Shorter University's student-produced literary magazine since 1879.
How is a world made of pages?
How can something
That is only words and paper
Open and let a living being walk inside?
Books hide between their covers
Entire worlds
That need only one key
To enter—
A creative mind
And an eager imagination
When I read The Odyssey for the first time, one character caught my attention like no other. Most people remember brave Odysseus or faithful Penelope, but my mind couldn’t let go of the Bard. He’s not really an important character. There’s a lot of story in The Odyssey and the Bard takes up so little of it. But somehow he was able to take Odysseus’ stories, with all of his faults and mistakes, and make it into a story that would sing his praises. My husband has the ability to do that too. He can weave stories together more beautifully than Penelope could weave a tapestry or more skillfully than Odysseus could send an arrow through a chink in an axe head.
I’ll never forget the first story he told me. We sat in one of the study rooms in our college’s dingy library. By chance, we were paired for a group project in our children’s literature class. He was the funny guy in the room, always getting the professor riled up with a dumb question in the middle of a lecture or pretending to teach the class for a couple of laughs. At one word, the room was instantly his. He could command it and transform it with just the words flicking from the end of his tongue.
My grandparents were travelers, he blurted in the middle of my question. They would jet off to distant lands looking for an adventure. Spain, Ireland, Nigeria, Japan. They carried a small map and a single dart. Wherever the dart landed, that’s where they went next. He told me about all the treasures they brought home jewels and spices, tokens and wood carvings. Their house was covered in their bounty. You could scarcely walk without nearly knocking over a clay pot or statue. I laughed.
He told me about the stories they’d made on their adventures. How they’d met a crew of modern day pirates. How they’d smuggled gold for some rich Ghanaian mobster. How they’d jumped from a French train into a river just before it ran off its tracks. His eyes held a fire that leapt with every detail.
My family was in for Christmas, visiting Nan and Pop’s lake house. He told me of how he had escaped from the kitchen just before tea and peeled to the docks. My favorite pastime was watching the boats sailing into port. I would imagine it was me returning home in one of those boats, a load of treasure and gold and spices and ritual garb in trunks around me. I made it to the docks just as another boat was heading in. I stared at the men on the boat. Their faces were weary, their backs bent. No gold on that ship, I thought. But just as I was about to turn to the house, a ship the size of a barge came sailing by. It was out near the horizon. I leaned forward as far as I could. My toes gripping the edge and my arm wrapped around a pole were all that was keeping me on the dock. I could scarcely see the men moving on deck, but I just imagined their bounty, how much gold lay beneath the ship’s deck. I imagined myself lying in a bed of gold coins and jewels, like one you’d see in the Cave of Wonders in Aladdin. As my mind wandered in these distant fantasies, my toes slipped off the docks.
He told me how he was inches away from the water when a hand reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt. He remembered it happening so slowly that he thought the hand had reached straight from heaven to keep his small body from plunging into the freezing waters. It was just my Pop, but I certainly had God’s grace that day. We sat in that study room until the library closed at midnight. He must have told me a hundred stories. I listened intently to every single one of them. When I left the library that night, I was completely in love with him.
Since then, he’s told me thousands of stories. Once I asked him how he had so many. I make a new one every day, he told me. But it wasn’t the sheer amount of stories themselves that shocked me; it was the way he told them. One day I discovered the secret to how he constructed such fantastic stories. It was Thanksgiving, and I was meeting his family for the first time. We pulled up to his grandparents’ lakehouse. The house was colored a grey blue on the outside with white trimmings and shutters. After seeing such serene simplicity, I was utterly surprised when we entered the living room. Wall to wall was covered in ornate decorations. A Celtic tapestry hung in the middle of one wall, but it was surrounded by masks and spears from South America and Africa. The adjacent wall was covered in shallow woven baskets of all colors. It looked like a rainbow had been created in their living room, a rainbow fashioned by cultures from all over the world.
Almost immediately I was welcomed by hugs and kisses from family that I didn’t know at all. While the mothers and grandmother prepared the meal—I offered to help—Pop sat me down and explained every person in the room: who they were, what they did, how they were related, and, of course, some crazy story that he remembered from years and years ago. After the meal, the family didn’t turn on tv to watch the football game. No, they sat around in that museum of a living room and told stories. All of them, round and round the room stories rang from any person who had the chance. Stories flowed through their veins like immortality was said to flow through the veins of Odysseus’ gods. I gazed into the face of the man who would become my husband and imagined the long line of storytellers that came before him. It flowed back for thousands of years, perhaps all the way back to the Bard in The Odyssey himself.
It’s only fitting that I would fall in love with a storyteller. I have always loved stories. You could scarcely find me without a book in my hands. When it was time to go to college, I determined that I wanted to study stories. My entire life was built upon stories, and when I met my husband, he fit into it like the final puzzle piece.
So here we are now. The storyteller and the story lover. My mind often goes back to the image of his family line full of storytellers stretching back for generations. But now, I can see it stretching forward. That ability to tell stories, it was genetic. Like I said, it flowed through their veins. One day, the children I bear him will have that ability as well. Every time they open their mouths they will enchant a new person. Someday they will enchant someone like me, someone who can’t live without stories.
Warrior clad on a valiant stallion
she crosses tempests cast by demons
seeking return to the island of first breath.
Obscure waves stand above mountain peaks
jagged shores welcome her with fiercely shrieks
she will enter Hades to find her way home.
Harnessed upon streams of the conquered blood
she plunges into the realm of certain ecstasy.
child of a few dawns, victor of infinite spaces.
She will not be seen on the roads to glory
for she journeys in the microcosms of eternity
with the one who infused her flesh with a breath.
Boys will be boys
Some treat women like toys
But it is not men who are the problem
Be against sexists and rapists
But don’t blame the good men
By clumping them in the same category
They have their guns of all sort
They hunt for fun and for sport
But it is not gun owners who are the problem
Be against murderers and criminals
But don’t blame the responsible owners
By clumping them in the same category
Trips to the clinic can now be judgmental
Reacting to each patient as if they are sinful
Be against those who discredit consequence
But don’t blame good women receiving health care
By clumping them in the same category
Random search at the airport is hard to believe
When TSA checks up the thawb sleeve
Be against terrorists and spies
But don’t blame the innocent wearing a taqiyah
By clumping them in the same category
The sale and use of cannabis Is stated to be harmless
Be against pushers and addicts
But don’t blame those treating illness
By clumping them in the same category
There are stereotypes of each collection
Human nature to judge becomes an obsession
Be against those who give them a bad name
Because now they will never be treated the same
Because you clumped them in the same category
She felt like she was in a fifties film with the way the grey light poured into the room and drained most of the color from it. The walls, which were normally a bright pink, were dull. The snow white covers she sat on brought no cheer. The room felt cold, and time seemed frozen. She looked into the large oval mirror that sat on her white dresser and looked into the world gazing back at her.
Mirrors are funny things, she thought. It’s like you’re finally able to be above your own world and watch it just like any other bystander.
She looked down at her empty hands and continued to mull over the question that had been plaguing her mind since its asking three days prior.
“Will you?”
She could almost hear his voice asking it this time, and she tensed with a start. The lone tear rode down the curve of her cheek. “Why is it such a hard question?” She asked aloud.
They had been walking through the park on that autumn day, three days ago, beneath the orange and red canopies. That day had been grey too, but the emotion was different. There had been peace that day. She had worn a red toboggan and a black coat. His coat was brown, and a blue scarf rested on his shoulders. The shuffle of the leaves and the tap of the concrete underfoot kept time like a metronome.
“You’re thinking of saying something,” she said.
“Am I?” he said rhetorically.
She said nothing, and they continued pace. Finally, he turned, and said “let’s sit down.”
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she followed him to the wooden bench on the side of the path. He gestured for her to sit, and she did. She brushed her face with her woolen mitten as he sat down. She laid her hands in her lap and attentively turned towards him. He turned forward and away from her and leaned his lips on his folded hands. They sat for several silent moments, and she waited patiently.
He broke the silence: “I don’t know what I’m gonna do next year. In two months, we’re gonna be graduated, I’m gonna have a degree in biology, and I have no clue what I’m gonna do.”
She turned and watched a leaf as it skipped down the path in the wind. The wind stilled. They had had this conversation many times before, and she prepared to give him the same answer she always did.
“You could be a teacher.”
“No, I couldn’t do that. I’ve tried it.” He shook his hands out of frustration. “Kids just don’t wanna learn anymore.”
She gave a small sigh. The conversation was about to head in the same direction it always did.
“But…”
This is different, she thought, and she looked at him as he finished.
“… but… there is something I want to ask.”
Her eyes widened, and her cheeks grew warm.
“Look… will you… can we get married?” He struggled to get the words out, but once they were, he gained composure and looked her straight in the eyes.
She looked into his and searched—she didn’t know what for. “I…” She looked away. She pursed her lips and then bit her bottom one. “I’m inclined to say no.”
He sighed and returned to his pensive position.
“But…” she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“At least, not yet,” she finished. “At least… I don’t know. I need to think about it. Can you give me a couple days?”
“Yeah,” he said, still facing forward.
She looked him over, still searching for something she wasn’t sure of. Then she gave a small smile. She leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek.
He turned and smiled, pitifully.
The vision faded, and a small knock came from the bedroom door.
“Honey,” came her mother’s voice. “Are you ready?”
She sat in the unspeaking quiet. The knock sounded again.
She brushed the skirt of her black dress flat as she stood from her bed. She looked out at the autumn-colored oak standing in the front yard. Then she looked over at the picture of him sitting on her bedside table. His soft smile stood out amongst his blue eyes and brown hair. She leaned over and set the picture down on its face, the stand of the frame now facing the ceiling. She turned and walked over to the door and opened it.
Her mother stood there with saddened eyes. She too was wearing a black dress, and her hair was done up, and her lips were painted a dark red.
“You know that his parents are coming here before the funeral, right?” She watched as her daughter shifted uneasily against the sullen backdrop of her room.
“Yes, ma’am. I know.”
It sits alone in the room – empty, dark, and cold.
It desires nothing more than for someone to come along.
There are so many things it wants to say, a tale to be told.
But right now it’s all locked away, the lid has fallen closed.
Only a few are brave enough to tangle with its power.
They force their way beyond the cover, on a random passing hour.
But after a few botched sounds from the ivory keys,
They decide that they’ve had enough, and they quickly leave.
There’s a story that it wants to share if only people would listen.
It’d tell them about its pain–the sorrow that comes from living.
But more than that, it would reveal the joy of happy evenings,
When surrounded by the ones it loved, it never ceased from singing.
It waits patiently for the day when it can reveal the truth,
When someone comes along who finally knows what to do.
They’ll touch the keys and strike a chord, and all the memories deep inside,
Will welling up, overflow, in the abundance of life.
The major sounds will bring peace, lull a sweet babe to sleep.
The minor songs will serve to make the listener think.
Treated carefully in that tender care, it will begin to wonder at last,
If ever the pain was real–the trauma of the past.
Today for some the fashion must be
To scoff at our flag
But why can’t they see
The beautiful colors, the Red, White and Blue
Each has a meaning
And the meanings are True
Red is for Courage
We must all be brave
And remember the lives
That our forefathers gave
White is for Innocence
We’re still very young
Much beauty to be seen
Many songs to be sung
Blue is for Justice
That means Justice for all
Not just the short,
And not just the tall
Courage, Innocence, and Justice
The right to be happy & free,
With God watching over us
That’s what our flag means to me
Eleven people in a whole study abroad program.
That’s it.
Getting to know people is easy. Finding people you like… that’s the hard part. Eleven random people from all over the country who are all studying in Spain for different reasons. Eleven different backgrounds, and, maybe most importantly, eleven different financial situations.
I, for one, am the kid who has been working and saving for years to go to Europe. My family is not poor by any means, but I wanted to do this myself. The thing is, there are about three others in my group who made it here because of their own hard work. The others… well, when someone suggests flying to Copenhagen for the weekend, they don’t have to bat an eye. Because for them, getting 250 Euros is just a quick call home. For me, that’s how much I paid for books for a whole semester back home. That’s a whole week’s paycheck from my summer job.
I could handle the money thing… except it also means they all complain… a lot. About everything. I’ve never known how many things there were in life to complain about. One of the girls complained that the sheets at the hostel in Marseille were too tight to the bed.
Anyways, I’m starting to sound like them. Europe is amazing! I love it here. I just want to adventure and travel in the cheapest ways possible so that I can do as many things as possible… but I don’t really have friends to do it with. We’re all just really different. But then, Portugal happened.
***
“Hey Jackson!” I turned around. “Are you coming to the club with us or what?”
“Uh…” I looked over to the guy next to me. “Wanna explore the city instead?”
“Sure man. I feel more like walking than drinking tonight, I think.”
His reasoning was funny to me, but I appreciated the company. We were leaving tomorrow, and I still felt like there were places to see. Besides, I like talking to people in all of these different countries. You don’t talk to anyone in clubs. I didn’t really understand why dancing with foreign strangers was any better than local strangers.
We wandered the streets of Lisbon, which were decorated with colorful lights everywhere. It was the end of February, but it was sixty degrees here even at ten at night. We headed towards the harbor and sat at a pier away from the city, where you could see all the colored lights leaking into the ocean. I looked at my buddy and was about to suggest heading back to the hostel, when I heard American voices booming down the pier.
“Dude! Those lights!”
“This is so much better than that pub they all went to, guaranteed.”
That’s when I knew. I had finally found American friends in Europe.
***
Welcome to today, the most epic fails of all the days. I had decided to go on an adventure this weekend with my new friends, Millie and Nick. We spent that whole night in Lisbon talking and wandering the city together. They were both studying in Paris this semester, in a similar program style to mine. We talked about American culture versus European culture, the differences in studying in France over Spain, our colleges back home, what places we dreamed of going to this semester, our favorite trips so far, all of it.
It was my favorite night of the whole semester, so I was stoked to see them again. We had exchanged our WhatsApp information and planned this trip over the course of this week. My classmates had planned some exotic trips far away, but I really needed to save money this weekend, since spring break was the week after.
Millie and Nick trained down to me from Paris and I met them at the train station. Trains from Paris to Barcelona weren’t terribly cheap, but they weren’t crazy expensive either. Besides, they had wanted to see Barcelona anyways, and I could get them free housing. They didn’t get to the station until 11, so when I met them there, we simply rode back to the dorms, talked for a bit, and then went to bed.
The next day, I showed them around my city. Playing tour guide really makes you remember all the incredible things about the place you’re staying in that you had grown used to. It was an absolute blast. The cathedrals, the hills, the crazy street markets, it was like all of it was new again. That was partly because… well…
“Millie, you look…” I fumbled for my words, and my cheeks grew red.
Millie had just walked out of a public restroom (a novelty in Europe truly) wearing her brand-new Spanish dress. It was definitely a cliché tourist thing to buy, but Spanish girls really did wear them, so she wanted to fit in for the day. She looked absolutely stunning. I really did enjoy her as a friend, but finding her gorgeous and her laugh adorable aren’t crimes, are they?
We ended the day at my house, where my fantastic host mom had prepared an authentic Spanish dinner. She didn’t like overnight guests, so we stayed in my friend’s dorms last night since they were out traveling (with their permission, of course). My host mom loved my friends, and Millie and Nick, who also lived in dorms, both said they wished they could have lived with a host family. It’s honestly been my favorite part of the experience, but I didn’t tell them that because I didn’t want to rub it in. After talking for hours with Mrs. Loaina, we headed back to the dorms, exhausted and ready for sleep. The next day would be another adventure, and this time it would be new for all of us.
Just in case you were curious, Andorra does not exist. If you don’t know where Andorra is, supposedly it’s this little tiny country between Spain and France. It’s only about four hours away from Barcelona by train. I had been planning to go at some point during the semester, and it was “on the way” for Millie and Nick. We were all curious what actually existed there, since it really is one of the smallest countries in the world. We didn’t do any research; we were just going to go. We figured that between my Spanish and their French, we could manage fairly well. We didn’t account for the borders of Andorra being nonexistent, however.
Originally, we tried to get there simply based on maps, train guides, and people’s directions. We weren’t going to use our phones or Google Maps. We took one train that was supposedly going to take us into this beautiful town in Andorra from Barcelona. When we arrived there, we walked into this tiny country town and looked at the maps there. It told us we were 50 miles southeast of Andorra’s border. We asked some locals and they told us we were still in Spain. At this point, we gave up on our phone-free commitment and looked at Google Maps. Apparently, we were in Andorra. To this day, I have no idea what town we were in.
Of course, we needed to reach Andorra still. We hopped on another train that was headed in the right direction according to the map. When we reached our stop, we got out and checked our phones to see what landmarks we could find. Our phones told us we were in France. The maps in town said Andorra, but once again the locals told us we were just shy of the border. I’m not entirely positive if our communication was simply that skewed, or if the locals did not know what country they belonged to, but someone was wrong.
Finally, we took a bus that took us further into Andorra, right about to the central point. This time, the locals said we were in Andorra, but our phones kept switching between saying we were in France or Spain. At least the maps in town agreed with the locals this time. The town was tiny and had absolutely nothing to do, and we still weren’t entirely positive we had actually made it to Andorra, so we sat down to eat dinner and to decide what exactly our plan was for the night.
We rested our legs and pulled out our phones again. I was just about to unlock my phone when I got a notification for an email from school. The subject line made my heart sink and race simultaneously.
“All Students Required to Arrange Plans to Return Home ASAP.”
I read the email further to see that President Trump had enacted a travel ban to Europe and any American citizens were asked to return to the States immediately.
I looked up at my friends, who had similar looks of dismay as they looked at their phones.
“We’re being sent home,” Millie and I say together.
Is happiness really frolicking in a sun-kissed flower field
or a dimply smile fortified with shields of whitened enamel?
Can happiness be so shallow that a toddler may splash
its feet in? With water as transparent as glass. A window
to gaze upon the rocks and sand and the shy minnows
below. Minnows kiss the chubby toes sitting on thrones
of rocks and squeaky laughter spills from the tiny vocal cords.
Just keep laughing kid─
The minnows will swim away.
People always told me
“If you play with fire you’re going to get burned.”
But I guess maybe that’s something I never truly learned
I didn’t obey
You see
How can something so beautiful
So playful, So mesmerizing
Possibly intend to hurt me?
When I got older people always warned me of another kind of flame
They said “If you stay with him, all you’ll receive is pain.”
But I suppose that’s not something I ever really heard
I didn’t listen
You see How can someone so wonderful
So graceful, So tantalizing
Possibly intend to wound me?
Looking back now perhaps I would scold me for reaching out to the flickering sparks
They said
“If you come away with us, you may be led astray”
But perhaps that’s not something my heart duly preferred
I did it anyways
You see
How can something so innocent
So stupefying, So pure
Possibly intend to misuse me?
People always told me
“If you play with fire you’re going to get burned.”
But I guess maybe that’s something I never truly learned
I should have obeyed
You see
Turns out something so mesmerizing
So tantalizing, So stupefying
Is always looking for some way to seduce me.