ‘do you know how to
back hard enough to make a
drive this thing?’” I glance
brick wall fall.
over to see his reaction. He
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behind me gives me a boot to the stomach. The guy behind him gives me a boot to the knee. The guy behind him gives me a boot to the temple. As I lay there, spitting teeth, like chicklets out of my mouth full of blood, I hear the marching continuing on and on.
Summer Waves Kyla Hobbs Anxious summer waves, I feel the heat on my face. It is natural.
Untitled by Brandon Johnson 29
First Communion GiGi Gaczewski “You belong in hell.” The words spit out at me, like thorns at an innocent child. I can do nothing but stand there and process what my grandmother’s just said. I did not even want to come to this goddamn party. My mother forced me, told me that it was a chance to get back in touch with my dad’s side of the family. Ever since the divorce she’s been big on family. Although she knows I’m a staunch atheist, she’s sending me into the Roman Catholic lion’s den.
I love my mother dearly; she may be the only person I actually truly love in this world. Anything she asks of me I do. She works so hard for me and my little brother, who—big surprise—does not have to even endure this disaster known as my little cousin’s first communion party. I walk in trying not to offend anyone, trying to be invisible and quiet as a mouse. Within the first fifteen minutes, I’m told that I’m going to hell. Oh well. I sit at one of the tables that looks like my aunt really tried last minute to make it look as fancy as possible. Instead, to me, it looks like she bought out the whole dollar store. She must have saved up her money for a week or two to buy up all
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these plastic tablecloths and fake daisy centerpieces. The table next to me seems to be in a very intense conversation, yet I can’t help but feel like an outsider among my own family. My curiosity’s piqued, though, so I scoot my chair a little closer while acting like I’m very interested in this text message my dull boyfriend has just sent me. “You know you can’t keep it, Sam. Grandma would kill you.” I believe this voice has come from Sam’s stepsister, Billie. It has a sense of urgency to it, that makes me assume that they’re discussing a child rather than a stray cat. Out of wedlock! How dare she?! Not like several of my friends
already have had children of their own and are doing great as single parents. My grandmother, you bet sure would have a heart attack. “You know I love you, Drake, I want to work this out. I want us to be together forever.” These words trickle into my ear from another table. This voice is deep and soothing, reminding me of Alan Rickman—it’d be a whole hell of a lot better if he was actually here. At this table,
my all-star lacrosse playing cousin, who’s terribly stereotypical, is sitting with his friend. Drake could get any girl he wanted; he actually works as an Abercrombie model. Is it terrible to say that if he wasn’t my cousin, I’d be asking him to come back to my place? “Dude, I don’t know. I love you, but you cheated on me. I can’t stand you anymore, maybe I really should go out for a drink with that one guy I work with, he’s been flirting
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with me for a while now,” Drake says a little too loud for a whisper. “Don’t you dare Drake,” the Alan Rickman-esque voice responds. “I’m sick of you, I’m leaving,” Drake mumbles as he storms off in a silent rage. I smirk. It’s actually pretty nice to know that I’m not the only blasphemous grandchild.
Self-Portrait by Talia Hosey
Self-Portrait by Jasmine Fisher
The Faces Of Medaille In Pencil And Ink
Self-Portrait by Alisha Raymond
Self-Portrait by Emily Banks 32
Jayln’s Cave
that
would
Jayln Putman
aloud. A society where ones
through media devices? Is it
reality was created through
not easier to tell someone how
their
and
you feel through a text or a
the
social media post? Do people
that
not say the most arbitrary
repeated
the
online
desires
Close your eyës,
arise
everyday
as
if
same
things
presence
opposed
they
to
interactions
they experienced. Imagine people through
a
their
things
communicating
about
each
other
socialized
consequences? Do we not live
devices
as
society where it was easier for people to express their and
time
without worrying about the
opposed to direct contact. A
feelings
more
where
society
mainly
As a society do we not spend
Some people would argue that such a society doesn’t exist or that
a
society
like
this
wouldn’t work.
in our own realities where our
own
desires
reign
supreme? Is the thought of such a society impossible or is this a direct observation
emotions
through text rather than in
But are we really that far
person. Where people could say
removed?
of
the
society
technology has helped create?
the most heinous things about one another without worrying
Open your eyës.
about the direct consequences
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that
Photo by Sarah Burgoon
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A Pirate’s Life Danielle Lipford [Prelude 2019 Prose Winner]
There was a man who dearly loved me, Said with him I’d always be happy. He proposed, I said no. I left his heart in woe, For my only true love is the sea.
A whale-sized wave crashes over the ship and for a second the bow of the ship ceases to exist. The only things left are me and the kisses of rain falling on deck. The entire world around me turns the color of ink and there’s no difference between the heavens above and the ocean below. I’m in the most quiescent void I’ve experienced for a very long time, ‘till a strike of lightning coruscates the sky and the bow of my ship returns to the land of the living. “Avast ye scallywags! Batten down the hatches!” I holler, “Strike the sails! Davy Jones himself brought us this storm and I’ll be damned if we go to his locker today!” My crew runs frantically to
35
their duties as I walk to the helm. We’re sailing straight into the middle of a hurricane and if we don’t get out soon the ship will capsize. “Cap’n!” yells my quartermaster Ben. I’ve known him since the age of 10, when I first entered the life of piracy. I trust him not only with my life, but also my ship. Ben, having been born a pirate, is an old salt compared to me. “Ahoy Ben! What seems to be troubling ye?” I ask, trying to act cheerful. “Cap’n, I’m not sure if ye noticed but we be in the midst of a storm. I fear we’re going to go under.” I see the worry engraved on his face as I turn to see him. It ain’t something I’m used to seeing.
“Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing mate.” I pause. “Want to go to Jamaica? I haven’t decided on our next location, but I’m thinking if we survive this, we’re only a week’s sail from Port Royal.” “Marjorie! We could die within the next hour, and you're thinking about taverns and gambling?” Ben exclaims, putting a hand on his temple in exasperation. “Aye, you heard me. So what do ya think? Port Royal? Maybe Tortuga?” Ben sighs in defeat. He knows that I’m happiest during storms, no matter how bad. He’s always been the opposite. “Port Royal sounds nice, if we survive.” I roll my eyes at him as I put on my best captain’s voice, remembering I have an
image to keep up. “What’re ye standing next to me for?” I bark. “Me ship’s in danger of capsizing and ya think the best course of action is to sit here and enjoy a conversation? We could soon be feedin’ the fishes, ya swab. Go fasten the deadlights and reef the sails or I'll make ye careen the whole ship when we get to Jamaica by yerself!” “Aye Cap’n,” he says with the ghost of a smile on his face as he runs off. The sea’s wrathful today and it’s taking it’s anger out on The Flowery Grave. I send a quick prayer up to Poseidon that our ship can make it out of this storm. On the deck my crew tries everything they can to keep us from sinking. Ben runs to Criminy and helps him belay the ropes to the
36
mast. I long to be with my crew right now but no one’s ever been better than me when it comes to steering a ship. “Gentlemen! All hands about deck!” I yell. The rain, placing soft kisses on my cheek, fights for control over the wheel. The wheel was olganeous but that doesn’t affect me. I’m the best helmsman in all of the seven seas. If anyone can get us out of this, it’d be me. I hope my men can hear me, but the wind steals my words away. I turn the ship so hard that the portside and the ocean separate, dramatically pulling away from each other as if the Kraken itself has pulled them apart. The sudden turning of the ship throws of the balance of the crew and half of them tumble starboard.
One of my crewmen, Calico, is struggling to regain his sea legs and a strong wind knocks him overboard. The anguish I feel is unbearable. My heart is screaming, begging to save him, but I know that if I do I would only put the rest of us in danger. I look up and my eyes meet Ben’s. His eyes fill with a desolation that matches my own. I turn my attention back to the wheel and the waves in front of us. I try to steer the boat through the calmest part of the waves, but nothing really is calm. We are surrounded on all sides by 15foot waves. My men plummet left and right, and I don’t know what to do. I try to put on a strong face. I can’t let them see me this discouraged.
Ben runs up to me and I let him take over the wheel. “I don’t think we’re gonna make it to Jamaica this time Cap’n.” He says, almost playfully. I look at his face and see the secret despair that is written there. “Not this week that’s for sure.” I laugh back. Behind us, the screams of my crew being thrown off the ship plays in my head like a lullaby. And suddenly, I’m so tired I think I could just collapse. Ben also looks exhausted and I realize, with sudden shock, that we’ve both just about given up hope. A sudden wave hits the boat and a crack so loud it hurts my head fills the air. For a second, I’m flying, until Ben pulls me to safety. He looks at me and it dawns on me that the noise I just heard wasn’t thunder, but my ship
37
cracking. We’re sinking and we’re sinking fast. It’s louder than the storm around us, and the entire crew comes up to the helm. My crew of 55 is reduced to a crew of 23, including me and Ben, in a matter of minutes. “Scallywags,” I yell affectionately, oh how I’ve loved my crew. “It’s been an honor to serve with you for the past six years.” Ben throws an arm around me and I lean into his embrace. The front of the ship is almost entirely underwater, “It’s a shame we didn’t make it to Jamaica. I would have kicked all yer butts in Liar’s Dice.” As the crew laughs, I don't think I’ve ever heard a sound quite as beautiful.
“Three cheers to Captain Marjorie and The Flowery Grave!” Ben yells. “YO HO!” Yells the crew, and the water laps at my feet. “YO HO!” Yells the crew, and I try to ignore the monstrous wave looming behind them. There is no final yo ho.
I remember the man that loved me Who knew where my heart would always be His heart would be in woe when my life away, I did throw For my only true love, the sea.
Buffalo is Beautiful (2/5) by Chelsi Thompson
38
“How hard it is, to apprehend
Voices
something so large in scale and yet so minutely detailed.” The cracks start to feel
GiGi Gaczewski
like little holes you can live in.
-in tribute to Mark Doty
The raspiness, like a warm blanket, completely unexpected.
Do you ever love someone so much, it feels like a tree
Sometimes when they take breaths in-between
falling down in a forest, where
their words, you almost gasp along with them.
no one can hear it, in your chest?
Their voice makes you feel closer, fully connected, like never before.
Do you ever listen to someone’s voice so closely, that you start to cry because of how beautifully imperfect it is?
39
Photo by Amanda Nichols
Photo by Sarah Burgoon
Bridge at Delaware Park by Roberta Mendez
40
Photo by Liz Godron
Photo by Liz Godron
Boo Radley Codi-Lyn Filyaw
I, Boo Radley, am out walking like I usually do to clear my thoughts. The night is dark, cold, and foggy which is unusual for this time of year. I can feel the wetness of the grass on my feet seeping through my shoes as I walk. It feels like I’ve been walking for hours, but it’s only been a short period of time. Time seems endless when I’m walking in the quiet calm of night. I walk past the school where the play has ended recently. I watch from the shadows and see the happy families leaving. They leave
and head home to continue with their everyday, mediocre lives. Sometimes I long to have my own mediocre life. I wish I could start over. As I see the kids leave, I catch a glimpse of Scout and her brother Jem. Scout still has her costume on but no shoes on her feet. There are some days where I long to know what is up with those two. I’ve watched them throughout the years play outside. Happy with their normal lives while I’m stuck inside all day long with nothing to do. I see their lips moving but I can't hear a word
41
they're saying. Meaningless bickering perchance between siblings. I follow them to keep an eye out. I hear noises that worry me. I bet they hear them too. Jem and Scout come to a halt, looking around. I can tell they're scared. I catch a glimpse of a dark figure hiding in the shadows. The dark figure is making a concerted effort not to be seen. I hear tree branches break as the dark figure takes its steps. The children stop again to look around. I can hear Jem mumbling things, but I'm too far behind to hear
what he is saying exactly. I’m trying to keep my distance and not be seen. I'm trying to be close enough to take action if something happens. The children make a run for it, but Scout trips on her costume. The branches from a big old oak tree that had fallen the night before in a wind storm block their escape. Jem tries to get her out of the contraption disguised as a costume. I see the dark figure going after Jem. I finally see who it is as the moon emerges from the clouds. Bob Ewell, the disgrace of Maycomb. He picks up Jem, who's not going to give up so easy. I try to stay hidden but I see he has already hurt Jem. He lays unconscious on the mossy ground. Bob charges at Scout, pulling a knife out of his right coat pocket. He grabs
Scout but her costume obscures Bob's vision for a moment. It saves me enough time to get there and help. I pull Bob off of her. I take the knife and drive it right into his chest. His blood is on my hand, warm. What have I done? My heart drops. Scout reaches out with her feet and kicks me lightly. I tense up and don’t move. She calls out Jem’s name, but there is no response. She lays still, as if I couldn't see her, when she hears me get up to pick up Jem. His body, still warm in my arms shows me that he's still hanging on to life. His arm is broken at the elbow and hanging to his side. I try to be careful not to hit it too much. I walk one step at a time, with purpose but slow. Scout follows behind me. I see Atticus waiting at the door for me. He asks so many
42
questions, intimidating me, I don't have all the answers. He takes Jem out of my hands and places him on the couch. Scout, as curious as always, asks who I am and where I came from. "I’m Arthur Radley," I answer with a whisper, "I'm glad that I could help." The Sheriff arrives with bad news, claiming that Bob Ewell is dead. My heart drops and my face grows very pale. I have the urge to bite my nails down to nubs. The nervousness is on my face, so clear. What do I tell these people? Am I a killer or am I a hero? I only want to be Boo Radley, a man hidden in the shadows.
Oh Fire Ga’Vintay McGhee Oh fire walk with me, Dance with me, kill me, Push me, ignite the words I speak, And kiss the people I miss. But, Burn my memories, Before it goes on repeat.
Oh, fire, Take this chance with desire, Drive her into the night, and Let the sun rest for once. Kill this silence to Turn off my memories,
Glow by Mj Stoll
And continue to fade away.
43
Untitled
He starts screaming at me.
GiGi Gaczewski
nightmares, monstrous,
His voice is in my
My mind, moves too slowly to fight back. I still haven’t gotten
telling me that I’m
the whole picture. I run to
My tears mixed into his like
going to ruin his life like
the bathroom to throw up. I
two rivers streaming
his mom did to his dad.
need to get this out of me.
The dread and fear eat away
She trapped him, like a
I need to purge myself of
at me, like a parasitic worm.
hunter, but
No one else
instead of a cage, she used
feels this way in the same
her uterus.
situation.
Trapping him into a boring
I just happen to be the
and dull life raising a
unlucky one.
boring and dull kid.
together.
this demon.
44
Today is the
up to. Today is the day I stop begging you to stay around, wondering if I’m
Day
going to hear from you. Today
and the start of my own destiny. Today is the day I finally move on and start living life for me.
is the day I use my head over my heart. Today is the day I
Jessica Elston
say goodbye to all of the memories of us and what we had in our relationship.
Today is the day I
Today is the day I’m
become a new person. Today is
changing to become a better
the day I live life the way I
version of myself for myself.
want to, for myself this time
Today is the day I start
and not for others. Today is
taking care of me with no
the day I admit I’m done being sad and missing you.
regrets in doing so. Today is the day I finally take off
Today is the day I stop
the ring that solidified the
scrolling through your
start of our “forever.” Today
social media, wondering how
is the day I say goodbye to
you’re doing and what you’re
our dashed future together
Flowers by Kaylee Olmstead 45
The Storm Kailin Auman
Slow, sweet, soft music pours from my fingers as I sit behind my piano, eyes closed, as I find solace in the melody I'm creating. Suddenly my balcony doors fly open; an abrupt, deep note hits as the curtains shiver and shake in the harsh winds that pour through. As the wind slaps my face, the sheet music flies off the piano and rushes throughout the room. I jump up to run after my papers, as they continue their furious journeys elsewhere. My nightgown flutters about my figure while my hair whips across my face, blocking my
vision. With my vision obscured, I can hear the moaning of the wind with the miscellaneous cracks of thunder, just before the lightning flashes through my hair. The branches no longer do the waltz in a calm breeze, but rather they do more of a tango in the furious onslaught of wind——forcing its way through the branches, leaves, and my curtains, which all shudder away from the wind. I can feel the rain make its presence known as well. The little drips long ago turned into more horrendous splats upon my roof and
46
windows, which I have tried to block out with my calm music. Not only is the rain splattering upon my roof and windows, but also my floor and self, since the balcony doors remain wide open. With this realization, I snap out of my daze of serenity in the storm, and rush over to close my balcony doors, ridding myself of the onslaught of wind and rain once again. Softly relaxing onto my window seat, I watch the storm.
A Study Of Gourds In Pastels By Medaille Art Students Gourd by Matthew Morrison
Gourd by Marissa Todero
Gourd by Jasmine Fisher
Gourd by Alyssa Fishera 47
Domed and Dangerous Soleil Santana I did not seek death; it
Untouched by the rest of
getaway—from everything and
world,
everyone.
came to me in the form of an
the
eight foot long bull shark
picture of paradise from any
with a famished attitude.
destination guide, but still
The
wind
blows
all
around my hair, salt stinging my nose, with cracked leather under my fingertips, back into my own lane. Luckily this road was empty, as none of the tourists knew of this hidden gem
of
Beach.
the This
island, is
Ehukai
truly
the
ultimate surf destination for us locals.
Ehukai
is
the
undiscovered. So most days it is completely empty, except for a few lone surfers that are also trying to get away from their daily lives. I pull into
a
narrow
surrounded
dirt by
haphazardly-cut
road some
shrubbery
that creates a little tunnel of green with a spot of bright blue at the end. This is it, the dream,
the
paradise,
48
the
After finally breaking through the tunnel of dense flora and fauna, the truck drops
on
quickly myself
the
sand
park
and
before
stuck
in
I
I
get the
quicksand-like beach. My eyes go
wide
loosen
and up,
my
as
shoulders
if
a
large
weight has finally risen off from me. Every time I see the view,
my
body
involuntarily magnificent
sight
to
reacts the bestowed
upon me. I take one last pull
cold peak of the wave stings
waves that I’ve been dreaming
from
my face and I get a bit of salt
of all day. I sit and watch
in
the
them pass by for a while, as I
vapor carried by the wind, as
satisfaction of it is so worth
catch my breath from paddling
my head gets light and world
the pain. Stroke after stroke,
out so fast. Rows and rows of
spins
the
I travel further and further
blue glass glide past as I
nicotine high reaching its
away from the already small
watch, mesmerized. The cotton
climax. I stumble down from
beachline.
is
candy sky surrounds me with
the truck and instantly sink
pounding
feel
streaks of pink mixed with
into the beach, heat radiating
myself fading, as my lungs
orange and it brings me a
off from the golden sea of
are failing on me. But I am
peace greater than I’ve felt
sand burning the bottom of my
committed to paddling to the
before. I inhale the salty air
feet.
sets of waves further out.
and exhale all my stress out.
my
burning,
e-cigarette,
lungs
vanilla-flavored
slowly
Hurriedly,
with
I
grab
my
board from the trunk of the Jeep, tear my clothes off and take
off towards
the
blue
goddess whispering my name. My board cuts swiftly into the water as I leap with my board into the incoming wave. The
my
eyes,
but
My and
head I
can
In my blurry vision I
The next set of waves
see a dark shadow passing
are
underneath, but I pass it off
largest set of the day and I
as a shadow or a big fish; I
quickly re-center myself, as I
can’t quite
It’s
the
on
it. I
prepare for the best waves of
it
and
the day. I absolutely cannot
finally reach the prime set of
miss this opportunity, so I
quickly
focus
approaching.
dismiss
49
turn my board around and
I feel the wave underneath,
my mind as my body trembles
ready myself for the first
but this time it’s not passing—
in pure fear.
wave approaching. I dip my
—it’s picking me up and moving
hands under the glass and
me along with it. We pick up
pull hard, propelling myself
speed and then I spot it. That
forward and gaining speed. I
damned shadow again.
keep
paddling,
harder
and
faster, almost matching the speed of the wave. But I am not strong
enough.
The
wave
passes underneath me, and I catch
my
breath
only
to
realize I need to take a little break and build my strength back
up
again.
A
couple
smaller waves pass by and then I spot it: The Maverick. The biggest wave of the set. I turn around again and start paddling out, faster this time.
Death inches closer and closer as the shark nears my longboard. I bounce up and down near the front of the
I stand up carefully to
board to help pick up speed,
get a higher view of the dark
but the shark is relentless
ominous
following
and picks up speed as well. It
behind me. Something sharp
comes up next to my board and
breaks the surface where the
for a split second I am amazed
blur
by
blur
is,
functioning
and
my
mind
barely
its
sleek
beauty
and
suddenly
perfection. In the moment that
realizes what that triangle-
I am captivated, the shark
shaped danger is. There is no
makes its move. It rams its
mistaking
the
mighty nose into the back end
shadow following me is an
of my board and everything
eight-foot long bull shark
moves
and that I am going to die
board spins to the right and
today. That thought echoes in
I am falling ever so slowly to
now
50
that
in
slow
motion.
The
the left. My mouth is stretched
these two black pools loom
up, and it is like I am moving
out as if a scream wants to
closer
in fast forward, my body on
escape, but no sound emerges.
threatening
My throat is closed, tensed up
entire existence into its void.
in
pure
shock
and
I
am
terrified for my life for the first time in a long time.
and to
closer, swallow
Unexpectedly, makes
a
little
my
my
mind
switch,
so
subtle but it makes all the
Suddenly I take back all
difference. I no longer wanted
previous
of
to be consumed by this void of
suicide and regret every time
nothingness, and I snap out of
that I no longer wished to
this black hole and back into
continue
reality.
my
thoughts
living.
The
sea
Survival
instincts
autopilot
like
someone
is
controlling me. But I let it happen. I rapidly remount my board
and
shore,
in
decides
to
paddle case
back
the
show
to
shark
it’s
still
hungry. My board and my body both crash into the shore and I just lay there on the sand, desperately trying to catch my breath. Suddenly all the
swallows me whole and the
take over, as my leg swings
shark stares at me with its
out and kicks the brute right
bleak, unwavering stare. As I
in the snout. The shark turns
am face to face with death, I
away, clearly hurt and in
am sucked into its eyes that
shock and I watch the little
are two endless pools of black
black eyes slowly fade away
horrible,
nothingness. I am numb, shock
into the deep blue, never to be
experience, I know for a fact
paralyzes my entire body, as
seen again. Everything speeds
I
51
adrenaline
I
once
had
vanishes and I pass out right there and then. Looking
should
back
yet
not
eye
at
that
opening
have
been
intoxicated and I am so glad
much worse. I almost lost my
I would not have appreciated
that I was not more messed up
life that fateful day and now
the finer things in my life.
or things could have been so
I am pleased that I haven’t, or
Photo by Andrea Seeloff
52
Orange Flowers After Rain by Carly Cross
Untitled by Andrea Seeloff
Buffalo is Beautiful (5/5) by Chelsi Thompson 53
Dark Sea GiGi Gaczewski
yet no one can hear. The sound of your own voice, antipodal, riding out the constant chatter
Sadness, saliferous as drifting in the ocean,
of the sea, unnerving as the horizon,
the taste in your mouth so godawful all you want to do is spit.
the edge to oblivion. Some people
Some people like it, the grains melting
can swim. Some people can’t,
in your mouth——burning your tongue——
getting sucked under when sadness
the taste still there, bothering you till
smells like expiry, like a fish that’s washed up on shore. Drifting through the choppy
you can’t focus, your vision blurred
waves,
by the silence, the sting full volume,
as if you were a ghost, drifting through walls.
54
Reflections Chrystal Washington
I may see myself differently than you see me. To you, I might be beautiful—— but just because you think that I’m beautiful,
does that mean
I have to feel
Self-Portrait by Elise Stempien
beautiful?
55
The Worst
You aggravate me. You can go blow.
GiGi Gaczewski
Maybe you could finally get with that
[Prelude 2019 Poetry Winner]
Arianna you talked about so much. I know you spent the night at her flat.
Your soft spot ended up getting a dart in it. I’m dreadfully sorry things did
I feel like I have
not end the way we’ve planned from the
been stabbed with a
start.
sword, Most of the time you’ve been very acrid. but all I still need is your Netflix I’ve hated the way you’ve looked when you
password.
awoke. Remember when you asked me to marry you and I said no? Still a funny joke ‘tween me and my friends. Still, you’ve brought some glee.
Fedora ManTM by Carly Cross 56
The Desert Mj Stoll
The first thing that he can ever remember is the light. It’s always been there, endlessly sneaking its way into each and every crevice. It permeates his world, scorching the earth until it cracks under the pressure, breaking down into sweeping sands, and building harsh
from the anger of the Earth’s
prehistoric critters that
early tumultuous formations
were pressurized to form the
echoing for centuries in
stone——this place will kill
even the burnt-out prairie
you, given the chance. The
grass that never seems to
cycle of arid desert and
know when to quit. He’s been
rebirth follows him,
them both: felt the flames of
haunting him in the shadows
anger in the damned kiln,
of El Morro and throughout
firing and strengthening,
all of El Malpaise. For him,
and been that goddamned life
the badlands exist in an
sprouting out. The light, try
inescapable fashion where
as he may, has never been
even in the lusher areas,
good at staying away from
death and decay will always
him for long.
follow. Thus is the way of
Even so in dreams, the
green walls that bristle out—
rising red rocks and
—spiking out to protect the
deposits of limestone and
soft flesh and flowing life
sandstone stand testament to
inside. The days often feel
the fact that sooner or
longer than not, with heat
later——just like the
57
the desert. They were simple facts of life that he could recite like the back of his hand. The light, the hot burning sun, and all of it; It made him crave the darkness.
Perhaps balance, as
reason to think. He doesn’t
after. It’s as if trouble and
nature seems to forget about
think much about moral
adventure were woven right
in these parts, is attainable
things or about the place
into him; You could never
though. He wonders about it
he’s got in the universe. He’s
have one without the other.
some nights when the stars
been dealt a pretty shit
spread across the sky, like
hand in life but with
the gentle freckled thighs of
fortune enough to bluff well
a lover. Philosophy isn’t
enough to keep things from
necessarily his strong suit——
hitting rock bottom. No need
he’s been battling too many
to go dwelling any more on
demons and spent too many
that. But what he thinks
years with his heart on his
about more often than not is
fists, instead of his sleeve
what it might be like beyond
like his mamma always told
the parched landscape.
him to avoid, punching the first things that came into sight; always left with bloody knuckles and a broken heart in his path——but some nights the stars give him
It’s only natural. The
When he looks out at the stars splattered messily across the sky, reflecting that inescapable light in his unknowing search for darkness, it’s clear there’s a timelessness and a world that reaches beyond the decaying gas station and miles of lava-formed rock. He clings to it all; clings to
curiosity that flows through
the endless horizons that
his veins has been there
bring countless sunrises and
long before anything else
sunsets, to the deep ridges of
and most would venture to
the land and jarring scars
guess it would be there long
cut through by persistent
58
rivers that ran themselves
the moonlight beside aloe
mountains. Even hell has a
out to form ridges and
and agave. There’s a
good symphony, he thinks.
canyons, to the miles upon
frightening beauty in the
miles of rock and brush, to
haunting birdsong and
the world past the train
swooping beats of rushed owl
tracks, and everything in-
wings, diving down to sink
between.
talons into scurrying
The desert’s rapidly dropping temperatures never scare him as much as he knows they should. Night time around the gorge is always just as dangerous, if not more so, than the oppressive heat of the day. But try as he might, he’s hard pressed to find anything quite as beautiful as the way that the dune and Mexican
rodents. The screech of vultures that the daylight brought is nothing but a memory, like the bleached bones left behind——the remains of the day draped in a windswept layer of sand and starlight. An occasional shake of a rattlesnake’s tail harmonizes with the low hum of cicada and the solo of a coyote howling across the
evening primroses bloom in
He can remember vividly the first time that he ran through the maze of red stone and limestone caverns, as he reaches out to let his fingertips linger against the walls of the tunnels. Back in the years when this land still put up a fight against its inevitable submission to time, there were only a handful of natural caverns in the rock. All the stories tell of the indigenous people coming in and carving a spot to live alongside the spirits and nature. Then of course, there
59
were others who came and
again, hadn’t the War hit the
you could pry open old
disrupted this peace by
whole world hard?
circuitry and get something
carving their own ways into the mines. The blasted-out shafts and mining tunnels brought minerals and rock and a pathway across a country. Before the War, too, the mines were brought to life, helping to produce ore and minerals that shipped
He doesn’t think about this, though. When your town’s as good as a fossil under the sun, what use is there in history? What good is history when you know you’ve got maybe two decades total until either the static gets you or you get dusted?
out to Detroit and machine production all over the country. After some government agency brought down the big tech production base, the area seemed to fall back to how things were after the Gold Rush. But then
going in no time flat. The glow of the orb lights invokes the whole journey: He ran across that whole damn desert, feet feeling numb, white knuckle grip on his hat and a switchblade. Tears disappeared into the sand, the sweeping winds making them sting against his cheek.
Instead, his mind rushes back, memories of that night he fled into the caverns and tunnels. It hadn’t taken much to light up the tunnels after finding the access panel; If you could hot wire a hover truck,
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When he came to the edge of the ravine, he looked down and wiped his eyes with the heel of his left palm. With his crystalline tears shattered and forgotten, he dropped the unceremoniously cut braid down from his
previously clutched hand
until he slapped the hat
He still hasn’t forgotten his
until it vanished from the
back on and promised he
promise.
starlight’s touch. His resolve
wouldn’t allow himself to
grew as he felt the night
forget it or the sound of his
creep over his exposed neck,
mother’s whistling in the
a haunting chill that lasted
night.
Photo by Kiernan Hayward
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Online Only Section: Explore The Macros Welcome to the interactive, online-only section of Prelude 2019. In the following pages, you will find some high-quality images that you can explore for more detail, thanks to the sharp eyes of the artists that submitted them.
So, how do I explore these images? On each of the following pages, you can use your mouse and double click on the image to increase zoom. From there, you can click and drag to move around and look at all parts of the image. Likewise, you can also use the bottom right slider to zoom in and out (slide towards the plus sign to zoom in or towards the minus sign to zoom out.)
We suggest looking at dew drops, between fences, at pen strokes, or at plant details!
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Photo by Narjah Renaud 63
Photo by Jessica Gallagher 64
Seashell Pen and Ink by Elizabeth Walters
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Photo by Jessica Gallagher 66
Medaille Prelude 2019 Contest Finalists
Poetry Category (Continued) o Voices [Gigi Gaczewski] o Villain [Sarah Hannel] o Bad hair Day [Gigi Gaczewski] o Avocado [Mj Stoll]
Fiction Category o A pirate’s life [Danielle Lipford] (Winner) o Bored to Death [Gigi Gaczewski] o The Desert [Mj Stoll] o The Storm [Kailin Auman] o First Communion [Gigi Gaczewski]
Photography Category o Social justice [Jasmine Fisher] (Winner) o Portrait [Alisha Raymond] o Untitled [Amanda Nichols] o 75 Minute Sketch [Dan Tarbell] o Untitled [Andrea SeeLoff] o Untitled [Leonard Murray JR] o Untitled [Narjah Renaud]
Poetry Category o The Worst [Gigi Gaczewski] (Winner) o Oh Fire [Ga’vintay McGhee] o Equinox [Mj Stoll] o Flight (Fist) [Hannah Carrick] 67
Special Thanks: ……to the students who submitted
……to the Prelude 2019 Editorial
any, and all,
Staff:
works for consideration and submission.
o Kailin Auman o Codi-Lyn Filyaw o GiGi Gaczewski
……to the Medaille Community for
o Kiernan Hayward
its constant support and
o Jeanette Holmes-Leski
involvement in the publication of The Prelude.
o Danielle Lipford o Mj Stoll o Kyle Shrader
……and to you, dear Reader.
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Unsure of how to use a QR code?
Interested in reading last year’s Prelude (2018)?
No problem! Just use your iOS device and open the camera. Aim your camera at the weird jumble of squares below and
Visit https://www.medaille.edu/prelude-
tap the banner that comes up at the
2018-literary-magazine or use the QR code below!
very top of your screen! You can also use any other QR Reading app on any other device to scan and open the link that way.
And remember, Medaille Prelude is always looking for submissions. Just send your email to medaillepreludeclub@ gmail.com and maybe we’ll see your work in next year’s edition of the Prelude!
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Medaille: Campus of Creativity By: Jeanette Holmes-Leski
Submit works on a line
At Prelude that can be you...
or write them any old time.
Let your creative light shine through.
We’ll gather them all together
Essays, poems, pictures and haiku
for publication or a delighted “ah” and “ooh”.
Submit them, we’ll thank you.
Pictures of creativity are submitted too!
That's all you need to do.
Ever wonder if you could be published for all to view?
Submit them early, before they’re due,
Who wouldn't want to make a submission too?
and let the readers truly see you.
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