The Elm 2018-2019

the elm
2018-2019
1

DEDICATION

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect. -Anaïs Nin
This issue of The Elm is dedicated to all those who enjoy the flavors of life.
With all its bitterness and sweetness, it never ceases to be delicious.

2

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Sarina Starling, A Flower, Trapped........................................................................................... 4-6
Elizabeth Lora, Tienes el Nopal en la Frente................................................................................7
Hailey Mahan, A Documentation of Dance (2)............................................................................8
Jaeden Amiri-Owens, Cogito, Ergo Sum.....................................................................................9
Ansley Balberde, Ladybug..........................................................................................................10
Ashleigh Stemple, Curiosity & Zach Wasson, Lost in a Glass Box........................................11
Baylor Collins, Untitled..............................................................................................................12
Kaitlyn Anderson, Shattered......................................................................................................13
Christina Cannady, There Is No Present....................................................................................14
Freud Thomas, Self-Portrait.......................................................................................................15
britney hernandez, merry christmas............................................................................................16
Ella Griffith, Honey....................................................................................................................17
Taylor Simpson, What is Life....................................................................................................18
Danielle Byrne, Echoes...............................................................................................................19
Ben Berrier, Endless....................................................................................................................20
Kayla Denton, Untitled...............................................................................................................21
Ella Griffith, Lilith.....................................................................................................................22
Through The Glass.........................................................................................................................23
Kaitlyn Anderson, Tenacitatem..................................................................................................24
Georgia Spring & Libby Owens, Truth & Beauty......................................................................25
Eva Sell,Victim of a Mortal........................................................................................................26
Ella Griffith, You Should See Me in a Crown.............................................................................27
Britney Hernandez, Last Goodbye.......................................................................................28-30
Averi Barinowski, Self-Portrait...................................................................................................31
Anna Williams, Untitled.............................................................................................................32
Hailey Mahan, A Documentation of Dance (1)..........................................................................33
Armando Figueroa, Prologue...............................................................................................34-37
Zach Wasson, Bewitched.............................................................................................................38
Ella Griffith, Martyr...................................................................................................................39
Kaitlyn Anderson, Burnt Portrait..............................................................................................40
Ella Griffith, Palais Garnier.......................................................................................................41
Adam Hasse, Heat Map.............................................................................................................42
Credits.........................................................................................................................................43

Cover Art: Kayla Denton, Primordial Woman. Oil on canvas.

3

Nature loves to hide. -Heraclitus

A Flower, Trapped
By Sarina Starling

An empty room. A table. A singular chair.
There are flowers in a blue vase, the same shade as the sky outside. The view that looks as though
it has been painted over and over again, white blots dot the view. They seem as though they are
mistakes, little flecks of impurities in a light blue, hazy sky.
I’ve been stuck in this room for days, stuck staring outside the same window, at the same view. I
know when the sun rises, when it sets, and when the moon places her longing gaze upon me, her
bright white light a pure orb, perfectly round unlike the clouds.
Who decided that the moon would be the feminine entity? Why is the sun regarded as male? These
questions swim through my head, through an ocean that I am a mere stranger towards, as I stand
upon the strip of beach inside my mind.
As I gaze out, I feel alone. I feel more alone inside my head than outside in that room, my body
lying in the chair, feeling like a corpse of death. My bones fall, sink, weigh me down in this room.
This room I long to escape.
What is this room? Who are these people, these women and men that enter through that door,
speak their pleasantries to the thin, empty air. It’s like I don’t exist, it’s almost like I am dead. Not
physically, but mentally, and in my heart, I have died.
The flowers, no, they have not died. They have not died, because they are fake.
I figured it out one day, when I was released from my shackles, and my fingertips were allowed
to graze those petals, the petals of pink, orange, and yellow fabric, those fake tulips, forever
reminiscent of springtime, even when the chill of winter, and the smell of mold enters the space.
One day, I asked a nurse for real flowers, and she told me that by believing the flowers were real, I
was already living, living through what nature attempts to embody: the human spirit.
But my thoughts, they were never quite truth, nor were they lies. My mind was scrambled,
scrambled like the eggs that I hadn’t eaten since I was a child, since my mother spoon-fed me the
delicious lies of her mind.
Your father is around, your sisters love you, nobody thinks you’re a freak.

4

The first time they told me I was sick, I became confused, not worried. My chest wasn’t heaving,
my nose wasn’t wet or dripping, and my forehead never felt like the fires of winter.
But somehow, I knew, I knew they thought what I was.
They believed me to be crazy, and they believed I was too stupid to realize, too asinine to know that
everything, everything they had ever taught me, had ever told me, was fake.
I wish there was still a time when I believed them, I wish they had taken me here earlier, so that way
I could live the way I wanted: in complete and total isolation.
Every flower in that vase, before I knew what was fake and what was real, every color of every
flower represented someone important in my life.
Sister One was a daisy, because daisies were happy and I never remembered her sad. She had the
brightest smile, and bright blue eyes to match. Her eyes would crinkle up whenever she giggled,
which was often. Her favorite thing to laugh at were my facial expressions, as I was quite the mime.
Sister Two was a poppy, because she was more affected by sickness then even I was. She was an
insomniac, and would wake with awful fits throughout the night. She stays in the room next door
to mine, and the times when we exchange letters, they drip with the tears of betrayal and sadness.
She hates Mother as much as I do, maybe even more so, because Mother was the one who put us in
here. She was the first to be afflicted with what they deemed “depression”, although what we both
knew about that term could be chalked up to a beginning level U.S. History class.
Father was a butterfly weed, a flower I only saw once in my life, around the first and only time I
ever saw him. He kept one tucked in his wallet, in the front pocket of his business suit, because he
appreciated their golden yellow hue, similar to fried butter, but he, like the flower, left. He was gone
forever, and there was never a phone call, nor a letter, that could get him to stay.
Mother, being similar to Father on the color spectrum, was orange, medium orange like an orange
lily. She pretended like she cared about Sister Two and I, but we both knew, despite how sick we
were, that Sister One was her favorite, because Sister One was good and pure. Mother cared about
her image too much to keep us around, and she sent us away, to this horrible, awful place.
Unlike living at home, here, Sister Two and I get to keep our freedom, the one thing the sickness
thinks it can take from us.
And of course, despite being sick, I do consider myself, or at least my body, important. For I am a
mere vessel to transport my soul around, from corner to corner of this cupboard of a room.
A violet, that is what I would consider myself. They try to beat me, belittle me, alienate me, but I
know I’m strong.
I know that one day, I will break these chains, bound to the legs of this chair, dragging the weight
of dead wood behind my back. It is the weight of all of those who have let me down, all of those

5

who have hurt, or spited, or betrayed me for their own selfish desires.
One day I will take this chair, I will throw it through the window by the light of the moon, and I
will run, free, freer than all who have come before me and all who will come after me. I will save
myself, I will save Sister Two, I will save us both from destruction of the only things we possess,
the one intangible object that they cannot take away from us: our souls.
But here, for now, I sit. Gazing up at the moon, appreciating the warm amber glow of the twilight
through the oak trees.
Because I must get my strength up before I can finally run.

6

Elizabeth Lora, Tienes el Nopal en la Frente. Acrylic on paper.

7

Hailey Mahan, A Documentation of Dance (2). Photographic print, digital.

8

Cogito, Ergo Sum
By Jaeden Amiri-Owens

Cogito, ergo sum.
I think, therefore I am.
It’s a grain of certainty in an inherently uncertain world.
Reality, from the perspective of a rational observer, is logically impossible to confirm with 100%
certainty.
Consider the concept of the “mad scientist”. It was originally called the “evil demon”, but the
concept is the same. A mad scientist has taken a human brain and hooked up all of its inputs &
outputs to an incredibly advanced simulation. From the perspective of the brain, there is absolutely
no way to tell if it’s reality is actually “real”.
Consider also the “philosophical zombie” argument. Imagine an automaton that, on the surface,
appears exactly as a human. Its physical composition is the same as a human. It talks like a human,
acts like a human, and appears to feel things just as a human does. However, in truth it feels
nothing; it is a “philosophical zombie”. There is absolutely no deterministic way to tell if any given
person is a philosophical zombie or not.
So, reality is inherently uncertain.
But there is one thing that can be known for certain: If a conscious observer is conscious, they can
conclude that they themselves are real.
Not their body. Not even their brain. Those things are still uncertain. But the very ability to think
about the problem proves that their consciousness is real.
I think,
therefore I am.

9

Ansley Balberde, Ladybug. Photographic print, digitally altered.

10

“All things were together. Then mind came and arranged them.” -Anaxagoras

Curiosity
By Ashleigh Stemple

Questioning the everyday aspects of life come with being human. Our minds refuse to settle
for simple explanations of why, or how, or when. The first of our kind believed that the world
was flat, and that, if they sailed far enough, they would fall off the face of the Earth. Then they
explored it, and their pondering of the world they inhabited came to an end. Their curiosity for the
unknown threw off the balance of simply not knowing and not questioning.
Humans lacking curiosity would simply lead to nothing being answered, but it would also
lead to nothing being questioned, either. That’s why Pandora opened the box, and why Eden ate the
apple - the dreaded ‘what-if ’s’ that plague the mind are far worse than the fear of what’s to come if
the path less followed is taken.
If curiosity really did kill the cat, then I suppose everyone would all be dead. We question
things; not because we want to, but because we have to. Humans’ anxieties of the unknown further
as curiosity grows. It’s nearly impossible to take the easy way out of something, which is to leave
it untouched, unbothered. So, yeah, maybe leaving every mystery of the universe alone would be
simpler, but leaving a box unopened, or an apple uneaten, would only garner a larger question:
What would have happened?
The human psyche really doesn’t make any sense, but without curiosity, our ‘psyches’ most
likely never would have been explained or realized. Curiosity leads to the largest discoveries, but
also the largest risks.

Zach Wasson, Lost in a Glass Box. Photographic print, digital.

11

“The path up and down is one and the same.” -Heraclitus

Untitled
By Baylor Collins

As a child growing up in Florida, we had access to the coast at all moments of
the hour. Without warning, the family would see fit to lower our little boat into the
canal we lived on and motor off to any island in the gulf. It was a monthly, sometimes,
weekly occurrence. Far too long has it been since I’ve surveyed the fields of reeds that
guarded the boundary between home waters and the blue expanse. Sometimes, I’d
hold out the net to catch whatever my father lured unto the boat, and other times I
sat and watched the depth map bounce sonar across the divide between air and sand.
When the boat moved, I would hide under a towel as I feared falling off into the wake.
Looking back, I regret every moment I spent under that towel, hiding from what could
have been a vivid memory. However, I will go back someday, where I can experience
all the joys and wonders that remain from years past. I vow to watch the sonar jump
up and down and catch strange fish as I did in times prior. It was a beautiful sea back
then, and I know it will be no different upon return.

12

Kaitlyn Anderson, Shattered. Photograph/collage. 12 x 9 in.

13

There Is No Present
By Christina Cannady

Old men were once young, but it is uncertain if young men will reach old age.
Yesterday is part of the past,

and Tomorrow is not always given.
Men will reminisce on the old days,
and Boys will dream of the future.

The present is not a real place;
It is made up to let dreams live longer.

The past has already happened;
There is no reason to look upon it.

The future can be taken away;
All it takes is a second.

Because there is no present,
Only the past and the future.

14

Freud Thomas, Self-Portrait. Acrylic on paper. 18 x 24 in.

15

merry christmas
by britney hernandez

a season to be jolly
the suicide rates rise, they say
the pencil in his hand runs this way and that
the clock strikes midnight yet again
the blister blossoms in the crevice of his thumb, again
like a wound
with a heartbeat
— he forgets to breathe
as if his own heart didn’t beat
the pencil in his hand singes the page
the feverish pace revs and accelerates, defying physics
centripetal acceleration makes sense, for once
as his eyes roll back to the back of his head
crimson decorates the page
one drop, then another, one at a time
isn’t that the rhythm the conductor wanted?
the clock strikes midnight yet again
this time, the week ends and
the weekends greet with a funeral
as the snow frosts the gravestones nearby
porcelain licks the flowers they left for him
the gifts remain under the tree
the report card collects dust
he sits in his grave
and happy holidays, they say, too

16

Ella Griffith, Honey. Digital art.

17

What is Life
By Taylor Simpson

Life is dreary, life is difficult
Life makes one miserable.
For what is life to the living
But a constant pain.
Like sheets of endless rain
It’s cruel machine insane.
What is love to the loveless
But an empty song.
What is the road to the lonely
But all too long.
What is color to the blind
But beauty unknown.
What is hate to the world
But more pain to condone.
What is the future to history
But another page to turn.
What is a relationship to a person
But another bridge to burn.
But what cloud has no silver lining?
When is there never a ray of light shining?
For life has riches greater than gold
Greater than anything to be sold.
For what is love to the heart
But a sweet fulfilling tune.
What is the darkest night sky
But an infinite canvas for the stars and moon.
What is kindness to the world
But the nectar of life.
What is a moment of peace
But a time without strife.
What is tomorrow to today
But another try.
What is life to a person
But a spring of hope never run dry.

18

Danielle Byrne, Echoes. Photographic print, digital.

19

Ben Berrier, Endless. Ink on paper. 9 x 18 in.

20

Untitled
By Kayla Denton

It’s nothing I am not familiar with; the separation of mind and body and the even
more Nebulous spirit. But, it is difficult to explain. The human entity always seems to
come in threes, but not like this. There is no wholeness to it. There is the outer body,
the face, the skin, the inner body, the buzzing, hateful, bloody animal that itches to get
out, and the spirit, a broken, twisted thing older than the vessel.
Or younger.
This depends.
But the separation is the root of confusion, the conflicting horror of personalities that
are and are not yours, the uncontrollable rage and film of red that veils eyes far too old
for a body so young.
It’s the mind broken into threes, the unifying synapses misfiring or altogether dead.
It’s the dead weight at the base of the skull, the heavy pit in the gut, the leaden trod of
weary feet.
It’s the desire to stare into nothing and wait for things you can’t put a name to to come
out from the darkness and gut you or to reveal to you a face that is not truly there. The
split-second moment where you do not recognize yourself and you are afraid because
the skin you wear does not settle just right, the flesh beneath atrophied and sore, the
soul retreated into the seat of your chest silent and yet undeniably in agony under
some forgotten thing.

21

Ella Griffith, Lilith. Gouache & watercolor on paper.

22

Through The Glass

In the rocker chair by the window sat Edith May. Back and forth, the rocker croaked as feeble
legs gently pushed her back and released her forward. Sleepily, Edith peered out the window with
wistful curiosity. She watched the kids by the youthful oak tree as they swung in the tire swing, a
thing of molded rope and withered rubber that brought a bubbly sense of euphoria to the children.
She vividly visioned the dirt falling into the corners of her eyes, the smell of dust and hot summer
washing over her face. The croaking noise of the rope, shifting its weight around the tree as eager
feet pushed it back and forth, felt like a musical number to Edith. With this, she smiled, her heart
felt heavy and sleep washed over her in a wave.
Out the window, leaves fell, bringing a dreary sensation of warm spice and apple cider air. Edith
May wiggled her nose and squinted her eyes to see the two teens, walking and crunching the leaves
with their energetic feet in the cool, crisp air. They seated themselves in front of the tall vibrant oak
tree. Their minds pranced into a place where school was no concern and chores couldn’t intrude
their imagination, they were blissful. Edith chuckled, knowing the crushing feeling of life would
soon be upon them. She fell asleep once again in her creaking chair, her feeble legs rocking her
back and forward as they did every evening.
Edith May found the room chilling. A frosted breeze gripped the air, yet the family outside her
window radiated warmth. She watched as the family pranced and ran around the barren grey oak
tree in the thick and fluffy snow. Worrisome legs chased after the children who had fallen into the
frosty powder, only to pick them up and begin running again. Edith held her droopy eyes up until
the pull of drowsiness left her unable to stay awake, slowly letting her feeble legs rock her, she
sighed and drifted off.
Edith May listened to the sound of dripping rain, it slapped the window and slid down the glass as
it disappeared slowly. Flowers flooded at the speed they bloomed, but this was not so for the family
at the oak tree. The children kept blooming, so much so that it was time for them to move on. The
couple stood by the window alone, but together. Peering at the drenched and cracked oak tree in
each other’s company and recalling the memories, the somber sound of rain only adding to their
bliss. Edith watched them, holding a cold hand to her warm heart. Her feeble legs pushed her back
and forth as she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Edith May looked at the dark wilted oak tree in front of her window. This time, however, it was
only the oak tree. There were no kids, no laughter, and no warmth. She saw her own reflection
in the window, and only her own. The void in her heart widened like a pit, slowly consuming her
spirit. For once, she recognized her feeble legs rocking her back and forth in the window, as if it
was all she knew to do. The chair creaked as the slow drawn out movement came to a grinding halt.
The noise echoed in her head dimly while, for the last time, Edith May closed her eyes and drifted
into an eternal sleep.

23

Kaitlyn Anderson, Tenacitatem. Ballpoint pen, gold leaf, Prismacolor. 11 x 8 1/2 in.

24

Georgia Spring

The shutters close
Enveloping My World In Darkness
The vibrating of the air condition as a helicopter
Fills My World of pitch with noise
Followed by a scent as sweet as sugar

Brought by the Wild Winds
Scents of pollen and dust
Tickle the insides of my body
As My World starts to brighten
The rustling of the trees
And the sounds of busy bees

Fill The Light
With an experience so bright

Through the heats
And the streets

Of a Georgia Spring

Libby Owens, Truth & Beauty. Photographic print, digital. 16 x 20 in.

25

Victim of a Mortal
By Eva Sell

Gripping to the handkerchief
Hands helplessly clamped together by rope
With no hope that they could part the position of prayer
Or that prayer could spare the inevitable future
Direct into the eye
Seeing that he didn’t seek the elegant nickel pierced through my ear
Nor the liquid memory dripping from my eye
Only the weakness
Knowing that a simple chunk of lead is enough to disprove a life
That his mortal hand had the power to turn both of mine cold

26

Ella Griffith, You Should See Me in a Crown. Pencil on paper.

27

Last Goodbye
By Britney Hernandez

Another correctly calculated speed bump shifted Diana in her bus seat as she swallowed hard,
watching her home fade past her at a verdurous, wide speed. She had had a choice between a plane
or the transit bus but stuck with the latter.
There went all the gas stations she used to steal from when she was in primary school. There went
all the mailboxes she used to kick when she came home from school with a temper and a mouthful.
It was because of those days she grew into such a verbal young woman.
It was rather late, an immeasurable moment of time caught within the territory of dawn but fatigue
left her unfazed. She must persevere to see the last of her home.
There went the sidewalks she would graffiti with barely correct grammar chalk and all the cracks
she would spent her entire life trying not to step on. She didn’t want her mother’s back to break.
Diana settled more into her seat, barely listening into what unimpressionable whispers of songs
resounded within her ear buds; she had lost herself in the barely visible image outside of the bus.
All she saw were colors: colors of memories.
And that wasn’t quite it either. Greens would blend to blues, yellows swallowed the indigos, and
it would all rotate like some spinning pallet or toy kaleidoscope. The tangibility of these colors
activated memories, causing something to swell in her chest. There went all the ponds she’d be
dared to swim in (...or else, the kids would threaten her) and as always, her clothes would be
thefted. Though it often cost her mother a “fortune”, Diana grew used to the murky waters of the
park area, quickly began outsmarting that rowdy group, and would eventually outgrow it all.
She wondered if anyone would remember her again, or if they’d sense that she’d left; of course,
this was a natural fear that typically circulated around death in place of just some absence due to
the epoch of adulthood, but this worry was enough to spring a lump in her throat. She was certain
that her existence did more than simply be a burden, but that was self-deprecating talk, her mother
wouldn’t approve.
There went all the law firms her father would force her to go to, along with all the ice cream parlors
she’d flee to, as she’d cry to the cashiers about what was happening in her family. They were good
people. They never told a soul. All the fire of the familial issues now seemed to be microscopic,
not without significance now, but it would serve an emblem of her journey. (As would this seatbelt
burn. The busses were never the best.)
It bothered her, throbbing like an insect bite, of what she still intended to do in the heart of her
small town. She’d wanted to try and sneak in a movie without getting caught, she’d wanted to do

28

nice things for all the people who’d put up with her during her reckless youth, and above all, she’d
wanted to stay. After all, wasn’t that what her best friend — from what grade was it, again? — has
told her, that she wouldn’t truly experience adolescence if she hadn’t at least purposely broken a
rule? Then again, she had been arrested for petty theft just a week before graduation.
There went the neighborhood of her friends, right? She couldn’t remember much since they’d
moved away closer to the city to pursue their dreams: that, or they moved in with Diana and her
family.
Her phone burned from her lap, crying out for a charger.
There went all the parts of town her mother always told her never to trek in, Diana mused, as she
was flooded with vague ghosts of her mother’s smeary cheek and forehead kisses. Her sister always
stuck out her tongue and rubbed it after she did so.
Her shoulder bag sunk into the seat beside her, brimmed with going away gifts, sweltering that
lump of what? a sob in her throat because what she had always thought since she was a child that
people only gave you a lot of stuff if you were dying or you were dead. Was she going to die? Was
her hometown going to die? Was there a great meteor about to strike them? These minor worries
had somehow sewn together to weave a simple abstracity: her simple love for her hometown.
There went the cemetery that was littered with the most beautiful bouquets of gardenia yet also the
tombstones of those she knew and didn’t. She soundlessly murmured her goodbyes to the graves
of her grandparents.
A burning rumble resonated throughout her abdomen, ascending to her throat, but she had
promised and been promised that she would have a gourmet feast once she arrived to her
destination.
There went all the restaurants her family and she would attend when everything had at least
appeared better and no one hated each other. Diana smiled more. Those times were immortalized,
perhaps not perfect, but no one could take them away from her. Her father always walked in, hand
in hand, with both her mother and sister. That was a good time; it was her foundation to seeking a
better life. Whether it was terrible or not, it all seemed to form a precedent for her dreams.
Barely any vehicles littered the roads but of those that were veering past him, Diana watched
carefully, wondering where they were going, what they’d been through, or who they were. Some
were people she knew. She recognized a few faces but she would leave them. They would leave her,
too.
Her head bobbled forward, a minor yelp suppressed behind her dried, sealed lips. The bus had
changed lanes.

29

There went all the libraries she’d bike to every morning, day, night, to study hard, like her mother
incessantly encouraged her to, like her father expected her to. There went all the miniature fruit
markets she’d race to, when hunger struck in the middle of a cram session. Closing her eyes, she
wordlessly thanked them for providing for her, in time of need. They were the ones who’d helped
her pass, who’d helped her survive, who’d helped her succeed.
Trees became scarce nearing the city, but she knew everything was settled since she’d gone and
planted over seventeen hundred seeds. The forest would grow and provide for her home.
There went all the concert halls she’d go to perform, but also she had also been a piece of the
audience. She fell in love with concertos, the energy of the musicians, and the way the lights did the
thing where, after a silent symphony of flickering, it would all decrescendo. Diana trembled with
how greatly and deeply she’d miss it all. There went the concession cashiers she’d strike up stupid
conversations with, which had consisted of heated debates, even to the most ridiculous of theories.
Certainly, there went all the people and all the places she’d loved, that she still loved so much that it
made her heart hurt, which she had literally discovered to be half anatomically true. It couldn’t even
be limited to her heart; her whole being ached with despondency.
She refused to accept the teenage urge to halt and return home, to stop the bus, and run back to
everything she’d ever known.
Her mother had spent too long working towards his new life, her friends and family had, all
the people she grew up with or those who’d watched her do so, and she couldn’t bear to waste
everything. What about all the departing hugs and the wet cheek kisses she’d been given? She had
to go, no matter how much she didn’t want to.
Diana skimmed past the signs that notified her that she was exiting her beloved town, and nodded,
courageously accepting that her friends and family had given her everything they could. They had
paved the way to her future. This was the least she could do.
She nodded more, twisting her parted lip with her incisors, and squeezing the bag. She shakily
smiled some more, turning back to her home one final time, as the bus broke past the intangible
city border.
She did not desire to look ahead, but after a hesitant thank you to everyone she’d left behind, she
lifted her head forward.
Diana had finally said her last goodbye.

30

Averi Barinowski, Self-Portrait. Acrylic on paper. 18 x 24 in.

31

Anna Williams, Untitled. Acrylic on paper. 11 x 14 in.

32

Hailey Mahan, A Documentation of Dance (1). Photographic print, digital.

33

Prologue
By Armando Figueroa

Inside a dimly, candle-lit room of a clay hut on the outskirts of an unnamed village in rural
India a great tragedy has occurred. There lay two parents sprawled out on the floor. Their eyes
glued to each other, unmoving and stiff. Hands clenched together as if they were sewn together,
forever. There they would lay together for three days until some “friend” looking for charity would
stumble upon them, with pesticide next to them and the poison dripping from their lips. They
escaped their adversity and anguish, but fated their child to a life full of calamity by sending him
away to his grandparents. It is often that when the debt of the father cannot be paid off it all falls
onto the son’s shoulders. As of now the sky is calm, but the storm will soon come.
Scene 1
Seven years later. Outside a small house in another rural part of India a boy is walking alongside an elderly woman;
they’re both veiled in black attire. A solemn expression envelopes his face; the tears jerk frantically and fall down
with each step he takes. The sky is cloudy and dim; the sky mourns alongside them.
RADESH through muffled sobs: Why did Grandpa have to die?
HOPE after a pause and sigh: It was his time. God thought it would be best for him to finally go.
RADESH: I don’t understand. Looking down while tears stream down his cheeks. Doesn’t God
care about us? I don’t understand. I can’t understand.
HOPE: I don’t expect you to. It is something that people far older than you cannot understand.
RADESH stops and looks down: Is that why you don’t cry for grandpa? Looks up to her, anger
fills his eyes as he yells. How does being 79 make it easier for you to just accept this?
HOPE shocked by the outburst proceeds to stare back at him with a blank expression and stern
voice: When you live as long as I have you learn of many ugly things about God’s beautiful green
Earth. She begins walking towards the house without him, without looking back. That’s why you’ll
be going to live in Britain with your Aunt Mary and Uncle Joseph in eight days.
RADESH stands dumbfounded before dragging his heels and following his grandmother into the
house.

34

Scene 2
Seven days later in the earliest hours of Saturday while the sun had yet to appear a mob had already rallied; they
were comprised up of men of all ages with faces plagued with confusion and panic, with the exception of the man
leading the frenzy. His features were similar to that of a wolf, heinous and cunning, the man of 34 was known
as Timor. His eyes were hungry for power and in his hands he holds the snare of fear, which he uses to control
his following of sheep. They headed towards poor Hope’s house. Fire blazing in the torches they carried, it’s smoke
billowing up into the clouds turning them dark with soot. They all moved through the darkness together.
HOPE stumbles in the dark making her way to Radesh’s room: Radesh! Radesh! Her voice is
frantic as she chokes out whispers. Hurry wake up.
RADESH turns over then sits up rubbing his eyes: What is it grandma? Why is it so early?
HOPE grabs his shoulder: Listen closely to what I’m about to tell you. There’s a group of men
coming here. I have no doubt that they come for our land. They probably plan to call me a witch.
RADESH looking puzzled cried out: But why would they do that? You’re not a witch, you’re my
grandma!
HOPE sighs and holds him in a hug: The people here have just recently started accusing people of
witchcraft in order to obtain land and-
RADESH: But why!
HOPE: Because we are different from the people of the village. We are Christian and your
grandfather was a British soldier stationed here in 1945. When we fell in love and married we were
looked down upon, my parents disowned me. They hated him for being of the same kin as those
who oppressed India and they hated me for marrying him. Even 60 years later some people can’t
forgive us. She looks up. We never cared, we decided to stay in India and raise a family, and God
blessed us with our fertile land. However, now that your grandfather has died, they see their chance
to grab the land. So, this is what you’ll do. When they come, you’ll come with me and not say a
word. Radesh nods. Swear to me that you’ll do it.
RADESH in a fearful mumble: I swear.
They both walk outside and a few minutes later meet the angry mob of villagers.
TIMOR steps out from in front of the mob: We are here in order to deliver justice upon this witch,
so that she may no longer salt our fields with her curses. We are tired of you succeeding in farming
while all of us starve. We are tired of you benefiting off of our downfall. We are tired, but not
anymore. Today we rid ourselves of your curse.
The mob cheers from behind.

35

HOPE shaking a little: I am not a witch, I have never wronged anyone. I am a good Christian,
and you all can attest to that. Rakeem, who was there to help your wife in labor? Thomas who was
it that gave you money so that you could survive through the winter. My husband has given you
all food in your time of need. The people shuffle in discomfort. The expressions of the people
changed from panic and anger to one of thought and guilt. My family has always done what was
right and helped you in your times of need. We have-
TIMOR in a harsh, loud tone: Lies! Turns around towards mob. When one is a witch she covers
her dirty sins with good deeds. We will not let those noble actions dissuade us from delivering
justice. The mob stays quiet no one cheers this time. Timor steps closer to Hope out of earshot of
the crowd. (To Hope) With this I’ll finally have my revenge for the lands you stole from our family.
HOPE: Buying is not stealing-
TIMOR: Regardless, we were taken advantage of. Desperation forced our hand and you took
advantage of that, but now I’ll have it back.
HOPE confused: How did you convince the village to follow you?
TIMOR: They fear the same would happen to them if they didn’t show. As only a witch would
suffer another witch to live. He smirks.
HOPE: God will surely punish you for this.
TIMOR smiles devilishly: Today is the Sabbath Day, the day God took a rest. He will not be here to
bear witness today. Radesh scurries behind his grandmother upon seeing Timor’s heinous smile.
HOPE with indignation: Well then there is no need for me to plead with a fiend. You will never
repent for your evil ways. However you will leave my grandson alone.
TIMOR laughs: Why would I want to sleep with an eye open the rest of my days. They say that
what is silent in the father speaks in the son. No matter how pure you might be you resent me, and
through you Radesh will. Hope scowls. Do not hate me, hate the nature of people. Hate how fear
controls people like the puppeteer does with his tools. I simply have taken advantage of this.
HOPE (To the crowd): You may do what you want with me but you will not harm Radesh. He has
nothing to do with me. He is just a boy who has no one. He has lost his parents and has suffered
more than any man here. He has seen the worst of the world, and you will not keep him from
seeing the best of it. She looks to the villagers pleading. They shuffle in discomfort.
TIMOR scowls and yells: The boy has already been tainted by this witch and will seek vengeance
on all of us. We cannot let him live.

36

THOMAS steps out from the crowd and stutters: Timor, he is just a boy. He knows nothing of the
world, let alone witchcraft. The crowd murmurs, but does not intervene.
TIMOR steps to Thomas and scowls. Thomas steps back in fear: I’m trying to protect us! This boy
is a problem. The mob stands deathly still. Arrghh! Well then go on and take the boy away, as long
as she dies. A few villagers go and take Radesh away from his grandmother.
RADESH crying: Grandma don’t go and leave me! (To the villagers) Don’t take me away please!
Please don’t take my Hope away. Please… Please… Please! He yelled until his screams were heard
no more, and the only sound heard was stillness.
Hope begins weeping and starts a prayer. Thomas and the others drag Radesh away. Their faces
solemn and hearts full of guilt. Some of the villagers followed them back, others stayed. However,
no one dared to protect Hope; that night Hope died, and they all were to blame. That night all of
Radesh’s hopes had died. Upon seeing what occurred the sky weeped and turned black and howled
in outrage. However, as time progressed the story was lost and once again people began to forget
how fear possessed them to commit atrocious acts.
Radesh, however, never forgot. He could not. Bitter tears stained him. Wicked shrieks haunted his
nights. Gluttonous flames were not satisfied with destroying his home, so they burned themselves
onto his eyes. Heaven’s sobs dug themselves into his skin, like needles striking his very core. Every
waking minute they reminded him of pain, constant pain. He was broken. It was there, alone in the
darkness, a greater evil had taken root in his psyche. There it enjoyed leeching off the festering bile
of anger in the recesses of his mind. After cultivating itself, it bore a gift to the world. A beautiful
fruit without blemish. The fruit of revenge, an apple, filled with poison.

37

Zach Wasson, Bewitched. Photographic print, digital.

38

Ella Griffith, Martyr. Gouache & acrylic on paper.

39

Kaitlyn Anderson, Burnt Portrait. Charcoal. 17 x 20 in.

40

Ella Griffith, Palais Garnier. Acrylic on paper.

41

Adam Hasse, Heat Map. Digital art. 11 x 14 in.

42

CREDITS

The staff of The Elm would like to thank all contributors to this gorgeous magazine.
Thank you to Mrs. Hanline, Ms. Haslett and Mr. McCann- without your help this would
not be possible. Our compilation shows that within so many of us lies the potential to
be a writer, or an artist.

43