Author: Hayley Arthur

Lucas Durand

I feel Your presence in the Wind.
The soft caress, the gentle chill,
The comfort that, though I have sinned,
You still shall use me as You will.

The Wind prompts life out of the dead.
The inanimate stirs in praise
As trees solemnly bow their heads
And their arms towards the heavens raise.

The Wind holds power unbridled
And moves as both a breeze and storm.
A “hallowed” idol, hollow, idle,
Cannot rouse even its own form.

The Wind makes not its visage known:
Its invisible attributes
Are felt instead ‘neath the sky’s dome
And reveal what it constitutes.

Its touch dances across my skin
And, at my lowest, in my soul.
For You, O God, devised the Wind
To remind me, in You, I’m whole.

I feel Your presence in the Wind.
A gust raises my eyes to You.
It’s my comfort, though I have sinned,
That to Your servant You keep true.

Fabrice Poussin

Alicyn Harris

Bailey Lane

It is so beautiful,
how You can take beauty from the ashes, the heartbreak into harmony,
the brokenness into beauty,
the pain into purpose.
It is my joy,
my honor,
my greatest gift,
to be redeemed and loved by You.

Fabrice Poussin

Natalie Tankersley

Writers are born,
shaking, squealing, and struggling to describe the world
they’ve been thrust into, sitting
on their grandfather’s knee, babbling, bumbling, and bouncing as stories pile up
in their heads, collecting
dust before they learn to
turn thoughts into ink

Writers are created,
whispering, waiting, and wondering about the things that
live in their heads, emerging
from the depths of nights alone, escaping, envying, and editing
their thoughts until
their hearts bleed, spilling
aching and raw onto
a blank page

Writers are forged,
hunching, hallucinating, and haunting over their desk with
hands on keyboards, begging
the words to come,
dragging, demanding, and daring writer’s block to stand
in their way, knocking
the walls to their creative
wellspring down

Caroline Lewis

I have long ago learned to fear
that when everything is sunny,
and I feel an unnatural calm,
a storm is brewing somewhere in the center,
so far away and so enormous
that I will not see it until it is upon me.
I have learned to walk in the rain for hours,
until the downpour forces me to flee
into the nearest house.

I have long ago learned
that the only safe house is mine.
That the only place that I truly know in those times is my mind.
That even when it is dark, I know the way around,
and I can feel the furniture,
and when the wind blows in,
at least the cracks in the walls are familiar.

But you—you contradict what I have learned,
when I thought I could not have
the beauty of the sea without the storm,
the fire of the sunset without the dark soon following.
You are like a warm day with sun and sky and breeze,
and true peace, for I know you will not
bring a storm, I know that we will not
create a tempest.
I know you are the fine line that I have been searching for,
wondering about, for years,
hope versus history.
I fear no storm brewing on the horizon,
and when I think of the unexpected squalls that will arise one day,
I know that we together
can walk, nay, dance through the rain.

And I know because you, everything with you, feels like a house I know well—
a home.
A house I have never set foot in,
yet when the lights are out,
I know my way in the dark,
and when the wind blows in, the cracks don’t matter—
you are here.

Maya Bowers

Sitting on the second story balcony in low slung hard patio chairs we sat facing each other. Her body faced me, her face purposefully staring off into the hills. It was later on in the summer; the relentless heat had killed off most of the vegetation. The hills were brown and low. The heat cast a haze along the horizon line. Unimpressive compared to the towering mountains of Alaska. Off grey-white, rough outdoor carpet stained with cigarette ashes and burn marks scratched our feet.

“I just don’t think I can do this without him… where will I go? What would I even do?”

She stared off into the distance, her shoulders slumping, the late California sun casting a golden hue across her tanned face.

My chest clenched and my head pounded, watching my best friends’ eyes, where there had once been fire and depth were now replaced with a dull, shallow look. Before Rob, when Brenna looked at you it was like she could read your mind, read your soul, and know your truth. Even when you didn’t want her to. Now she just stared through me.

“You lived for 30 years without, think of all you’ve gone through, I’ve watched you take care of siblings all throughout middle and high school, take care of your aging parents, take care of yourself. You have always been independent and strong. You’ve always been filled with a fierce fire. How has he been able to convince you that you’re nothing without him?”

“You don’t get it. I can’t leave Noah with him. Who would take care of him?”

“You think I don’t get it? How can you say that? I’m a mother Brenna, and this kid isn’t even yours. You’ve known this kid for a year. I get you love him, but he’s not your responsibility. He was fine before you and he’ll be fine after you.”

“You don’t get it, Rob fed him nothing but mac and cheese for every meal. He just sat around smoking weed when he wasn’t at work. All Noah did was play video games. I actually make sure he’s taken care of.”

Frustration began to build inside me; I didn’t want to hear anymore that I didn’t understand. Of all the people, I understood the most. I had felt firsthand how the cruel words from someone you love could hurt more than their fists. How effortlessly they could take your love and use it to twist your mind, break your heart, and dim your soul. The way their eyes would darken while they hurled insults and accusations, accompanied with a small smirk. Just enough to let you know that they knew what they were doing, and they were enjoying it. A game just for them, with the goal being to destroy you and also encouraging your love for them. I knew exactly how she felt. But I couldn’t find the words she needed to hear. No one had magic words for me either.

“Brenna, I get that it wasn’t ideal, but he wasn’t being harmed. He was fed and had his basic needs taken care of. You cannot sacrifice your life for him.”

She continued to stare off into the distance, pointedly avoiding my eyes. “Did I tell you about the first fight me and Rob had?”

I almost didn’t want to hear it; I knew how he had hurt her over and over and made it clear to her that he felt no remorse doing so and would do it again. But I felt that she needed to tell me, she wanted someone to share the weight.

“No, you didn’t.”

“It was about 3 months in. I had just moved in. He said he wanted to marry me.” She paused, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “I had found messages on his phone, he was talking to and sleeping with other girls, I confronted him after Noah had gone to bed. I told him I was going to leave.” Another pause, still avoiding my eyes. “He choked me and shook me… dragged me down the hallway by my hair. The only reason he stopped…” Her eyes finally meeting mine. “Was because Noah came out of his room and asked us what was going on.”

It clicked with me that this was beyond a stepparent and stepchild love. She felt like they were a team. Brenna and Noah against Rob. They protected and took care of each other. She felt indebted to him.

“Brenna… I understand you love him, but we both know that Rob would never hurt him. Is he the most involved and present parent? No, but he does hurt you. And that little boy is going to grow up and see how his dad hurts you. This will be the example you both set for him. The best thing you could do for that kid is to leave. He’ll be safe, and he’ll see that when you abuse your partners they leave. That is the best example you can be for him. And one day, that little boy is going to grow up, and he may start treating you the same way.” My voice was cracking, I felt desperate. Frustration rose in my chest, clouding my head, making it hard to think.

Her eyes hardened, her shoulders straightened. Before the words came out of her mouth I knew where her mind was, what her decision was going to be. Nothing I could say could change the outcome. I knew her stubbornness better than most. I realized for the first time in decades of friendship that her unconditional love could be both a strength and her greatest weakness.

For the first time in months her voice sounded strong, resolute.

“I have to stay. You just don’t get it. I have to stay.”

Hearing those words felt like a knife twisting in my heart. But like I had to be the one to save myself, I knew Brenna had to save herself. Now, it was a waiting game. The only thing I could do was to sit on the sidelines and watch her march towards her destruction. Hoping she knew that I would be waiting for her, with love, forever.

Fabrice Poussin

Katherine Cash

I want to be a rock.
a small one,
In the mix of gravel-
packed closely together-
Like we are meant to be.

Never mind that I shall be ground to dust,
As long as, you are ground with me.
And maybe, under us, something will grow
Through us it will bloom

And maybe,
If we are shaped oddly enough,
Someone will pick us up-
A curiosity of sediment

And while independent,
We will be examined
Perhaps kept in a jar,
Or a box,
On a windowsill,
In a heart,

Or perhaps they will grind us to fine dust
Against each other.
A chalk of our own making-
A marking we leave upon one another.