MiddleWestern Voice 2014

cover contest winnerPatrick ConroyI’ve Got the RunsClay14 in x 24.5 in x 15 in

Patrick Conroy is going to be a “super senior” at Elmhurst College. He is majoring in art, and he cannot be more thank-ful for his experiences here. During his time at Elmhurst, he has grown to appreciate Professor Curtis Readel in particular as a mentor and friend. Professor Readel has always shown genuine interest in Patrick’s work, and has given him the mo-tivation and pride to do what he loves. His passion for art is where he feels the most comfortable, and he wants to pursue a career in his craft.Patrick is this year’s winner of the MiddleWestern Voice Cover Contest, with his sculpture titled I’ve Got the Runs. The inspi-ration behind this piece came from his freshman year, when one of his sculptures, Poo Salad, was stolen from him. This loss “fueled me to make a piece that was bigger and more complex.” The building technique and glazing for this win-ning sculpture is reminiscent of that lost piece, but is also a further depiction of what I’ve Got the Runs is all about.

aboutMiddleWestern Voice is the Elmhurst College art, literature, and music journal. All material is current work of Elmhurst College students. Selection is done blindly to ensure objectivity. The journal encourages the celebration of artistic talent on campus and the union of students, faculty, and the community of patrons of the arts.

namesakeUrsula Niebhur wrote the postlude of Remembering Reinhold Niebhur, a collection of letters her husband had sent her throughout their marriage. It was she who named his

“middle-western voice”- the voice behind his thoughts on humanity that he shared with a universal audience. For her, it was reference to the place from which Niebhur had come, and in recognition of his having something to say. MiddleWestern Voice is a culmination of origins and perspectives that come from this place at this time.

cover competitionThe MiddleWestern Voice cover art is completely selected from student art submissions. All material is judged blindly by the Art Department Faculty. The cover competition is funded by the Elmhurst College Art Department.

the carl h. carlson contestThe Carl H. Carlson Contest is a literary competition open to all Elmhurst College students. The Carl H. Carlson prize is awarded to the finalists of the MiddleWestern Voice creative writing contest. Students whose works are selected are printed in the journal with the permission of the Elmhurst College English Department. The contest is judged by the English Department Faculty.

gratitudeMany thanks to persons on and off campus who have supported the MiddleWestern Voice, including the Elmhurst College Art, English, and Music Departments; President Alan Ray; Professors Geoff Sciacca, Janice Tuck-Lively, Mary Zambreno, and David DeVasto; and Creekside Printing. Additional thanks to SGA for their gracious patronage and our hardworking staff. MiddleWestern Voice is sponsored by the Elmhurst College Student Activities Fund.

contents introabout mwv . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . istaff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

art musicliteraturenicole gutzmer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1-2, 35 kim mcelheny . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11-12evan haase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13felicia roumeliotis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19natalie monte . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20brittany cavanaugh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20, 23suzanna vasko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23derek van hoose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 pat conroy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24, 36amy renee johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26samantha korsak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26alex safford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31aleks klocek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32peter flockencier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32jordan cannon-bobholz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36, 48alexandra prejzner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36sofia fodorovic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

megan whirley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3-9david leviton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10, 47 briana mingus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14aries radatz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17-18 patrick erwin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21-22emily darow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25, 33-34nicholas matthopoulos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27christine petrowich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37-38, 42mikayla matz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41john funderburg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27, 43-46mary podrasky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49-50clayton dunlap . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53-54melinda hernandez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .55-56alyson backus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

zach lentino interview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15-16anthony paul interview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29-30william heschl interview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39-40

music biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 literature biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59-60

honors

1 21. nicole gutzmer redondo clay 5.25 in x 9 in x 5 in

1. nicole gutzmer ohhhm clay 5 in x 8.5 in x 3 in

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MEGAN WHIRLEYFIRST STORY CONTEST WINNER FOR NON-FICTION

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It is my pleasure to introduce the first ever MiddleWestern Voice Literature Contest: the First Story Contest. The contest is open to all Elmhurst College students to write either a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction, using a theme that will change from year to year. This 2013-2014 academic year was the first year of the contest, and we on the literature staff were very pleased with the amount of submissions we received. The theme for this year was “Coming Home,” however the writers wished to define it. While all the submissions for the contest fit the theme well, and were a blast to read, the winning piece rose above the rest. So congratulations to this year’s winner! It has been an honor to both start the First Story Contest, and to read everyone’s works. I look forward to reading the future winners of this contest, and the creative themes they will revolve around.

-James Arriola, Literature Editor

first story contest

Nothing like having your flight delayed 2 hours, I think to myself. Just my luck, too. I already don’t want to be here, in this hectic airport, but I have to go home. There’s no escaping this trip. Home…it’s supposed to be a place where people always feel welcome. I should look forward to going back, seeing my family, hugging the dogs…yet all I feel is dread. Of course I want to see my family, but it’s all of the memories and feelings associated with “home” that are making me so uneasy. I fumble around in my backpack searching for something to distract me. I can’t just sit here…the pain sneaks up on me if I don’t have a distraction. It really doesn’t make much of a difference though. There’s nothing I have the desire to do. Nothing. I know it is wrong not to want to read your favorite book. Or eat your favorite food. Or listen to your favorite song. Or do anything you enjoy. But I can’t help it. Everything that I do makes me think of him. I decide to distract myself in other ways. People watching is really only entertaining when you’re in a good mood. Needless to say it isn’t working for me. All I see is rudeness. I see the rude, disrespectful, self-absorbed families with their materialistic, entitled attitudes. Sure, drag your kids to Disneyworld. Drag them across the country. Drag them to another country. Go have your

“family vacation,” and come back “home” and act like your usual rude, materialistic, entitled selves. Family vacations nowadays are really just a pretense. They are meant to bring you together, but the bonds made over vacations are only temporary. We all know that once you

bring your kids back from Disneyworld you’re going to wish you could get away from them, all over again. Mentally, I’m kicking myself. I don’t really believe these things about families or vacations. I’m just not happy. When your world is taken from you, it’s hard not to see things negatively. I need to remember this; to remind myself that I don’t have to feel this way. Happiness is a choice. Who am I kidding? This is probably the worst mood I’ve ever been in. And I have every reason to feel angry. And sad. And NOT happy. So to Hell with all of you happy families, pretense or not. I had real family vacations. We went to Disneyworld. We went all over on road trips. But there is one place in the world that we went to nearly every weekend. And it was always our “vacation.” My cabin. They say “Home is where the heart is.” But when your heart is spread in so many places, with so many people, how do you determine where your true home is? I don’t even know where my home really is anymore. I know that my cabin is my favorite place in the entire world…or at least it was. The Cabin is—was—his place. I don’t know how I’m going to feel when I get there. It can only be worse than how I feel right now. I’ve been going through all the motions, they say. What I’m feeling is normal. That’s what grief does to you. Everyone copes differently. Blah, blah, blah. People can say all they want. It still won’t change how I feel. My mind races with endless thoughts. The despair I feel is slowly killing me. I can feel myself fall apart with every breath. So while I sit here at the airport, I can’t help but

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think of what has made me feel this way… I was just home two weeks ago. I couldn’t go visit him because there was an outbreak of the flu. They didn’t want it to spread. Two weeks ago, that seemed fine. It seemed fine because I’d only be here at school for 3 more weeks. I could just wait until I could come home for summer to see him. But then, the phone call came. It was my roommate’s birthday. We were about to head over to a friend’s place where we were throwing her a mini surprise party. I could feel my phone vibrating, but didn’t get to it fast enough. I asked my roommate to wait a second so I could call my mom back really quick. She was in no hurry, not knowing that we were headed to her surprise. The second I heard the tone of Mom’s voice on the phone, I knew something was wrong. She didn’t even have to finish her sentence. “Hi Sweet Pea…it’s an emergency. Call me back as soon as you get this message.” It’s ironic because as soon as I heard her voice I knew just who she was referring to. But I buried that instinct. I didn’t want it to be true. Mom calling about an emergency could mean anything. Sometimes she tells me it’s an emergency and means she just can’t wait a second longer to talk to me. But I always know when it’s a moment like that. This time was different. As I call my mom, desperately waiting her answer, the worry inside grows with every ring. After what seems like hours, my mom finally answers. “Hi Sweet Pea. Where are you right now?” I instantly reply

“I’m in my room, why?” “Are you sitting?” “No. And I don’t want to sit. What’s wrong??” My voice begins to shake. “I want you to listen. Let me explain everything and promise me you’ll stay on the phone.” Her statement makes my suspicion rise. I start to doubt whether my initial instinct was actually irrelevant after all. Thoughts start racing through my mind. I can’t keep up with where my brain is trying to lead me. I curse all of my science

classes for making me over analyze every little thing. My mom’s voice brings me back to reality. “Honey, Grandpa isn’t doing well. The –” I interrupt her, angry and confused. “What do you mean not ‘doing well’? What does that mean? He was fine! I was just home! Nothing was wrong.” I seem to know what is coming…but I don’t let my intuition form it’s thought.

“I know. I know,” she says. “Listen. He got sick; he has pneumonia now. He is having a lot of trouble breathing and there’s more fluid filling his lungs than air…the doctors don’t think he’ll make it through the night.” A rush of emotions fills me. I feel weak. I feel sick. I think I’ll faint. Suddenly my knees buckle, and I collapse to the floor. I feel an unbearable twist in my chest. My stomach turns. I hear a horrendous, pitiful sound escape my lips. I start firing questions at my mom, barely decipherable through my painful gasps. I find myself in uncontrollable hysteria. “What do you mean? How can he be that sick? He was fine, Mom. They wouldn’t let me visit him. They wouldn’t let me. This can’t be real. He’s gonna be okay. Doctors always say things like that. Doctors have been wrong before. Mom, I don’t understand. What’s going on??” I hear how her heart is breaking in her reply. She can hear my horrific sobs. Even being miles away, she knows this will break me. “Sweetie, he got sick a week ago. He just hasn’t gotten better. He became so weak after he caught the flu that it grew into pneumonia, and his body just can’t take it anymore. He’s a fighter and he’s hanging on, but he knows. He knows what’s happening. He knew before we did.” A new emotion rises. My anger grows into fury, laced with my confusion. “What do you mean a week ago? You’ve known he’s been sick for a week, and you are only just telling me now? Why? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!” “I’m sorry, Sweetie. We didn’t know how bad it was going to get. We didn’t want to bother you. We found

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out two days ago that he wasn’t going to make it through the weekend. Your dad wanted to wait until you got home to tell you.” I am so furious at this point. I am trembling violently. Tears and snot cover my face. I’m on my hands and knees, my free hand ripping at the rug. I’ve clenched my fists so tightly that they are turning white. The hysteric crying won’t stop…I’m heaving and gasping and shaking. My roommate walks in. I try to stand. I collapse again. She innocently asks what’s wrong. I ignore her. I don’t think I really heard her. Her concern grows as my emotional panic continues. My frenzy sets her tears in motion. She’s never seen me like this. She knows something is wrong. She tries to help. I reject her. “Don’t touch me!” I say. I can feel her standing over me; I feel her worry and confusion. But I barely take note of her continued presence. I attack my mother with more questions. “What do you mean he didn’t want to tell me? Why would you ever think that it’s okay to keep something like this from me? I deserve to know!” “I know, honey. Now just listen! Grandpa is in a coma right now. He knows we are here. He responds to us. He’ll squeeze our hands when he hears us talking. Now, I have to go pick up your little brother, but when I get back here, would you like to talk to Grandpa? He can’t respond, but we know he’ll hear you. You can tell me how angry you are with us later.” I’ll give her credit. She knows me so well. “Okay. But you better call me back. Or I will be so angry I’m never coming home again.” I know it’s an idle threat. She knows it too. But what does that matter. “Okay sweetie. I’ll call you in about a half hour. I’m so sorry, Sweet Pea.” And with that I just hang up the phone. I know my parents were just trying to protect me. But how could they think that it was okay to keep this from me? They didn’t want to distract me from my finals. They wanted me to focus on studies. But I know one thing. If I had flown home after finals and been told that Grandpa had died a week ago…and no one told me…I’d

have gotten on the next flight out of Minnesota. After hanging up on Mom, I decide to put myself together as much as I can. My head hurts so badly, and I’m still hysterical. Goodness! Why can’t I just get a hold of myself?! I look up to see my roommate, face full of tears, wondering what has made me act in such a way. I explain the situation, ending by saying “He’s not dead yet.” Because he’s not. Grandpa’s survived through so many things. He certainly can survive pneumonia. I welcome the denial. It takes a while to get the birthday girl out. I finally convince her to leave. Her birthday shouldn’t be spoiled. Reluctantly, she goes. I stay. I tell her I’ll come after I hear back from my mom. When she finally calls me back, she informs me that my whole family is there, except for my older brother and me. My aunts and uncles, my cousins, my parents, my grandma, and my little brother…they’re all there. This only makes it worse. My entire family knows that out of all of us, I was closest to Grandpa. We were two peas in a pod. My mom says it’s time to say goodbye to Grandpa. They’re going to take him off the machines soon…he would never want to live like this. The hysterics return. Suddenly I don’t think I can do it. I can’t say goodbye. I’m not ready. He can’t leave me. I can’t say goodbye because he can’t be dying; Grandpa is the strongest man I’ve ever known. He’s a war veteran who raised three kids…he’s married to one of the greatest women I’ve ever known. He has survived cancer, heart attacks, congestive heart failure, multiple surgeries. He has the biggest heart. He can’t die. Not now. Somehow, I start talking anyway. “Hi Grandpa, it’s Megan…I just want to tell you that I love you so, so, so much. I miss you so much it hurts. I just wish I could be with you right now. I wish I could give you one last hug and hold your hand. I wish I could bring you a smile and some watermelon. I’m so sorry you’re in pain; I’m so sorry that I’m not there with you right now. I’m sending you a big hug like you ones

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you always gave me. I love you and I’m gonna miss you so much. Goodbye, my teddy bear.” Then I hear my mom saying that he has tears on his face. Whether that was true or not, I will always believe it was true. I will hold on to whatever hope I can that he heard me. Once I hang up, I run outside. I need fresh air. I scream and scream till I can’t scream anymore. The one person I wish was with me to comfort me, is in fact the one person I can never have again. I scream things like “Please don’t leave me. God please don’t take him! I’m not ready to lose him. He’s the only grandpa I’ve ever known. I don’t want to feel this way! Don’t take him from me!” My heart twists and turns viciously…maybe I’m having a heart attack! Just let me die. I don’t want to feel this way. The last time I saw Grandpa was before I left for school. I talked to him on his birthday, but that was months ago. Time slips away so fast… As I stand outside screaming, arguing with God, I know that I am about to have a sleepless night full of tears and pain. I still can’t seem to catch my breath. My mind is running wild, I’m a wreck, and it feels like I’m suffocating. Of course, my friends try to comfort me. Only one of them actually brings me comfort though. He holds me in a strong hug while I tremble with the tears flowing like a raging waterfall. He doesn’t speak; he just holds me and listens. And that tiny gesture means more to me than any words ever could. While I keep mumbling “he was fine…he was fine…I was just home, and he was fine.” I buried myself in my bed for the next two days. A friend finally dragged me out to get food in me; apparently I’d started to make him worry. I sit at the restaurant with my group of friends, barely touching my food. They each try to make me feel better. I recognize their efforts. It doesn’t change how I feel though. One friend buys me ice cream. I eat it, hoping that it will bring me some comfort. My friends only know the happy version of me; God forbid I am ever feeling

the darkest emotions. I am allowed to be depressed. They make jokes, knowing how much I love to laugh. One friend attempts to make her funniest face, and says “I can’t make it right now! I have to think of something sad in order to make the sad/funny face.” To which my roommate offers the statement “Oh, well Megan can help you with that. She has plenty of sad things on her mind.” Now this makes me angry. In what world would that phrase be okay? Why would you ever make a “joke” like that at the expense of someone feeling such a deep sense of grief? So we leave the restaurant. Later my roommate and I have an argument. She asks why I’m angry. I tell her she’s an idiot for saying what she said. She knows to leave me alone after this. And so here I am, sitting at the airport staring out the window. Thinking about all of this. I tried so hard to get through finals week. I tried. But the weekend was overcome by all of my sadness. There was no time to study. So I’m headed home early. I’ll be back in a few weeks to finish my finals. I just keep telling everyone that I’ll be better once I’m home. I’ll feel better when I’m with my family. I just need to be with my family at home. It’s hard to be here alone. But while I am telling everyone else this, it feels like a lie to me. I don’t want to go home. Going home means that I have to see the memories. I have to relive everything I ever shared with him. Even more so, I don’t even know where my home actually is. I have a family that lives in a house. But that’s just a house. Home is where the heart is. So where is my heart? It went away when Grandpa slipped away. I finally get to board the plane. I get a window seat. Perfect. Now at least I can just stare out the window at what’s below for a distraction. It’s better than lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling…feeling so empty. Since I’ve barely slept in the past few days, I do my best to take a nap. The nightmares arouse me. I dream about all of the fun things Grandpa and I did together at home…but

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each dream ends with me watching him suffer. And in each dream I can’t help him, no matter how hard I try. So I put my headphones on, and decide to listen to music to soothe my torture. The music only makes things worse. Music is meant to make people feel. But I’ve spent the last couple days burying my feelings to avoid the pain. I don’t want to deal with my pain. I am as broken as a puzzle. All of the most important pieces are missing, however. No one can put me back together. I don’t have a broken heart. My heart isn’t even here! I have lost my heart and with that, my spirit has broken. My nightmarish slumber is disrupted with the bumpy landing. Well, here I am, back in Minnesota. My mom picks me up from the airport. We barely speak in the car. Tears are running down my cheek. I thought I had run out of tears. The first thing I do once we make it to my house is hug my dogs. I hug my precious puppies and just cry. They know I’m hurting so they don’t mind that I’m dripping snot and tears all over them. They just let me cry and give me the occasional kiss. At some point, I fall asleep. The next day, I go visit my Grandma with my dad. No one has much to say. I am finally able to control the tears. I want to be strong for Grandma. I know that if I cry, she will too. Grandma asks me to help her go through Grandpa’s things. Not realizing how hard that is actually going to be, I agree. So we start going through his clothes, seeing what we can throw out, donate, and what we aren’t ready to let go of. Every piece of clothing holds a memory. I can see him wearing his fishing sweater at the cabin, while he’s driving the tractor. For Grandma’s sake, I hold back the emotions. Suddenly, I see it. The red, white, and blue triangle can’t be hidden. I pull a folded-up flag out of the box it came in. Grandma tells me they just dropped it off yesterday. Then Grandma shows me Grandpa.

He wanted to be cremated and then to have his ashes buried. He also wanted a private internment. So no big flashy funeral. Just simple. Surrounded by the ones he loved most. Grandpa’s urn is just a little gold box. His glasses are sitting next to it. I place his flag next to him as well. That’s my breaking point. Dad and I leave after that. The plan is for the whole family to go to the cabin for a weekend to celebrate Grandpa’s life. We’re going to wait a little while longer to actually bury Grandpa’s ashes. He’s requested to be buried in Fort Snelling, a military fort. I was actually surprised to learn this. I thought that Grandpa would want to be buried at the Cabin. He and Grandma bought the Cabin after Grandpa returned from the war. My dad, aunt, and uncle were practically raised there, as were my brothers and I. The weekend has finally come. We’re all headed up to the Cabin. Mom had to help me pack for this. I can’t seem to hold myself together. I can’t describe what I’m feeling. I so long to hear his laugh again; to hear him call my name. I just can’t believe he’s gone. It’s raining once we get to the Cabin. I help unpack. At dinner, I still have no appetite. What’s it been, a week now? My family communicates to me that they are worried about me. They’ve never seen me so silent. But what do they want from me?! All I see here is Grandpa. All I feel is his spirit. The numbness that has kept me company is overcome by the furious sadness that I tried so hard to bury. So I run. I run to the end of the dirt road and only stop when it meets the highway. I wanted to believe that by coming back here, that by being with my family, I would feel better. I thought it would be easier to deal with the grief. I mean, this is supposed to be my home! Incredibly, at this moment, it feels like the furthest place from home. When I get back to the Cabin, I fall straight to sleep. The next morning is beautifully sunny, but even the gorgeous weather can’t break through my cloak of pain. I don’t bother to make myself look presentable. What’s the point?

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We spend the day hanging out as a family, sharing stories, playing games, soaking up the sun. But I hardly speak. It gets to the point where I can’t stand to be around everyone anymore, so I seclude myself. They give me my space. We eat a late dinner, and finish just before the sun set. I had planned to go lay down after dinner, but as soon as I step out the door, my eye catches the glimpse of the yellowy-orange sun across the lake. A strange feeling creeps up in me. I don’t recognize it at first though; it’s the first feeling I’ve had in days other than sadness and anger and confusion. Grandpa loved sunsets. We used to watch the sunsets together all the time. The memory of this brings me a bittersweet sadness. But it is the happiest feeling I’ve felt all week. I start to take awkward, unsure steps down to the lake…hesitating all the while down. Just before I get to the beach, I stop. I feel as though I won’t make it one step further. But I swear I feel him, Grandpa, take me by the hand and lead me to the sand. I start to dig my feet into the sand; one of my favorite feelings in the world. Slowly, I make my way to the water. I walk myself deeper and deeper into the crystal clear water, until I finally submerge myself. The water has never felt clearer. Purer. I rise up, feeling refreshed. Feeling…well, at peace. I decide it’s okay for me to go sit on the dock. I keep my feet in the water, kicking back and forth like a little girl. Then the tears return. But this time the tears are different. Not as rushed or violent. And with those tears, I am able to give Grandpa the real send-off he wants from me. I start to release my lock on him ever so slightly. I am talking out loud…but not to myself. I know Grandpa’s listening. I tell him how thankful I am that I got to have a Grandpa like him. I share with him all of my favorite memories. I will never forget the lessons I learned from him. I will be forever thankful for the imagination he fed in my mind. He helped me grow so much. He taught me to appreciate nature. He taught me to respect everyone

and everything. I watched him work and learned what hard work meant. He taught me to fish. I’m so glad he fed my watermelon addiction. We could finish an entire watermelon together. I tell him I’ll miss his laugh. I thank him again, this time for leading me home. Because now I think I understand. I needed to come back. I needed to breathe in the old air filled with the most beautiful memories. It’s okay that I have a longing in my heart for him. It’s okay that I sent a piece of my heart away with him. It’s okay that I’m in pain. But with all of my pain, I have to remember the memories. I have to welcome the bittersweet taste of the memories left behind. I have to remember that he helped make my heart bigger, so that I may love very deeply. With great love, comes great pain. I finally recognize that feeling I felt when I first caught the glimpse of the setting sun. Hope. Sunsets are always filled with hope. Sunsets may show the ending of the day, but they also show the purest beauty I’ve ever seen. I realize that even though Grandpa is gone, I can let him go by sending him off with the beautiful memories of how he touched my life. Grandpa is headed to his new home, where the water meets the sky. He gets to be with his brothers again. With his parents. He just wanted to go first to get things ready for the rest of us. One other thought tiptoes into my mind. Grandma told me that three days before he died, Grandpa said “I’ve only got three days left on this job.” That sly old man. I will choose to believe that he knew what was coming. And if he could be at peace, then he would want me to be at peace as well. Home can be found in a place…it can be found in a person…it can even be found in a feeling. But I’ve learned that home is always with you…you just have to know where to look. So I watch the sunset disappear beneath the trees, blurring the lines between Heaven and Earth…and I let him go…with the hope that I will be seeing him again someday.

first story contest

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ON THEWAY AND BACK

d a v i d l e v i t o n

We walk,Wind billows skirts and makes leaves dance,Twirling, spinning, rolling, swaying,We walk,Squirrels chatter and play, dogs tug on their leash,Content, happy, carefree, playful,We walk,Mother and daughter walk side by side past bare trees,Loving, innocent,We walk,Cars on the road, some familiar, some not,Driving, parking, waiting, stalling,We walk,Amid the smells of restaurants, trivial arguments arise,Bickering, debating, pointless,We walk,The warmth of the coffee shop rejuvenates,Warm, safe, coffee, pastries,Traffic on the road, crossing guard treats adults like children,Condescending, self-righteowus,We walk.

carlson contest poetry honorable mention

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1. kim mcelheny capstone series: snowball fight digital manipulation; fresco transfer on wood 13 in x 19 in

2. kim mcelheny capstone series: fay with love 3. kim mcelheny capstone series: france 4. kim mcelheny capstone series: sister emily

5. kim mcelheny capstone series: dear little girl 6. kim mcelheny capstone series: if my dreams come true 7. kim mcelheny capstone series: after a row on the lake

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1. evan hasse chi-raq .45 acp brass shells 20 in x 3.5 in x 35 in

2. evan hasse stars and stripes .45 acp, .25 acp, & .9mm brass cassings 13.5 in x 3.5 in x 18 in

3. evan hasse world-piece .45 acp, .25 acp, & .9mm brass cassings 13.5 in x 3.5 in x 18 in

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I could not find your grave on my own.I looked it up on the directory there.World War II veterans get their own special section,their tombstones litter the hills.Your grave, a blade of grass in a field

I danced on your grave not to celebrate your death but your life,thoughts incoherent from the liquor.I drank Jack Daniel’s, your favorite.You would have appreciated the gesture.I sprinkled some on the weeds sprouting around your grave marker.

I danced on your grave even though mama told me you weren’tthe best person in life. I danced for the good memories I have of you,when you weren’t drunk or lying in a hospital bed.I remember when you remembered me.

I danced for jars of change smelling of coffee and metal.For almost accidentally drinking a can of Pepsi that wasn’t Pepsi,but sweet smelling, brown spit, full of your used tobacco.For your once blue fedoraand the brown wiener dog you never namedFor the washed out brown and white brick house you lived inin the middle of the most impoverished part of Decatur.For the cream colored, creaking mobile home Mamamoved you into when your liver finally started to failand the flowered, tan television trays you always set up for uswhen Mama brought dinner over.

I danced on your grave not to celebrate your death but your life.

GRAVE DANCINGBriana Mingus

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Zach Lentino is a Senior at Elmhurst College, majoring in Music. He has performed in multiple music ensembles as both a bassist and vocalist. Lentino also actively participates in theatrical productions. Having enjoyed success on a national level with his band, Lance Lipinsky and the Lovers, Lentino showcased his talents on The David Letterman Show last year. I recently sat down with Zach Lentino to discuss his endeavors as an emerging artist.

Gina Carlson: The Elmhurst College music department as well as your friends, family and colleagues would agree you are extremely passionate about music. Who or what inspired you to take up music in the first place?

Zach Lentino: Well my whole family is full of performers. I was basically raised backstage watching my dad sing and play guitar, my brothers play drums and act, my mom sings background vocals, and that’s all just in my immediate family. It was pretty much predetermined that I was going to go into the family business at some point. It really started in high school though. I went through my angsty teenage phase during the height of the pop-punk scene. There were bands popping up left and right all over the suburbs of Chicago all trying to be the next Fall Out Boy. A lot of them were really good and also happened to be my friends. We all loved collaborating and playing together. That’s where I really fell in love with performing.

GC: You’re a talented singer, actor, and bass player. How do you balance getting all that you want out of each of these art forms and which do you believe is the most rewarding?

ZL: You know, I really don’t consider myself to be all too phenomenal at any of those three things. I can get by just fine, but I’m in no way the best singer or bassist; real singers and bassists can spot it. I think the reason it comes off that way is that when it comes down to it, I’m a performer. I use the skills that I have to put on a show. That’s what I think gets lost a lot when you go to a school for the arts. There’s so much focus on the details that will make you a great artist that people get nervous to explore the entertainment value of their skills. In short, I get on stage and have fun with the people around me. It doesn’t matter if I’m holding a bass, a microphone, or Yorick’s skull.

GC: You’ve gotten experience in the music business by touring with your band, Lance Lipinsky and The Lovers. What have you learned about the industry so far that you’d like to share with future entertainers entering the field? ZL: Give the people what they want, whether it’s the audience or your employer. Sometimes they don’t know what they want. Figure it out for them and give it to them anyway. Other than that, know how things work. I know it’s a little cliché, but it’s true that a lot of people in the

interview with musican zach lentino

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music business are a bit sleazy. The more you know, the less likely it’ll be that someone can take advantage of you. Oh, and never be too nervous to ask about money. This is your career after all. People will understand that. They won’t think you’re greedy or that’s all you care about. That was a huge concern for me when I started.

GC: You’re group appeared on The David Letterman Show back on February 1–3, 2013. Can you share a bit about this? When did you get the news you’d be performing ? What kind of experience was that for you? ZL: We got the news about the Letterman gig 5 or 6 days before we flew out. We knew it was a possibility for about a month, but the confirmation was that quick. The biggest takeaway from that whole situation for me was that you always need to be on top of your game because you never know when you’ll be called in for a gig. It was pretty insane though. It was super stressful, we got no sleep, and our piano player almost broke his hand within an hour of landing, but I wouldn’t have done it any other way. It was really the first time I’d seen a whole plan come together so quick and it was a huge confidence boost knowing I could handle it. Plus, the last night I was on, I filmed, hopped on a plane, flew back home, and watched myself on TV in my dorm room. It was almost like an out of body experience.

GC: I’ve seen your group perform live and it is one of the most intense, electrifying, powerful and energetic experiences for an audience. Where do you as group cultivate that intensity? And how do you sustain it through sometimes a 2–3 hour show?

ZL: With our type of music, you can’t be boring. It’s just impossible. We’re trying to carry on the tradition of all the early Rock ‘n’ Roll musicians we look up to. Rock ‘n’ Roll was wild; sometimes even considered the Devil’s Music. That’s pretty darn intense, we just feed off of that. Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bill Haley and the Comets. Their main concern was having fun and we like to honor that. At any given moment someone in the band can look around and think “hey, this show could be more fun.” Next thing you know, I’m standing on my bass, playing the guitar player’s guitar, he’s playing my bass, our drummer’s throne is kicked halfway across the stage, and our piano player is playing piano behind his head. It’s like a domino effect, all it takes it one guy to get a little crazy. Afterwards, we’re all super sore and regret every minute of it, but we just do it again the next time because when you’re on stage, it just wouldn’t be good show unless you give everything you have.

- Gina Carlson

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It was all a lie from the very beginning.I thought he was an artist like me but he was a forgerpainting a Van Gogh of emotion but the brush strokes were all wrongand the paint was filled with lead.

He used mein every sense of the word.Yes,even that sense.He toyed with me,yelled when I wasn’t to blame,walked away so I would chase him,accused me of loving someone elsewhen it was her name branded on his heart.He smashed his own possessions.Something had to break.He held a knife to his wristjust to see the tears in my eyesand hear my voice quiver

Satisfied.He slashed his shoulderand crumpled in a heap on the cold floor.

His venomous love changed me.Once a proud headliner,I sat back in the shadowsand let him steal the show.He went away and took the spotlight with him,with that girl who “understands him.”They should take their act global.God knows they’ve both been in enough beds.I was numb in the dark,a box of matches my only friend.I closed the curtains forever.I watched them go up in smoke.I burned my empty theatre to ashes.Sometimes I still tread them on the carpet.

The Arsonist Aries Radatz

carlson contest poetryhonorable mention

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1. felicia roumeliotis book cover series: roald dahl graphic design

2. felicia roumeliotis book cover series: roald dahl graphic design

3. brittany cavanaugh human torso collage mixed media 8 in x 15.5 in

4. natalie monte delicate arch oil pastels 10 in x 7 in

4. natalie monte dementia ink 10 in x 7 in

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Picket FencePatrick Erwin

carlson contest poetry second place winner

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Eighteen hour shift slams to a closecompany man, feeling like a robotno sleep, few words, out of luckblisters in his ragged old shoes

The young man heads to the old man barcracks open a lukewarm can of PBR raises a toast to no one in particularunhappy hour - this place is dead

Dead like the inside of his eyesor the bad toupee his boss wears so proudlydead like the heart of the belligerent bourgeoisthat tightens his noose and signs his check

She used to get a manicure once a week now she nervously chews them down to the root stubs her toe rearranging the furniture salvaging the deck chairs on the Titanic

A cigarette in one hand, double wide stroller in the other she runs rings and digs frenetic grooves around the block boxy minivans shimmer in the light of the cul de sac carousel and she remembers: limbo is Dante’s first level of hell

A day since they last saw each other only gets a muttered hello, a tepid kiss on her cheek conversation moves to question, turns into an argument accusations become daggers, slings and arrows of lament

She tries to rein him in, to hold and disperse lightning with soft wordshis heartbeat loud angry wings flapping in his ears, drowning out reason

And as his fist makes an impact on her faceanother post in her picket fence is knocked out of place.

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1. suzanna vasko the tales of persephone: demeter digital painting 12 in x 18 in

2. suzanna vasko the tales of persephone: persephone digital painting 18 in x 12 in

3. brittany cavanaugh stuck in the headlights sharpie, pen, & ink 21.5 in x 15.5 in

4. derek van hoose seize the day typography 20 in x 16 in

5. pat conroy oil poo ceramics 7.5 in x 6.75 in x 6.5 in

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carlson contest poetryhonorable mention

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My hands are an empty classroom,desks set up in perfect rows,

flag waving in the phantom breath of all the students yet to come,a vacant chalkboard, waiting.

My hands are the leaves of a plantreaching towards the sunlight.

My hands are your sunlight.

My hands are a homeless man’s first hundred dollar donation,

the moment he finds meaningamong the voices screaming in his head,

the moment he realizes they were always his motherreminding him that money doesn’t buy happiness,

but it sure as hell helps in this world.

My hands are the same man’s heart dropping extra change in a donation bin

on the way to his first job interview.

My hands are dressed in a brand new suit.

My hands are a sewing machine, gently, but effectively mending you.

MY HANDSEmily Darow

1 21. amy renee johnson insanity cut construction paper 18 in x 18 in

3. amy renee johnson futuristic gun graphite 5.25 in x 11 in

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2. samantha korsak dreaming chance mixed media 17 in x 13 in

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lonely

tower Maiden Awaits her

Prince Charming But he Will not Be there Not yet.

A dark bank of clouds Settles over the castle

A flash of lightning, an eruption of thunder

Gargoyle And still the Maiden waits. Gargoyle Below, her captor sits, feasting At a long table topped with

Rich delicacies. The wooden door, IMPREGNABLE,

Leads to a moat, Uncrossable The castle stands

On a cliff Unscalable Beyond a forest UNNAVIGATABLE Beyond a maze USOLVABLE.

The Prince wipes the Minotaur blood off his sword and rounds another corner.

THE TOWERJohn Funderburg

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Infatuation Burgeons for the Girl from Hunts Point.

The girl whose lighthouse eyes no longer OSCILLATEbut gradually D I M beneath

her burnt-amber s u n s e tcasting shadowy bruised tar-blackreflections on the beaches of her eyelids

while her arms are s l o w l ytornfrom the reams of skinthat bind

a connecting-of-the-dots puzzle her children could never figure out

as to how her once prussian-blue veins are now hidden by debasing craters of lavender and olive encrusting the azure

throbbing of waves upon the eyes like lighthouses.

*Credit to Chris Arnade’s “Faces Of Addiction” photo of Vanessa.

THE GIRL FROM HUNTS POINTNicholas Matthopoulos

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If you watched the fifth season of the reality competition show, The Voice, then you will probably recognize the name, Anthony Paul! He joined the team of celebrity judge Cee-lo Green and competed all the way to the “Knockout” rounds before he was voted off the show. I recently sat down with Paul (a freshman at Elmhurst College) and talked about his talent, his experience on the show, and what the future holds for him.

Emily Durham: What is your musical background? Have you been singing all your life?

Anothy Paul: I just started singing one day, actually! My dad tells me I started singing because there was a movie on called James and the Giant Peach, and James has a song he sings about himself. My dad says I used to always sing that. I also recall seeing Destiny’s Child on TV. Beyonce Knowles did a riff and I thought, oh let me try that. So that’s how I think I found my voice. I didn’t have my first onstage performance until the 6th grade. After that I was in middle school show choir and high school show choir for the past 4 years. I did concert choir then an a cappella choir as well.

ED: How did you decide to audition for The Voice?

AP: It all started when I was a sophomore in high school, when [the television show] X Factor came to America. The state of Ohio had their own version of the X Factor and the auditions were only 45 min away from my town. My dad took me to the auditions. I sang “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics and I won! That moved me to the front of the line to the actual X Factor auditions in Chicago, but I ended up not making it.

ED: So you moved on to a different show?

AP: Yeah, I said to myself, let me try The Voice. By then I was a senior and I talked to my mom, who said,

“No you need to worry about college now.” But it didn’t matter to me, so I secretly packed my bags. My mom

came home and said, “What are you doing?!”

ED: You were going to go without her permission?!

AP: Yes, I didn’t care! Eventually she broke down that day and drove me herself to Chicago to the auditions.

ED: Can you describe the audition process for The Voice?

AP: There were numerous audition rounds. My first audition was in Chicago and I waited in line for eight hours! They put me in a group of a hundred, then they put me in a group of fifty, then whittled it down to ten. They took my group of ten in to a room and asked us to sing one at a time. The producer chose two of us out of the ten and I thought I made it! But then I had to sing for them again and they put me through to the next round. The next audition wasn’t until three days later so I had to drive back to Ohio for school and then back to Chicago for the second round of auditions. For that audition, I had to sing in a studio over a recording. Then they told me that if I got an email by March 8th I would be flown to LA for the

“Executive Round” auditions. Well, on March 7th I got the email so I was off to Los Angeles! I sang for the executives then flew back to Ohio, and shortly after that, I got a call saying that I was considered for blind auditions.

ED: Are those the auditions we saw on television?

AP: Yes. So I was flown out again and fitted for costumes and such. So then, as you saw on television, I sang for the celebrity judges and Cee-lo [Green] turned his chair around and chose me for his team.

ED: Can you describe a typical day during your time on the show?

AP: On interview days, you would get up at 5am. You would get on your wardrobe and be shoved in a van and go to hair and makeup. After that, you would sit

the voice’s anthony paul: an in-depth interview

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and wait for your turn for interviews. You could go as late as 11pm on those days. On taping days, you would wake up, get your wardrobe on and be taken to the holding area. The first singers wouldn’t start until 12pm but they gave everyone time to warm up. We would get back to the hotel on those days around 5pm or 6pm.

ED: Did you ever get any time off?

AP: Oh yeah, we would have a day or two off here and there. The thing I like about The Voice is the first thing they say to you is, “You are the show. Without you, we don’t have a show. You aren’t a number, you are a person. If you ever need something, tell us.”

ED: It’s great that the show treated all of you like people instead of products!

AP: Absolutely. One of the contestants even chipped her tooth in the middle of production and they took her to the dentist in the middle of the day and paid for it.

ED: Did you feel like you grew as an artist/singer during the whole process?

AP: I can definitely tell that my range is a lot higher. And I feel a lot more comfortable on stage now. Before The Voice, I did have some experience performing at big venues with my high school show choir, but I was with forty other people! With The Voice you were just thrown out there to experience it by yourself. It helped me to feel more secure and to be more self-aware while performing. For example, when I’m performing with ensembles at college, I’m constantly checking myself. Are you standing up straight? Are you doing this? Are you doing that?

ED: What was your proudest moment?

AP: Getting a chair. You go on the show believing that you can sing. A lot of people believe that the opinions of people

don’t matter, but when you have one of the most famous artists in the world say, “You can sing, I want you on my team,” it tells me I was meant for this. But it also validates that I am on the right career track.

ED: What did you take away from The Voice that you can apply to your major at Elmhurst College?

AP: I would say learning terms that relate to music contracts. When it came to contracts I had no idea what they were talking about. I was in that in-between stage where I was 18 and out of high school but I wasn’t quite an adult yet so I had no knowledge of these terms. I remember telling them to give me the contract so I could sign it without reading it, which was probably naïve of me in a way.

ED: What is your ultimate goal as a performer?

AP: I have many goals. I want to be that “it” person. I really relate to Beyonce’s story. She just grew up singing and was on Star Search. Not many people know she was on Star Search and lost. I was on The Voice and lost! But losing didn’t stop her. I want to be on that level on day. I want to be able to secretly put out a record and have it do well on the charts. I want to perform at the Super Bowl one day. A lot of people tell me that is crazy, but I don’t see myself doing anything else. I’m often asked if I’m afraid of not succeeding, but I say no. It’s just a feeling I have.

ED: You just trust your intuition.

AP: Yes. Like, my intuition was right during my X Factor audition. Something told me I was not going to make it, and I didn’t. When people asked me how far I was going to make it on The Voice, I said, “oh I will definitely get a chair.” And it happened. It just goes to show that you should trust yourself, and you will go far.

- Emily Durham

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2. alex safford if we wanted to etching 14 in x 10.5 in

3. aleks klocek light crossing digital photograph 5 in x 7 in

4. aleks klocek 3 a.m. digital photograph 5 in x 7 in

5. peter flockencier spotted owl security graphic design

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When she found the dead bird,she decided it was going to be a

“no looking both waysbefore crossing the street” type of day,

even walked a few blockswith her eyes closedbefore she rememberedwhat she might be missing.

When she finally came across an abandoned farmhouse,its backyard filled with sunflowersacres deep and still singing,

she began to wonder what kind of peoplewould leave something so beautiful to fend for themselves,remembered the dead bird.

When she finally stopped crying,she noticed there were more clouds herethan there were in the rest of her life,and began searching for the “whys”

felt her feet leave the pavementas her instinct taught her to runfrom the sunflowers, the bird, the deserted farm.

When she finally found the smoke stacks,realized it was them creating the cloudsshe stopped believing in Godand began praying to the factory workers,

referred to herself as an unwelcome bus,a little too much noise and pollutiondriving through the lives of the meek,trying hopelessly to make the right turns.

unwelcomeEmily Darow

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3. jordan cannon-bobholz to touch the sun acrylic 16 in x 20 in

4. sofija todorovic dead & alive charcoal & pencil 14 in x 17 in

5. pat conroy meatier ceramics 30 in x 8 in x 8 in

6. alexandra prejzner anakletos acrylic 18 in x 24 in

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I was born with desperate hands. They always seem to be clinging to something. Like that high tree branch in fifth grade when the other kids chased me after they found out I’d kissed a girl. They’ve clung to a door knob with the weight of my thin, thirteen-year-old body pulling it closed, my brother

Adrian yanking on the other side after he found out. I don’t know how I’d convinced him not to tell our parents, but he didn’t. Thank God. And when I was seventeen, my hands clung to Mal openly – our fingers woven together so tight I thought love itself had sewn us that way – I’d finally mustered the courage to admit to my parents that I was queer. But Latino families don’t like that. So there I was, seventeen. Disowned. Homeless. But at least I had Mal, right?

tIt’s been a year since I was kicked out, and I actually don’t mind the fact that I don’t have four walls surrounding me. I’ve adapted. I’ve heard strangers mutter that I should go to a shelter as they pass by, but I’ve also heard some horror stories about how queer people are treated, and I’d really rather not chance it. I guess what I miss the most, now that Mal is gone, is affection. People treat you different when you’re sitting on the sidewalk. When you’ve got an empty McDonald’s cup full of change and you’re hoping, maybe, someone will drop a dollar bill in there. We’re worthless, to a lot of people. They avoid our eyes and walk quicker when they pass us. Turn their heads and pretend to answer a cell phone. Even if they drop change in my cup, they still don’t treat me like I’m someone. They don’t ask me how I am. Don’t care to hear my story. Don’t care to strike up a conversation. About a week ago, I learned that not everyone is like that.

The day I met Josephine, my hands grasped a few Twix bars and an apple I’d stolen from the 7-Eleven off Michigan Avenue, the one that’s right across from

SHE’S WHaT I NEEdChristine Petrowich

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Millennium Park. It was easy to disappear in the gardens there, between the tourists and the tulips. I sat on a low ledge overlooking the sidewalk, my legs swinging back and forth, wiping the bit of juice that ran down my chin from the apple. Right after I’d gotten kicked out, Mal would have been there with me, wiping that juice from my face. Her cute nose wrinkling while she tells me how childish I look. It’s hard not to miss the Mal I knew back then.

Someone cleared their throat in front of me. I looked up and recognized the familiar 7-Eleven

uniform. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at the store clerk from the same store I’d just stolen from. A thin, dark-skinned woman with long braids. I braced myself. But really, how much trouble can someone get in for stealing a few Twix bars? …And an apple?

"Look lady I-" "‘Look lady’ nothin'. You shut your mouth.” She shifted

onto her left leg, her left hand resting atop her hip, elbow cocked out to the side. Her eyebrows raised, lips pursed.

“Here.” She tossed me a sandwich. Ham on wheat bread.I turn the sandwich over, expecting to see what?

Mold? A recent expiration date? But I find nothing. What do I say?

“What? Y’want me to take it back? Give it here.” She reached her arm out.

“No – no, I mean, thanks, but why?” I couldn’t even form sentences. No one had really spoken to me in at least a month. My brother wasn’t allowed to speak to me. Mal had overdosed months ago. Strangers typically wanted nothing to do with me. Why was this woman different? What was in it for her?

She exhaled, not just her breath, but everything that made her stand so straight. Something melted her. "It's a good a sandwich, kid, just eat it." She lifted herself up onto the ledge beside me. I knew I smelled; I tried to

move away. She studied me, her brows furrowed and relaxed a few times. She was mulling something over.

“My name’s Josephine.” She stretched out her caramel hand, waiting for me to take it. I studied it first; chipped nail polish, a simple wedding ring, callouses. Working hands. Hands that have memorized the feel of every item on the shelves of that 7-Eleven. I took her hand. We shook.

“So what’s the name of the girl who keeps stealin’ shit from my store, anyway?” she laughed and shoved me playfully. Apparently she’d caught me a few times. Whoops.

“I’m Chelsea.”“Alright, Chelsea.” She released my hand. “Now quit

stealing stuff. All ya gotta do is ask.” She smiled. It was so genuine. It was a wide, toothy smile, with crooked, coffee-stained teeth, but it was beautiful.

“You should come by the store tomorrow night, hun. If you don’t see me, just ask. I start work at 6. Maybe you can help out. Get a change of scenery for a bit.”

I nodded, and smiled back.I’ve visited that 7-Eleven every day since we’d met. I’m

already pretty attached. I look up to her. She’s just so put together, even on days like today, when she’s forced to wear her ripped jeans. She actually calls them her

“laundry jeans” which makes me laugh. It’s silly, but I can tell they’re her favorite. She plays it off like they aren’t, but they’re so worn. So used. They’re damaged, sure, they aren’t perfect, but neither are we.

She told me today, that she was homeless once. “That’s why I followed you out after I’d seen you the

other day,” she explained, “I’d seen you a few times, and I know you were stealing stuff. But I got to thinkin’ maybe the food isn’t what you need most. It wasn’t what I needed.”

She was right.

carlson contest fiction first place winner

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With a combination of cultivated and raw rock and roll, and an upbeat top-forty synth-mix, Blood Red Boots is out to make a name for themselves in the music industry. Since forming in 2011 and playing their first shows in 2012, the young twenty-somethings have been marking their territory not only in the Chicagoland area, but in large music festivals and even on national television. William Heschl, Blood Red Boots’ lead guitarist, simply states, “We honestly just create things, and hope that people like them. It’s been working out pretty well for us thus far…we just grab every opportunity we can to not only create our music, but perform it.” I had the chance to interview William, an Elmhurst College music business major and the lead guitarist of the rock-pop group, about his history, current work, and dreams for the future of the group.

Alexandria Weets: So, who all is in the group, what do they do for the group, and how did they become a part of the group?

William Heschl: We have Keith Patrick, who sings and also gives us the “skeleton” of the songs. We all contribute to making the music by putting in our own influences, but the songs are usually about his life and his experiences. He’s the one who created the band, too. He started the idea while he lived in LA, and moved to Chicago to work with some musicians that he had long heard of. Then there’s Eric Hays (an Elmhurst College music business student), who plays keyboards and synthesizers. Cyrus is our bass player (a former Elmhurst College student), and we actually met because he helped me in music theory my freshman year and he got me to join the band! Joel Baer

(an Elmhurst College alumni), actually gigs with Eric’s father in a Chicago jazz group, Martini Lunch.

AW: What is your personal music background? What got you interested in this specific genre and made you want to start making this music?

WH: I first started with music when I was in fifth grade and I joined band. When I reached eighth grade, I just picked up a guitar and taught myself. I had a friend who was taking guitar lessons from a jazz guy that graduated from Elmhurst College. I was also in a metal band, which will remain nameless. However, it was a segue to get me to start playing in the style that Blood Red Boots plays in.

AW: In what ways would you say Blood Red Boots is successful?

WH: We’ve really been able to build our success through a competition we won on WGN Chicago, called the Breakthrough Band competition, where we won $10,000 and got to record with a top Chicago producer. We played at The House of Blues, and also had the opportunity to play at Summerfest in Milwaukee in 2013, which was definitelyour largest live performance that we’ve done so far. One of the best things have has recently happened, is that we have been featured on television. One of our songs was on 90210 on The CW, and we were also the featured song in the background for the new season of the CBS show Survivor. I’m also proud of our records. Our self-titled album was recorded through WGN’s Breakthrough Band. Then there’s Love + Destruction, and our newest EP titled Countless Night which will be released in May of 2014.

interview with blood red boots’ lead guitarist, william heschl

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AW: What are your major influences in your music, and how does it reflect your creative process in music?

WH: We as individuals are all influenced by so many different genres. Keith is really into top forty and country. I used to be heavily inspired by metal, but now I’ve gotten a lot more into pop. College has introduced me to a jazz influence, also. Eric’s history/musical taste is similar to mine, but he’s also more into electronic music. And Cyrus is a metal guy. We all bring totally different elements to the table. Our musical training is also different, and equally important. For example, if Keith has a concept and doesn’t quite know how to make it sound like what he’s looking for, Eric and I can bring some music theory in, but Keith always gives us the basic forms of our songs.

AW: What are your short term and long term goals for the band?

WH: Hopefully we’ll be signed to a label! Although, first, we really want to play at Lollapalooza. Through BMI , (a music-royalty and production company), we have madesome mutual contacts. We tried to get in this year, but didn’t realize how far in advanced we were supposed to book it. We just keep badgering, and keep our confidence. It’s what has given us these opportunities. By keeping our

“we can do this”, attitude, persistence will prevail. As for our long term goals, we really don’t have many. We takeadvantage of what’s in front of us, and just live in the moment. We have , “do it now” mind set. We’re going to think about it now, work on it now, and jump on it. We’re not afraid to just set ourselves out there, and it’s so far gotten us noticed.

- Alexandria Weets

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This prairie needs no violins,no bows of horsehairpressing against metal strings,to make sound.

But their carcasses litter the Earth.Man-made piano keys,and rusted flutes headsaccompany the symphony throughout.

Every note changes, every dayas the sun rises out of the ground.I know that when I leave this place,this song changes its sound.

And I cannot decide,if it is beautifulto behold a musical graveyardwithin an un-harvestable instrument,held in human hands.

Walking in this prairie,the wind blows against me.Through the cattails and willow whipsand piped flute heads, tunnels for sound,I cannot truly tellwhich makes the whistle all aroundme.

Inspired by the painting Prairie Song by Mrs. Hill.

GHOSTS OF MUSIC

Mikayla Matz

Christine Petrowich

I seldom meet five a.m.with its dusty rays of ethereal sunlightpeering through closed blinds,its White-throated Sparrowsgreeting warmth with a clear tunebut when I do,it’s when our mouths collide,the taste of last night’s Camelsand Jack Daniels lingering on your lips,remnants of sweet colognecoaxing me closer. I seldom meet five a.m.with its soft snores echoing off lofty ceilings and marbled floors,its collection of glittering dewupon yellow tulip petals;but when I do,it’s with tidal waves of wordscrashing against our excited tongues;tales of Lipan Streetand a boisterous pine forest in Wild Roseflooding our consciousness.It’s when weaving intricate dreamsof becoming a fiction novelistor a humble musicianenthrall us. Perhaps I’ll be more inclinedto greet the other side of fivenow that I knowyou.

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Our town is near the forested mountains. Some of the houses are built into the side of the hills. The sky is always gray here and it’s strange if it doesn’t rain every day. There is a main road that divides our town—a stretch of road no more than a half mile on which you can find anything you might want. There’s a barber’s, a grocer’s, a bicycle shop, a candy store, a comic book store, a gas station, a hair salon, a store that sells washers and dryers, a funeral home, and lots others. When I think about our street, I always picture it littered with damp leaves and full of puddles from the last rainfall. I also imagine it with no people. Empty.

No one wants to be friends with a mask-wearer. Except maybe someone else who wears, but we aren’t common enough for that to happen. We’re okay with that. At school, I don’t talk with anybody, and they don’t talk with me. And that’s okay.

Masks aren’t allowed during class—teachers are mean that way. I try to pay attention there, sitting at my desk, but it’s hard when I don’t feel normal. My teacher, Mrs. Morrell, makes me keep my mask in my backpack. Sometimes, when she’s teaching, she’ll call on me for an answer and I won’t hear her the first time. I’ll be looking at my backpack, hung on a peg on the wall, lined up with all the other backpacks. I wonder if the mask sees without me. I’d hate to be stuck in a backpack all day without anything to look at.

None of the shopkeepers like my mask, except for Mr. Piper, the man who owns the comic book store. If I go out with my mom into town, or by myself, the people who own the stores will ask me to take my mask off or leave. But Mr. Piper always smiles at me when I come in his store. That’s how I’ll remember him—through the eyeholes of my mask—looking over the glass display case, down at me.

I like to sit at the tables inside and read comic books. Mr. Piper brings me hot chocolate when it’s cold out. If I have any allowance that week, I’ll buy the comic I like the best.

At lunchtime, the school goes to the cafeteria. If it’s warm enough, there’s an outside cafeteria with picnic tables run end to end and a roof overhead. There isn’t much extra room to sit, but I always end up having a table for myself. When I eat the sandwich my mom made for me, I have to pull up the chin on the mask because the sandwich doesn’t fit through the mouth hole.

There’s a big bridge on the eastern end of town and a green river runs beneath it. Some Saturdays, my dad will take me fishing. We’ll spend the day out there. One time, I caught a real big one, but there’s mostly just puny ones. My dad likes to talk to me, and I like talking to him. When I speak, I can hear myself echo in my ears. My dad doesn’t care if I wear my mask when we go fishing.

The MaskJohn Funderburg

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At recess, I run laps around the playground. I love to run fast. I run with my arms spread out or darting straight ahead and I feel the wind pull my hair back and my face feels good when the cold air comes in the eyeholes and mouth hole. Sometimes I have to take off my mask and wipe off my face because it gets so sweaty. No other kids run with me, and that’s okay.

The only time when everyone likes my mask is on Halloween—I can even wear it all through class that day! Some people say that on Halloween, for a change, I should take off my mask for the whole day. My mom says I can do whatever I’d like, so I just keep it on. Sometimes I think about taking it off on Halloween. I wonder if people will still recognize me, or if they would think that a new kid moved into town.

When I go trick-or-treating with my dad and mom, those who know me ask me to take off my mask or else they won’t give me a piece of candy. When they do this, I just go to the next door. There’s plenty of candy to be gotten. I can tell it upsets my mom that those people won’t give me candy, but I tell her it’s okay. They just don’t understand. When people ask me what I’m dressed up as, I tell them I’m just me. Some kids say that that’s scary enough. I don’t mind what they say. When I visit the Piper’s house for trick-or-treat, Mrs. Piper always gives me a full-sized candy bar.

At the end of school, I put my mask back on and the bus takes me home. I sit at the very front, next to the bus driver, Gus. When I found out his name, I told him I liked it because it rhymed with bus. He thought that was funny. Gus always talks to me. He asks me how my day went and so I tell him. I like it when he takes the bus down a hilly road and I grab the metal bar on the divider in front of me and I pretend I’m on a rollercoaster. Sometimes I pretend to yell. So does Gus. He laughs, and I laugh. He tells me I’m a good kid.

My mask is white and rubbery and smooth all down the front. It has two squarish holes for the eyes and

an ovally hole for the mouth which almost looks like a smile. There’s padding on the inside, so it hugs my face comfortably. One time, I saw a trophy in the award case at school that reminded me of my mask. The trophy was for a play that the school had done, and the state had judged it one of the best. The trophy had two golden masks on the top, one smiling, the other frowning. The shape of those masks is the same as mine, but mine doesn’t have a nose or cheeks. It’s just flat and smooth except for the holes. My hair sticks out of the top. No matter how long my mom combs it, it still sticks straight up and is bent into weird angles.

When I get home, I do my homework at the kitchen table and my mom makes me a glass of chocolate milk. She puts a bendy straw in it so I don’t have to keep pulling my mask up. After I do homework, I usually have a short time to play in the woods before dinner. Behind our house, the ground is flat for a while, then a big hill stretches up and up. There are trees everywhere. If you go forward and to the right, there is a narrow rut that leads to a small gully that divides the big hill behind our house from another hill next to it, not as big. Dead leaves cover the ground. There is a steep drop between the hills at one point, and far below is a thin creek. If you’re careful, you can go down there. I pick big stones from the creek and I put them next to a great tree that fell a long time ago. Over time, I built a short wall that runs along the tree a while. Sometimes I sit on the log and watch for hawks above. Sometimes, there’s even deer! When I see a deer, I get extra quiet so I won’t scare it off.

One year, for a couple of months, some people put on masks and did awful things. Homes were broken into, the bicycle shop was robbed, a few families had stones thrown through their windows and they told us that girls weren’t supposed to go anywhere alone.

One night when Mr. Piper was locking up the comic book store, a group of people drove by in a car and threw a brick at him. It smashed the front window of his store and it almost hit him in the head. He said the people were wearing masks and that they sped away.

carlson contest fiction second place winner

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I was sad to hear that. People at school told me I was one of them—one of the awful ones who robbed and hurt people. The police came and talked to us and told us to be safe and to always have someone with us at all times, just in case. It was unlikely that anything would happen, though.

Eventually, those people who wore the masks got caught. They were found living in a small shack in the woods. It was on the news. I asked my dad why they did it, why they wore the mask, and he told me that they must have felt liberated with the mask on. I asked him what that meant, and he told me that they used their masks to become someone else so they could do those awful things. But I don’t think that’s true. I think they were already awful before they put on the mask.

When the sun starts to set, I know it’s time to head home, so I leave my stone wall for the day and head back to the house. The hill leading down into the gulley is hard to climb sometimes. When I get home, I enter through the back door and the house always smells good because dinner’s almost ready. Mom tells me to wash up, so I go to the sink in the hall bathroom and wash my hands. Some days I notice the mask in the mirror, sometimes I don’t.

If dad isn’t home by then, he is soon, and we sit at the dinner table and eat. We all take turns talking about our day. Sometimes, after we’re done eating, we’ll play a board game. On special nights, dad will ask me to show him my stone wall. We’ll take flashlights and he and I will go back down to the creek and I’ll show him. He always has nice things to say. He’ll put a hand on top of the wall

and walk it from end to end and tell me how proud of me he is. Sometimes, he gets down on his knees and smiles at me and talks to me and he points his flashlight at me and I can see my white face reflected in his blue-green eyes.

I don’t remember when or where I got my mask, but my mom and dad told me I found it at a yard sale a couple years ago. We were in another town; on a road trip, they told me. I had wandered down one of the aisles of stuff for sale and my parents told me they were scared for a minute because they couldn’t find me. When they at last found me, I was digging in a box of junk underneath a table. My mom pulled me out and I was wearing the mask. My parents told me I was crazy about having them buy it for me. The mask didn’t have a price tag on it, so my dad took it up to the old lady who was running the yard sale. She was confused and didn’t remember putting that mask out for sale. In fact, she didn’t remember ever having seen the thing before. She shrugged and told my dad he could have it for two dollars.

When it’s time for bed, my dad reads me some of a book, then he and my mom kiss me goodnight. Carefully, my mom takes off my mask and puts it on the table beside my bed. She’s the only one I’ll let do that. There are a three hundred glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. They glow green.

A few months ago, a girl moved into town. She started going to my school and she was one year ahead of me. I heard whispers, and there were looks in my

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direction for a couple of days—more than usual. Other kids said that there was another freak at school.

I saw her one day, through the window, while her class was at recess. She wore a pink hoodie and she had a brown ponytail and she wore a mask. It was a light blue color and it was different than mine. It had more features, cheekbones and a big chin and it had eyebrows and a smile. None of the other kids were playing with her. The entire period, she drew on the rain-covered sidewalk with chalk.

When our class went out for recess, I looked down at her drawings on the wet cement and I touched them. My fingers were smeared with peach, red, and white swirls. Her drawings were beautiful.

Now that I’m a little older, I’ll take a shower in the morning before school. After my shower, I’ll put on my mask and I’ll get some cereal. Dad’s already left for work by morning time, but mom will sit with me, and she drinks coffee. She will kiss me on my head and tell me how much she loves me.

Now that I’m a little older, I can walk to the bus stop by myself. A few other kids wait at the same street corner, but none of them talk to me. Gus comes with his bus and I sit next to him and we laugh and he drives me to school.

It took me a couple of days to find her again. After my recess, when I would look at her sidewalk beautifuls, I would try to sneak a peek into the other classrooms

as our class marched by them and try to spot her pink hoodie. I never was able to find her in school, but one day, after class, I found her sitting on the front steps of the school. She faced away from me, her backpack on the ground next to her, her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. I stood next to her quietly, not sure what to say. I felt excited. But in a different way. I said hello, and she turned, her light blue face looking up at me, smiling. She was quiet too for a second, then she said hello back. I asked her if she missed her bus, and she told me her mom was running late. She got picked up by her mom after school because kids on the bus made fun of her.

I had just a minute or two before my bus was going to leave, but I sat down next to her. I told her I liked her drawings. She thanked me. I asked her where she lived, and she told me. It was close to my house, but just far enough that she had a different bus driver. I asked her if she would maybe want to come over to my house one day. She told me yes.

I had to leave for my bus, but we agreed to talk the next day.

She comes over most days now, after school, and after homework we go down to the gulley and she brings her chalk in a pink bucket and she has begun to decorate each of the rocks in the wall I built. It’s coming along nice. Each rock is unique now. We talk about everything.

When the sun starts to go down, we go back up to the house and her mom comes and picks her up.

She leaves with a light blue smile and a promise to see me tomorrow.

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A Riddle David Leviton

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I confound geniuses yet children outsmart meoften I rhymebut I’m just as likely not toI give you all you needwithout you knowingit is my purpose to challenge youwhat am I?

I was born of thoughtand will die without itI’m sustained by curiosityand grow on imaginationI do my best to confuse youbut long for you to understand medecipher my secretswhat am I?

I hold contestsbut you don’t watch meI try and evade youbut you don’t catch meyou will hate meuntil you know meso try to guesswhat am I?

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1. jordan cannon-bobholz be fierce acrylic 18 in x 24 in

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49This is my poem in celebration of my fat girl statusthis is my poem to say out loudI’m glad I had support from friends and family, glad I had television and movies to distract myself with, glad there were libraries and notebooks to delve into and create my person, and places that I could call my own.

This poem is for Matt, my best friend, with cerulean eyes that knew I was lying when I said I didn’t know who wrote ‘fatty’ in permanent ink on my locker,who walked down the hallway elbow in elbow the first time I tried to dress pretty,who found me alone in the practice room and dragged me into the cafeteriabut who realized when I didn’t need a push, but a thigh pressed up against my ownand kept everything hidden and left suddenly one rainy day in April.

This poem is for Mark, my replacement best friend, with hazel eyes that understood that my ‘fuck off ’ meant ‘please stay,’and who argued with me for hours about who was better, Sam or Dean, who forced me to mingle with the thin people by going to homecoming, football games, and parties, and who asked me one day in the costume closet when we were folding pantshow I would feel if he didn’t like girls, and I just smiled and patted his cheekand thanked him for confirming what I already knew and for admitting that he too was differentin a way that some people would find offensive.

This poem is for my best friend Bri, who commiserated with me over a milkshake about what a fucking nightmare it was to find clothes that fit and that didn’t look like something Mrs. Grape would lounge around in, and who yelled right along with me when the quarterback and his girlfriendwere found making out in the theatre hallway, our hallway, and who knew what it felt like when a chair creaked underneath me.

This poem celebrates my honest grandmother, who told me with a smile when I was in fifth grade that I would have a beautiful figure, that I would be beautiful if I lost some weight, and thanks to her I learned that there was something wrong with me,that I should expect criticism and judgment everywhere I went.

C e l e b r a t i o n Mary Podrasky

50This poem celebrates my thin best friend Alison, who proudly walked down the hall beside me in her XS clothing, who shushed her strict Vietnamese mother when she started telling me about howvegetarianism would solve all my weight “problems,”and I’m thankful for her late night phone calls, her in the family van, me curled up on the couch, talking about how Faulkner brokethe sound barrier of literature and that Bronte and Austen are extremely overratedand how I was Mary and she was Alison, both perfect just the way we were despitewhat condemnation we both received.

This is a poem against thin privilege, against shame.

This is a poem to say:that I’m going to eat what I want to when I’m in the café with you, that I’m going to take candy from the bag when it’s passed around in class, that I’m going to work out in the gym no matter how much I jiggle and sweat, that I’m going to wear shorts and a tank top when it’s 80 degrees outside, your opinions be damned.

And in case anyone here confuses the paraphernalia with the thing itself let me add that I have let the words in, that you have made me cry, that I wasn’t always fat and proud - there was a time when I was just fat and attempted to be like you struggled to become like you, but realized that I am not like you I am me.

Understand, I know exactly what I got: fat, fat friends and friends who are not fatand I am through with being shamed, feeling shame and apologizing for who I am, because the voices that say that thin is in, that thin is what should be aspired are wrong and have no right to judge what they not only don’t getbut what they have never even attempted to comprehend.

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1. alex safford the loop wood block print 26 in x 16 in

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5 6

2. megan schram sweet red valley oaks graphic design

3. vincent lotesto circle five: the wrathful wood block print 14 in x 12 in

4. vincent lotesto god! save ukraine! multi-color polyester lithograph 15 in x 11 in

5. megan schram iron man screen print 21 in x 15 in

6. felicia roumeliotis thrift shop screen print 28 in x 15 in

I Reached In Your Throat

I reached in your throat:

And pulled outA skinny sapling birch tree

When the leaves Split the spaceIn your mouthBlocked the traceFrom your teethWhere you bit down

The branch that nearly chokedMy pulsing neck

And I felt sweat Drag its swelled body Matte my hairsAs a cold snail makes intermittentThrusts forward

But I breathed easy on those branchesIn that stress I let them hang thereLet you feel the touchOf your blocked airway

I imagined the fuss The bottom of your stomach beheldPast the acid in the Deeper root-holes left behind

That had to tear from the lining On their way up

But don’t let this green thumb fool youIts only envy’s opposition:My four nailed fingersScratch inside you And my hands collude with poison

Just to wilt this flowerBecause I know she fears old age

I’ll cut the suckers from the trunkAnd stand over your burning limbsAnd we can shake specks of silver In the pool beside your body

So it makes a formless universeBecause blood’s only black in moonlight

carlson contest poetry honorable mentionClayton Dunlap

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We let it scrape our eyes:Those reflected sparksOf broken moonSoon of that spattered god-dustThat delved deep in our shallow sky

With a massed form remained unbrokenAnd still great deaths in due:We’ll interweave our skinny fingersPress our palms ‘til no air’s between

Who needs the blank canvasOn the backs of eye-lidsTo field an instanceSurreal

Whose plain is golden-flowered Sheaves when gatheredStalks shake seedsFree

Onto matted prairie, restingWhere absent bodiesOnce laid Still

And numbers, whose play andFunction persistsCertainty withAscription

Yet operating within presenceLacking, inconsequentialTo engineersDividing

So paramount to inclusion Shifting noise, ink, colorTouch newSaturation

Back in plain view of orange, warm Pink slumped horizon, Engineers gone to Refuge

Static values have no geometry- Splashed synthesisOn pure blackCanvas

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Moth GirlI miss you, little caterpillar—your round belly, the

curves of your breasts, the fullness of your cheeks flush against mine when we make love.

Your hair started falling out last week. Once, it was soft and wooly like a favorite sweater. Comforting. I used to hum and run my fingers through it. I thought I could weave my soul into you and somehow it would stay there.

Last night in bed you tugged at my messy blond ponytail and laughed. Said you’d always been jealous of my looks.

You were always beautiful, I said—I’d repeat it like a spell. A prayer. As if there were magic to these words that could stop the ugly thing inside from transforming you.

You are paper, my moth girl, stretched thin like a membrane.

Fluttering up the stairs every day after work, you perch yourself upon that scale in our apartment. The digits scramble to satisfy you—ninety-seven pounds, as of yesterday.

Five more pounds, you say. Five more pounds. But it will never be enough.I once read that the Luna moth doesn’t even have a

mouth. Do they ever get hungry? They live for a week. Their lives are a whisper, a cotton-head dandelion.

I sit upright and think of this, watching you sleep, curled into yourself to find warmth that will not come, bony shoulder blades protruding from your back—your wings, moth girl. Ready for a wind to ferry you away.

If words were pins, I would save you.

carlson contest poetry first place Melinda Hernandez

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PhoenixI looked at you through stubborn eyes, hoping to find a flash of surrendera flicker of flame turning to ashraining over our bodies, in bittersweet relief.anticipationdeterminationthat kept us seconds apart.You pressed your forehead to mine and I could feelthe incessant heat radiating off your skinwaiting for me,to let it consume me in a burst of flames.No one moved, afraid that one hand brushed across your face,could leave a trail of singed flesh behind.That one twitch of a finger could ignite a sparkthat would send the foundation crumbling around us. We stayedan infinity of heartbeats.Until finally gravity sent you falling into my kiss,and the fever spread, burning us up from the inside out.

Alyson Backus

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literature biographiesmelinda hernandaz

Melinda Hernandez is the Carlson Contest Poetry winner with her submission “Moth Girl.” She graduated in the Class of 2014 with a major in English and a minor in Intercultural Studies focused on LGBT issues. Hernandez normally writes fiction and said she enjoyed learning the craft of short story writing, though she is “a novelist at heart.” “Moth Girl” was submitted as a flash fiction/poetic prose piece to the Carlson Contest. While she was surprised to hear that her flash fiction won the poetry contest, she stated, “Every writer at some point must learn to accept that their writing may move in a direction that they never intended.”

Melinda most often writes Young Adult LGBT fiction and fantasy. Her inspiration comes from her own life, when emotions are strong and she either feels passionate about the topic or has experienced it herself. For now, however, the next step is to enter into the world as a graduate, “Right now I’m set to do a paid internship after graduation, and I’m hoping it leads into a marketing position...I’m going to continue writing on the side in the meantime...Being a full-time writer, I hope, is an eventuality rather than a dream.”

-Rebecca Arriola

christine petrowichChristine Petrowich is a Class of 2014 graduate whose story, “She’s What I Need,” won this year’s Carlson Contest for fiction. The piece is from her English 410 class taught by Dr. Ron Wiginton, which was on writing flash fiction. The story came from an assignment to write a story in 1,000 words or less. “Sometimes a story just manifests itself in my mind,” said Christine when asked about where the idea for the piece came from. The piece took two months and five different drafts to end up where it was now. “So much changed during the duration of this process that Dr. Wiginton wasn’t really satisfied with this piece during class, and actually advised that I didn’t submit to publication,” said Christine. But in an effort to prove him wrong, she decided to submit the story anyways. “I was proud of what I produced…I’m kinda glad I didn’t listen to him.” Christine plans to keep writing after graduation, and hopefully we will see more of her works. She says that she

“writes what needs to be written.” She always has her eyes and ears open for a story, and enjoys to write whatever flows from her mind. Christine has shown through this contest that sticking to your passion does have its rewards, and we wish her good luck in her future endeavors.

-James Arriola, Literature Editor

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music biographiesaditya sharma

Aditya Sharma is a double major in music composition and music business at Elmhurst College. Originally from Kolkata, India, Sharma enjoys making music and is always looking for new opportunities that will expand his horizons as a producer.

“Born to be Free” (2013)

This piece is an excellent example of the electronic music genre. The structure represents a single idea that takes on multiple rhythmic and melodic forms through the entirety of the piece. For Sharma, the piece represents the different ways in which he has defined his purposes and intents in his life, preserving one guiding principle that takes different forms throughout his life.

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andrew caponeAndrew Capone is a junior Music Composition Major at Elmhurst College. Capone is a gifted guitarist in the classi-cal tradition. He has performed on tour with the Elmhurst College Classical Guitar Ensemble under the direction of Steve Suvada. His writing is idiomatic for the guitar, and maintains a lyrical sense of intimacy with the listener.

“Nocture” (2013) is a piece for solo guitar. Similar to Fred-eric Chopin’s melancholic pieces under the same title, Ca-pone’s work exudes a sense of serenity with a directness that truly strikes a chord with the listener.

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jon rarikJon Rarick is a senior at Elmhurst College where he is a double major in Jazz Studies and Music Composition. Having recently won first place at The Luminarts Cultur-al Foundation for his arrangement of Miles Davis’ “Seven Steps to Heaven,” Rarick is a fresh and upcoming writer on the Chicago music scene.

“Astral Perspective” (2013)

This piece manifested as an exercise in composing in a meter other than 4/4 (the majority of jazz music has been written this way). Rarick began with a bass line charac-terized by alternating directions and large intervals that outline the harmonic progression. The melody followed, ul-timately acting like a countermelody to the bass line just as much as a melody itself. Harmonically, he tried to rely less on standard ii-V progressions and instead explore tertian relationships. He added the interlude last, which provides a striking contrast to the other two main sections harmoni-cally and metrically, while still building tension.

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Astral Perspective Composed and Arranged by Jon Rarick

©2013

SCORE

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creative director Angela Koch

art editor Gabriela Czyrek

designers McKinley Skemp Polina Roubinskaia

general staffViolet Luczak advisor Geoff Sciacca

lit. editorJames Arriola

general staffRebecca Arriola

Aileen RyanNicole Mikosz

Kimberly BartoszewskiClayton Dunlap

advisors Janice Tuck-Lively

Mary Zambreno

art literature

musicmusic editor Petra Wasilkoff

advisor David DeVasto

general staffGina Carlson

Emily DurhamAlexandria Weets

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staff

MiddleWestern Voice 2014

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Transcript of MiddleWestern Voice 2014