STLCC-WW 2016 Sycamore

SYCAMOREAN ANNUAL OF POETRY, PROSE AND ART

St. Louis Community College -Wildwood | 2016

I am an artist and an animal rescue advocate.Painting in oils in an expressive way and having the dogs from Stray Rescue as my inspiration has led me to this favorite painting,"Laughing Dogs." I feel it represents my voice in its humor, expressiveness, and passion.

Volume 8 / 2016

EditorsMonica Swindle, Editor and Advisor

Mark Weber, Art Editor and Advisor

Dawn Dupler, Faculty Editor

Lisa Haag, Faculty Editor

Jackie Johnson, Graphic Designer

Gina Tarte, Copy Editor

Dan Yezbick, Faculty Editor

About the Coverartwork by MICHELLE STREIFF | STLCC-Wildwood

S Y C A M O R E 1

Ancient Egyptian culture revered the

Mediterranean sycamore fig tree as a symbol

of immortality, with its fruit symbolizing mercy

and compassion. A biblical mention of the

sycamore fig references Zaccheus, in Luke 19:4,

who climbed a sycamore tree so that he could

have a glimpse of Jesus. Native American stories

feature the American sycamore as having sacred

properties.

Some see it as a magical tree that symbolizes

growth, persistence, strength, and endurance.

Sycamore lore even appears in Missouri author

Mark Twain’s most famous of novels, Tom

Sawyer. Tom almost leaves a sycamore scroll

for his Aunt Polly, but then thinks better of it

and puts it back in his pocket. The sycamore

tree is evident in our own Wildwood, Missouri

community. The brown bark of the sycamore

peels away to reveal its inner core, and during

the winter the pale branches of sycamore groves

stand in contrast to the grey and brown quilt of

neighboring trees.

The sycamore tree has inspired generations with

its quiet, enduring majesty, just as our journal

contributors inspire us by revealing eternal

truths about the nature of life and love.

– Layla Azmi Goushey

about SYCAMORE

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Creative Non-Fiction Gentle Giants Die Slow, Tim Luzecky March to the Tower, Rachel Rolwes

Drama The Fear of Perfection, Emile Hummel

Fiction Four Better and Four Worse, Alyssa Cheney

Poetry And of Clay We are Created, Rachel Uebelein

WILDWOOD CREATIVE WRITING CLUB CONTEST AWARDS

artwork by VICKI HEFTY | STLCC-Wildwood

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Way the Moon Loved, Brittany Thompson (Poetry) .................................................. 6

Careless About Kindergarten, Lizzy Duke (Creative Non-Fiction) ................................... 9

Ruined Smile, Trey Vuichard (Poetry) .............................................................................. 14

My Big Leap, Clarissa Mueth (Creative Non-Fiction) ....................................................... 16

Euphonious Wavelengths, Milkayla Allen (Poetry) .......................................................... 20

Four Better and Four Worse, Alyssa Cheney (Fiction) ..................................................... 22

Break-Up Bruises & See-You-Later Scars, Brittany Thompson (Poetry) ......................... 33

The Fear of Perfection, Emile Hummel (Drama) ............................................................. 34

Gentle Giants Die Slow, Tim Luzecky (Creative Non-Fiction) ......................................... 43

Look On to the Trail Blazed, Michael Moldafsky (Fiction) .............................................. 45

And of Clay We are Created, Rachel Uebelein (Poetry) .................................................. 48

The Painter, Trent Ruckman (Fiction) .............................................................................. 52

Invisible Masks, TJ Wibbenmeyer (Poetry) ...................................................................... 55

Stefanie Ozga Inman, Danielle Morton (Creative Non-Fiction) ...................................... 56

The Divide, Celeste Rhodes (Fiction) ............................................................................... 60

March to the Tower, Rachel Rolwes (Creative Non-Fiction) .......................................... 65

The Between, Victoria Jamski (Fiction) .......................................................................... 69

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artwork by KEVIN BULLOCK | STLCC-Wildwood

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DEDICATED TO RYAN SCARRY, 1994-2015

WRITER, STUDENT, AND FRIEND

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Do you ever think about how the moon must feel? Threading its body through the same track, night after night? Gravity made up his mind, won’t let a shift occur. The moon, rolled like a marble down the circular bowling alley that is his orbit. He wakes up every morning knowing something brighter will cloak him. Because the sun always rises first. She’s glowing, after all. He’s pockmarked with silver—aging light years in a second—and jealousy flares. Yet he still arrives every night to be her blanket. If he wanted he could accelerate millions of miles per hour, foot on the gas, game on, and, inches from grazing the billowy sheet of Earth’s atmosphere: stop. To watch all the little, living people. The couples kissing over Chardonnay they can’t afford. The ones who cuddle under black-veiled sky. The woman holding her husband’s hand in the nursing home long after he’s gone. And watch these same people aim wine bottles at their lovers’ heads like darts, sleep mountains away on a mattress, thank god when their soulmate slips out of orbit—colliding and exploding with the stars. The moon wonders, how could you love someone so much that you can’t stand the sight of them?

The Way the Moon LovedBY BRITTANY THOMPSON

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artwork by JO JASPER DEAN | STLCC-Wildwood

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artwork by MICHELLE STREIFF | STLCC-Wildwood

S Y C A M O R E 9

Careless About KindergartenBY LIZZ Y DUKE

“Hello?”

“Jerri? Hi, this is Mary Johnston, principal at Wren Hollow. We have had an incident here with Elizabeth and need you to come speak with us right away.”

“Is everything okay? Is she hurt? I was just there!”

“Everything is fine. I actually have her and Anthony sitting in my office right now. If you could meet us, however, that would be helpful.”

“Yes, absolutely, I’m on my way.” Little did my mother know that following that particular phone call, she would have a lot of explaining to do.

For as far back as I can remember, I have been attached at my mom’s hip. My dad traveled for a living and was only home about every other weekend, so, obvi-ously, that left me doing everything with my mother. I mean, she couldn’t even go to the bathroom by herself without my asking where she was going and when she was going to be back. Now that I think back on it, she probably felt like she was in prison, and I was the guard who watched her every move. I couldn’t stay overnight at friends’ houses; I couldn’t even be left with a babysitter because I made it seem like World War III was about to happen if my mother even attempted to sneak out the back door. So I’m sure you can only imagine how I reacted to the fact that my first day of kindergarten was approaching. Like, what? School? All by myself? You’re sure you can’t sit with me through it? Well, sure enough, my mother was in store for a treat that day.

It was a sunny August morning in 2001. My first day of kindergarten had finally arrived. I pretended the whole morning that I was going to make it through the day, but let’s be honest, I was a five-year-old with the biggest pit in my stomach because deep down I knew I wasn’t going to make it.

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I ate my breakfast, brushed my hair, put on my brand new dark blue dress, and I was ready to start the day. My brother Anthony, who was entering second grade that year, piled into my mom’s silver minivan with me. As we grew closer and closer to Wren Hollow Elementary School, the pit in my stomach grew larger and larger.

As we arrived, I noticed many other children walking into the building with their parents. The only difference between them and me, however, was the fact that they were excited for their parents to leave them, while I was ready to burst into tears. I jumped out of the car after Anthony and squeezed my mother’s hand as we walked into the building. We took Anthony to his second grade classroom first, and he took it like a champ. He gave us a hug goodbye, and that was it. Piece of cake. Now I’m sure my mother was thinking, “If only Elizabeth can do that.”

As we approached Ms. Schomehl’s classroom, I squeezed my mother’s hand tighter, and that’s when the tears began forming. I knew I had to let go so my moth-er could head to work, but I just couldn’t work up the courage. Finally, my mother had to pry my hand off of hers and escape the classroom before it was too late. I cried and cried as Ms. Schomehl showed me to my desk. I had to admit, it didn’t look half bad. She handed me crayons and tried to have me color to get my mind off the fact that my mother had just abandoned me. Or at least that’s what it felt like.

I made it about thirty minutes without my mother, just enough time for her to make it to work, before I lost all self-control and found myself sprinting out of the classroom into the principal’s office. Mrs. Johnston met me with open arms con-sidering she was aware of the situation already. She had me take a seat and tried to calm me down, and I knew right then I had to think fast if I was going to even at-tempt to get my mother to come back for me. The words that came next still shock me to this day. “My family is poor, we live on the streets, we eat out of trash cans, and my dad makes a lot of money, but he never comes home!” I cried out. The look on Mrs. Johnston’s face was about as surprised as the one on mine. Her eyes swelled to the size of golf balls, and her mouth was close to hitting the ground. I couldn’t believe I had just told something that dramatic and untruthful, but I knew I had to go along with it if I planned on going home early that day.

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“Are you telling the truth, Elizabeth? This is very serious.” Mrs. Johnston scolded.

“Yes, ask Anthony!” I pleaded.

So, that is just what she did. Not even five minutes later, my brother Anthony was sitting right next to me in Mrs. Johnston’s office. She repeated everything I had just told her and asked him very seriously to tell her the truth. Next thing I knew, Antho-ny had a look on his face that told me right then I was about to be in major trouble. “Are you kidding me?” Anthony yelled, “I mean, yeah, my dad travels, but he comes home! We live in a nice house, and my mom has food on the table every night for us!”

At that point, Mrs. Johnston hurried over to her desk, picked up the phone, and called my mother. Thirty minutes later, in walked my mom with a disgusted look on her face. Anthony and I were asked to leave the office as the principal and my mom had a conversation. Mrs. Johnston explained the prior events to my mom, and I could hear her about to lose her mind through the closed wooden door. Turns out, it was policy for Mrs. Johnston to have a serious conversation with my mother about the crazy allegations I had just made. In case my stories had been true, Mrs. Johnston offered to set up a fundraiser, and all the profits would go to help my family. At that moment, my mom was about two seconds from pulling her hair out. She stormed out of the office and asked me to please come join them. I knew walking in that I was about to have to come clean. I didn’t even need to be asked because the look on my mother’s face said it all.

“Okay, I’m sorry!” I cried out. “I lied. I just wanted to go home. Mom, I missed you so much. I can’t do it!”

After I had confessed, Mrs. Johnston had the serious talk that I knew was eventu-ally coming. She explained how serious my allegations were and how they were nothing to joke around about, no matter what. I apologized and knew that what I had done was wrong. In the meantime, my mother and Mrs. Johnston had come to an agreement that I had gone through enough for one day and decided that maybe it was best to be dismissed from school early so I could go home with my mom, talk about my consequences, and arrive fresh the next day. Basically, this was everything

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I was going for from the beginning. I just didn’t go about anything the way I should have.

When my mom and I arrived back at home, she sat me down, and we had a discussion together that shows why I love my mom so much to this day. She wasn’t mad at me, which was surprising because most parents would have been furious. Instead, she explained how no matter what she was always going to be there for me. I would go to school in the morning, and I should know that, no matter what, I would see her by the time I got home. She wasn’t going anywhere. At five years old, I was already able to understand the unconditional love that my mother had for her children. I feel lucky to have been able to understand this love at such a young age, because now, fifteen years later, I have never been closer to my mom. For my entire life, I have been able to feel like I can tell her anything because she taught me at such a young age how much her children mean to her. As my family and I reminisce on this story throughout my adulthood, my mom still tells me that even though sometimes I was an extreme annoyance having to be by her side night and day, it was almost a blessing. Even on her worst days, when nothing was going right, she knew that she had a little girl that thought the world of her. In my eyes, my mother did no wrong, and, sometimes, that’s all you need.

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artwork by JULIA SILLS | STLCC-Wildwood

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Your smile is a ruin, an ancient ruin full of veined marble beauty and cracked architecture. There are pillars and walls missing and broken. It’s as if they have been forgotten or suppressed. The markings on the walls are in a language I used to know. In the past those symbols came so fluently. I would know them from a twitch of the lips or a crinkle of the nose. This used to be my favorite place. Still, some things never change. This ruin still makes me speechless, only for different reasons.

Ruined SmileBY TREY VUICHARD

S Y C A M O R E 15

artwork by MARY OSBORNE | STLCC-Wildwood

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My Big LeapBY CL ARISSA MUETH

My fingers curled around the edge of the gutter as I looked down at the concrete ten feet below. I thought to myself, “It’s not that far. As long as you slowly jump off, you’ll be fine!” Still, I just couldn’t bring myself to go over the edge until my friend pulled up yelling, “C’mon Clarissa! Your mom is coming!” As soon as she said that, I overcame the fear and leaped. The next thing I remember was nothing; besides the racing of my heartbeat and the numbness in my feet, I felt nothing.

It was the Wednesday of finals during my junior year and being the over-dramatic sixteen-year-old that I was, I could not stay in that school for a single minute after my first final ended. I sent my mom a text, “Final is over; please call me out!!”

Before I could take another breath, I felt my phone vibrate, but my heart sank all at once when I read, “No. Couple more hours, you’ll be fine.” I wasn’t going to take

“no” for an answer though. I reached into my bag, pulled out a piece of notebook paper, and wrote a note to excuse myself in my very best handwriting. I gave the paper a little wrinkle to be sure it looked real.

Before I knew it, I was in my bed about to fall asleep when all of a sudden, the front door opened. I thought to myself, “This is either Mom or someone is about to rob you, and I’m not sure which one to be more afraid of.” I jumped when I heard the sound of her car keys hitting the counter, and I knew I had no choice but to face the problem head on. She came stomping up the stairs like a stampede of elephants, screaming my name at the top of her lungs. I came running out, trying to think of any possible excuse that would save my life.

“Mom, I had the WORST headache. You don’t even understand! Please don’t kill me. I just needed a nap!” To my absolute surprise, she felt bad for me. She told me to take a nap and return to school as soon as I woke up. Thanking God for the miracle he just sent me, I slowly drifted to sleep. I was awoken by the sound of my mom walking through the front door talking on her cell phone.

This time, I was screwed. I had slept through almost the entire day, and there

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was no way she would let this one slide. I knew I had to get out. She was downstairs, and I was upstairs. I would be spotted trying to leave out of any exit. Naturally, my extremely smart sixteen-year-old brain thought, “Hey! Let’s just jump off the roof!” I texted my best friend to secure a getaway car and slowly pried the window open, trying not to make noise. The next thing I knew, I was in the passenger seat of my best friend’s car hyperventilating and calling my mom. I had the sharpest pain in my right foot and a mind-numbing ringing in my ears.

My mom and I sat on those terribly under-cushioned chairs in the emergency room, just watching my foot swell larger and larger and looking up all the possible bones in my foot I could’ve broken. The nurse called me back, and I could feel the eyes of everyone in the waiting room on me as I awkwardly hopped into the wheelchair. She pushed me past several rooms before pulling into the darkest, coldest one in the entire building.

I hobbled onto the x-ray table and placed my foot on an icy-cold metal table with a big X on it. The nurse began manipulating my foot in so many different positions, and I remember thinking, “I would rather jump off of the roof again than let this nurse mangle my foot for ten more minutes.” What if she secretly knew what I had done and was punishing me even more for my thoughtless actions?

After hours of waiting, the doctor called us out into the hall to review the masterpieces that nurse had struggled for so long to take. To our disbelief, I had managed to break my heel all but two millimeters of the way through. The doctor looked at me and gave me those eyes like he knew I definitely didn’t break my heel this badly falling down some stairs because that’s probably not even humanly possible, but he kept his mouth shut. He began to lecture us: “I’ve never seen someone break their heel in all my years of being a doctor. The heel is the hardest bone in your foot to break because of how thick it is. This is also why it takes the longest amount of time to heal. You should probably count on being in a cast the entire summer.” I listened to his words, and a piece of my little sixteen-year-old heart died.

I ended up crutching around with a massive cast, which was not waterproof, for about a week before I couldn’t take the pain anymore. I’m not talking about the pain in the foot I broke; I’m talking about the other foot. When I went in for my next check-up, I told my doctor about the pain in my other foot, and he took some more

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x-rays before telling me that I had broken that foot too! They sent me a super sweet wheelchair in the mail that I got to ride around in for almost the entire summer, which left me with the best arms of anyone in my family.

The day they told me I could start walking on it again if I wore my boot was the best day of my entire summer. After three months of constant dependence on everyone else, I was ready to kick them all to the curb. I lifted my foot to take my first step, and I was shocked when I felt the carpet underneath my face. It turned out that after three months of not using my foot, I basically had to re-learn how to walk again. At that moment, I was no longer sixteen; I was a two-year-old girl taking her first steps. I re-learned a number of things along this horrible journey. I learned that I am not as talented as I thought I was when it comes to jumping from great heights; I also learned the importance of everyone who helped me when I really, truly, needed it. I was immature and stupid, and without this little taste of self-induced karma, I would never have realized that I needed to grow up.

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Euphonious WavelengthsBY MILK AYL A ALLEN

From the four corners of the universe, strings of different thicknesses and lengths vibrate against each other, unable to be interpreted as anything more than a wave. tap dancing with their top hats on moving mountains made of stardust, they carry harmonic sonorousness from one end of the galaxy to the other. In four short minutes. a field of enchanting reverberation begins to form on the dark side of the Moon, yet all its booming sonority is stale by the time it has reached us on Earth. Our man-made wasteland is just damning enough to diminish the sound. Now, imagine bountiful wavelengths, those of elemental healing, In a space where the resonant sound booms without hindrance through your ecstasy-oozing ears. How strange, that our existence can be altered with just a bit of lovely noise. How wild, that a little vibration of strings is enough to ignite the spirit, and that it can be so detrimental to the soul without it.

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Four Better and Four WorseBY ALYSSA CHENEY

Four. So many things in life own the number four. Four wheels on the car that I am riding in, four lanes on the interstate, four letters in the word four, four homes I’ve been to. I was four when it started and + four years when the state took me. I, L-I-S-A 1-2-3-4, am in foster care. My story starts, yes, four + four years ago, but I can still remember it like it was yesterday.

4:00 AM. I jerked awake. That’s when Dadda normally clumsily stumbles in with legs of a newborn fawn, voice of thunder, and a face containing a white icy stare. I hug Lizzy, my soft plush teddy bear, and tremble while backing into a corner in the dark, cold room. I pull Blanky over my face, hoping and praying once again that it will work to disguise me, hide me, or make me a part of the furniture knowing all too well that it won’t. I hear the footsteps trudge closer and closer, louder and louder. I want to run. I want to become invisible. I want to scream. I say my quick prayer once again, “God pretty please...” Nothing. The hall light flicks on outside my door. My heart speeds up. I am just as scared of that light as I am of the dark.

My door knob turns slowly and my door creaks open. I try to imagine for a short second what it would be like to have Dadda check in my closet and under my bed to make sure there are no monsters, but I can’t, for his shadow clearly reveals his true identity. That’s not Dadda. He cracks the door so just a peep of light shines through, and he finishes unveiling my body from the blanket while firmly gripping my arm. No escape. I could breathe better under the blanket.

“Hey, my Little Princess,” he says calmly, but a snake hisses as he spits out his S’s.

The all-too-familiar smell of his breath. I don’t know what adults call it, but I don’t like it—not one bit.

“How is my Baby Angel?” he mutters, words slurring together.

Lips sealed. He strokes me, and furthers his sin slowly. Those four minutes following the first four minutes are the worst. I don’t know what it is, but I know I don’t like it, and I know it’s not right.

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Four minutes. Four minutes. He exits my room, closes the door, and turns out the light in the hallway. That happened for four years until…

My mom was murdered when I was eight years old. She knew about the four’s, but Dadda threatened a five on her if she told anybody: D-E-A-T-H 1-2-3-4-5. He 3ed her; H-I-T 1-2-3. He 4ed her. There was no doubt in her mind that he would stay true to the 5 threat, or rather, promise. She wanted so desperately to escape with me on her back, but Dadda kept an owl’s eye on the car keys and the bank account. I dared not tell anybody because monsters come in one size: HUGE. But when Dadda started 3ing me, there was no way to hide swollen shut eyes, red crayon marks across my face, and four perfectly straight bruises across the top of my arm. School found out. Dadda found out. Dadda kept his promise.

Foster care—the best place to be to not belong anywhere in the world. Mister and Mrs. Blanca. Home number one. A nice black couple just starting out. Friendly people, but they quickly realized that they were not ready to care for a screw-up like me. Mister and Mrs. Davis and their four boys. Very experienced parents, but my threat to runaway due to my unfailing mistrust led me right to home three.

The Xie family helped me to discover my love of writing due to my inability to understand their attempt at English and countless numbers of pictures with words trying to understand each other’s accents. They also taught me to love math and numbers past five (since I will always hate numbers below five). And when words couldn’t communicate, the piano had a voice of its own. Ai Xie would sit at the piano bench with me for hours at a time teaching me note by note the beautiful melodies that sugar plum fairies dance to. Her fingers, dainty and small, but still bigger than mine, rested lightly on my hands as each melody came to life, and when the song was done, she would embrace me, put a warm kiss on my cheek and say,

“Mi Baybee LiLi. Ai love you.” And I know she meant it. I stayed with the Xie family for a couple of years until Huan Xie fell ill and could not financially provide for me or work anymore. They really wanted to adopt me, and I really wanted that too, but they said that they couldn’t provide all that I deserved and that God had greater things planned for me.

Number four family came and went, and that leads to…

Four wheels, four lanes, four years of abuse, four years of foster care, four letters in my name, four letters in the word four. No expectations for family number F-I-V-E 1-2-3-4.

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I stare out the window watching the trees go by and remembering how the number four has never accomplished anything before except misery. Miss Krynn, my case manager, must sense my despair even with her eyes focused on the road because she finally speaks after a deafening silence.

“You know, Lisa? I think you will like the Godsils. I spoke with them earlier and they seem like fun and caring people.”

Yeah, right. How can you sit here and tell me that I will like a family that I don’t know, after not having a family for 4 x 3 years, after not knowing what love is because my father stole my innocence, after not trusting any human being because my Dadda hurt me every single day of my life and my Momma was never there to save me, after having four foster homes and none of them wanting me, after twelve freaking years of never being loved, after twelve freaking years of hating my life and hating who I am? How do you have the freaking courage to say that there is even an ounce of hope for me to be loved, for me to be wanted? HOW!

Tears stream down my eyes because I can’t trust Miss Krynn even after four years of friendship. Even she lies that I will one day have a “forever family.”

“Lisa, I know this is hard for you, but just please, give them a chance.”

A frog in my throat and a brick wall around me. I will not get hurt again. She sighs; she knows that she’s not getting anywhere with me.

“Just be kind with them. I don’t want to overwhelm you, but they are looking to adopt another person into their family, so don’t ruin your chance.”

Thanks, that’s comforting.

“Here we are!” We pull up to a short gravel driveway with bright flowers bowing on either side of us due to a calm, whispering wind. There is a small flower garden with vines growing up a gazebo at the side of the house with a stepping stone path leading through it and to the back yard where a small lake lies. A quaint but modern home with steps and ionic columns leading to the front door. The light green siding suits the two-story house quite nicely. Miss Krynn turns off the engine, helps me unload my suitcase and backpack, walks me to the front door, and rings the doorbell. A few seconds later, the door opens and a sophisticated woman wearing dark wash jeans and a flowing flowery blouse greets me with a handshake and a

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smile as bright as her skin.

Just then, a small mixed girl with beautiful curly brown hair comes running as fast as her short legs can carry her and yells, “LISSSSSSSAAAAA!” And plows into my legs with a powerful hug.

A black man wearing a dress shirt and dress pants emerges along with a Chinese girl that is probably the babysitter. They both try to greet me, but the small girl steals the show.

“I’m so happy to finally have another sissy! We’re gonna play house, and dress up, and hide and seek and…”

“I’m so glad that you’re excited, Vivian, but you have to let Daddy and Sissy get a chance to meet her too!” says the classy woman, who I assume to is Mrs. Godsil.


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“But Mommy! This is the BEST DAY EVERRRR! We’re gonna have a lot of fun and play together and be best friends!” She gleams.

We all laugh, and the older girl and black man get a chance to introduce themselves. It turns out that Cher, the older Chinese girl, was adopted from China rather than being a babysitter, and the mixed girl is the biological daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Godsil.

“Come on in; make yourself at home,” Mr. Godsil invites.

“Let’s show her the whole house!” Vivian excitedly tugs on my hand.

“One thing at a time, Vivey,” Cher exclaims. “She probably needs to see the bathroom and put her stuff down first.”

“Ohkayyy. I’ll get your bag!” Vivian attempts to pick up the backpack, but being twice the size of her, unsuccessfully accomplishes the mission.

“I’ve got it champ,” Mr. Godsil says.

“Your room is right over here,” Mrs. Godsil motions down a hallway and to the right.

The room is medium-sized with a twin bed, a nightstand, a matching chest, a body mirror, a papasan chair with a purple cushion, a closet, and a big window with purple curtains on either side of the window. I lay my belongings down on the bed, and Vivian and the rest of the family eagerly show the rest of the house. It’s a beautiful house with Bible verses, trees, and birds painted artistically onto the walls. My room is upstairs along with Vivian’s room and Cher’s room. The bathroom upstairs is big, which makes me happy. All of the rooms are pretty typical in the house except the sun room, with glass windows on the three walls facing outside. I know in an instant that this will be my writing and relaxing room.

“Can we tell her yet?” Vivian asks.

“Vivey! Don’t give away our surprise!” Cher expresses and gives her a friendly nudge.

“Go put on the nicest outfit you have and meet us in the living room,” Mrs. Godsil says.

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I go to my room and get out my dress with turquoise and varying colors of blue marbled into each other that the Xie’s got for me. It still fits my slim form and goes nicely with my fair skin and wavy ginger hair. I feel like a grown up in this dress. I could almost pull off looking as old as Cher except that she is a lot taller than me.

I walk out to the living room and, “Wow girlie, you are absolutely gorgeous!” Cher announces.

“Yeah,” Vivian agrees.

I give them half a grin because I’m glad they think that, but I’m not sure if I believe it myself.

“Okey dokey children. Let’s load up. We’re going to take Mom’s car tonight,” Mr. Godsil says.

I want to ask where we are going, but my shyness and sixth sense tell me not to.

“You’re going to love the restaurant!” Vivian explains.

“Vivian, silly you, you gave away our secret!” Cher states.

“Kehehehe!” Vivian laughs. “Oops!”

“You did that on purpose you little stinker!” Cher laughs while tickling Vivian. We arrive at the restaurant, and I’ve never, in my whole life, known that something so fancy even existed. The tables have white linen table cloths on them with wine glasses, candles, and low lighting to top it off. We are seated and get menus and silverware. “Get whatever you would like, Lisa,” Mr. Godsil says. “We wanted to celebrate that you are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that God brought you into our family for a reason.” That is so nice that I want to cry, but at the same time I don’t know if I can take this god crap. I can’t trust someone who abandoned me when I asked him to save me from being molested and abused and someone who let my mother be murdered. I can’t trust someone who allows me to feel this pain when he’s supposed to be strong enough to take it away from me.

We order our food and while we are waiting, Mrs. Godsil asks me the dreaded question, “So how about you tell us a little bit about yourself.”

Heck to the no! I’m not telling you that! “Umm…” Is all that I can muster.

28 S Y C A M O R E

artwork by SARAH JOHNSON | STLCC-Wildwood

S Y C A M O R E 29

They wait for me patiently, and when they realize that I’m not going to say anything more, Mrs. Godsil says, “It’s okay, sweetie, you can tell us when you’re ready. Sorry, I didn’t mean to push you.”

“Mom, tell her the story of how you got me,” Cher says.

“Well, your dad and I had been trying to have kids, but the doctors told us that we weren’t able to. We didn’t want to spend a lot of money on trying options that might not work, so we gave up on having children, forgetting to consider adoption. We went to China on a mission trip and found you lying at the bottom of a stairwell with nobody around. We tried to find your parents, but they were nowhere to be found. We instantly fell in love with you and knew that you were one of God’s children, so we couldn’t just leave you there. After a lot of work and paperwork, we adopted you through Hope International. I am so glad that we did because you are a delightful young lady CherBear.”

“And me! How did you have me?!” Vivian asks.

“You were our miracle baby. We didn’t think that we could have children, but God had a different plan. He saw that you would grow to be a beautiful lively girl that brings happiness to everybody around you,” Mr. Godsil says.

“What did you do when God created me?” Vivian questions.

“We cried for joy and praised God for answering our prayers. Each and every one of you were not an accident. God has very special plans for you and a wonderful mission for you to accomplish. He loves you guys very much and has your future all planned out,” Mr. Godsil replies.

“Then how come he let Dadda rape me, abuse me, and kill my momma?” I blurt out unexpectedly. It is obvious that the rest of the family is taken aback too because they all stop talking and just stare at me.

After they get over the shock that I talked and shared my life story in a sentence, Mr. Godsil replies, “That’s a good question, Lisa. I probably don’t have the answer that you’re looking for, but I do know that God can create beauty out of ashes. A stained glass window doesn’t start out beautiful. It starts out as broken pieces of glass. The best image of beauty is when God takes those broken pieces of your life and restores them into something even greater than you could ever imagine.”

30 S Y C A M O R E

“God already thinks that you are beautiful because you are strong, and you are nice,” Vivian says. “He loves you like this.” She stands up and stretches out her little arms as far as they will go.

“That’s right, Vivey,” Mrs. Godsil says with a tear forming in her eye, touched by how God uses small lives to say powerful truth.

Our food comes out, and the loudest sound while we sit there eating are my thoughts about this family, God, and my life. I wonder if what they are saying is really true.

“Lisa, if you ever have any questions, or you just want to talk, feel free to come to us. We are here for you. We love you. That’s what makes us a family,” Mrs. Godsil says.

I smile a half smile because this is the first time in twelve years, the first time in forever, that I’ve had a real family.

4 x 4 years later I look back and see what they were talking about. The beauty from pain that Jesus, my savior endured. The beauty that stretches out east and west. When God let me go through all of that pain, He knew what he was doing. When God made me wait so long for my forever family, He knew what he was doing. God was there for me the whole time. God has perfect timing.

Vivian, my beautiful sister,

You taught me that Jesus endured my pain on the cross so that I can see the beauty of life. You live that beauty my dearest. Your name even means “Full of Life”.

Cher darling,

You taught me what it means to give wholeheartedly. Your love for Vivey always amazed me, and your leadership made me know that it is possible to trust again.

S Y C A M O R E 31

Mom and Dad,

You taught me what it means to be a family. Nobody in our family looks alike, but that didn’t matter to you. It only matters that we are united in God because it is God who saves. You gave me love when I had none, you showed me hope in Jesus when I was hopeless, you showed me that Jesus is my fountain of life. Thank you.

Life is a journey. There is a lot of pain. There are a lot of lessons, but perhaps the greatest lesson that I learned is that God changes the meaning of all of our 4s in life. Love, hope, life-each define what I have, each four letters, each redefine the word four. For when I am weak, then I am strong. For better and for worse, God is with me. Always.

32 S Y C A M O R E


S Y C A M O R E 33

People say “it’s over,” as if they can slice your heart cleanly

from your chest. They think the end will be easy. But they

can’t, and it’s not. The act of leaving a relationship is a

process, and it’s a messy one. First go your eyes: the

rainbow spectrum of color you once saw them

through—grey. Then come your lips: the first kiss under the

cherry tree, the second one near the lake with six ducks,

and the last, down by that abandoned farmhouse on

Pearson Street—gone. Third are the lungs: they unravel,

once a daisy chain nest for your heart. And now, you’re

vomiting flowers, one by one. Then your heart squeezes

itself dry until it’s withered fruit, a mango that no one wants

to touch. Then your ears and your hands and your arms and

your legs—gasp. The last to go is your feet. Because, when

they leave, every piece of you leaves with them. The

aftermath is like trying to clean up glass from a broken

window. You can’t see the microscopic sand even after

you’ve trashed the large shards. And though you’re not

searching, I guarantee, you’re still going to get cut.

Break-Up Bruises & See-You-Later ScarsBY BRITTANY THOMPSON

34 S Y C A M O R E

The Fear of PerfectionBY EMILE HUMMEL

A dim spotlight is focused on a lone chair, just slightly off to the left of center stage. A woman, young, mid-twenties, black haired and pale skinned, sits in the chair looking frail, willowy, and lost. She wears a patient’s gown and white slippers. A voice with a thick British accent, seemingly out of nowhere, begins insistently calling her name.

Doctor Andrews: Miss Kingsley? (gently) Miss Kingsley? (more insistent when no response comes) Miss Kingsley! (nearly shouting)

As Doctor Andrews calls her name, a table is pushed in, center stage, to the right of the woman in the chair, and another chair is pushed in across the table from hers. The source of the voice is seated across from her in the chair. Doctor Andrews is dressed in black trousers, a blue button-up shirt, and a well pressed white lab coat. With the final shout, the spotlight expands and brightens, now illuminating both the metal chairs and the table.

Cecilia Kingsley: Oh. (whispery and distant) Yes, Doctor?

Doctor Andrews: (leaning forward onto his elbows, hands folded together) Miss Kingsley, we were discussing the events that brought you here, remember? (voice heavy with exasperation)

CK: Events. (trailing off, almost a question)

DA: (opening a rather full, but neatly organized, file) Yes, Miss Kingsley. The illicit activities you participated in last spring. We were just speaking on that very subject. (tone is patient but tired)

CK: Please, Doctor, call me Cecilia. (she whispers, tiptoeing around the subject)

DA: (relenting) Cecilia, may we please return to the topic at hand? I know it is difficult for you to accept your situation, but you broke the law, and now we must find out what led you to do so. Yes?

CK: (facial expression hardening, back stiffening) Yes, Doctor. (venomously)

S Y C A M O R E 35

DA: (taken aback, he gathers papers from the file) Now, (slight voice crack, clears throat) may I continue with the questions?

CK: (returning to a quiet voice, shifting nervously) Proceed.

DA: Did you, on March 5th, 2052, participate in illicit activities with individuals outside of your designated social circle?

CK: Yes.

DA: Have you, over the last year, stopped taking your HPO prescribed medications?

CK: You (pausing, nervous) already know the answer to that, (another pause) don’t you, Doctor?

DA: Technically, yes, however HPO requires a formal confession. Please, Miss Kingsley, answer the question.

CK: Cecilia. (sharply, then sighing) Yes, I stopped taking my meds (pausing, trying to recall) nearly ten months ago, (questioningly) perhaps eleven.

DA: (writing notes onto one of his papers with a pen) Have you been made aware, by an educational official or televised PSA, that the goal of the HPO is to maintain a stable and long lasting life for the citizens of this country and by refusing your medications you are only harming yourself and your fellow members of society?

CK: Yes. (wringing her hands nervously)

DA: All right. (setting down his pen and folding his hands again) Now with the formalities taken care of, shall we begin asking the more important questions, Miss Kingsley?

CK: (silent and fidgeting)

DA: Miss Kingsley, why did you stop taking your medications?

CK: He told me ...(trailing off, becoming withdrawn again)

DA: He? Miss Kingsley, you are under the age of spousal assignment; who was he?

36 S Y C A M O R E

CK: We were so young; he told me the medicine was keeping me from feeling the beat of my own heart. (trails off, pausing) He had such a way with words. (trails off again)

DA: Miss Kingsley, I need a name.

CK: (looking back at the doctor) They took him away. He doesn’t have one anymore. He is someone else now. (avoiding the doctor’s eyes)

DA: (sighs) All right, Miss Kingsley. Let’s try something else. Where were you this past March?

CK: (strangely warm, with a smile) Oh Doctor, please, do call me Cecilia! No need for such formalities!

Light on the scene fades and then a few moments later returns to show Cecilia, now with her hair in a bun, and Doctor Andrews, wearing a green shirt and gray slacks under his lab coat. The Doctor leans over the table with hands folded and elbows resting; Cecilia sits sideways in her chair, facing the audience.

CK: Wasn’t the room blue yesterday? It smells funny. (mumbling to herself as a nurse holds her arm, injecting some sort of medication)

DA: They painted that wall last night. (patiently) Now, Cecilia, you were telling me about the nice people in the cottage?

CK: (brightening) Oh! Yes, they were very lovely, kind people... (trailing off again)

DA: How so?

CK: They would always greet us with hugs. We went to them. We had wonderful times together there. They showed us old music with this thing that spun black disks! (beaming)

DA: (stiff and uncomfortable) These people touched you? (ignoring the rest of her blabber)

CK: Yes. (softly) It (pausing) it was pleasant. (seeming a bit confused by her own statement)

S Y C A M O R E 37

artwork by DION DION | STLCC-Wildwood

38 S Y C A M O R E

DA: (scribbling a note, speaking to her while looking down) How did the physical contact affect you, Miss Kingsley?

CK: It felt, (pondering) warm.

DA: Warm like being under a bed cover? (looking up from his notes)

CK: (shaking her head) No. (trailing) Warm. (pausing as she reached across the table to rest her spread palm over his chest) Warm here.

DA: (stiffening and sitting straight against his chair, he reaches under the table to press a red button)

The lights dim, and uniformed guards wearing gloves come to drag Cecilia out of the room. Doctor Andrews stays in his chair with an expression of shock. A light returns upon the table with Doctor Andrews in a new shirt, slacks, and his lab coat. Cecilia’s hair is sheared off short, and she appears skinnier, paler, and her eyes have dark bags under them.

DA: Miss Kingsley, welcome back. Was your stay satisfactory in rehabilitating you? It is a high level offense to touch any persons outside of your social circle; we hope that the solitary environment and regular medication schedule helped to quell these (pauses) urges of yours.

CK: (silent for several moments, then slowly locks eyes with the doctor as a nurse at her arm finishes administering three vials of medication, voice hollow) Do you want to know my story, Doctor?

Nurse exits.

DA: (taken aback by her lucidity and directness) Yes, Miss Kingsley, shall we proceed with the questioning?

CK: No. (firmly but quietly)

(DA silently regards her)

CK: Questions will get you nowhere. I know the story, not you. I will speak. You will not interrupt. (voice remains steady)

S Y C A M O R E 39

DA: That is outside HPO regulations for doctor-patient social contact . (rambling, losing control of the conversation)

CK: Doctor Andrews.

DA: (stops rambling) Yes. Sorry. Miss Kingsley?

CK: You said you wanted to hear my story.

DA: Yes, Miss Kingsley, but I must follow the regulations. (grasping at straws)

CK: You wish to know the truth. Give me a few minutes, with no questions to answer. Simply let me speak.

DA: (nodding unsurely)

CK: (Cecilia reaches across the table, taking one of his pieces of paper and his pen, scrawling a quick note and sliding it across the table, resolutely holding eye-contact)

DA: (after reading the note, he stares blankly at her for a few moments before reaching under the table and retrieving a very small device, presumably a microphone, and turning it off)

CK: Now, with the formalities out of the way, shall we move on? (smirking, voice still flat)

CK: (she begins without waiting for a response) I was out walking one night past the curfew. By myself. That’s when I met him. He took me to a place where the HPO cameras couldn’t see us, a blind spot, if you will, and we talked.

DA: Talked? Whatever could you have had to say to a stranger?

CK: More than I had ever had to say to anyone I had ever known. That day I was off my regular injection due to medical reasons, and I noticed that talking to him, (pausing for a while) it made me feel something.

DA: The warmth? (hesitant)

CK: Yes, but more powerful, it was like, (trying to find the words) it was like holding two magnets near each other but keeping them from touching. That pulling feeling against your fingers, that attraction. I could feel it tugging at the center of me,

40 S Y C A M O R E

drawing me to him.

DA: I see. (lost)

CK: I believe what I felt that night Doctor, was love. I fell in love.

DA: Love? (unsure of the word)

CK: It is something they talked about in all those grainy old-sounding songs, about how it was all you needed, and how it made you feel.

DA: Feel? Do you mean physically?

CK: Yes, but it wasn’t something physical. Not like the rush of wind. But internally. You feel your stomach twist up, as if it is tangled in a knot, and that magnetic pull. The strength of it all is more than you could imagine.

DA: Were they (chews on the word as if it were sour) pleasant? These feelings?

CK: Like I said, it is more than you could imagine. We stopped taking our medications after that night; well, he had been off of his for a few days already. He told me everything felt more clear, like hearing the muffled sounds beneath water then breaking the surface. (trails) He had such a way with words. (shaking herself back to focus). After a week, we ran off. We fled our compound, taking only what we could carry. We walked in grass as high as our knees, just walking off toward the sunset and then with the sunrise at our backs.

DA: (interrupting with a knit brow) Who would let their grass grow so high? (dismayed)

CK: It wasn’t anyone’s grass; it was just grass. Wild.

DA: But-

CK: Anyway, that is beside the point. We found the cottage in this way. We met others like us, who realized what it was like to stop taking the medications, to be free of them.

DA: (is now focused on his notes, scribbling rather quickly, he interrupts Cecilia) I’m sorry Miss Kingsley, could you remind me of your living compound number?

S Y C A M O R E 41

CK: (stumbling over his interruption) Compound 42 in the 9th district... (trailing) But why?

DA: (cutting her off) Thank you Miss Kingsley, I believe you have given me all that I need. (pressing a button under the desk) The nurse will escort you to your room now. (mumbling “due west” and scribbling on his notes)

CK: (shocked into silence, then hanging her head in defeat) You’re just like the rest of them Mason, just like the rest.

The nurse comes in to escort Cecilia out. Cecilia leaves without struggle. Doctor Andrews does not hear her say his first name. The light fades, and the scene changes one last time. The table and chairs are removed, and a fraying rug surrounded by plush cushions in faded oranges and purples is illuminated. When the light returns, Cecilia, long hair woven into uneven braids and wearing a loose fitting dress, sits on the rug. Mason Andrews is seated beside her, and they are wrapped in an embrace, kneeling in center stage. A spotlight is on them, and they stay still for a few moments. His whispers echo softly over the audience.

DA: I love your name so much darling…Cecilia...

CK: (voice from an outside source, hollowly) You were always going to become just like the rest of them, and now so will I.

Stage goes black.

42 S Y C A M O R E


S Y C A M O R E 43

Gentle Giants Die Slow BY TIM LUZECK Y

They told me giants are fiction, made up like magic and cities of gold, but I know a secret. Giants still walk among us every day. If you look in the right place, you may still see these towering creatures proudly marching through their grassy habitats, searching for the one thing that they may never have. Safety.

Surveyors and conservationists alike tell us that the African elephants have but five years left before they are wiped from the face of the earth. Due to their sheer magnitude, this mountainous mammal has been labeled as a trophy kill for its iconic ivory tusks. Sold on the black market, mainly to the Chinese, tradition indicates that ivory is a sign of wealth and great power, making the tusks that much more valuable to the people who buy them.

With poison arrows and snipers, hatches and chainsaws, slaughtering an elephant and removing its tusks is as simple as pulling the trigger.

The poachers track the elephant.

They shoot the elephant.

They bind the elephant.

Then latch the elephant to a car, drag it countless miles to a “safe” location, and dump her into a deep dirt grave.

There, the poachers can then further beat the elephant while she cries out, tears streaming like water from a faucet, blood-stained dirt filling the pit, crushing the elephant’s bones like a tooth pick. Shattering like glass, the bone fragments puncture the vital organs, and the elephant’s tears start to dry.

The injustice continues as they further disgrace the elephant by cutting off her trunk, throwing it aside for the vultures and the flies. Buried behind layers of fatty tissue, the poachers dissect and dismember the face of the elephant, all the way up to the soulful eyes of the once vital pachyderm.

44 S Y C A M O R E

All that’s left now is to chainsaw around the face so they can rip the tusks from the remaining fatty globs still attached and have them cleaned and sold by morning.

Extinction is the one thing that mankind has contributed most since being able to move our thumbs. The elephants have five years before they are killed off, gentle giants of the African Savanna scorched from our earth due to the greed of man. Gentle giants shed tears like you and me, and they die a slow death, their bodies mangled and left in pools of blood. Displayed in people’s homes as trophies, these great mammals have lived for centuries and will never forget the cruelty of man.

I have seen firsthand an elephant dragged by a car, hit repeatedly with a yardstick-sized piece of bamboo. I have seen an elephant cry as it tries to protect itself with its trunk, a trunk about to be cut off. The saying goes “elephants never forget,” and I will never forget that the greed of man can turn a heart to stone and lead people to unspeakable cruelty. Yet, I find peace in knowing that I can help aide those who raise awareness about catastrophes such as this in hopes that this horrid act of animal cruelty stops before it’s too late.

S Y C A M O R E 45

Look On to the Trail BlazedBY MICHAEL MOLDAFSK Y

Total stillness is a secret almost wholly lost to man, but here it still lived. Here, in a virgin valley, on a virgin planet, stillness thrived. Yes, the wind would come and play with the grass, and the blades would murmur and toss with laughter. But quiet is often deafening without whispers.

The hills of the valley glowed with the green of spring, and the grass that blanketed them was full, thick, and unbroken. The sod was soft enough to cradle a baby to sleep, or let the dying know peace. Flowers had been dolloped on the hillsides of the valley in colors ranging from the softest lavender to the most intense violet. They were unique in shape and bathed in an aroma fresh and clean with just a hint of sweetness.

Above all, sat a star that looked down on this world like god himself, with only love and mercy in his eyes. He was twice the size of the Earth’s sun, but with the same yellow intensity. All that made up his land was embraced by his warmth. He gave light and he gave life.

This star, like any king, was not without a throne. He sat in a sky that seemed like an ocean of blue, a blue so deep and so rich that it appeared almost infinite. An endless illusion not so different from the reality of depth beheld at night, and within the immaculate sky not a single cloud could be seen, allowing blue to stretch endlessly, unobscured, above the land.

It was a picture so rich and vibrant in color that those from Earth would think it a dream, and since neither man nor beast had ever walked this land, it had remained preserved for countless years.

A crack echoed through the sky, and something fell like an angel from heaven. As it fell, it became engulfed in flames, and it stained the sky with black smoke. The sky had been broken and was now scarred. The grass, the hills, the star, and the sky held their breath as the mystery descended their world. It seemed to fall for an eternity, for it had shattered through the very top of the atmosphere to come here.

46 S Y C A M O R E

With a thunderous crash, the meteor struck the earth with such velocity that it split the ground. Dirt, ash, and smoke filled the air on impact, and the fallen mystery hid in the cloud it had produced. The hills rumbled and the valley was scorched. The grass and the flowers blackened and burnt and even the air seemed to be on fire.

The smoke and debris dispersed throughout the air, and the valley was left darkened. It could now be seen that in the crater sat no ordinary meteor, but a starship, constructed from the refined metals of another planet. The ship unleashed a symphony of dissonance as it sounded sirens and flashed red and blue lights that illuminated the smoke surrounding it. The metal monstrosity hissed, spat, moaned, and groaned as it opened its mouth wide to reveal a toothless hole.

For the last time, for just a brief moment, the valley seemed to be silent. This silence was not in likeness to that which had reigned for years before, one of peace and balance. No, this was a new silence. One only heard in the awe before a great storm, or at the threshold of uncertain doom. All of the valley, the land and the heavens, looked into the darkness of the starship’s hatch in silence, ready to see what would emerge.

Out of that darkness stepped Man.

S Y C A M O R E 47


48 S Y C A M O R E

The apocalypse is here,

we are the apocalypse.

Most of us will be individually dehumanized;

taken through a zombification process

that leads us to be only remnants of the clay

in which we were created.

I met her on a chilly day in November.

She was blank and shaking

as she told the story of her spiritual death.

“I still have nightmares.

Awful dreams where he is back and I am helpless and weak and

forced to be his. He is everywhere I go,

in every man who looks my way. I

am haunted by those moments. Moments in my

“safe haven” home when I was ripped of innocence

and purity. Moments he probably doesn’t remember,

but I do. I will always remember pleading “No! Please stop!

You have to stop! No no no!!” As he

keeps my legs open not hearing my cries. Afterwards

I would sit in my tub,

and I would cry and I would scream and I would vomit

And of Clay We are CreatedBY R ACHEL UEBELEIN

S Y C A M O R E 49

artwork by DION DION | STLCC-Wildwood

50 S Y C A M O R E

and I would pray to God that he would just listen.

Listen because I had become a grown man’s doll.

Something he stuck up on a shelf for whenever

leaving her broken and dusty and used.

I am broken, and I am dusty,

and I am used. And to this day,

I still suffer from this past. I sit shaking

in my tub, screaming because I do not understand how a man

could be so cruel as to lose all sense of humanity

and destroy a small girl.

I still have nightmares.

Awful dreams where he is back and I am helpless and weak and

forced to be his.”

Suddenly, I realized she had “sank slowly,

like a flower in the mud.” Stripped the humanity

we all take for granted.

The apocalypse is here,

we are the apocalypse. Most of us will be dehumanized,

leading us to be only remnants of the clay

in which we were created.

S Y C A M O R E 51

artwork by KIM KORDONOWY | STLCC-Wildwood

52 S Y C A M O R E

The PainterBY TRENT RUCKMAN

Man is the cruelest animal. -Friedrich Nietzsche

Cheek cold against the stock, the agent peers through the scope and examines the scene. A sliver of warm light escapes a corner window and pierces the dark night. Earlier, he scouted the area to find the perfect vantage point. The isolated home, surrounded by hills and foliage, made it all but impossible to stretch out comfortably with the rifle. Persistence and dedication, however, allowed him to find the area he lies in now: a small clearing in the brush with a view over the entirety of the house.

He aims his weapon. A cozy dining room covered in light green paint cradles a family of three at a table for dinner. A girl and her parents eat with smiles. The family is unaware of their situation. This is how all of his targets meet their end, oblivious to the horror lurking just beyond their field of vision.

The agent’s eyes show no emotion, but his body is tense and ready. His heart quickens its pace. His mind is clear. This rush is familiar to him after five long years of service and hundreds of similar assignments. However, he has never killed a child before. His lips part and reveal a toothy grin. He shifts his focus back to the family.

Long brown hair partly covers the pretty face. She looks remarkably like her mother. The family chats and all at once bursts in to laughter. The girl doubles over mid-chew and nearly spits out her food. As they calm down, small giggles escape the girl’s lips until the laughter recedes.

The agent moves his finger to the trigger. The girl is completely focused on her meal, and her parents both look at her with interlocked hands. The agent sucks in a large gulp of air. He pulls the trigger. The window shatters, and the father’s head jerks back, then forward again onto the table. The agent releases his breath. Another gulp. The mother is thrown to the side and onto her husband. He lets go of the air in his lungs. One last breath. The girl looks at her parents and then out the shattered window. Doe eyes stare directly into his as he pulls the trigger one last time. She flies

S Y C A M O R E 53

out of her chair and onto the floor next to the table.

The agent examines the scene once more. The three bodies don’t move, not even a twitch. The cozy room is no more. Once green walls now bleed crimson, his work splattered throughout the room.

His phone rings. Enamored by the scene, he drags his eyes away and digs into his pocket.

“Have the groceries been delivered?”

“Yes.”

“Good, we will transfer the funds.”

The caller hangs up. The agent returns to his scope, savoring his masterpiece.


54 S Y C A M O R E

artwork by HEATHER DOBRINIC | STLCC-Wildwood

S Y C A M O R E 55

Are you afraid? In a crowd of people, I search for your face but I never quite find it. All I see are masks; I’m wearing one too. I want to take mine off but I don’t want to lose. I don’t want to be exposed, and time has glued it onto my face. Is this the case for everyone? Or is my loneliness special? I want to see you but I’m afraid I won’t recognize you. I want to see you but I’m afraid you won’t recognize me. I’m afraid that you will recognize me, too. I don’t want to be afraid. I want you to remove your mask but I don’t think you want to lose. Or maybe we’ll bump into each other unknowingly and both win, by sheer luck or coincidence. But I doubt it, because they’re invisible. And trying to find you is like looking for a stranger. I feel like a stranger too.

Invisible MasksBY TJ WIBBENMEYER

56 S Y C A M O R E

Stefanie Ozga InmanBY DANIELLE MORTON

Hearing air raids coming, five-year-old Stefanie and her family ran from their house to a nearby field to take cover under a tree in a ditch full of mud and itchweed. Laying prone in the ditch, hearing bullets whiz over her head, Stefanie was scared for her life and didn’t know what was going to happen to her or her family. Lukowa, Poland was invaded by the Germans during World War II. The air raids started coming day in and day out.

One night, Stefanie and her family decided to stay in their house, boarding up all the windows and waiting the night out. She woke up the next morning and walked out of her house to find that there was nothing left of the tree they had been hiding under, only a huge hole in the ground where a bomb had fallen. That was the day the war forced Stefanie and her family out of their home with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

They were taken to a nearby train where families were being separated. When it came their turn to be separated, a German soldier with compassion in his eyes let their whole family load onto the same train taking them to a slave camp in Germany. They were the “lucky ones” because her grandfather was very talented at making furniture, and her father could make shoes very well, so they did not go to a concentration camp.

Everyone on the train was “cramped like sardines,” and nobody could move. If they needed to use the restroom, they had to go on the floor. There was no food and no stopping for three days. When they finally stopped in Germany, they were ordered to stay in a small barn. Stefanie was strong in her faith with God. To help ease her fear, she sang religious songs, as did her family and the many others who were staying in the barn. Singing made the Germans very angry, and the soldiers threatened to shoot everyone if they did not stop.

After one day and one night in the barn, everyone walked to the slave camp nearby and was assigned the houses they were to stay in. Stefanie stayed here for close to five years. Her father worked in the fields all day with the livestock, and her

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artwork by LESLIE RANDLE | STLCC-Wildwood

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mother worked in the plant nursery. Stefanie attended school during the day with some of the other children. They were teaching the children basic English letters, words, and numbers, on top of learning other basic skills for schooling.

Five years later, the Germans surrendered, and the Americans took over the safe zone. Stefanie and her family had the option to go back to Poland or go to America to be free; of course, they chose to move to America. That was the day she and her family boarded the ship. Stefanie was so excited, but that was also one of the hardest times. As she boarded, she remembered that she was leaving other parts of her family behind, but she knew this was for the best. The ship ride was very hot, and everyone was so packed next to each other. There were people getting seasick everywhere. The voyage lasted two weeks. There was not much food to eat, not much water to drink, and the temperature was brutal. After a long fourteen days, Stefanie and her family, along with many other Polish people, landed in New Orleans, Louisiana on September 5, 1949.

Stefanie, seventy-five years old now, lives in Manchester, Missouri. She is playing with her great-grand kids in her backyard and visiting with her children and her grandchildren, which is what she loves doing most. She has lived a long, healthy life since moving to America. With everything she has gone through, she is the kind of woman who would give anyone a helping hand. Stefanie takes pride working at St. John’s Lutheran church, and her faith in God still remains stronger than ever. She values family because she saw it taken away from her during her younger years. Stefanie’s life struggles in Poland and in Germany affected her in a positive way, turning her into the strong, kindhearted woman that she is today.

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The DivideBY CELESTE RHODES

001 Beach House Ln

Somewhere, on earth

(000)121-3000

Sometimes I look towards the sky and wonder,

Are you out there looking too? - Zane

The sun glimmered on the cyan ocean, the low tide pulsing onto the sand. Zane lounged at the shoreline with his hands buried in the warm sand, his blue eyes staring into the ombre horizon.

“Zane!” called a voice from behind.

Zane flipped his caramel hair turning towards the voice. Jax was walking from the hut, his icy grey locks flowing behind him.

Jax plopped to Zane’s side, giving him a slight nod. The boys sat in silence with their arms folded and falling on to their dingy knees.

“What’s going on, little man?” Jax asked, settling his purple gaze on Zane’s profile.

“Do you ever just wonder, are they still out there? Everyone else. Our friends, town, my dad. I can’t help but think they’re still out there. Waiting. Waiting for a savior. I know we are,” Zane said not adjusting his gaze from the horizon.

Jax scooted closer to Zane’s side, laying his brawny arm around his shoulder.

“It’s just us and the dozen other people of this island. Even if they are, bets are we’ll never see them again.” Jax squeezed Zane’s shoulder. “The divide separated all of us. Our world has changed; it’s only us now. Here. You’re my brother now, and I promise

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I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Zane let out a chill breath of exasperated air, sinking deeper into the comfort of Jax’s arm. A single pale tear flowed down Zane’s tanned cheek. He let out a disgruntled huff and jumped to his feet, clenching his fists at his side. Jax sat calmly watching Zane trudge through the sand.

“We can’t just quit. You want us to give up? On our friends? Our family? Then what? We die here never having anyone able to identify our miserable bodies? Things weren’t perfect, but we were all right, weren’t we? Everyone was together, and our world was whole. Then those damn things came in and destroyed us. Our world. My dad and I were well off in a nice house out in Blazoid and now? We’re here. I’m tired of staying in a place that’s not my home. I’m not gonna sit around waiting to die,” Zane said marching towards the large boulders placed in front of their hut.

Jax stood, trailing behind Zane. Zane crouched behind one of the boulders digging a crevasse through the shaded sand with his palms, exposing a small wooden object. He grabbed the handle of the homemade wooden sword and held it towards the sky. His face fell into a grimace as he pushed past Jax, nudging his shoulder back.

“I refuse to,” Zane said stomping towards the shore.

“And what are you going to do?” Jax shouted following Zane,” Are you gonna stab the ocean? You’re fifteen. You wouldn’t survive. Come on, let’s go,” Jax said walking towards Zane.

“Do you hear me? I’m ready for you!” Zane screamed to the heavens with his sword held high, “ Come and get me you ugly bastards!”

“Come on Zane, that’s enough,” Jax said placing a hand on Zane’s frail shoulder.

“No! They took my Dad! They took my Dad…” Zane whimpered falling into Jax’s arms.

***

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The sun was setting into a deep crimson. The crashes of the slow waves livened the evening air. Zane sat atop the boulder following the crawl of the tide with his eyes. He twiddled his fingers, carefully tracing each line with his finger. He blinked to look up then did a double take. The sun was becoming consumed by a blanket of darkness.

“Jax…Jax!” Zane called out, jumping off the boulder.

Silence.

Zane ran towards the hut calling after Jax. He searched the hut unable to find Jax. He ran out of the hut in a huff. He lifted his dark locks, watching the sky be consumed by darkness. A low golden light snuck out the peak of the darkness shining on the surface of the water. It illuminated the water, bouncing its dull rays off the shoulders of a man. It was Jax. His back faced Zane as the glow diminished.

“Jax! Jax! Come on we have to go!” Zane called out as a large gust of wind pulled him away.

“It’s time,” Jax said not budging from his position.

Zane rushed toward the shore. Water splashed and tugged at his feet the closer he got to Jax. The waves roared and came down with a hammer. Zane stretched his arm out to meet Jax’s fingertips.

“No, Jax, you can’t leave me!”

A roaring wave shattered the contact. Zane reached for help when a wave crashed into his body dragging him deeper below, the surface of the water escaping his reach. The subtle glow from the surface diminished, and he sunk. The cold pull of the water tugged him, pulling at his sides. A big gush of water punched his core as he flew backwards.

Darkness.

***

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Zane woke up slowly, batting his eyes to the cosmic scenery above. He grabbed his pounding head, pulling himself to his feet. The night sky was flooded with the luminescing swirls of cyan and purple. It was magnificent. A dark blue sphere floated in the distance. Is that, Earth? Zane was wincing at the mysterious planet when a being in the distance skied its way across the surface of the blue rock beneath. The figure floated swiftly from side to side approaching closer to Zane. Zane clenched his fists, peering into the blank face of the figure.

“Who…What…are you?” Zane asked. The figure stood a foot away from Zane, swaying slowly.

“You’re one of them, the things. What do you want from me? Where’s Jax? The thing reached out its long arm towards Zane’s face. Zane screamed, frantically scooting away. The being remained blank, swaying back and forth.

“The wait is complete. Our search is complete.” The thing said as a crooked smile faded onto its blank face.

A massive white tulip emerged out of the blue rock behind the being. The petals clicked and peeled open. The thing’s twisted smile grew as it swayed out of Zane’s view of the petal. Zane pulled himself to his feet, slowly approaching the petal. Fear ate away at his body, yet an uncontrollable force pulled him closer to this mysterious flower.

“Your search? What do you-“ Zane stepped back, tripping to the ground with a thud.

The petals peeled open revealing an encased cell. Zane pushed backwards on his hands at the core. Beneath, a sheath covered a body.

“Da-Dad? What did you do to him, you monster!” Zane cried staring at the mute body of his father hovering before him.

“The healer we have found. We must reserve the power within. Repair of the planet in our hands it is. Search for kin of healer, capture the last of the healers we have,” The thing said swaying closer to Zane.

The figure wrapped its being around Zane and pushed him towards the cell. He turned towards the being with watery eyes, observing it give Zane what seemed like

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a hinting smile. Zane wiped his cheeks, turning towards the cell. He approached the cell, placing his hand on the sheath. An orb of light formed in Zane’s palm. He sprawled out his fingers as the light grew immense, brightening the cosmic sky. Zane jumped back, his hand retreating from the cell in astonishment.

“...Dad?”

artwork by ALLY BURNS | STLCC-Wildwood

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March to the TowerBY R ACHEL ROLWES

I used to have a pair of Pikachu tennis shoes that were constantly on the wrong feet. They were blue, with white laces, and Pikachu’s face on the tongue. Her face was also carved into the rubber around the toes, and there was a Poké-ball on the side where the Converse logo would be. That was my childhood, tripping over the wrong shoes that I couldn’t even wrap my mind around tying. I didn’t manage to put them on right until one day my older sister, Melissa, colored in the tiny faces outside of the big toes with a red pen. After that, all I had to do was match my big toe up with the tiny, newly red face of the Pokémon. From then on, I was a walking fanatic. I’d take as many strolls, up and down the street, as possible, practically falling over and over again on my six-year-old nose, which was already too high up in the air. For everyone’s sake, it was okay that it came crashing down every now and then.

During my frequent walks, I’d stand directly in the middle of my street staring at a tall radio tower beyond the five-lane street just past my neighborhood, Manchester Road. The road wasn’t visible from my house, but I could see the tower. It was a normal tower, used for the police radios. There was nothing rather exciting about it; the tower came to a point with a red blinking light at the top. But for me, it looked so far away I was sure it was the Eiffel Tower. The six-year-old me needed to go there more than anything else.

One afternoon during the summer my curiosity got the best of me. I had just had a fight with my parents, most likely over cleaning the kitchen or talking back. I was sent to my room, where I began pacing back and forth. Fury started to build up in my throat to the point it was burning, and tears were starting to spill out. I decided I was done with living in my house, with my family, and it was time to leave. I grabbed my tiny pink bag with the black straps and filled it full of the essentials: my blanket, some candy, my baby doll, and whatever little money I had collected. Then, I dug through my closet until I found my Pikachu sneakers and slipped them on as fast as I could, barely even looking at them. With the idea of heading for the tower in mind, I set out.

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I recall it being very hot and sunny as I marched my way down the street on my mission, vaguely aware of my untied shoelaces slapping my ankles. At first, I felt unstoppable; there was no way I’d screw this up. I was doing a very daring deed, and my first taste of freedom was heaven, only after a few minutes, heaven was starting to become very hot. I was tired; melting under the sunlight had started to make me feel sluggish. My skin felt like cafeteria food beneath heating lamps, greasy with sweat, yet dry and almost burning around the edges. It was beginning to feel as if I had been walking to this tower for hours, days, weeks, maybe my whole life. My toes ached to the point that I considered aborting the whole operation, but that felt like failure.

Eventually, I made it to Manchester Road and stared out over a new obstacle, a sea of forty mile-per-hour machinery in front of me. All I needed to do was cross the road to Steak ‘n Shake. Simple enough, if it wasn’t for the rush of every angry human being on their way home at that exact moment. Feeling slightly lost on what to do to next, I decided I should just cross to the middle. Waiting for that perfect moment in the break of traffic, I started to get closer to the edge of the road. My heart was pounding against my rib cage as if it were trying to escape my chest. My chance approached as the last car was accelerated up the hill, and then I’d run across.

The car barreled on past me as the hum of a familiar engine pulled up next to me. Resisting the urge to run across the street and the urge to turn and face the horror I knew was to my right, I felt torn staring out over the street.

My chance to bolt flew right on by with the cars as my mother rolled her window down. She let it take its time sliding down at a speed known as “turtle slow” before unleashing her anger on me.

She started to scream, “What on Earth do you think you are doing! Were you trying to get run over?!” She started to lean out of her car window towards me. “Do you not see all the cars?!” as she threw her hand in the direction of the road.

I stared at my shoes during most of her lecture, looking up to cut in with “But-but I’m fine.” That didn’t matter though. What did matter was I had gotten caught and now faced the consequences.

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She completely ignored my lie of just going for a short walk, mostly because my backpack was a dead giveaway. I then attempted to tell the truth of visiting the tower across the street, yet that seemed to get me even more grounded.

“Just wait until I tell your father,” she said through her teeth. But the last thing she said in her angry mother lecture stuck with me. She muttered the sentence that described my childhood: “For God’s sake Rachel, your shoes are on the wrong feet.”

Every now and then, I look at that tower and think back to that moment and wonder: if I had only put my shoes on right, would I have gotten there fast enough? Every time, it fills me with the need of an adventure and escape, just as it did when I was a child. One day, if I ever get the chance again, I’ll fill up a backpack, take a good look at my symbol of freedom, and bolt. This time I won’t let my shoes slow me down.

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The BetweenBY VICTORIA JAMSKI

There’s this place that, for me, exists between worlds. I go there sometimes when I feel alone or when I’ve had too much to drink. Tonight is one of those nights. One of those nights when I’ve had too much to drink I mean. I don’t feel alone.

I wish I could say it’s a magical place, a place where ghosts of the past roam free, or a place where I can see into an alternate, happier future, but it’s not. It’s just a place I go when I’ve had too much to drink and I’m going there tonight but I don’t feel alone.

“Hey Frankie,” I say as I stumble through the front door.

“Hey C.J.,” Frankie says from his usual place on the ugly plaid couch. He’s playing a game on the T.V., flailing the controller wildly at the screen as if that’s the win condition.

“You’re doing that wrong.”

“Fuck off.”

His words sting a little for reasons that I can’t quite put my finger on.

In the kitchen I notice there’s a new hole in the wall, or maybe that one has been there for a while; I can’t remember. I open the fridge because the booze makes me crave pretzels. I don’t know why I’m looking for pretzels in the fridge, but it makes sense to my drunken mind. I close the fridge and go to the door. When I open it, I’m not surprised to find it’s the wrong door, but there aren’t pretzels in the pantry either. I knew it was the wrong door, but I opened it anyway because I don’t feel alone.

The right door opens then and a vaguely familiar face blinks at me. I can’t remember the name that belongs to it though. “Oh, C.J.,” the face starts talking at me, “Rodney didn’t tell me you were gonna show up.” I stare at Face like I don’t

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understand anything he’s saying. He sighs impatiently and grabs my wrist, pulling me towards the right door. The door that leads to the reason I came here.

The stairs to the basement are wooden and creak under my heels. The walls are chipped concrete, and I have to remind myself that I don’t feel.

Rodney is sprawled on the dark green couch. He arches an eyebrow when he sees my face. “Thought you said you weren’t coming back, Princess.”

Face lets go of my wrist. I know it’s my last chance to turn around. I shrug. Rodney smirks.

He slides his arm up to the back of the couch, and I recognize the invitation to sit down. The dirty smirk is still on his face when he leans into me. His lips brush my neck and I swallow. His fingers touch my hair. There’s no going back now.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away from the glass, or me.”

“Just give me the pipe.”

“Are you going to stay tonight?”

He nips at my neck and runs his fingers down my body to the top of my shorts. I recognize the ultimatum he’s presenting.

“Pass me the pipe.” I repeat. He grins because he knows he’s won.

The pipe is a beautiful red and blue marbled glass. The bottom is burned black from previous use and there’s a small chip in the bowl but in a way that makes it more beautiful.

It’s this moment right before the first breath that I love to hate. It’s this state of not existing in either world, of being in the between that I cherish miserably. I bring it to my lips, flick my lighter, and close my eyes because I don’t feel alone.

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artwork by LESLIE RANDLE | STLCC-Wildwood

STLCC-WW 2016 Sycamore

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