I know I’m right.

“That’ll be 200 dollars a day for a drug addiction.”

said the prophet cashier.

I take the altar’s wine, even though I’m sober.

Sleep’s darkness was too much

until he woke Me up in the dark.

“Now I am the light of the world

and there will be no need for lamps”

said the prophet TV.

I glanced outside and saw a lightning bug

just like Me.

I’ve seen him before.

He’s the god-fearing

prophet bishop droning: “there is no

‘gods’, they are just one!”

I let the ashes fall from My mouth to My shirt.

I press them into the fabric and they stain.

I’m in the moment.

This all started when I claimed to my friends that I could read all of One Piece in twenty-four hours.  

For some context on this self-imposed challenge, One Piece is a popular Japanese manga that started in 1997 and has since been publishing at a consistent rate into the present. Over the nearly three decades of the manga’s existence, it has accumulated over 1,100 chapters featuring over a hundred characters and thirty-three story arcs. I hope this paints a picture of the sizable task that I had put before myself. Despite this, I gleefully dived into One Piece with a smile on my face and with the support of my friends.  

I didn’t finish it. Starting at noon on a Friday and ending at noon the next day, I made it just over the halfway point. After twenty-four hours of nearly non-stop reading, except for falling asleep a couple of times, I ended at chapter 606 out of 1162 (at the time that the challenge was conducted). Based on these results, I am confident in saying that all of One Piece can be read in forty-eight hours. After my experience, though, I would not recommend that anyone who wants to genuinely enjoy One Piece read it in the way that I did.  

However, reading half of the story in one-go did give me an opportunity to look at One Piece in a temporally connected context. While I don’t know what will happen beyond the point that I stopped, this experience has given me an idea of the themes being presented throughout the whole narrative. As such, this review is not intended to discuss whether or not I enjoyed it and if I recommend others to read it. Rather, I will examine the primary themes of the story that are revealed over the length of the manga. My hope is that this will give people a clearer understanding of how the themes of One Piece allow it to be universally popular across different cultures.  

Recently, protesters in Indonesia, Nepal, and the Philippines have been protesting against their respective governments with the usage of the pirate flag seen in One Piece. While it is obvious that the usage of the flag in these protests demonstrate the manga’s popularity, I also view the flag’s usage as a recognition of its meaning within the story. As I have alluded to, One Piece is about pirates. Specifically, the story revolves around a crew of pirates, known as the Straw Hats, and their quest to find the “One Piece”. The “One Piece” is the classic hidden treasure trope that is a standard in pirate fiction, but in the story of the magnamanga it is a treasure with the ability to change the course of the entire world and is therefore desirable to every faction of characters.  

The manga makes it very clear that societal change is wanted within the story world, as it is controlled by an exceedingly powerful and maliciously corrupt global government. The oppression of this world government manifests throughout the story in it’s military, the Marines, who are a constant threat to the protagonists and the common people of the world. Beyond the Marines, though, other villains emerge to subjugate the masses for their own gain. Almost every story arc, with a few exceptions, revolves around the Straw Hats saving a specific location from the oppression of either an individual villain or the world government. This framework for the story arcs, to me, is the core of the message behind the grander story of One Piece.  

To further illustrate what this core theme of One Piece is, I want to highlight the nature of pirates and piracy in the story world. At the world at large, pirates are seen in a negative light as multiple characters associate them with plundering, violence, and a general lack of morals. However, through the antics of our pirate protagonists seen throughout the manga, the reader becomes endeared to characters who align themselves with the pirate cause. Most of them are not portrayed as being overtly violent and maliciously self-serving but are rather portrayed as people who genuinely want to help others out of pure humanity. 

Let’s take the main character of the manga, Monkey D. Luffy, as an example of the difference between the expectations of pirate behavior and the reality of their personality. Luffy’s mission in the story is to find the “One Piece” and become “The King of Pirates”, both goals revealing that Luffy is both ambitious but also selfish. This point is reinforced by Luffy’s large appetite and general disregard for the rules established in a specific location. However, throughout the course of the story, Luffy demonstrates at multiple times that he is willing to put himself in life-or-death situations for the sake of others. Whether this is him helping one of the members of his pirate crew or saving an entire country from tyrannical destruction, Luffy puts his goals aside so that others are not oppressed by stronger forces. Even though his goals are selfish, Luffy himself is a caring and compassionate individual who wants the betterment of others.  

This idea, that a pirate has selfish goals but goes about those goals in a humanitarian way, is displayed by multiple characters throughout the story. Since these characters are usually contrasted with the villains of the manga, I view this idea as the core message of One Piece. It doesn’t matter if your pirate, a Marine, or an ordinary person just trying to live, compassion will conquer oppression.  

In the world we live in today, this message resonates in multiple cultures and breaks the societal boundaries of the “West” or the “East”. Everyone is facing some form of oppression in their society, so a story about those living outside the pre-made standard of the oppressors fighting against them through compassion and common humanity is bound to become popular. Apparently, One Piece is popular enough for peaceful protests to sprout worldwide and challenge the established orders of corrupt governments.  

I should clarify that this does not mean that One Piece is calling for every government in the world to collapse. Rather, I hope this review shows that One Piece advocates compassion as the main vehicle for positive societal change. Now, I must admit that this could not be at all what the writer of One Piece intended for the story. After all, I did only read half of it in a condensed form. However, whether the writer wants this or not, people from around the world are using the image of One Piece to fight oppression. Humanity is core to the story of One Piece, as it should be to everyone’s story. 

Alexis (Lexi) Rockwell is a contributing art editor for the Tributary. Lexi is an Art History and Studio Art dual major and plays an active role in the arts at Lycoming College. Her interest and dedication to art and representation is what drove her interest in working alongside the editors at the Tributary. She intends to uphold the values of the Tributary when evaluating art submissions and is excited to see all the creative projects the students at Lycoming College have to offer.

Outgrown Spaces

“Outgrown Spaces” (2025) is a visual representation of personal growth and anticipation. The artwork itself is a combination of digital collage, chemical transfer, physical collage, and painting.

The first aspect of the work was the digital collage. Using a free photo editing software, I made the collage using imagery that adhered to the theme I was working with. The image was then inverted so the second process could take place. Next, I used software to enlarge the collage from its original 8.5×11 inches to 24×29.5 inches.

I printed the collage off using an inkjet printer, the key here being to print it in color. The collage was printed in pieces on 8.5×11-inch sheets of paper. From there, I reassembled the collage to be completed in its 24×29.5-inch size.

After that I began the chemical transfer process. Using compressed spray-on acetone, a 24×29.5 sheet of paper, and the completed collage, I began the process. I would spray the ink side of the printed collage with the acetone, lay it face down on the paper, and use a wooden edge to rub and transfer the ink to the large sheet of paper.

The chemical transfer was a time-consuming and gentle process. After the image was transferred and dried, I used cut scrapbook paper, pastels, and elements from a psychology textbook to create the physical collage aspect of the piece. I adhered the elements to the collage using a light layer of archival glue so as not to damage the transfer process.

I finished the piece by using acrylic paint to paint the butterfly wings. The four aspects to this work (digital collage, chemical transfer, physical collage, and painting) took me three weeks to complete.

The most challenging aspect of this process was the chemical transfer, as it is a delicate and time-focused process. I enjoyed using a combination of mediums and processes to create this artwork, as I feel it relates more to the overarching themes I was considering while creating this work.

Charlie Bach (he/she) is a sophomore at Lycoming college who studies English Literature and French. She’s the assistant managing editor of The Tributary, and she enjoys writing poetry and literary fiction (while drawing cartoons on the side).

Martyrs

“If the mountains of Lebanon could tell us their story, we should see them dyed in the blood of martyrs…”

– My great aunt, Layyah Barakat (1858-1940)

As a child of the mulberry trees,

You knew the divine truth

Of the oranges and apricots that grew

Over a dark, endless ravine.

You plunged into that vast unknown,

Believing in His will, unwavering,

His faith in you.

“Those queer American missionaries,

Hide your children, away, away.”

Auntie, I know you to be tired

Of puppetry and massacres,

Hungry and weary, barefooted, half-naked,

The smell of blood where once was sweet,

Fruitful, blooming flowers. Now it’s acidic, metallic,

And your bible’s ripped open, shredded by Abrahamic men. Western Christians, Eastern Muslims,

Those who pierced into your father,

Cutting down his prayers

With a carving knife.

Shaping, skinning, butchering…

He bled out in front of your eyes.

I understand why you’re a traveller, Layyah,

Dodging whizzing bullets, stepping over corpses…

Marching forward into His uncertain creation,

While dyed in the blood of martyrs.

“McGlue” Review

One day, back when I used to work at a closing Rite Aid, I arrived an hour early to my shift. Not wanting to spend any extra time in a building foggy with mold and dust particles, I loitered in the nearby Starbucks to read the entirety of McGlue, Ottessa Moshfegh’s first novella.

I was with it for the first 50 pages, and then a switch flipped, and I promptly got tired of it. I enjoyed Eileen despite its dark themes, and I liked the movie rendition for it as well. However, something about Moshfegh’s amateurish style did nothing to suspend my disbelief at the countless historical inaccuracies. Maybe it’s my fault for diving so deep into queer history, but when an author writes visceral and upsetting homophobia into their novella, is it too much to ask for it to be historically accurate?

I’m talking about the character named the f-slur. That’s what an actual character is called. Or, it’s more what the narrator calls him out of a feeling of internalized homophobia (I doubt his mother saw him as a newborn and decided to name him that). McGlue, the narrator, is both attracted to him and cruel to him because of it. Here’s the thing, though: the f-slur as it’s used repeatedly throughout the novella was not used in this way until the 1910s-1930s. Currently, we are on a sailing vessel in 1851.

One thing I’ve learned is that words are always older than we think they are, but 80 years is a bit of a stretch. In my humble opinion, when writing sensitive topics you always need to do a little extra research to be sure you portray it correctly. Words, especially slurs, have power. McGlue felt burdened by its lack of care. For this reason, I can’t recommend it. On a more positive note, the care Moshfegh gave her stories only increased the more she wrote, and she remedies this problem in her later work.

The light of a thousand suns

flashed in the back of his eyes.

Photon beam,

70 billion eV strong

shot through his head.

Do you think the Radium Girls would have visited him?

Showed him their rotting jaws

as his brain swelled

and his face went numb?

Would they have stood by him and nodded?

Solemn, resigned,

as his care was denied

on account of fine print.

For the money they fought for fell uselessly

in their weakened hands

as they died,

too little, too late.

What did they expect?

For the glowing dial you must

tear your jaws,

rip out your teeth.

Fall at the folly of scientific men.

For the cost of safety you must

let the warning bulb fizzle

and die.

Let the lock rust

and shatter.

Fall at the feet of the great holy beam.

For the ego of man

Let your faces rot,

your money burn,

and your medicine be ripped

from your idle hands.

Across time, countries, the iron curtain.

Bodies strung between courts,

waiting on the glowing dial.

How cost efficient is the human soul?

Chase Bower (he/him) is the managing editor of the Tributary. At Lycoming College, he studies Communication & Media Studies and Creative Writing. When he’s not managing the Tributary, he’s likely singing or working on a table-top game. He primarily writes poetry, but wanted to submit a piece of short fiction to diversify the edition, as well as an interview with Lycoming alumni Cassandra Mainiero who used her experience submitting to the Tributary in her career!

Interview w/ Cass Mainiero

Could you give a brief introduction, for those not familiar with you?

Degree: English-Creative Writing, Poetry from Lycoming College (2013)

Employment: Secretary/Purchasing Agent at the Department of Veteran Affairs.

Some interesting things: Graduated from Vermont College of Fine Arts or VCFA (2016), taught English in Japan (2018-19), worked at Tuttle Publishing, and published poems in Black Fox Literary Magazine & Bucknell’s West Branch Digital Magazine.

What are some of your favorite genres? What do you find yourself writing and reading the most?

I like fiction and poetry, but my favorite genre is memoir. My current favorites include: “Roughhouse Friday” by Jaed Coffin and “Solito” by Javier Zamor.

At Lyco and VCFA, I liked novelty and was interested in writing and reading about various new subjects. My poems never had a consistent theme. However, during the COVID pandemic, I did a VCFA postgraduate semester with Tomás Q. Morín, who pointed out that many of my poems were love poems. It was eye-opening and a game changer. I can’t unsee it.

Currently, I’m working on a collection of poems about memory, women, dementia, and generational trauma / illness. The poems are sprinting onto the page in a way they never did. It’s been hard to keep up. It’s exciting!

How did you start creative writing? Do you find that working with writing impacts your own writing, either positively or negatively?

My interest in writing gained momentum after I read “The Armful” by Robert Frost, which I stumbled upon while avoiding required reading in middle school. Something about the poem’s illustration of overwhelm and longing as well as its recognition of one’s limitations resonated with me, so I copied it to remember it.

For several years, that’s all I did: I’d hand copy poems that I enjoyed into a journal. It was for me. No one else. Eventually, though, I tried to mimic or respond to those poems in my own work. This practice made me realize that A) It’s harder to rhyme than I imagined and B) I had a lot of opinions and feelings that I didn’t realize before.

That self-awareness was liberating. I gave me strength, too. I liked seeing if my work resonated with anyone or inspired more questions. It was especially nice if my poems sparked debate or discussion. What a compliment!

What did you submit to the Tributary?

My first submission to The Tributary was a small poem about strawberry picking. The other two submissions were written in my poetry classes at Lyco.

One was “Daguerreotype.” It was a prose piece about a women losing her eyesight and trying to memorize her husband’s face. The title refers to an old photography style with black borders, which makes it look like darkness is encroaching on the image. Sascha suggested the title, and it perfectly suited the piece. It taught me how a good title can lift a poem to that next level.

The other was “In Our Zoetrope.” That poem was written in Form and Theory, a senior class at Lycoming, where students practice different poetic forms like sestina, villanelle, pantoums, etc. “In Our Zoetrope” is a sonnet that illustrates the disconnection between lovers. I was happy with the result. I wouldn’t say I wrote my finest work in Form and Theory, but I liked this one and the class exposed me to new writers and made me more appreciative of the craft.

How did faculty support your writing? What was your introduction to the Tributary, and what did having it accepted feel like?

Before Lycoming, I had this vague idea that constructive criticism was like some scathing and scalding writer rite of passage. I was warned to steel myself.

However, I had a positive experience at Lyco. The creative writing workshops were formatted in the same way as my MFA workshops: weekly submissions, class discussions and group feedback. I thought that all colleges followed such a format, but I was surprised when I met MFA students who never had that experience and were panicking before our workshops. I felt more prepared.

In my poetry workshops, Sascha didn’t coddle. Rather, he encouraged students to be discerning. He urged us to look for what is and isn’t working in a submission. This helped to identify our own personal style and individual strengths. It taught us to be better readers/listeners, too. If an idea or image didn’t work, we were expected to explain why. He wanted us to be good students as well as independent, lifelong learners. So, yes, Sascha shared resources, tools, and feedback. He also urged us to work hard, listen, and stay open-minded and curious—even after graduation.

That’s the same attitude I saw in other faculty members.

Of course, there were awful drafts and tough feedback that made you want to hide in a hole, but critiques do come with the territory. I never felt that some feedback or lesson was so disheartening that I didn’t want to return. I felt supported.

Whenever I got something accepted by The Tributary, I felt more motivated. The Tributary is managed by perceptive editors and features talented, upcoming writers. I felt honored to be part of such a community.

Did you feel supported by a community of creative writers on campus? Did students seem interested in creative writing?

Yes. Part of the advantage of studying at Lycoming was its small class sizes. Smaller classes meant more individual feedback. It also meant we saw a lot of the same people. For me, that familiarity helped me identify another student’s tendencies or resurfacing themes. It cultivated an awareness of each other’s blind spots, too. It was always rewarding to watch each other grow as writers.

The classes welcomed a variety of majors as well. We had not only philosophy and literature majors, but theater, science, and music majors. That diversity added more flavor to our classes and shed insight that made our writing stronger. I remember being completely endeared by Ethan Sellers. He wrote a beautifully heartbreaking piece about his dog and was so eager to learn more about poetry—even though he was a biology major and planned to be a doctor. His joy brought joy.

Have you read anything recently that you really enjoyed? If not, is there something you read at Lyco you remember well?

Recently, I read a personal essay by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in Vogue. It was a gorgeous essay about her first love and resulted in buying her book, Dream Count.

In terms of poetry, I’m currently obsessed with Lisa Olstein, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Mosab Abu Toha. Olstein’s “Horse” features short line breaks that result in a cadence, where the poem picks up speed as you’re reading. By its end, it feels like the speaker is the horse or you’ve been riding a horse. I’m in love with it.

Something at Lyco? Hmm. We read a lot of work at Lycoming. I remember taking a literature class with Dr. Carol Moses on 18th-centuty literature and being completely disenfranchised by romance poets. I also remember being uninterested in T.S. Eliot,

adoring Theordore Roethke, feeling seen in “The Fish” by Elizabeth Bishop, loving Emily Dickinson, and ranting about Troilus in an essay about Troilus and Cressida.

One that continues to stick with me, though, was not a famous poem, but a poem by Kyle Clemens, a fellow student in a poetry workshop. In one of his works, Kyle wrote that even a neon light at a gas station can become a source of comfort in the dark. I thought about that idea a lot in Japan, where I would bike home at night and pass all these fluorescent vending machines. I still think about it if I’m driving alone on some dark, country road.

To those aspiring towards a career in writing, be it publishing or writing or something in the area, what is something you wish you were told (or good advice you were told)?

Cut the bow.

At Lyco, all my poems had a “bow.” The “bow” is a short summary or overarching lesson that I tried to spoon-feed in the last few lines, nice and neat. I think it was a habit that developed from a vague, misguided idea that poetry is meant to unveil some hidden message or epiphany. Really, though, I was being a stage-mom. I didn’t trust my own writing.

Also: Consider the line. In the early years, all my poems featured stanzas that were like big bricks of text, where all the lines were synchronized and broken into similar lengths. My poems looked beautifully rigid and visually insane.

Then, during my MFA, I studied enjambment and it opened a whole new direction. I learned that line breaks are unspoken powerhouses. They add depth and layers to a work, inviting complexity, where silence does as much heavy lifting as the words.

I think that shift was fostered by great mentors. It also just came from finally giving myself permission to be messy. That’s why I would advise to any young writer: don’t forget that good writing requires us to play. Break a line. Give your speaker agency. Re-arrange the stanzas. Add dialogue. Lean into that alliteration. Change the punctuation. Read. Rewrite. Delete. See what happens.

…

I can’t thank Cass enough for taking the time to delve into her experience with us. Now, this is a piece of short fiction I’ve been tweaking for years and feel alright making public. That’s sort of the point of The Tributary, huh?

On Green Dolphin Street 

Jeremy swept his tiled floor, kicking up dust hanging in the kitchen air like constellations swirling down from a mobile. His old shelves clung desperately to the wall, the chipped eggshell paint covered the countertop, his University of Chicago diploma, the picture of his father standing in a silver frame. Beside it, a caricature depicted his family with cartoon proportions; Jeremy remembered the static feeling of his old neon-yellow shirt and what not wearing glasses felt like. His calendar hung from a thin string, depicting the chores of today: two meetings with corporate, then a visit to his father. 

A fresh stack of paper sat on the table, registration for his father’s retirement home. A crinkled paper sat next to it. “Alzheimer’s: Positive.” Jeremy was far from surprised. His father’s test went exactly how he expected, a week ago. “Who is the president?” they asked. 

“Well, that’s… uh, that’s… that’s Carter?” Christ. Not even Bush? Clinton? 

Eggs crackled, bacon fried, toast popped, and his fingers rustled through a splotch of grey in a sea of matted brunette hair, weighing down on his head, reflecting the morning light. He snapped back to his routine and checked on his breakfast, yolks firm and bacon charred, but his eyes darted between the stove and the black trumpet case sitting by the door. The egg whites were solid, frayed at the edges, and the underside sizzled gold when he took them off the pan. Butter melted fast as Jeremy took it down fast, tasting little and caring less just like his father, before an alarm shot from his phone, and as he rose from his seat, he noticed the alarm song. 

“On Green Dolphin Street.” Miles Davis, 1958.  

Jeremy’s thin fingers opened the three golden clamps on his father’s trumpet case, and from the dark velvet shone his father’s instrument. He blinked on beat and connected the mouthpiece. Jeremy’s lips pursed, his eyes closed, and, like buttering toast, he entered smoothly alongside Miles, piano keys and trumpet whistles spiraling around each other, mixing like cumin and oregano, flowing into cerulean air and whisking Jeremy with them, each note another ingredient to a 2-part meal, seasoned and flavored, as white softness floated lowered him, and the whistle slowed and slowed, and the piano’s fluttering melody glided, and his feet touched the ground again.  

His inner rhythm lessened, and a mounted clock’s tick filled in. He clutched his trumpet as if it might fly away, once cold metal and now as warm as Jeremy. His expression glowed with stardust, like a gentle orbit, and his blood calmed as he sighed. Dad would’ve loved that. He would’ve, had he known the one playing was his son. As the months passed since the diagnosis, the chances of that approached zero. 

On an overcast Sunday, 40 minutes fresh from church, Jeremy entered room 222 of the Daffodil Wing. His bangs grew matted; in shifting moments, he shivered, then felt the sweat cling to his button-up. His palms shook, and he blew cold breath onto the one not holding his trumpet case. 

“Hi.” He peered over his father lying at a slight incline in his hospital cot, covered in his white linen blanket. From deep down in the wrinkles of his forehead, Jeremy could almost see turgid thoughts swirling. A young nurse ambled into his room, leaning on a rickety food cart. 

She scratched her nose. “You must be William’s son, I can tell. He’s just waking up, now.” On her cart, a foam cup of soda water with brittle ice cubes sat next to fat-free vanilla pudding, whole grain pancakes, sugar free syrup, a plastic fork, and a Dixie cup of various pills. His weak and beady eyes, then his thin lips, struggled open. 

“Frita…” He grinned with teeth, with effort. “Dinner?” She has the same name as Mom, maybe that’s why she’s assigned to him. 

Jeremy could smell the Alzheimer’s clinging to him, rising like fumes and filling the room like leavening bread. Like rye, he thought. He’s musky like rye. 

The nurse took her weight from the cart. “Brunch, William. Look who’s here to visit you!” She hung her smile like clothes to dry and spoke like William had addressed his son 30 years ago. Jeremy remembered it like yesterday. William thought of his next meal. 

“Hi. It’s Jeremy. Je-re-my.” 

William stared, then chuckled. “Eddie!” He kept up as Jeremy held his taught face in feigned contentment. What could be so funny? 

“How are you feeling?” Like stock soundclips, like Elmo. 

“Yeah!” Another chuckle. Jeremy reached for the case and carefully assembled his trumpet while the man gazed. 

“Hey, I haven’t been practicing like you told me to,” Jeremy said, “but I’ll play real good for you, okay?” 

“Jeremy, right?” the nurse asked. “Are you going to play for him? He loves it when I play from my phone, but I’m sure it’d be a lot better if you played.”  

William’s eyes shimmered with a translucent glaze as he stared forward. Somber trumpet sounded as Jeremy relaxed his eyes, his fingers stirred notes into a march, pulling the tempo along, the floral wallpaper staying in place. Jeremy struggled to force breath from the stale air, and the jumps from note to note were strained. He focused on his dad, playing easy lines until he noticed his eyes closing, then following his dad into something apart from the room. 

He stacked layers of arpeggio like cake, getting more and delicate until he couldn’t handle another, playing right in his range, taking soft steps, the brass still cold in his clutch, until he opened his eyes and found his dad, unrelaxed, strained, stagnant. Jeremy let his trumpet fall and dangle on the strap. 

“I shouldn’t have come, should I?” 

The nurse furrowed her brow. “He’s doing fine. He’s just tired, he’ll be better after brunch” 

“It’s weird,” Jeremy said, checking his fingernails, rubbing his temples. “It’s just bad. He gets worse so slow I shouldn’t notice it, but I do.” He turned to William and forced a smile. “Willie! How’d you like that one?” He approached his ear. “C’mon, Will the Thrill, give me something! What’s my name?” Jeremy winced at the faint snores he picked up on his approach, then backed away. 

“Can I get you a drink, Mr. Burnham?” 

Jeremy loaded his trumpet and threw a jacket over his shoulder. “I’m on my way out, thanks.” He took a step and reached the room’s exit. “It’s nice they assigned you here. You have the same name as my mom.” 

“Hm, Stephanie?” 

“No, Frita.” 

Baristas ambled behind the hospital Starbucks counter as Jeremy and Stephanie sat with hot coffees, Jeremy in jeans and Stephanie in a baggy sweatshirt. 

“I’m not a home nurse,” Stephanie said. “I can give you references for Hospice care.”  

Jeremy ran his hands through his hair, then picked up his coffee. “It’s just, you’ve been with him for, what, a couple of months?” 

“Jeremy, that’s an entirely different position. I like it here. I can’t give that up for just one patient. If it’s cost, I’m sure —” 

“You know it isn’t cost,” Jeremy said. “It’s, he should be eating better, and I like being closer to him. It’s just a comfort thing.” 

Stephanie nodded. “I understand, but I still can’t do that for you. I’m sorry.” 

“No, I get it. Thanks for meeting me, at least.” Jeremy turned back to Starbucks. “Hey, let me get you some food, maybe.” 

Stephanie nodded, and after getting breakfast sandwiches, they returned to their seats. Jeremy sat upright in his metal chair, while Stephanie loosened her shoulders and slouched. 

“Y’know, if you want to be closer, there are volunteer programs,” Stephanie played with her napkin. “If you’re not busy, that is.” 

Jeremy nodded. “I thought playing that song would do well for him. He used to play it all the time.” 

Stephanie tilted her head. “Oh, he played?” 

Jeremy tensed. “He was in a band with some college friends for a while, Eddie and —who was it, Jay? — in and out of home until my mom died, then he took care of me.” 

“His last nurse told me he liked jazz, so I’ve been playing stuff of my phone. What’s that one you played called?” 

“On Green Dolphin Street, Miles Davis. He used to play it to me as a kid, all the time. We’d play this game where he wouldn’t tell me the name of a song until I could play it. I was pretty shit, but he would usually give in, except with that one. He made me play it over and over and over and I just couldn’t get it. It’s not that hard either, just C, B, G, E, Bb. I was a kid, though, I didn’t really get it like I do now. Just weird. I snuck on his computer and found it, and I never told him. I would’ve, but you know.” Jeremy paused and furrowed his brow. “I was hoping the music could do something. I heard somewhere that it helps.” Jeremy figured that it wouldn’t be him that gave his father clarity, but music, his real son. 

“I’ve seen moments of clarity with music for patients like your father, but it’s not a miracle cure.” 

“No, I just thought I could get a word out of him.” 

“I’m sorry. Look, I’m really not supposed to, but here’s my number. I’ll send you the documents for volunteering.” 

I don’t want to keep playing for him. I can’t play around him, it’s too much, like rivals competing for his love. With a trumpet against me, I can’t win. 

Jeremy eventually got the volunteering papers and came, again and again, sometimes tired and stern and other times projecting a face of servitude and kindness with unwieldy fervor. Everything about seeing the elderly drove him further into melancholy, a constant racing in his mind over his father, but he volunteered with routine. Late nights in the Sycamore Lodge led to early mornings, into drawn out days, into summer and winter, into a year of volunteering and seeing his father regularly, if not daily. 

When he wasn’t volunteering, he sat at home and waited for his next workday, for his next visit. If not regretting the treatment of his father required routine, he would do as his father bade him in childhood and maintain routine, even as his movements grew laborsome, his joints moving slower and slower, unnoticeably day by day. 

Jeremy started to bring his father a small breakfast, first oatmeal, then pancakes with a mix recommended by Stephanie. As he brought the food one day, he ran his fingers through a growing splotch of gray hair, its thinness contrasted with his thick matted locks. Stephanie usually resided over William, and the two often talked while he slept. 

Jeremy lifted a Tupperware container from a shopping bag. “I brought some pancakes from home, this time. Didn’t have time to make many.” 

“I hope he remembers them, then!” Stephanie said. 

Jeremy threw out the last of the pancake’s plastic packaging. “I don’t think its about that, really. I just like doing it. I just happen to know what he liked enough to give me. I’m cursed with knowledge.” Jeremy rested his hands on his trumpet case; he brought it often and played it seldom. “So, what would you say my odds of getting it are?” 

“Hm. Depends. Eating right and exercising help. Your dad was just as prone as everyone is, so your odds are about the same.”  

Jeremy tapped his foot in time. “Well, how long do you expect now?” 

“Until?” 

“Until he dies.” 

The words etched marks inside his cheeks like an icing smear on a cake knife. 

“That’s a complicated question, Jeremy. Most of that depends on the next coming days, I’d say.” 

The inside of his mouth burned and stained his skin red. “It’s been the next couple days for so long. I can’t keep this up. Routine isn’t the problem, Steph, trust me, it isn’t routine. It’s just, I’ve been mourning this guy for so long, and when it’s finally time, what’ll be left? What’ll I have to remember, the guy I vaguely know, or the room he’s rotted in for a year?” Jeremy said, stopped pacing, and threw his weight into a wicker chair. “I know what family thinks: ‘it’s about time, isn’t it?’ Like there’s a plug. Nope. I don’t want him dead, but I don’t want this. If he’s going to die, make it flashy. Give me something nice to talk about, something to preach.” 

Stephanie stood behind the sleeping figure of William. 

“Steph, thank you,” he said, weak. 

“Of course.” Then, noticing Jeremy’s withheld tears, added, “It’s my job.” 

“Does it get any easier?” 

“No.” 

It’s not him. It’s not him. His eyes burrowed into the ground. Dad would wake up. Dad will wake up. Please, wake up. Dad, please. No, it’s not him. It’s not him. 

“Jeremy!” Steph harshly whispered until his sore eyes stared into hers. “Listen!” 

Jeremy’s ears focused in on the man as a slight hum wisped from under his thin breath. C, B, G, E, Bb. Jeremy rushed to his side, watching as a slight smile cracked through his unconsciousness. After a whiff of musky rye, Jeremy could barely, just barely, make out the melody. 

Jeremy swallowed. “Dad, I guessed it. ‘On Green Dolphin Street’.”  

I’ll stick by the old man while he needs it, Dad or not, even if he couldn’t tell me my name, or his. It isn’t love for my father, I think. It’s weird. I just have to. There’s no more than that. He loves music, and I’m here. 

“I love you, Dad. I’ll see you later.” 

MK is a junior who’s double majoring in Creative Writing (Fiction) and Art (3D Animation). Past projects of theirs include a wall mural, window paintings, shirt design, and peer portraits. 

MK has been drawing seriously going on for about 11 years now and hopes to continue learn more by both/either studio internships and graduate school. They mostly work digitally, their primary program being Adobe Photoshop but are also learning Maya, Adobe Illustrator, ZBrush, and Adobe Animate. 

The Trio:

A concept essay like this is kind of strange for an artist like me; I’m less of a fine arts artist, think art that could end up in museum or has many meanings behind it, and more of what I like to call a ‘practical’ artist, so someone who puts art into a practice of sorts or puts the art towards a bigger project in a sense. So, a lot of my work is more sketching or just nice illustrations without much else behind it, and that logic can be put forward to this piece. ‘The Trio’ as I’ve dubbed it is just a nice illustration of characters from a game series I enjoy, plain and simple.

The building of this piece came from the idea of wanting a poster of all three characters together, but I’m a college student so can’t just be spending money on posters willy nilly. So, I decided to use the spare time when I should be studying to make this for my room. I can’t say I went in with a concrete plan, because I never do, instead I started browsing the internet for interesting poses and various poster inspiration. Since there were three characters, I wanted a triangular shape where they were on the page, so it would be balanced.

Without much luck finding a specific reference, I made my own with a few poses I had saved that I liked. I liked the idea of them in more of a lounging state despite being in a more desolate place since that would match the vibe of the game. I also wanted each pose to match the character: the front character in red, Dante, is more of confident, arrogant kind of character so I had him with a more wide-legged stance and cocky head tilt; the top left with the robot arm, Nero, is a tad more serious than Dante but is a tired roughly college aged kid just trying to get by so I wanted him a bit more up right but still looks like he could easily walk out of there at any

moment; lastly, the character in blue in the top right, Vergil, is a tense, ever-calculating character who is in a constant state of judgement so he got the stern look whilst holding his head, basically wanted him to give off the vibe of someone asking ‘is this really necessary?’

Hopefully that kind of explains the crazy way my brain decides to work when it comes to building the concept behind my work. A lot of my reasoning doesn’t come from logistics, or something taught in an art class. It’s more about what feels right; the other stuff can always come later since art is a living thing.

Eliza Flanigan ’26 is a Stage Management and Poetry major. When not writing Eliza finds enjoyment in reading Queer Fantasy Romance or working in the theatre.

Rain Lilies

Mama always said I was a raincloud:

A gust of gray in a world of blue,

Soaking everyhting in my path. I was wildm

Unpredictable. Never meant to say, only to stir.

She warned me that people

Would hide from my darkened skies,

Hating how thunder never asked

Before it spoke. They would flinch at flashes

Of lightning, mistaking passion for violence.

I learned to drift in silence, floating

With the leading wind, never against.

I was quiet above rooftops, distant

From those who dreaded me. But clouds

Are meant to burst.

When droplets grew too heavy

I would flood every hallway and shake

Frames from walls. Rooftops

Became bare in my wake

And tree limbs littered the streets.

Mama hated those storms –

Loud, unbecoming, ugly.

What she forgot to say was:

Only a storm can cause a lily to bloom.

The writing process of Rain Lilies began as a deeply personal reflection on being labeled “negative” for most of my life. I wanted to transform that perception into something more nuanced, to show how what others see as darkness can actually hold power, depth, and renewal. The metaphor of the raincloud became my way of reclaiming that narrative and taking the heaviness people associate with me and turning it into a natural, necessary force. As I wrote, I thought about how storms, though feared, bring life and how even destruction has purpose. The poem’s voice grew from that tension between how I’m seen and who I really am: not cruel or hopeless, but passionate, emotional, and alive. The final line, “Only a storm can cause a lily to bloom,” came late in the process, but it felt like the truth I’d been writing toward all along a quiet defiance and acceptance that my intensity has always had meaning.