The Green Light

The Green Light | SPRING 2019

The FPU Literary Jourrnal

Vol. 3 | SPRING 2019
 THE
GREEN LIGHT
Vol. 3 | Spring 2019
The Green Light is published annually in partnership with the
English Department and the Communication Department.

The Green Light is produced by and for students. Students and

alumni are invited to submit creative work. Send inquiries and
submissions to greenlight@fresno.edu.

The Green Light is a product of institutional support and a

student writing community. The language and ideas in The Green
Light are the property of individual writers and do not necessarily
reflect the views or values of Fresno Pacific University.

Copyright © Spring 2019. All rights revert back to author after

first printing.

Front cover design by Efrain Martinez.

Back cover and logo design by Jesse Dickens.
The Green
Light
Editor in Chief
Carlie Dickens

Copy Editor
Francesco Parisi

Product Editor
Taylor Benton

Co-Editors
Maranata Zemede
Margaret Bowlin

Faculty Advisor
Daniel Larson

Reading Board
Kaitlyn Doolittle
Luke Fredette
Kassandra Klein
Camille Sanchez
Jessica Villalobos
Table of Contents
Editor’s Note......................................................... 2

Stitching Up Lips..................................................3
Dementia...............................................................5
Learning from the Lupins.....................................6
Hands.....................................................................7
Silence....................................................................8
Masked...................................................................9
10.27.18...............................................................10
A Fire in the Storm..............................................11
Texture.................................................................22
What I Want for You...........................................23
Silly.......................................................................24
The Eyes that Tell a Story....................................26
Love Yourself........................................................27
Who Watches the Watchmen..............................28
Master Study of Henry Moore............................39
The Choice...........................................................40
Red, White, and Blue..........................................41
Turn.....................................................................43
Celestial................................................................53
Listen to the Music..............................................54
Where Am I?.......................................................55
Editor’s Note
As the last school year came to a close, I was approached
by Laurel Samuelson with the opportunity to take over as the
newest editor of The Green Light, a project she started during
her time at FPU. Stepping into this role epitomized stepping
into shoes that could never be filled, but over the past year, it has
been so fulfilling to attempt to do so while working alongside an
incredible team as we wove together the various puzzle pieces for
this issue.
My fellow editors and I were blown away at the magnitude
and quality of the submissions we received for this season. It is
always an incredible thing when so many people want to pour
themselves into the same thing you yourself are invested in, and
it is a blessing in disguise to be able to genuinely say that we
had too many wonderful pieces to have ever possibly been able
to accept them all. Despite this, I believe that we did our best to
assemble a body of works that showcases the many experiences
felt by those within the FPU community.
We feel that this issue is reflective of the life that
surrounds us, highlighting the many experiences of humanity, be
they nightmare or daydream, unspeakable or wondrous. As you
read through this edition, we hope that the stories told within
might do one of two things: allow you to reflect on your own life
experiences which parallel these, or open your eyes to the world
within which others around us live.

Carlie Dickens
Editor in Chief

2
Stitching Up Lips
“Women cannot preach,”
he said
as I stood there
and cried,
my hands clenching
into fists
ready to throw.
“You’re angry...”
he said
as I bit my tongue,
ashamed to show
my true feelings
of hurt,
of rage.
“For women
should be silent,
gentle,
kind.”
Anything less is
less than woman.
So I shut my mouth
and swallowed my pain
like a needle
going down my throat,
stitching up lips
that were made
to speak
Life.
And when he left,
I wept on the floor
like the woman at the tomb
three days later,
believing the lie
that the battle was lost,
and chains had defeated.
But my Lord,

3
He startled me
when he appeared there
in Light
and spoke
into the darkness,
“Why are you weeping?”
Dear woman,
sweet daughter...
Before sending me out
to run through the fields,
shouting out boldly
of the beauty I’ve seen:
freedom,
freedom,
sweet,
joyful
Freedom!

Jessica Ice

4
DEMENTIA
It was a forgotten early hour when I found my grandfather
In the kitchen; I was young and thought him at his end.

He was towering and hunched where he sat on the floor,

But his great umbrella-spine legs could not find place to fold,
So they spanned the width of cold linoleum and splayed,
Aimless, in yellow light.

Yet his eyes stayed alive, darting up from a Tupperware tub

Of “homemade ice cream,” which might have just been
Frozen rice cereal, intended for babies.
He proceeded to smack on a spoon as he winked and asked:

“Who are you?”

His first evening home, he drank dressing at dinner;

With a sputter and scowl, he shoved back the bottle.
“I can’t drink this!” The kids all laughed in great cries,
And my father cried too, holding hand to his eyes.

The sun was no help in determining day;

One afternoon he tucked me away with a scratchy cover
Of crocheted plastic wool and told me to sleep like a good little girl.
I did not die of heat, though was certain I would–

“Who are you?”

He sat in fog of open door as frigid freezer’s

Droning snore filled up the time he took to forget.
I gave not a name, but got out a spoon
And sat on the floor that we couldn’t get clean–
To my grandpa, a stranger to share the ice cream.

Laurel Samuelson

5
Learning from the Lupins
Learning from the Lupins Part 1
The earth becomes soft. Soil is loose under my brown and teal
hiking boots. Warm sun suddenly hides behind the tall, glorious
stance of the mountains. The leftover beams that stream through
the black bark on the trees momentarily glare into my eyes,
blinding me from what is left from the charred nature around
me, until the harsh light slowly vanishes and only the glow of its
heat remains to light my way. Tranquility embraces me. Lupins
frame me while their lavender beauty soars a foot over my head.
The salient smell overtakes my nostrils. As I continue to pace,
I hear nothing. My boots are hitting the ground yet making no
sound. My ears make no notice of the living; there is only silence
in the midst of the surrounding life. I observe a stream to my left;
its ripples are inaudible in their movement. The bugs around me
have been vanquished, their buzzing has been lost in the enveloping
serenity. My extended hands glaze through the flowers, branches,
and leaves. My fingertips take extra notice of a leaf presenting a
fuzzy sentiment. I close my eyes to enjoy the textural charms. The
smells are faint in the depths of their majesty. From my hands,
my feet, my ears, my nose, my emotions, peace is found here. This
is peace. The peace is here. The peace stills me to a place I cannot
consciously probe.
Learning from the Lupins Part 2
I exit the ebony bark and am instantly released from the lupin
branches that had attempted to clasp my ankles and capture me
in their regeneration. As soon as my heels obnoxiously connect
with the resounding gravel, the feeling of daylight, yet again,
burns my skin. My ears capture the rushing water. Though time
had ceased, its ever-present restraints control my mind yet again.
For only a moment, I was able to sense the presence which
encompassed me.
Rachel Kaneversky

6
 Hands
the artist uses her hands
to paint

the carpenter uses his hands

to build

the doctor uses her hands

to heal

the chef uses his hands

to cook

the dancer uses her hands

to enchant

the waiter uses his hands

to serve

I look at these hands and see

a similarity

God made us in His

image

so if these hands do what

they do

Then God’s hands can

paint His glory
build His kingdom
heal the hurt
cook the bread of life
enchant the ways of grace
serve us in our suffering
and love

I got the love portion from the holes in

His hands

Jesse Parr

7
Silence

Quiet of Morning,
Chirping birds and Scampering squirrels.
Beauty in Silence,
All is Quiet.

Thoughts sluggish,
Cold hands,
Satisfaction with Life.
Past pain is just that.
All that remains is Joy.
Today is a good day.

Nate Van Dyke

8
Masked

Leandra Vosburg

9
10.27.18
Justice for the Jews
Killed and shot at in their own pews

Bullet after bullet after bullet

A man with his hand on the trigger
Please don’t pull it

Another cry comes from the synagogue

Will the Jews still cling to God?

We all just long for peace

Please Lord, let the guns cease

Must we all live in fear?

God, please bring Your love near

I’m tired of seeing hurt, hearing all the pain

All the good work they’ve done, now down the drain

A stab taken to David’s star

The Jew’s history adding another scar

I’m sorry you face the wrath of man

I promise, it was not a part of God’s original plan

Samantha Witt

10
A Fire in the Storm
Curse this dreadful weather. Curse my good-for-nothing
horse. Curse these wretched woods.
Abigail stuck close to the tree trunks as she strode quickly
forward, the leaves above protecting her from the pouring rain.
As a chill wind howled down the wide forest path, she clutched
her hooded, royal-blue riding cloak tightly about herself. The
trees rustled violently, thunder boomed not far in the distance,
and it was only a matter of minutes before lightning would begin
to strike. But it was not the storm that hastened Abigail’s steps
and heartbeat, or caused her green eyes to shift about beneath
her hood.
I’m certain I need not worry about them, she told herself
as mud splashed onto her black riding boots. They wouldn’t dare
show their malignant faces so close to the city.
It was not wild animals or thieves that Abigail so hoped
to avoid, but witches. The fiends had been inactive for decades
nigh on centuries until less than a year ago, when suddenly their
wicked art began to spread like a plague. There was a whole society
of them now, lurking in shadowy corners of the kingdom and
advancing the secrets of their craft. Thankfully, a certain League
had recently been formed whose mission was to eliminate each
and every witch from the kingdom. In fact, it was thanks to this
League that Abigail found herself tramping through the woods;
she had been on her way back from attending a trial when the
first thunderclap had startled her horse, which had thrown her
and bolted. Her escorts’ horses had galloped ahead, their riders
unable to get them under control. If worst came to worst, at least
she had her knife….
The gale only grew more furious, and soon Abigail had
to grip her hood lest the wind yank it down. Even at the very
edge of the path, rain seeped beneath her clothes and hail pelted
her like arrows. She was considering leaving the path altogether
to seek shelter in the thick of the woods when she spied a nar-
rower one some yards ahead. It was almost completely concealed
by the dense underbrush around it, and indeed Abigail had not
noticed it on her way to the trial. Deciding that that would be
her best route to safety, she left the main road as soon as she

11
reached the new path—which, with any luck, would lead to a
village.
Low branches reached for her like arms on either side
of the narrow path, and she barely avoided their grip. Brambles
and loose roots nearly tripped her several times. The walk would
have been entirely miserable if not for the fact that here, barely
any rain or hail penetrated the fortress of treetops above. After
five minutes the path began to widen, and it wasn’t much longer
before it opened into a grassy clearing.
Located there was not a village, but a single solitary
cottage. It was a humble abode, but its thatched roof and wooden
walls appeared perfectly capable of keeping out the rain; so Abi-
gail was almost as glad to see it as she would have been her own
manor. She sloshed down the muddy path leading to the porch,
watching as the wind whipped an empty clothesline beside the
cottage. Reaching the front door, she knocked firmly.
“Is anybody present?” she called. “I am a noblewoman
seeking shelter from the rain.”
Nobody replied. She waited a moment, then knocked
again. When there was still no answer, she reached for the door,
intending to escort herself inside.
“Can I help you?” asked a soft voice from her right.
Abigail turned to find a girl of perhaps fourteen standing
there. She was of average build and wore a plain, mud-splattered
skirt and a dark shawl. The latter hid most of her features in
shadow, but could not obscure the wide, bright blue eyes that
peered at their visitor. In her hand she carried a basket of mush-
rooms. Abigail repeated her request.
“Of course—it would be my pleasure,” the girl said.
Abigail stepped aside, and her host came forward and
led the way into her cottage. The warmth of a fire that crackled
in a small hearth on the far wall enveloped her, its light flick-
ering over the whole room. A few feet to its left, a bed with a
patchwork quilt rested snugly against the wall. The earthy aroma
of herbs and spices issued from a shelf on the opposite wall, and
a round wooden table with two chairs stood in the middle of
the room. The rain pounded on the walls and splattered the two
small windows, but could not gain entry. Abigail lowered her
hood with a sigh, revealing her elegant bun of sleek black hair.

12
 “You can dry yourself by the fire, if you like,” the girl said,
closing the door behind her.
“Thank you, I shall.” Abigail strode forward, unfastening
her cloak. “To whom do I owe my thanks?”
“My name is Elizabeth, madam. And—and what’s
yours?”
Abigail hesitated as she removed her cloak and hung it
from the mantle above the hearth. The name of Abigail Coren-
tine was known across the land, but usually she was accompanied
by guards when she announced it. The cottager seemed harmless
enough, but as Abigail stared beyond the gleaming gems of
droplets that formed on the window, she was reminded of the
listeners they might be obscuring.
“You may call me Lady Abigail.”
Elizabeth nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,
milady.”
Abigail gave a small nod in response, staring into the
cauldron hanging above the fire. She could not identify the
muddy-looking broth that bubbled within, which gave off an
earthy scent similar to the herbs, but she made no comment as
she sat cross-legged before the flames. When she untied her
drenched hair, it became a waterfall that tumbled down to her
waist. Elizabeth stepped forward, dumped her mushrooms into
the cauldron, and stirred the contents with a large ladle.
“I was on my way back from collecting ingredients for
supper when I saw you at the door. I’d be happy to share some
with you when it’s all done.”
“Why, thank you, young lady; that would be most appre-
ciated. But, foraging for food in this weather? I shudder at the
thought!”
“Actually, milady, storms are the best time to gather
mushrooms. They have unique properties and flavors if cooked
with raindrops.”
“Now, that’s just silly talk. Where did you hear such a
thing?”
Elizabeth was slow to respond. “My mother taught me.
Before—well, never mind.”
It felt as though one of the storm clouds had found its
way into the cottage, obscuring the firelight. Abigail kept her seat

13
stiffly, her eyes wandering around the room in search of something
to fix on. There really was nothing of note—a single room in her
manor had more furnishings than Elizabeth’s entire home.
The earthy scent grew stronger the more Elizabeth
stirred. Finally, the girl procured two rough-hewn wooden bowls
and spoons from a cupboard and set them on the table, then gave
the cauldron’s contents one last stirring. It smelled as though
she had taken a chunk of the forest floor and thrown it in, and
Abigail was more than a little hesitant to put the concoction in
her mouth. Still, she stood and followed as Elizabeth hefted the
cauldron to the table, where she poured the mysterious substance
first into her guest’s bowl and then her own.
“I hope you like it,” she said meekly as she sat down. “It’s
a recipe my parents taught me, and I don’t know how to make
much else.”
Abigail only smiled politely as she slowly lifted the
spoon to her mouth. As soon as she took the first tentative sip,
her eyes widened. All at once she tasted fire, rain, and earth; it
was like a forest was coming to life in the broth. After she swal-
lowed, warmth stronger than flames spread through her whole
body, a bloodhound hunting down every trace of cold and damp-
ness. When she took in a breath, her nose no longer sniffled.
“Why, this is scrumptious! Your parents are fine chefs
indeed.”
Elizabeth thanked her quietly with a small nod. Abigail
finished the first bowl in moments, then eagerly reached for the
ladle and poured herself another. Elizabeth finally removed her
shawl, revealing a thin face with soft, gentle features and long
blonde hair. There was a touch of nervousness in the curious eyes
that watched Abigail through the remainder of the meal, the rain
pattering outside all the while. When Abigail had had her fill,
her insides feeling simultaneously full and clean, she leaned back
in the creaky chair with a sigh.
“When will your parents return, dear? I’d like to congrat-
ulate them on that recipe.”
Elizabeth fixed her blue eyes on the empty bowl before
her. “I’m afraid they can never return, where they’ve gone.”
“Ah… I’m terribly sorry. What took them?”
Now Elizabeth’s eyes stared out the gray window. “My
mother never did anything wrong, but she was labeled a criminal
and sentenced to death. My father tried to sneak her out of her

14
jail cell, but got caught; so he hanged with her. I was forced to
flee my village, and here I am.”
Something about the tale sounded familiar, but Abigail
couldn’t quite recall where she had heard it. “What a dreadful
thing!”
Elizabeth nodded, still staring out the window. “Thank
you for your sympathy, milady.”
“I have quite an influence in this kingdom, you know.
Perhaps I can set things right with the villagers.”
Elizabeth gave her a sideways glance. “Oh? What sort of
influence?”
Realizing she had said too much, Abigail bit her lip. “Oh,
just the sort a noble tends to have.”
“I see.” Elizabeth’s eyes had narrowed slightly, and she
appeared to be thinking. “Well, I am truly humbled by your offer,
milady, but—but the village carries too many memories. I think
I’m happier here now.”
Abigail nodded. “Whatever you say, dear.” She joined her
host in gazing at the world outside. The rain, far from letting up,
was only falling harder. She resigned herself to a long visit.
Elizabeth stood, removing the bowls, spoons, and caul-
dron from the table, and Abigail decided to sit before the fire
again. When Elizabeth was finished in the kitchen, she sat on
the bed a few feet away from the hearth. In the long silence that
followed, Abigail tried to ignore Elizabeth peering at her, and
only thunder, the occasional crack of lightning, and the incessant
rain were to be heard.
At length, Abigail spoke. “You know, you really ought to
be careful next time you’re out collecting ingredients—especially
if you’re all by yourself.”
Elizabeth’s expression told Abigail she didn’t understand.
“Surely you’ve heard tell of the witch problem.”
A shadow fell over Elizabeth’s face, as if she had put her
shawl back on. She gazed at Abigail as if she were seeing her in a
new light. “Yes… I’ve heard much.”
“But you are not intimidated?”
“Not particularly. Why would I be?”
Abigail’s eyes widened. “Why, young lady, I’m surprised
at you!”

15
 “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve only heard that the Anti-Witch
League is hunting them, not why.”
“They cast hexes on innocent passersby. They perform
arts that defy nature. They invent new ways of killing. Does that
shed light on things?”
Elizabeth didn’t meet Abigail’s eyes. “I suppose so, mila-
dy.”
Abigail sat stiffly, slowly turning her gaze back to the
flames. It felt as though a rope had bound her to her hostess
and been pulled taut. She was trying to think of something to
say to slacken it a bit when a frog began croaking nearby. Abi-
gail thought it was coming from outside until the little monster
hopped into her lap. With a cry hardly befitting her station,
she leapt from the ground and backed away. The frog, unfazed,
hopped back to the corner from which it had emerged.
Abigail’s breaths came short and quick. “Don’t just sit
there, girl! Fetch a broom!”
“Please, milady, don’t be scared. It’s only my pet frog—he
won’t hurt anybody.”
“Pet! Who in their right mind would keep such an ab-
horrent creature in her home?”
“Lots of people, lately. Frogs have many unexpected
uses.”
“Especially with raindrops on them, I suppose.”
“No, milady. That only applies to mushrooms.”
Abigail shook her head, straightened her skirt, and took
a steadying breath. “Well, if you can keep your lovely little pet far
away from me, I suppose I’ll have no need to make a fuss.”
Elizabeth assured her she would, and Abigail sat back
down. She wished she could command the storm to cease; the
cottage had rather lost its charm, and she missed the company of
her servants, plush furniture, and civilized pets. But, as she had
no dominion over nature, her only choice was to continue her
stint before the hearth, her back growing sorer with each minute.
“Milady,” Elizabeth said softly, a slight quaver in her
voice, “what are the nobility doing about the bandits?”
“Bandits? What bandits?”
“Any of them. Surely you’ve heard about our problem.”
Abigail only stared at her in confusion.

16
 “They’ve been getting worse for decades now—razing
villages, kidnapping women, taking ‘tribute’ money. My village
always lived in terror of them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’d had no idea that that was the
state of things.”
“But surely you’ll do something, right?”
“You want me to do something?”
“Well, any noble would be fine. But you did say you have
an influence in this kingdom….”
Abigail didn’t return her probing gaze. “Indeed. Well, I
suppose we’ll get around to it sometime.”
Elizabeth was silent for a moment. Then, “I hope I don’t
overstep my boundaries, milady, but I really think you ought to
do something now.”
“I’m afraid my hands are tied just now. I am the—.” She
barely caught herself. “We’re busy dealing with the witches.”
“But—but that’s just it. Why target the witches?”
“I believe I’ve already explained that.”
“Yes, but killing is killing—what difference does it make
if it’s by a curse or a blade?”
Abigail pursed her lips. “There are differences.”
“But—”
“Enough!” Abigail cried, rising to her feet. Elizabeth
flinched as though she had been cut with a sword. “I don’t expect
a simple village maiden to understand. It’s about more than just
killing—it’s about order.”
“Order?”
“Yes, order.” Abigail began to pace. “We can’t have these
uneducated maidens using magic tricks to rise the ranks. What
would become of this kingdom then?”
“So it’s not about protecting the people,” Elizabeth
mumbled, head low. “It’s about protecting your authority.”
A fierce roll of thunder boomed, and lightning flashed
very close to the cottage. Abigail barely restrained herself from
slapping her host.
“It is about the greater good. This land would cease to
function if witches took charge.”
“I don’t think witches are interested in taking charge.
Milady.”

17
 Abigail stopped abruptly. “Is that so. And what would
you know about them?”
Elizabeth gripped the edge of the bed tightly. “Perhaps
more than you do, milady.”
Abigail laughed, each syllable a judge’s gavel. “More than
me? I highly doubt that, young lady!”
Elizabeth stared at her guardedly. “What do you mean?”
“I have discovered their dens. I have arranged their
trials. I have witnessed their executions. I am Abigail Corentine,
founder and head of the Anti-Witch League!”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and her face grew whiter than
marble. If not for the fierce gale that rattled the cottage, the room
would have been drenched in silence. Abigail’s heart raced, but
no witches burst into the room to enact vengeance. Wind seeped
in through the cracks in the walls and almost seemed to whisper.
“It was you.”
Abigail blinked. “What?”
Elizabeth stood. “Tell me, milady, does the name Proctor
sound familiar to you?”
She was about to reply that it did not and ask the point
of the question, but suddenly it flew to her as if on the wind. “Of
course. That was the double hanging—when the witch’s husband
tried to break her out of—.” She froze. “What would you know
about that?”
The flames danced in the hearth, their light reflected in
Elizabeth’s eyes. “I would know a lot, milady. Seeing as they were
my parents.”
As if a key were twisting in her mind, everything clicked
into place all at once—the suspicious broth, the frog, Eliza-
beth’s comments. Abigail staggered back, drawing her slender,
jewel-encrusted knife from beneath her blouse. She held it at
Elizabeth with a trembling hand.
Elizabeth stretched her arm forward. “Capio.”
At that word, an invisible force yanked the knife out of
Abigail’s hand and into Elizabeth’s. Abigail made a wild dash for
the door, but with another incantation from Elizabeth she was
sent flying backwards and tumbled to the ground. As Abigail
struggled to catch her breath, the girl stood over her. The blade in

18
her hand gleamed like a slobbery fang, and the rubies in her hilt
caught the flickering firelight.
“Kill me if you must,” Abigail spat, trembling from head
to toe. “I will die without regret.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said quietly. “That’s why I have to do
this….”
The witch made no move with the knife. Instead, she
began to mutter under her breath. Abigail tried to get up and
make another break for the door, but she found she didn’t have
the energy to get to her feet. Her limbs and eyelids grew heavy
as tombstones, and she began to fade from consciousness. As she
slumped back onto the cold wooden floor, the last thing she saw
was the flames of the hearth, a glittering smear of orange, yellow,
and brown.
“Sleep well, milady,” Elizabeth whispered.
Then a black void enveloped her.

It was very slowly that Abigail regained awareness. She

was still in the black, empty void, conscious only of warmth and
softness. Gradually, her faculties returned to her: she heard the
continued pitter of rain, smelled the smoky logs of a fire, felt the
lingering taste of the broth in her mouth. Then, all at once, she
remembered what had transpired, and bolted upright with gulp-
ing breaths.
Her heart pounded as she took stock of her surround-
ings, but it appeared she was in no peril. She lay under the patch-
work quilt of the small bed, where a moment before her head
had rested comfortably on the neatly arranged pillows. When she
saw that her cloak no longer hung from the mantle, she thought
it had been stolen until she discovered that she was wearing it.
Feeling her head, she found that her hair was back in its tight
bun. Fire still crackled in the hearth, but now more low embers
burned than full-fledged flames. The rain outside fell more softly
than before and seemed to grow feebler with each second.
Elizabeth stood across the room, spooning some of her
broth into small, clear jars. Hearing her guest’s gasp, she turned
calmly.
“Hello, milady. Did a nightmare wake you?”

19
 Abigail didn’t utter a word. Was this some ploy to lull
her into a false sense of security? Had the witch dressed her up
as one dresses a choice steak? And yet, even as she thought this,
Abigail realized that her knife had been returned to its hiding
place beneath her blouse.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Of what?” The innocence in Elizabeth’s voice was mad-
dening.
“Why am I alive?”
Elizabeth, who by this time had continued with the
broth, shrugged. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
“I am not a fool, girl. You had my knife. You put me to
sleep. I want to know what you intend to do with me.”
“Since you liked the potion so much, I intend to let you
take the leftovers with you when you leave.”
A flurry of questions tumbled around in Abigail’s
mind. She decided to remain silent and let things run their
course, keeping one hand on her knife’s hilt. When Elizabeth
had screwed the last lid on tightly, she began placing the jars
of potion into a basket. With that complete, she walked calmly
towards the hearth; Abigail scooted as far into the corner of the
bed as possible. Elizabeth paid no heed, stretching her hand
towards the dying embers.
“Ignis.”
At that word, the fire suddenly sprang back to life, arms
of flame reaching into the chimney. Abigail stared mutely as the
warmth spread over her.
“Much better,” Elizabeth said with a small smile.
Taking deep breaths, Abigail clutched the quilt up to
her face like a frightened child, watching the witch’s every move
carefully. All the girl did was stride back to the table and sit
on the far chair, watching the reinvigorated fire with a tranquil
expression. Abigail sat there, trembling, until she realized that
the pattering of the rain had faded away at last. Carefully, she
lowered the quilt. If she played along convincingly, perhaps she
could escape….
“So… you mentioned my leaving?”
Elizabeth stood, smiling. “Of course. And please, milady,
do take this.” She held out the basket of potions. “They can cure

20
a common cold. There are all sorts of other kinds, but my parents
never got to teach me those.”
Abigail got out of the bed and stepped forward slowly,
ready to jump out of the way of any sudden bolt of lightning or
burst of flame and respond with her knife. Upon reaching her
still-smiling host, she carefully reached out a hand and took
hold of the basket. Elizabeth’s only move was to lower her arm
and clasp her hands in front of her. Abigail backed towards the
door, the potion jars clanking with each trembling step. When
she reached it, she pushed it open behind her with her free arm,
letting a chill breeze sweep into the room. Elizabeth still did
nothing.
“Well, do you intend to keep up the pretense much lon-
ger?”
Elizabeth frowned. “Pretense?”
“Oh, come now. Do you honestly expect me to believe
that you will simply let me walk away?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I don’t care if you believe me or not.
I know it’s what I’m doing.”
The two of them stood staring at each other. After several
moments, all Abigail could say was, “Why?”
Elizabeth turned her gaze to the cloudy sky outside the
door. “Because if I didn’t, I would prove you right about us.”
Abigail stared at her for another moment, trying to for-
mulate a response. Then, she shook her head, turned, and stepped
out the door.
“Well, milady, it was an honor to give you shelter,” Eliz-
abeth called after her. “If you’re ever caught in a storm again, my
people will always be happy to help.”
Abigail said nothing, continuing briskly on her way. As
she practically jogged down the flooded dirt path back to the
woods, a ray of bright sunlight broke through the clouds above
her.
She had never felt so chilled to the core.

Francesco Parisi

21
Texture

Efrain Martinez

22
What I Want for You
I hope you find someone who loves you in ways I could not.
I hope you find it easy to be honest and difficult to lie.
I can’t be selfish and wish you pain, neither can I say I wish you
had stayed.
I’m thankful for the love we shared, even the pain.
They go hand in hand; without one is to be
without the other.
I found myself under all the ashes of our love;
I hope you do too.

Camille Sanchez

23
Silly
The other day I was told I am silly
Yes, I said, silly I am; I think it is a fine fate to be silly
And they said, silly is all you are; all you are is silly
A silly boy with silly dreams and silly hopes
and silly thoughts and silly art
Maybe I am silly
Silly is something I can be; silly is who I was meant to be
I think it is fine to be silly
I love my silly writings, my silly drawings
I love my silly thoughts, silly ideals
Yeah, I’m pretty silly, and there is nothing more I’d want
I have silly grades and silly classes
I drink silly wine and pet my silly dogs
Silly stories with a silly voice and silly eyes
Silly nights alone on the roof of my house
Silly nights along the road to remind myself of stars
Silly puns and silly words to play
Silly moments where I scream at those who can’t hear me
Silly dreams of something I can’t be
Silly laughter and silly jokes for my friends
Silly doubts that I hurl at God above
Silly doubts I plunge into me deep
Silly times to clap to a sad, silly song
Silly rages against the hate and evil of the world
Silly tantrums about labels and their pain
Silly professors and their silly nonsense
Silly rumors and silly lies fuel my silly insecurities
Silly loneliness
Silly dumb questions
Silly bumble-bee butts
Silly calorie counter
Silly mumbles
Silly words caught on breath
Silly codependence
Silly love of honey mustard
Silly bitterness

24
Silly missing parents
Silly Jewish heritage
Silly pornography
Silly drunkenness
Silly theatrics
Silly drone in a broken machine
Silly Charlie Chaplin
Silly sullen sorrow
Silly pugs and silly scars
Silly vulgarities
Silly thoughts that hang from darkened rafters
Silly pain, silly pain, silly pain
God, if you hear me, clean my hands of these silly sins
For they are quite silly, silly, silly
God, if you’re there, give me a silly sign I can see
For on top of silly, I am blind and cowardly
But silly, first and foremost
Yes, silly. That’s what I am.
It is all quite silly, when you think about it
But thankfully,
Silly is a fine fate, I think

Jesse Parr

25
The Eyes that Tell a Story
They are only a few inches away. The oval shine stares at
her—stares into her. She never knew she could be looked at in
such a way. A way with so much passion and light and kindness.
She stares back in pure enjoyment. As each second passes by, she
realizes more and more that these two shining stars are not just
looking; they are telling her a silent story.
The story is that of constant struggle and forced silence.
It is a story of something assumed to be normality when it is
anything but. She can read the lines written in his expanded
pupils. She sees the sparkle of desired innocence and hope for a
greater, more joyful future.
This story being told has wanted to be released for a
time that is longer than any average story could survive being
untold; but it could never find the audience to confide in or even
an accepting genre to belong to. She anxiously searches for every
descriptor of the phrases, being sure not to ruin the moment with
the sound of verbal questionings.
The communication lasts but only a minute or two, but
the tale is far from over; there is still much for these eyes to tell.
She smiles at the thought of the day when she could
finish the novel that the pure, white innocence desires to present.
And, when that narrative ends, she knows that the green spheres
with outer blue ridges will have another story for her to explore.
There were only a few inches away. The oval shine stared
at her—stared into her. She never knew she could be looked at
in such a way. She looked back into them to write the longing
she had for the binding to stretch and the content of the pages
be acknowledged. She could not bear to ever turn her head aside.
She did not want to miss a single glance.

Rachel Kaneversky

26
Love Yourself

Water the earth with sorrow.

Paint the world with pain.
Serve others through the suffering.

Serve others, serve yourself.

The choice and answer are always the same.

Love others like you love yourself.

Am I the only one
Struggling with the second part?

People are valuable, people are special,

But am I the same?
Logically it makes sense,
But emotions are difficult.

Fake joy, fake hope, fake confidence,

Fake it until you make it.
But what if I don’t?
You can rest when you are dead.

Nate Van Dyke

27
Who Watches the Watchmen
They were supposed to be their protectors.
Granted to a helpless world by divinities unseen, these
paragons of fantastical powers, skills, and means had manifested
from the ether and gone to work righting countless wrongs.
Monsters, natural disasters, their crimes against each other...
these beings had offered the chance of respite from them.
But, in the end, that’s all they were: beings, and ones as
vulnerable to corruption and violent emotion as any other living
thing.
The Gods must not have considered that when they
placed them on the material plane. But once they noticed that
these weaknesses were beginning to bear twisted fruit, they acted
quickly. Through their agents, the Hidden Priests who worked
within world’s shadows, a message was passed:
A new power, a new savior, was to arrive.
…
From the ground Enceford was pleasant, but not without
its ugly sides. While the main thoroughfares were well-paved,
with expertly-crafted cobblestone and stylish ivy crowning the
ancient-but-dignified architecture, the back alleys and hidden
passages were places of little light and much grime. Walking
through them, one could feel their essence seeping into their
bones, their body and soul becoming a part of this ancient me-
tropolis.
From the roof of a watchtower, though, things were
different. From there Enceford was beautiful. The hidden rot, the
filthy acts of men and others, were invisible from that height. All
one could see were the dazzling lights of a civilization in prog-
ress.
Not once did Erec allow himself to be fooled. It was
his job to seek out the rot, to hunt down the devils from those
perches of angels.
He had lived there all his life. Or, at least, thought he
did. The exact details were ambiguous. If you asked him where he
had been born or grown up, the only answer he could give was
“<City Name>.” When in his more cynical moments there’d be a
bit of variation: he’d answer with the watchtowers.

28
 They pockmarked the city, one for every 100 feet or so;
over five thousand could be found by anyone looking. Standing
up on massive, ornate stilts, they towered over other buildings.
The spherical structures at their tops were stylized representa-
tions of the human eye, and in each one light shone from the
cornea. At night they were beacons in the darkness, and seemed
to swivel as though searching for misdeeds. Between them all
Enceford in its entirety could be observed.
Of course, most of the so-called Adventurers couldn’t
access such places. For reasons unknown, the Gods had blocked
such areas, and such areas alone, to Their champions. Sometimes
Erec wondered if They had known about the failures of Their
greatest creations, and so had created the watchtowers and other
like areas as safe-havens… and homes.
His personal Hidden Priest woke Erec from sleep, as
usual, its soundless speech sending a signal that made his con-
sciousness fly from dreamland. The bed he woke in was simple,
basic, and designed for only one person: him.
The rest of the room wasn’t especially distinct. From his
position on his pillow, Erec could make out the sea green-stained
arches that made up the ceiling, joining with the walls in several
thin pillars that stretched to the ground. The light shining in
from the watcherwindow, the rest of the eye-shaped structure,
was dim; it must still have been the middle of the night. A quick
glance to his peripheral gave all the confirmation he needed: the
time, 3:01 AM, floated in the blackness between where his vision
cut off and where the rest of the world began.
He jerked himself out of bed, forcing his chest and above
up with his arms, pushing back the maroon coverlet. His feet
soon swung out and planted themselves firmly on the floor.
Erec knew the routine by more than heart. He strode
quickly across the room, passing without glance or comment the
beaten-wood wardrobe, the oil lamp hung from a hook in the
wall, and the map of Enceford spread out above the beaten desk.
Only the feeling of hard, cold stone floor transitioning to rich,
warm, and almost unbearably lumpy faunish carpeting stood out
to him.
And that was… unusual.
Unusual?

29
 Wait, what was that? Something new had shot
through… my… head.
Erec forced these… whatever they were called… from
himself and turned his attention to the Hidden Priest. As usual,
it was feeding the details of the situation and his orders from the
Gods to his head.
Or… was it?
Something’s wrong, he thought, this… this isn’t supposed
to be. His nameless voice, the one connection he had to the will
of the Gods, seemed duller than usual. It was no longer on his
shoulders, whispering all he needed to know into his ear. It was…
it was…
I should give it a name—
Erec halted, jerkily, one foot frozen in the act of tak-
ing another step. Something was really wrong. Aberrant as the
whatever-it-was that had appeared in his head was, the line of
bumps he felt rise along his spine as a gust of wind worked its
way through the cracks in the watcherwindow was even more off.
This isn’t… this isn’t my world anymore. Wait. I… I have
a world? A this? He glanced around, taking it all in. ...It looks
nice.
It seemed to hit him all at once. The feelings, his reac-
tions to them… he had never felt something slam into him with
such force before. His knees trembled; he felt the ground crum-
ble away beneath him. Erec was suddenly on the carpet, curling
tightly into a loose ball. Whatever part of his head had registered
the feeling struck again, this time noting the cold droplets of
water that were beginning to flow from his skin and eyes.
“What is…” he all but rasped, before a low whine
touched the back of his throat.
And still they came, wave after wave. The thought of re-
sisting was ridiculous. He let himself be pulled under—to drown.
…
Adventurer: <Optogram> attacking Villager: <Cairn-
heath> at Stall 3 Avenue 5.4, designation: “Robbery Highway”...
Adventurers: <Lantha_> and <Drakgo59> engaged in
code-action: PVP (impermissible) in Square 1.1 “<SQUARE-
NAME>”.

30
 Mass group detected: Adventurer count 27; stress levels
above noted acceptable paradigms. Main source: Adventurer:
<Mrb02>. Determined action - lethal force…
City Entrance; Gates 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… expected Adventurer
input: 1,399. Unit station function: regular rotation. Unit as-
signed: 137. Rotation time…
…
Slowly, surely, the voice of the Hidden Priest brought
Erec back. His clarity returned; his surroundings seemed to blur
into safe, happy obscurity again. Whatever that hot, pounding
feeling was in his chest subsided. That observant, renegade part
of his brain—is that what I, what I, what I this with?!—noted
his temperature stabilizing. After what felt like an eternity, he
glanced toward the one thing the Hidden Priest was not cloud-
ing from him: another wardrobe, made of something older than
any tree, its door cracked slightly open.
He had a job to do. That, at least, was not new.
…
Whatever reprieve Erec had gained was promptly incin-
erated as he took off over the city.
The combat suit he wore, forged from magic and looking
as if made out of ephemeral, sparkling crystal, did nothing to
block out the buffets of wind that struck his body as he bounded
along the rooftops.
Enceford wasn’t dissimilar to a mobius strip; a twisted
and distorted figure eight from above, it wound around itself
such that, from a distance, the walls appeared to run just as much
in the city as they did outside of it. A confusing sight, to be sure,
but from the ground…
...Well, from the ground, Erec had to finally admit, it
wasn’t much better. He landed on the edge of one part of the
wall, just above and to the right of one of the numerous gates,
and stood there looking out.
He took it all in, from the thoughts now raging through
his head to the sights and smells coming from below. Confusion,
bewilderment, wonder, lights glittering in the night like stars, the
smell of cooking fires…
Wait a minute. Are those even cooking fires? he asked
himself. The Hidden Priest stayed silent.

31
 Erec walked a few more inches forward, placing one
foot on the railing. He looked over the edge, placing the side of
one flattened hand against his forehead. Magical materials wove
through the air in front of his eyes, forming a light blue visor that
both enhanced his vision and provided additional information.
The city below was burning, and not for any good reason.
Figures rampaged through the streets, and for a painful moment
his heart tightened uncomfortably in his chest. It was another
new sensation, but what it implied...
Monsters?! Attacking in the heart of Enceford?! Impos-
sible… what are the Adventurers—
His visor adjusted, providing him with a clearer image,
and his jaw made a downward escape attempt.
I thought it was just a few isolated riots, but… but
they’re all Adventurers. Every last one. Tearing the city to pieces…
His knees suddenly felt weak beneath him. This can’t be happen-
ing. This can’t be happening. The Gods would never—
“It looks like hell, doesn’t it?”
A familiar voice, like notes in a death metal solo, caused
him to jerk his head around. Another figure swooped down from
the air and came to a stop with a small roll that put them right
next to him. Their armor was of the same make, but this suit was
thinner, built for a more lithe frame. The color was also off, and
the splashes of paint Erec was sure hadn’t been there before made
it stand further out.
“Shara?” he asked, shakily attempting to get back on his
feet. He shook his head as he did; her appearance had unleashed
a whole new maelstrom of feelings. “The others. Where are they?”
“All around the city. This riot is getting more out of con-
trol each minute,” his senior of only a couple years said (Years? I
know what those are now?), standing up to meet him and taking
a few steps closer… only to tilt her head to the side as he took a
step back. “Are you alright?”
“It’s… my chest,” he replied, and reached up to place
a hand on his breastplate, “something’s wrong. Everything’s…
different. Different, but I don’t know how. It’s like I just became
aware of—”

32
 “—something obvious,” Shara finished briskly, “like you
didn’t know the real world, but now you do and it was a part of
you this whole time.”
She’s better at this than I am. “...Yes.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she said, glancing out at the city
ahead. “The Hidden Priest gave you orders, right?”
“Right.” He nodded. Orders, good. Those were things he
was familiar with. They would do for now.
“Then… follow them.” Shara’s words weren’t a suggestion or
encouragement, and for the first time that bothered Erec.
There I go again. It never bothered me before. Did… did
I ever hear it before, that tone? I wasn’t sure what hearing was
until a few minutes ago! ...Enough! She’s right. Regardless of
what’s happening to me…
“There’s still a duty to be done.”
Erec glanced at her as she spoke in time with his
thoughts. Beneath the helmet, he could just make out those crys-
talline eyes. They sparkled like diamonds when she laughed, but
right now they were as hard as the jewel. He saw in them now a
noncommittal shrug.
“There’s—.” His Hidden Priest interrupted his thoughts;
a new order appeared on the edge of his consciousness. “There’s
a really bad spot that just sprung up near here. The Gods must
think it could escalate.”
“I got it too.” Shara tapped the side of her helmet with
one armored finger. “All other guardsmen have been alerted, but
we’re the only ones close enough.” She focused on him again.
“Think you can handle it?”
He had heard that before. Every guardsman who ever
worked with (Under, more like) her had. But for the first time
Erec could feel the sharp knife of indignation cut through the air
somewhere between his chest and head, the slow burning sensa-
tion taking root in his blood, the adrenaline beginning to pump
through his veins.
For the first time, Erec tasted the feeling of being chal-
lenged.
And he couldn’t help but smile.
“Easily.”
He took off from the railing, his one foot placed there
kicking out and sending him above the rooftops. The armor came

33
to life, a faint running of lights dancing along its joints. There
was a small bit of kickback, a jerk in the reverse direction, and
then he felt there was no ground below him. Breath was ripped
from his lungs in the heat of the moment, then raggedly sucked
back in. The world flung its sides open like a burst balloon; Erec
was free, and he knew it.
Whatever this is… whatever this is, I don’t want it to
ever stop. It was only the thought of who was watching him take
off that prevented him from whooping.
…
You got all sorts in the city. The guardsmen were fairly
homogenous, comprised almost entirely of the local dominant
species. Here in Enceford, humans could be found wherever you
looked. As a result, almost all of its protectors seemed to come
from that stock.
Adventurers were a different matter, as the dwarf cleric,
stumbling back as her entire body flashed red from her once-
friend’s attack, could attest.
“Come on, come on!” the attacker growled, brandishing
a knife that would’ve looked a bit over the top if it wasn’t being
used for murder, “you should know! You have to know!”
“I—I don’t—!” she gasped, taking a few staggering steps
back. “Jake, please—!”
“You were the one who convinced me to come back!” he
roared, leaping towards her and brandishing his weapon, “after
all those years, you! You got me into this stupid game again—you
get me out!”
Adventurers were meant to work as a group; no one soul
was capable of doing everything on their own. Unfortunately
for the cleric, her great healing powers had come at the cost of
her defense and speed… weaknesses that her attacker’s class had
been designed to compensate for. A sitting duck would have had
better chances than her.
Ducks, however, don’t tend to have armored defenders
leaping from out of the sky.
…
In the short time his body had been filled with new
sensations, Erec had, rather remarkably, come to terms with some
of them. His limited experience had given birth to a rudimentary

34
sort of understanding. He could feel in his gut that there was a
difference between the roaring in his ears now and the noise that
had filled them as he soared through the night, but he didn’t have
time to ponder on or give them names.
These—
He dropped down into the space between the two Ad-
venturers, his arrival kicking up a hefty chunk of dust and send-
ing it circling around his body like a tannish halo. The air that
had been standing where he now crouched vacated in a hurry,
and with such force that the man with the grotesque knife—an
elf, Erec hazarded to guess, and likely a paladin at that, they were
always messy to deal with—was forced to retreat.
“Oh, you are kidding me!” he heard the holy warrior cry.
“You guys are still around?! Figures—!”
These are supposed to be our protectors?!
The dwarf cleric behind him didn’t move; he could barely
make out her short, skippy breathing giving way to the deeper
sighs of relief. The climbing intensity in his ears didn’t help.
The Gods gave you to us! To save us! To make sure we
didn’t have to fear the night! And now—!
Dimly, the Hidden Priest came to life and sent a warning
to his head. Erec, for the first time, ignored it.
“Ghh…! Damn you! It doesn’t matter! Even if you’re
still around, there’s nothing saying I can’t kill you now! There’s
nothing saying anything anymore!”
—and now you—
The attacker was moving again. All Erec saw, out of the
corner of his eye, was a flash, a line of ragged, luminescent red
tearing a line through the air in a curve aimed directly at his
neck.
The roaring in his ears had conquered his chest now, and
something red-hot was burning in it.
He took the attack head on, the dagger meeting his crys-
talline armor with the sound of a spoon being swung against a
glass goblet. Instead of spider-webbing with cracks or shattering
on the spot, however, the latter stood firm.
—now you’re trying to tear it apart!
It was instinct, not the once-formidable word of the
Gods, that kept Erec from attacking beforehand. What must

35
have been years of combat experience had taught him that a
chance always had to be given to the defender, for them to use in
backing down. The amount of times they hadn’t, though…
Well, let’s just say that Erec wasn’t particularly surprised
that the elf had struck. It didn’t even stoke the flames now in his
chest, though it did remind him they were there.
The dwarf cleric spun around and took off deeper into the
maze of alleys. Good, he found himself thinking, less worry about
things getting messy. The chance had been given and rejected.
The free reign that had surged through him as he leapt above
<CITYNAME> returned, driving the burning mass to release.
Erec’s fist lashed out, catching the Adventurer right on
the nose. His entire body flared red and he visibly flinched; that
was new too.
“AGH!” the elf grumbled, stumbling back, “what the hell
was that?! Don’t tell me we can feel pain now!”
The expression on his face sent raining holes through the
heat, the coolness introduced matching the warmth and produc-
ing a sort of steam that rapidly filled him. Erec stood up, looking
carefully at his still-clenched fist, before glancing back to the
injured Adventurer.
I… It clenched a bit tighter. It has to be a different way.
It has to.
“Stand down,” he found himself saying as the paladin
began to regain focus, “I don’t want to hurt you.” He paused to
consider. “...Really.”
“S-screw that!” The eyes behind his target’s helmet had
grown wild, like a cornered animal’s. “I’m gonna kill you! I’m
gonna get out of here, no matter what! I’ve got a life! I can’t just
stay trapped here—!”
These are our protectors. The one babbling and almost
crying in front of me is… No. Not anymore.
“Calm down,” Erec said, raising his hand to grasp a
shoulder from afar, “I don’t know what’s going on… we don’t
know… but if you just calm down, we can focus on figuring
things out—”
“I said screw that!” Was that froth working its way out
of his mouth guard? “You’re part of this stupid game, aren’t you?!
You’re in on all this! So… so… so if I get rid of you… I’ll get

36
answers! I’ll get out!” His voice changing into a triumphant crow,
the elf leaped upwards and ahead, hand reaching back and draw-
ing a much larger blade before swinging it down at Erec’s head.
The guardsman found himself almost sighing. The steam
was putting a damper on the heat; he felt that he was facing
some of the worst of this situation at the start. He kicked off
from the ground, his armor flashing ever-so-briefly with magi-
cal energy. It erupted from the bottoms of his feet with a small
shockwave that sent him soaring a full inch above the Adventurer.
As the elf looked up, mouth gaping, Erec extended his
arm to the side and sent another command from his mind to the
suit. A part of its own substance suddenly separated from the
main body, emerging like bubbles from the surface of a lake. They
rapidly joined together, reshaping themselves into something
more amorphous. That, too, gave way to a completed shape: a
one-handed broadsword.
The guardsman came crashing down, driving the point
between the paladin’s shoulder blade and actual shoulder. The
Adventurer didn’t even have time to yelp before they harshly
hit the ground, random bits of refuse and a few scattered sound
waves leaping into the air.
In the heat of the moment, Erec glanced slightly to his
left. A small, just-transparent bar had appeared where his blade
had been driven in. There was a line split between green and red,
the latter now far outstripping the former. The crazed elf ’s curses
and moans confirmed the deed. He allowed them to settle, keep-
ing the blade firmly in place.
“Erec?!”
Shara dropped down beside him, concern in her voice.
“You’d been moving slower than the others… what happened?”
“...”
Erec stood up slowly, a small storm raging in his head.
The walls of the alley around him seemed to be closing in, driv-
ing him towards a single place. There’s no going back, is there?
No, I know there isn’t.
“I admired them,” he found himself saying, “they were
given all this power, all this freedom, and somewhere in… in
here—” He gestured at his chest. “I thought that was incredible. I
wanted to be like them. But this, this—!” He looked at the fallen

37
Adventurer; he was now looking up at the two guardsmen with
crazed fear in his eyes. “This isn’t it.”
Erec took a deep breath, gave his shoulders a little shake.
He didn’t look at Shara. He could barely sense the small group
of Adventurers gathering around them, scarcely heard the small
thumps of fellow guardsmen dropping down and joining in. All
he heard were his own words, and they echoed in his mind like
an all-encompassing earthquake, straight from the depths of the
world.
“They were supposed to protect us, but they can’t do that
now. And we have what they had, now, don’t we? So, now…”
He clenched his fist and drove it into the air.
“It’s our job. Only ours. We will protect, will save, this
world.”
Somewhere, distantly, he heard a rusty clink, as if a gear
had begun to move.

Luke Fredette

38
Master Study of Henry Moore

Hannah Hinson

39
 The Choice
It all went down one day,
the day I chose to give my life away.
I trusted you,
and had to choose
between my humanly desires or what I knew to be true.
I questioned and doubted,
I prayed and cried
as to whether or not I could even try.
“My heart is Yours”
and
“Your will be done,” I would say and say,
to make it appear to others that I always knew how to pray.
But then in the quiet,
in the peace and on my own, away from expectation,
my mind will always go back to my choice that day.
Though I am a jack
and inconsistent in each of my trades,
You still accept me as Your workman.
You planned my life and created me accordingly.
You chose to give me a chance,
one after another.
We both know that I will stumble and fail,
but as I think back to my weaknesses,
You will look at me and only observe my hearty attempts to serve
and only remind me of my accomplishments for You.
For this reason, I will continue to choose You—
to choose true.
I will choose every day of my life to be with You,
to stay,
and to renew myself in You
each morning of every day.
And when I get lost and find myself not knowing what to pray,
I will look back on that first day
and repeat that promise I made:
To give my life away.

Rachel Kaneversky

40
Red, White, and Blue
Red, white and blue,
there was a time
when I delighted in you,
resting proud in your arms,
safe and unafraid
to stand, hand over heart,
pledging my devotion—
“with liberty and justice for all.”
But now I’m hurting,
oh Red, white and blue,
as you’ve withheld your love
from those in need.
My beautiful country,
my beautiful...God...
But were you ever both?
One in the same?
It seems I was taught to believe so...
That your colors and God’s were of the same hue—
but maybe this was wrong all along.
For my God is a rainbow,
not just three colors.
A banner that stretches far and wide,
across the waters,
across the border,
over every nation,
over every people.
I thought you did too...
At least that’s what you said
when you first won my heart...
when your lamp called out
“Give me your tired, your poor.”
But Red, white and blue,
you’ve changed.
You’re different.
Or maybe it’s me.
And so now I choose to stand,

41
hand over heart,
pledging my devotion
to the one who holds my allegiance
and wears your colors better.
Red stripes in his scars,
in the blood that was shed,
blue in his tears, the water from his side,
and white for the tomb in which he lay,
cloth draped over broken body,
and stars for the light that shone forth that day,
when death was no more
and Earth’s power was silenced.
When the lowly rejoiced
and the proud knelt down
and justice rolled like a river.
May it be so again,
Red, white and blue...
and maybe I’ll come back to you.
And we can sing together,
our arms stretched wide,
hand in hand
from sea to sea.
Let freedom ring.
Let freedom ring.

Jessica Ice

42
TURN
When the waves come in, it’s all a matter of patience.
The ocean does most of the work, pushing its heavy body at me.
I just have to make sure to come in at the right time, all about
timing. Time is what allows for the most intricate details to poke
from the unfixed pattern of reality. My life remains held to the
sand, the water and the night.
My weight collaborates with the pull of the sand; the
water reaches further as the tide rises. But I don’t do any of this
by myself; the moon is the first to pull, and then I make the wa-
ter turn.
Standing at a distance from the wave when it rises, I
put my hands in front of me, swinging the left hand out and
around, while the right hand sits still. Somewhere in the distance
between my hands and the water, there is a force that connects
my motions with the will of the water, and from here we are in
agreement. From here, the body of water is fully turned; the arc
of water caving in on itself flips backwards along with the part of
the wave that slides along the sand, as one body.
Too much salt can make the body sick; the liquid state
is not pure until every element is converted, bubbled over and
tampered with. The people need their water to be pure, without
defect. That is why I do my work. Turning the wave takes care of
the problem, but what matters is procedure.
After a while, it feels like this whole thing is happening
without me, like I can forget myself in the process, which means
that I forget a part of the process itself. For the most part, during
these late hours, I take my eyes across the universe overhead. I
do have to be careful, though, not to doze off, causing a spill of
unturned water into the aqueduct.
The aqueduct catches the water but I’m not sure how it
got there. Its been here for as long as I have, or longer. The water
falls in and rushes away through the enclosure, separating from me
at a speed that was not there when it approached as a wave. The
water funnels behind me, and though I have never looked to see
what route it takes to get to the people, I’m sure it gets there fine.

43
 One time I looked to my right and my left when I forced
a wave to pause as it lunged forward, spanning a mile across and
ten feet high. I had to use both of my hands, rotating them in
circles with a strained slowness, twining upward past my head.
My chin was lifted, and the amount of water in this one wave
began to make demands of my wrists and shoulders, as if this
water, that was far from my body, weighed me down. My arms
and hands held tight until I saw the stretch of raised water turn,
its back spinning to face me, slipping down with a thud into the
aqueduct. I smiled and almost felt embarrassed.
Using my hands this way, for this long, has taken a toll
on my body. I am not as limber as I was when I first started, and,
while the time has shaped me into a more effective turner, I am
not as enthusiastic. The sand doesn’t feel as soft and I feel like
I’m carrying my back around. The desire to fall over is constant. I
never used to feel that. I even think my hands have gotten bigger
than they were before. They used to be big enough to hold two
adult sized watermelons in one hand. But now, I just might be
able to fit three. And, well, the waves lift higher; I control more
water at a time now than I ever have before. All so that I might
turn waves that cannot get close to me. There is always a distance
between the water and me. The power is somewhere after my
hands and before the water, and the distance doesn’t ever seem to
weaken my ability. One time, I walked several paces backwards so
that the waves looked like lines on a piece of paper. From here, I
lifted my hands and I could still turn. The water could be puri-
fied, changed, made ready for the people. But I did not need to
be close. I just needed to lift my hands and do my work.

The day is black enough for the fire that burns over in
the east to reach the corner of my eye. But looking at the fire
only makes you think of the fire, and I am a wave turner; my fo-
cus is only on water. Above, there’s much to admire. The sky is a
splatter of white and blue rock, flickering and shooting; it is a very
violent thing to look at. Tonight, the moon sits, squaring me up,
straight across from me. There is a wind but it is respectfully qui-
et. It used to boast; having no god to depend on made the wind

44
arrogant. Of course, I can’t know for sure that there is no god for
the wind, but I have never seen one with it and it seems to go
about as it pleases. And, anyway, after some time I’ve noticed the
breeze is reformed and respectful of my presence.
I look down at my legs often, out of habit. This takes
away the strain in my neck after looking up for a long time. I
have the whole span of the Earth to look at, above and below. I
can even think about “god”: that word written on the wall in my
house. “You are a god,” it reads, scratched into the wood. I hope
I am right to describe being a god as strenuous labor, there to
make sure the job is finished, the wave turned, the water pure, the
water as it should be. I’m reading those words on the wall every
day and looking down at my legs and counting my stars and
rolling my neck and turning my waves. “You are a god.”
That fire off in the distance is a little bigger by now, I
would assume. I have seen it grow quite large, over there, to the
east. It’s just fire. A flame big enough to reach my eye. But I look
at other things.
I once saw a jellyfish wash up on the shore. It only barely
caught my eye because of how far away it was. And I had to cross
the aqueduct to get up close to it, which is inconvenient because
there is only one bridge for crossing. So I had to walk about
twenty paces. My body is too big and round for jumping, and
the aqueduct is far enough removed from the shore that there is
no worry of the water reaching it during the daytime when I am
asleep. The jellyfish was dead, as it turns out. I tried to guess how
long it lived before dying. I remember whispering over it “one
hundred years.” I laughed to myself a little. The poor thing was
just there, alone and lifeless. I felt embarrassed for it: through its
transparent flesh I could see its brain, what looked like a brain,
what I thought was a brain. A brain shrunken and dried with
a smooth flesh that the moon could not shine against. No one
should have to be so exposed. Dead like that, and exposed.
And I envied the jellyfish—its one hundred years of life
in the ocean. That night with the dead sea creature was the clos-
est my body had ever been to the water. I stared, caught by the
darkness of the water. I would blink slowly, doing this long enough
for it to feel like there was no difference between the black back-
drop of my eyelid and that of the sky. This distinction blurred so

45
much it started to look like I was in an eyelid myself, tucked in
the eye of God with the water. I felt content to stay still and my
heart felt hot in my chest. My throat could not swallow. And the
water snuck forward, crawling on and under my feet and then
falling back.
It felt like a cold tongue of water slipping underneath my
feet. The air was a misty breath coming from the ocean.
Then my eyes closed and pain loosened from my neck
and back. I wanted to fall. But I was jolted out of the moment by
a remembrance. I turn the water. The fear of waves crashing down
into the aqueduct pulled me away from the water and back over
to the other side, where I raised my hand to an incoming wave,
turned it just in time and felt ashamed.
I’ve thought about that night, about what would have
happened if a wave fell into the aqueduct, about how irrespon-
sible of me it was to leave. But mostly, I’ve thought about the
water that ran over my feet; about what would have happened if
I fell into the water. I’ve thought about what it would be like to
go into the ocean, giving my round body over to the bouncing
waves. I imagine that I would float and the water would keep me
away from the sharp surface of the ocean floor. I might look at
the stars without straining my neck or carrying my back.

...

If I cup my hands into a circle around my eye, I can see

over to where the fire is, over in the east. They’ve probably started
running it already. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind having me over
there, but I should stay where I am, by myself. They run the fire.
The bright light keeps looking at me in the blue night. There is
a valley, sandwiched by two mountain ranges standing up, across
from one another. They run, I turn, these are the rules.
In my house, I have all the rules written on the wall. It’s
a small wooden cabin made up of old wood. It has a bed and a
seat. No food, no need for it. Gods do not eat; it says that on
the wall. Whoever was here before me scratched into the wall,
perpendicular to my bed. “Turn the waves, do it well,” the wall
says. It all makes sense to me even though I didn’t write it. But I
do need it as a guide, I refer to it every day, and the more I repeat

46
the words the more I feel like I understand them. The house is
too dark to see anything in the nighttime, so I read before going
to bed when the dawn rolls over.
I have the company of the light from the moon and stars
all around during the evening. Even now, as I sit and turn the
waves, I get into a rhythm, and I hum. The moon is pulling, the
waves are turning, the stars are twitching like they are stuck in
the quicksand of black space, trying to break free. There are ten
thousand plankton sprawled out, bobbing in the water. They’re so
great in number it looks like a wet galaxy spilled onto the carpet
of the Earth. And the fire is running.
I’ve also seen it written on the wall, “You are free, and if
it feels that you are not, you are wrong.” It’s true, I am free, free
to turn the waves and serve God themselves. I have not met God,
but they are written on the wall. I have seen their name, and I
know they have sent me.
I might visit with the fire runners tonight. They’ve told
me to come by whenever I would like. Maybe I will go tonight.
Maybe I will watch them run the fire. Maybe I will run the
fire. Of course, that would not happen. I am a wave turner; it is
written on the wall in my house. My hands are far too big for
any kind of running. It would be a disaster. I would fall or the fire
would lick my heel, or take me into itself.
They might be upset when they see me. I’ll tell them I
probably heard them wrong when they told me to come by and
they’ll send me away. I wouldn’t want these large hands near the
fire. I wouldn’t want these hands near anything but the waves.

...

As I make my way over, the moon follows me, watches me

as if to say “you shouldn’t be going over there.” There’s nothing
but open space from the shore to the valley and it is a long walk
and I am slow. Out in front of me, the fire gets closer in view, and
the sand below my feet transitions to a solid, rocky ground.
The way forward is difficult to keep track of because the
fire flourishes one moment and then dims until it is gone. This
leaves me to entire moments of darkness, guessing my way ahead.

47
Then, fire punches into the scene and I can depend on the light
and move with a little more confidence. This happens on and off.
I was walking in darkness once again, when I heard the
clicking together of stones. The darkness was so thick I felt it
necessary to put my hands out in front of me, and they found a
cold and curving clod of earth. I stood still, afraid of going in any
direction after finding something to support me beside my eyes.
I heard it louder this time, stones clicking together. And then a
spark, and then a flame, exuding that same light that had given
me a reference point, flooding the landscape. But the growth of
the flame was gradual. It groped for more of itself. It thickened,
grew taller, flared about in the shape of a pillar. Three gods circled
around it, staring up as it reached past the peak of the mountains
that walled them into a tight space. I saw the long-bodied god
drop a couple of smooth black stones onto the floor without
taking her gaze from the flame. And then the flame launched at
her with the speed of a thing that has no weight. She flinched,
missing what would have been a hit to her right side, and this
happened to each of them, each dodging, flinging one leg over the
other with grace, maneuvering away from the careening body of
the fire. It began to look like a dance after a while; the fire grew
more energetic and the gods were agile in their bodies, fast to
find angles that the fire could not. Then, laughter kicked from
out of them. They were not running from the fire. They were
doing something different. All three of them, unthreatened by
the movement of the flame. The way they glided along so easily, I
think they could have gone on like that forever, eyes closed. But
She saw me.
“Take it for me?” She asked, looking down at the gods,
one of whom had a body slim enough to slip through the cracks
of my fingers, while the other was so small that he barely reached
up to my knee. They both looked at me, gave a graceful head
gesture of greeting and ran towards the flame. The slim one ran
straight through it while the tiny god ran circles around it. This
combination of slipping into and running around the flame
repeatedly, in sync, seemed to force the pillar of fire forward and
eventually it was hard to distinguish the gods from the flame. The
three of them went off like this, running, the flame and its gods.

48
 She walked over to me, still clinging to my portion of the
mountain. She was tall, stretched up twenty feet above me and
made my hands look insignificant. Her legs were wrapped with
several ribbons of gold ink etched into her skin. And the color of
her eyes matched this gold. She had no hair and sable skin that
held to her like moonlight to water.
“It is good to see you here. We haven’t had a visit for
quite some time,” She said with a gentle blink and a laugh.
“I thought I should come and say hello, seemed like the
right thing to do.”
“Well, of course it was the right thing to do; we are glad
you came over despite your busy schedule this time of day,” She
said, bending down and resting her forearm on her knee. “Did
you think about my offer?”
“I’m too concerned for my hands. Not so much my
hands, I guess, but the kind of trouble they might get me into if I
try to run.”
“Yes. That is something to think about, isn’t it?”
I turned over my shoulder to look back at the shore. The
moon and the waves were waiting together for me to get back.
“You’ve probably thought about trying to turn the fire,
haven’t you? Of course this would be fruitless; you would be con-
sumed, friend.” She sat down, her legs reaching all the way to the
mountain on the other side, making her look cradled and relaxed,
each of her hands clasping onto the opposite forearm. I looked
down at my feet.
“I can tell you that the fire can only be ran. There is no
turning. There is nothing but running, with fire.” When She said
this, she did not look at me, but gazed up at the sky. It didn’t
strike me that the light was quickly fading until I looked up to
see her face. The flame was so far off in the distance it looked like
an orange speck. The ground began to feel cold and I could see
few details of the god’s face as She sat there, silent.
Then there was nothing to see; the light was too far away
from us, and I thought about going back to the water. I thought
about walking back over to the shore so that I could get back to
work.
“Tell me what it’s like,” She said. And I could not see her
face but I am sure that she was still not looking at me.

49
 “What do you mean?” I said.
“What it’s like to turn waves. It must be something of a
great time.” She shifted her body against the ground.
“Well, I make sure the water falls into the aqueduct, but
it’s not very difficult. The waves obey my hands.”
“And what else? What else happens? Tell me how you
move your hands and tell me what the water is like.”
“Well, I move my hands in front of me up to the sky and
I turn the waves, and that’s how it works.”
“And what does the water do? How does it move?”
“I control the water, so it falls in the aqueduct. It goes
away.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, but I’ve never missed a wave. The water always
turns out pure. No salt. Fresh for the people.” I paused for a mo-
ment. “I felt the water on my feet once.”
“What did it feel like?” She said, quickly.
“I don’t really remember,” I said, not wanting to talk
about it anymore.
“You’ve only touched the water once? Are you doing
something else? Is there some other thing you’ve found more
appealing than the water?”
“Yes, I look at the stars and whatever else gets my atten-
tion. I like to read the words on the wall of my house.”
Before She could respond, light started to quickly flood
the valley again. I could see her features picking up detail—She
was lying down, looking where she saw the other runners ahead. I
saw the light growing brighter, but it was a different color. It was
an ashy gold and it made the day look as if it were time for the
sun to set. But it was still evening.
And then I saw the gods coming towards us. As they got
closer, I could see the tiny god holding a sphere in his hand.
“They have done such great work,” She said, admiring
the gods as they approached.
“Is that what you call it, work?” I said this confused by
her choice of words.
“Of course.” She returned her look at me. “That is what
we are all doing, isn’t it? What else would I call it?”
The two gods approached us and I saw the sphere up
close. It was a transparent globe of fire, bright enough for its light

50
to reach a mile in every direction. They had run the fire and this
was what became of it, a domesticated source of light and energy.
I watched them as they all stood next to each other,
silently passing looks of relief between them. They did not say
anything. She would look at the sphere and smile with such
content that I did not want to look away from her. I just wanted
to stare. The thin god and the tiny god held this look of content
in their faces too, and they would sigh, and look at the round,
contained flame, and they would blink for a full three seconds
and inhale, and they would not move. The fire seemed tempered,
its individual tails of flame swooning back and forth with a slow
rhythm.
“We are going to take this over to the people if you
would like to join us, wave turner,” She said to me.
“I should get back to the water,” I said, turning to walk
away.
“They would love to see you. It will be a shame if you
don’t come with us.”
I started walking back.
“I really should go make sure the water isn’t spilling
over.”
“Come back any time,” the tiny god said.
I turned back to see a pair of sincere eyes that had no
want, no desire behind them.

I started back toward the shore and could see the waves
rising and falling. The moon had the ocean painted a glossy white
and the night sky was at its darkest. Coming back to the sand, I
sat down and looked straight up. There were no stars to look at.
Looking back at the water, I saw it pushing upward and falling
back.
It spilled forward and fell back.
It crept again several more times, each time getting closer
to the lip of the aqueduct.
Forward and then back again.
Soon I would have to catch it by force, pick it up, with
my body at a distance, and turn. It was inching forward so calmly,

51
the way a bead of sweat crawls its way down from your hairline,
slowed by the eyebrow; but then, breaking past, it slides quick
down the arch of the nose and gets caught on the curve of a
nostril. It was coming forward and it wouldn’t stop. I looked back
over to where the fire was no longer burning, instead there was
darkness. Looking back to an incoming spill of water reaching for
that drop off where it would fall and rush away from me, I lifted
my hands, palms to the sky, and the water of the ocean stood up
into a wave that reached ten feet high. With one hand I held the
water in this position and with the other I pointed an index finger,
bent it towards me, and without a lapse of time, part of the wave
broke away from itself and stretched its liquid body over, past the
aqueduct, to me, catching the soles of my feet, lifting my body
from the ground. It did not fall into that channel that separates
us, neither did I fall. Instead, we were both brought back to the
towering wave. I slid down the back of that wall of water, and
could not sink to the ground of the ocean. The water was too
dark to see. I could only feel the bobbing waves splash up against
my back, waiting for me. I flung both of my hands parallel to the
side of my body and slowly brought them to the other side. With
this, the halted wave rolled itself over me, tucking me into itself,
like rolling an infant into a blanket. And we barreled along the
surface of the ocean in that way. The wave covering me, following
the direction given by my hands, where we should go, how fast
we should roll, what height we should push above the ocean. And
I could no longer see the stars, and I could no longer see the aq-
ueduct, and I could not make out which direction was east, that
place where the fire burns bright and the gods have their fun.

Kyland Hall

52
Celestial

Leandra Vosburg

53
Listen to the Music
I have heard it said,
near and far,
that a woman
needs a man
to lead her
into the dance
of communion
with God,
as if she can’t
hear Love’s song.
But I want to speak
to my sisters,
old and young,
whose voices have
been dismissed.
The language of God
is a music that flows
down from the Sky
into every ear
through every mouth—
inviting all to
come,
come
dance.
Will we listen to the sound?
For the wind is gentle,
but is also fierce,
and the Sun
does not
try
to
contain her.
Jessica Ice

54
Where Am I?
In the distance, off the paved pathway of expectations, I hear a
voice. The voice is quiet and low, easy to miss. It is not a voice of
direction but a voice of question. I stop in my tracks and lis-
ten to the soft voice, halting all other expectations that call my
attention. The voice slowly becomes more clear and I hear the
question, “Whom shall I send? Who will go forth for Us?” The
voice repeats the question again and again. It does not insinuate
prompting or guilt but a thought, even a conviction. I stand still
on the pathway of expectations with everyone around me hus-
tling by with their loads of worry or guilt, trying to reach their
given destinations; but I stand still, listening to the soft voice. Fi-
nally, the voice stops but the words continue to ring in my head:
whom shall be sent? Who will go forth? I ask myself, “Aren’t we
all too busy and timid to ever switch direction?” I reluctantly re-
start my jaunt down the paved pathway of expectations with this
argument still ringing in my head.

Finally, I can take it no longer. I drop my packs that load me

down with worry and scoot to the side of the paved pathway of
expectations. I catch glimpses of the crude, judgmental stares that
come my way because I was veering off the clearly marked road.
But I ignore them, look toward where I had first heard the soft
voice and I cried out to the One who had called out the question.
I shout out to the distance, “Here am I! Send me!” In that mo-
ment of my commitment to my freely made decision, I feel the
excitement that I had not felt since I was a child with no worries
or exterior wishes. I feel the hope for a new and meaningful
journey. I excitedly step off the paved road and go into the rough
shrub to find the narrow path where the voice had originated. I
had never been so enthusiastic to be on a journey. I do not know
where my destination lies, but where I am is here, where I will be
is going forth, and who I am is sent.

Rachel Kaneversky

55
 ATTENTION WRITERS
Submissions for the 2020 issue of The Green
Light will be open as of September 01, 2019. We
currently accept artwork, poetry, fiction, and cre-
ative non-fiction, but are willing to consider other
forms of creative writing as well. All students, staff,
faculty, alumni, and FPU community members are
eligible for publication.

We ask that submissions refrain from gra-

tuitous language, graphic imagery, and/or glorified
substance abuse. We recommend that prose be kept
under 3,000 words (slightly longer works can be
negotiated).

Please send any submissions, questions, or

comments to greenlight@fresno.edu.

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