Mind's Eye JCCC 2020 Literary Magazine

MIND’S
EYE
2020
POETRY
FICTION
NONFICTION
ARTWORK

CONTENTS
MIND’S
EYE
2020
41 FICTION
42 Distractions
Asher Gulley | 1st Place
48 The Green Gardener
Corey Davis | Runner-Up
53 A Date with Death
Itzach Rose
63 NONFICTION
65 Angry, Black Butterflies
Samantha Hughes | 1st Place
69 Tag
Emily Garcia | 2nd Place
73 A Trip to D.C.
Sam Riddle | 3rd Place
85 No Place Like
Home…School
Olivia Landreth | Honorable Mention
88 In Between Dreams
Mia Ham
91 ARTWORK
92 Serenity + Stress
Rae Adams-Hollis | Cover Art
94 Fraxinus Carin—A
Painting in Space
Daniel Baxley | 1st Place
97 Pulling Ivy
Robyn Attaway | 2nd Place
98 Guided by Ancestors
Diamond Lambert | 3rd Place
102 Shapes in Maple
Jonathan Scroggins
104 Black Growth
Dani Lindbloom
105 Checkmate
Iris Patricia Roney
106 Smoggy Sunset
Larry Hodes
4 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
5 EDITORS
6 CONTRIBUTORS
9 INTRODUCTION
11 GUEST SPOTLIGHT
A Conversation with Melissa Fite Johnson,
Guest Poetry and Nonfiction Judge for
Mind’s Eye 2020
14 The Woman and the Wolf
Melissa Fite Johnson | Artist’s Choice
15 From My Parked Car,
I Stare at the Snow
Melissa Fite Johnson
16 Triple Self-Portrait
Melissa Fite Johnson
17 POETRY
19 I Miss You
Alyssa Wathen | 1st Place
21 Red Pen
Asher Gulley | 2nd Place
23 Spaceflight
Adrian Arnold | 3rd Place
25 Our Saturday Morning
Kirsten Joplin | Honorable Mention
27 Late August
Simone Griggs | Honorable Mention
30 Nostalgia ‘08
David Nelson
32 Happy Poem
Asher Gulley
33 Indecisiveness
Adrian Arnold
34 Beware the Wicked Witch
Simone Griggs
35 Can You?
Ben Oberman
36 Your Day is Not Done
Ben Oberman
37 Postmodern Urban
Romanticism: A
Re-Imagining of
Slavoj Zizek’s Perversion
of “Ode on a Grecian Urn”
Alexej Savreux
38 Joy of Life
Alexej Savreux

EDITORS | 5
Mind’s Eye is the student literary/arts magazine at Johnson
County Community College. Prizes are awarded in the
categories of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and artwork.
Thanks are due to poet Melissa Fite Johnson for her work as
this year’s guest judge for poetry and nonfiction.
The editors listed below wish to thank Larry Reynolds,
Dean, English and Journalism Division; Jim McWard, Chair,
English Division; Kelly Byfield, Administrative Assistant;
Gwen Fipse, Administrative Assistant; Greg Luthi, Professor
of English; Matthew Schmeer, Professor of English; Sam
Bell, Associate Professor of English; and the English
division for their continued support.
Thanks also Terri Kurtz, Administrative Dean of Student
Activities, for their continued support.
On behalf of Laura Gascogne, Professor of Fine Arts
(Ceramics) and Faculty Fine Art Liaison for Mind’s Eye a
special thank you to ALL the following folks who helped
coordinate and document this wonderful effort to showcase
our best student work in Fine Arts, Photo and Film (in no
particular order):
Mark Cowardin, Chair of Fine Arts, Photo and Film
Misha Kligman, Associate Professor, Painting and Drawing;
Tonia Hughes, Professor, Photography and Film
Sydney Pener, Adjunct Professor, Metals
Tom Reynolds
Professor of English, Faculty Sponsor
Laura Harris-Gascogne
Professor of Fine Arts, Faculty Artwork Editor
and Coordinator
Misha Kligman
Assistant Professor of Fine Arts, Faculty
Documentation/Photography of Artwork
Alexej Savreux
Student Editor
Emily Allphin
Creative and Content Design Intern
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EDITORS
Jacob Burmood, Adjunct Professor, Sculpture
Angelica Sandoval, Adjunct Professor, Sculpture
Bridget Stewart, Adjunct Faculty, 2-D
Julia Monte, Lab Aide, Sculpture
Samuel Davis, Lab Technician and Adjunct
Professor, Ceramics
Mary Wessel, Adjunct Professor, Photography
Diane Jarvi, Adjunct Professor, Photography
John Carroll, Adjunct Professor, Painting and Drawing
Craig Sands, Adjunct Professor, Photography
Julia Larberg, Lab Aide, Photography
Leila Enevoldsen, Keeper of the FADS Building All faculty
in FADS are deeply appreciated for their coordinated efforts
and encouraging students to contribute amazing work to
Mind’s Eye Magazine.
Thanks to all of the JCCC students who submitted work
for consideration.
Finally, we would like to thank the staff of Marketing and
Communications for their work on this issue of Mind’s Eye.

6 | MIND’S EYE 2020 CONTRIBUTORS | 7
CONTRIBUTORS
Rae Adams-Hollis
Adrian Arnold: “The poem “Indecisiveness” came into
existence while trying to come up with a poem for creative
writing class. “I often struggle with making quick decisions
and take much effort and thought before I can decide on
anything. While in class, we learned the poem style of
a pantoum, I was captivated by this style and wanted to
create a poem in this form. Luckily for me, the concept of
the poem fits well with the structure of the pantoum style.”
Robyn Attaway: “I have been in a creative design role
throughout my entire professional career. After retirement,
I decided to challenge myself by going back to school and
become immersed in an entirely new medium. I enjoy the
creative, technical and strategic thinking required
in Silversmithing.”
Daniel Baxley: “My art is inspired by the natural world and
abstraction. I work from a deep space within and oftentimes
when I just allow my inner artist to flow freely without
judgment or expectation, some of my best work emerges.”
Corey Davis acquired his associate’s degree at JCCC and
is now earning the last few credits at JCCC that he needs
to earn a bachelor’s degree in international business from
MidAmerica Nazarene University.
Emily Garcia is a resident of Prairie Village, who began
writing in junior high. She aspires to own and manage
event spaces.
Asher Gulley is a first year student at Johnson County
Community College.
Simone Griggs
Mia Ham is a widowed mother of three amazing children.
After her husband passed away of colon cancer in 2018,
the stay-at-home mom decided to return to college and
finish her Associates degree at JCCC. An aspiring nonfiction
essayist, this is the first publication of her work.
Larry Hodes: “I am inspired by the color field work of
Mark Rothko and Casper Brindle. I am a retired dentist who
has been taking digital photography at JCCC for the past
seven years. This endeavor has been very rewarding and
productive. It has afforded me both a creative outlet and a
chance to meet many new interesting people. This semester
I took an introductory Ceramics class which has been
wonderful. I find this new medium is both challenging
and captivating and I look forward to pursuing this
art form further.”
Samantha Hughes: “’Angry, Black Butterflies’ is about
the way anxiety has shaped my life. It shows just how
damaging anxiety can be to a person.”
Kirsten Joplin: “My poem is about the Saturday mornings
I used to spend with my boyfriend, Cameron. It was my
favorite day of the week and the best part of the morning.
Diamond Lambert: “I am an avid fan of ancient cultures
and metaphysical history. My background is in media and
advertising. Ceramics became a natural next step when
exploring creative media.”
Olivia Landreth is a high school junior studying at
Johnson County Community College. After she graduates
high school, Olivia wants to major in psychology and
become a children’s counselor. Olivia loves listening
to music, coaching gymnastics, spending time with her
friends, and of course, writing.
Dani Lindbloom: “I love to be doing things with my
hands…so being able to communicate through art has
always been therapy for me.”
David Nelson
Ben Oberman was born in Kansas City. “I have always
enjoyed the endless variability of the seasonal weather. It
is often that in my time spent experiencing nature I find
wisdom. I always strive to not only find, but create more in
every aspect of my life.”
Sam Riddle is a junior in high school dual-enrolling in four
classes with JCCC. He enjoys playing the guitar and pushing
his intellectual abilities to the limit. His essay is a memory
of a trip he took with his dad to Washington D.C. He tells the
story from his perspective as a 12-year-old and hopes to give
readers an insight into father-son experiences, but more
importantly to inspire people with patriotism and a sense of
duty to their country.
Iris Patricia Roney: “Working in clay gives me the freedom
to create and bring art into a 3-D form.”
Itzach Rose says his story “A Date with Death” is about
a surgeon named Allen who goes on a murder spree to be
with his beloved death.
Alexej Savreux is a mixed media artist and current studio
resident at Unlucky Rabbit Art Studio in Kansas City,
Missouri. He was voted one of Kansas City’s five favorite
artists in 2019 in The Pitch’s Guide to the GalaK.C. He is also
author of the book of poems, “Graffiti on the Window”, and
“Eat Me and Other Short Poems” and his poetry has won
international awards.
Jonathan Scroggins: “My carpentry informs my art and
my art informs my carpentry.”
Alyssa Wathen is a 20 year old freshman student who
was born and raised in Kentucky. She works as a grocery
store manager and plan to study English as her time at
JCCC continues.

8 | MIND’S EYE 2020 INTRODUCTION | 9
INTRODUCTION
WELCOME TO THE 2020
ISSUE OF MIND’S EYE, JCCC’S
STUDENT LITERARY MAGAZINE.
We’re honored to publish the following works of our JCCC
students. These writers and artists have moved us with the
power and honesty of their words and images as well as
their insights into human experience.
We have published these works in order to share these
insights and to encourage their creators to pursue their art,
to invest the thousands of hours necessary to hone their
craft. For many, these are their first (and perhaps for some,
only) artistic attempts. For some, this is the start of a long,
winding, often difficult, but just as often glorious, journey
to become artists and writers. We praise them all.
Enjoy!

10 | MIND’S EYE 2020
GUEST
SPOTLIGHT
a conversation with Melissa Fite Johnson, Guest Poetry
and Nonfiction Judge for Mind’s Eye 2020

12 | MIND’S EYE 2020 GUEST SPOTLIGHT | 13
MELISSA FITE JOHNSON,
GUEST POETRY AND NONFICTION
JUDGE FOR MIND’S EYE 2020
melissa fite johnson’s first collection, while the
kettle’s on (little balkans press, 2015), won the nelson
poetry book award and is a kansas notable book. she
is also the author of a crooked door cut into the
sky, winner of the 2017 vella chapbook award (paper
nautilus press, 2018). her poems have appeared or are
forthcoming in pleiades, valparaiso poetry review,
sidereal, whale road review, broadsided press,
stirring, and elsewhere. melissa teaches high school
english in lawrence, ks, where she and her husband
live with their three dogs.
melissafitejohnson.com
Describe your start as a writer. When did you
first take yourself seriously as a writer? What
has been your greatest inspirations during the
years you have been writing?
Really, my start was when I was five, sitting in my father’s
lap and narrating stories about kittens’ birthday parties
while he typed. It’s hard to say when I first took myself
seriously because in some ways I took myself more seriously
as a child, reading my stories during show-and-tell whether
my fifth-grade classmates wanted me to or not. I’m happy
with what I’ve accomplished; it’s more than I ever thought I
would. But publishing is humbling, and admiring so many
other writers is humbling.
If I define my greatest inspirations as who I write about
most, then it’s my husband and my father. They never met,
as my father died when I was sixteen, but they would have
gotten along famously.
Describe your writing process, perhaps
focusing on the creation of a specific work. Has
your writing process evolved over the years,
and if so, in what ways?
When my full-length poetry collection (While the Kettle’s
On, Little Balkans Press) came out in 2014, people asked
what made me decide to write a book. I answered that I
didn’t; I decided to write a poem and then another and
eventually hundreds, which I pared down to a collection of
fifty. My first book contains poems I wrote from 2002-2012.
Ten years of work, and only fifty made the cut—and now,
years later, I’m incredibly critical of those poems.
It’s hard to say what my writing process is, because it
honestly feels like a miracle every time I write a poem.
Everything has to come together—I have to make time for
my own writing, which can feel selfish because there are
essays to grade, lesson plans to make, dishes to wash,
friends to see, family to love. And making the time doesn’t
guarantee that I’ll have a good idea or the right words to
express it. I will say that when it all does come together,
nothing makes me feel more at home in my own body.
What advice might you have for beginning
writers--perhaps in general and then especially
for those interested in writing in your specific
genre/genres?
My advice is to study the craft—read widely, write often,
listen to feedback, listen to yourself. It’s important to strike
a balance of believing in yourself and completely checking
your ego at the door.
Tell us about your current writing project(s).
I’m currently submitting my second full-length manuscript
to contests and open readings. It’s daunting because there’s
so much competition, but my chapbook (A Crooked Door
Cut into the Sky, Paper Nautilus Press) was published as a
winner of the Vella Chapbook Prize in 2018. This reminds
me that it can happen. It can feel impossible, but it’s
actually possible.
And I’m actually writing a musical with a professor friend
at Pittsburg State University, but that’s so brand-new to us
both that there’s not much to say other than we’re doing it!

14 | MIND’S EYE 2020 GUEST SPOTLIGHT | 15
The Woman and the Wolf
by Melissa Fite Johnson | Artist’s Choice
From My Parked Car, I Stare at the Snow
by Melissa Fite Johnson
He strangled me in his doorway.
Later he called the word “strangle”
dramatic. You could breathe fine.
Hand over my mouth, he shushed
into my ear. Later he said,
You can’t rape your girlfriend.
The next morning I cried at Easter service,
quietly so my mother couldn’t hear.
Another bowed chin in a pew.
I thought the wolf was a wounded bird
dreaming of flight. From a distance,
they’re not so different, his head
a wing puncturing the sky.
At night I lay awake while he slept.
I was nothing but pink flesh.
—Ekphrastic Challenge, April 2017
When I was five, I ran away. August.
I packed nothing but wore my winter coat.
I’d be gone long enough to need it.
I imagined myself in a snow storm,
my mother biting her lip in worry at home
while I found an uninhabited log cabin.
The gun rack by the front door
would teach me to hunt; the fishing pole
in the mudroom would teach me to fish.
My mother found me still in the backyard,
seized my shoulders and shook.
I startled at her wet eyes and cheeks.
Tonight, watching flakes design patterns
on glass, I’m the mittened figure inside
a snow globe. How to describe the sound:
No running engine. No radio. Ice soft
on the windshield, a small spoon
scratching against my mother’s sugar bowl
—Sidereal Magazine

Triple Self-Portrait
by Melissa Fite Johnson
After Norman Rockwell’s Triple Self-Portrait
The painter makes himself younger
than the mirror’s 20-20 vision: full head of hair,
pipe firm between lips instead of drooped
like the corners of his mouth. One eyebrow arches,
wrinkling his painted forehead, his only creases.
What would any woman’s triple self-
portrait reveal? I hope she, too, sees the best of
herself—hair swept from her face,
the start of a playful smile, Breakfast at Tiffany’s
sunglasses and pearls. I might paint that now.
Ten years ago, I sketched the funhouse mirror—
non-pregnant belly swollen to seven
months, hips cracked open and pushed farther apart.
I gave myself a breast reduction, took back
what men first notice. I stared my reflection down,
eyes narrowed, but I looked away first.
—The Woman Inc.
GUEST SPOTLIGHT | 17

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It’s that
time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really
think, making the private world public, that’s what
the poet does.
— Allen Ginsberg
POETRY

POETRY | 21
Mind’s Eye 2020 Poetry
FIRST PLACE
I Miss You
by Alyssa Wathen
This low- lit summer sky tastes
Like a yearning raspberry lemonade
Like bittersweet kisses on eyelids still pending
Like moments stolen before shifts
Slipping out the screen door before he wakes
Before the lazy sun blinks away daydream
Every warm, shimmering sunbeam reminds me of
The time I grew wings in your passenger seat
That season of sweltering freedom
You’re a.c. broke, so, windows down,
We took flight to find relief from the heat
This heat feels like your hand in mine
Like sticky, sweaty, sleepless nights
When I gaze at you for the heartbeat
Of time that you’re still next to me
Wathen’s language surprises and delights—“The time I grew wings in your
passenger seat,” “Before the lazy sun blinks away day dream.” These aching,
hazy memories juxtaposed with moments in ordinary life (promotions, shifts
at work) make for an intense, emotionally honest poem. I love it.
-Melissa Fite Johnson, Guest Poetry/Nonfiction Judge
Time moves rapidly in the summer and so do I
I dive into a promotion to distract myself from
The ocean of longing soaking our bed sheets
My pillowcase drenched in saltwater
Our conversations lost at sea
Our room became a murky pool of disconnect
“Please talk to me,” anchored to my teeth
I keep trying to teach him how to swim
He doesn’t realize, in the process,
I’m drowning

POETRY | 23
SECOND PLACE
Red Pen
by Asher Gulley
My heart was still beating
when I pulled it from my chest.
I felt the warmth of its life pulsing freely in my hand.
Naively, I put it on your desk
hoping you’d look at it fondly,
then return it in one piece.
Instead you took out your red pen
and stabbed it until there was nothing left.
What I got back
was cold and lifeless,
a hard shell of a heart
that pulsed in uniform
with everyone else’s.
The more I read Gulley’s poem, the more I like it. I’m so used to being in
workshop classes and groups, receiving critiques, I can forget what a
painful and vulnerable process that can be for beginning writers. It’s a
good reminder for me to be gentle with my students’ hearts. The ending
here is especially good.

POETRY | 25
THIRD PLACE
Spaceflight
By Adrian Arnold
The difference between life and death
Could be the placement of a decimal.
Such complex mathematical equations,
Too difficult for the average mind.
Relying on the intelligence of others
To guide me through the empty void
That surrounds me on all sides.
This ship has no windows
For there is nothing to see,
Only a destination where the
Journey is long and lonely.
There is only so much to enjoy
Before the pleasures become routine
And the joy is gone. When food
All tastes the same, eating becomes
Arnold’s extended metaphor really works. The ending doesn’t feel like a
“gotcha!” punchline, like a riddle explained—it’s the most natural and fitting
conclusion possible.
Another chore in life.
They say idle hands are the
Devil’s playground, but I think they
Were close; not hands, but minds
Is where the madness resides.
I was told that the venture is worth
The struggle, promises of a world
Unlike the planet I left. A utopian world,
Full of life and far from the world of strife
I left behind. This long trip, submerged
In the stars, feels filled with negative thoughts.
It helps to talk with others on this voyage,
It’s reassuring to know that I am being supported,
But this spaceship only seats one, only supports
One, and depression is a long, lonely odyssey.

POETRY | 27
HONORABLE MENTION
Our Saturday Morning
by Kirsten Joplin
Oh, I love the soft details in this one, especially “Your breath getting
trapped in my hair. / Your fingers tracing my back.” Joplin’s poem is a quiet
meditation on how peaceful and right love can be.
The perfect day that only comes once a week.
The morning with only you and me.
The family at work,
the cat’s asleep.
It’s just us, alone in my room.
The perfect hour that drifts by too soon.
My head against your chest.
Your heart beating to the rhythm of my voice.
My eyes focused on your white shirt.
The one you always wear.
The perfect feeling.
Your breath getting trapped in my hair.
Your fingers tracing my back
creating random shapes that have no meaning.
Yet, they mean everything to me.
Because this morning only comes once a week.
Where it’s you and me.
The family is gone.
The cat’s asleep.
It’s just us, alone in my room.

POETRY | 29
Late August
by Simone Griggs
Thunderous snoring
fan-fueled winds
rain drop drool
dripping gently to your pillow
and your twitching tree limbs
The Kansas girl in your bed
knows too well
of late prairie summers
and doesn’t lift her sleepy head
all throughout
your stormy slumber
HONORABLE MENTION
Griggs’ poem is clever without trying too hard. The language is lean, no
wasted words, and it manages to be funny and beautiful all at once.

30 | MIND’S EYE 2020 POETRY | 31
WORKS PUBLISHED

Nostalgia ‘08
by David Nelson
Every time that
I think of you I
Tend to have
Memories of us
Of what was
Nostalgia hits you
Like straight whiskey
And nothings there to
hold you back from tears
Oh dear
And every time I
Try to forget I
Can’t seem to put my memories away
And so I think about the
Good old days
Where we go to the fields and lay
And chill for hours
Just you and me
As we stare at the clouds
But that’s just history
And every other week
I try to wash the pain away
But I can’t take off my clothes
I can’t afford new ones
So my clothes are full of holes and rips
You can’t hide your stains forever
And you can’t hide your sins
It won’t make things better
You’d be better off exposed
Naked with yourself
Cause you can’t hide your stains forever
My friends asked me if I was alright
That’s weird cause they ain’t friends in my mind
You can hide sadness
but you can’t hide brokenness
Take a look at the homeless
And we all got flaws
But some of us are more vulnerable than others
Some of us would rather have our shit be covered
Sugarcoated than force feed it
To those around us
And then they go around and gag
Say they are sick of our shit
And then they walk around and leave
So we, I mean I
Get isolated
And I get alone
And I get alone
Just save me a spot
In the back of your brain
And remember the times
When we used to play
And now there memories
I see the clouds and I think of you
And all the things we used to do
But you’re leaving here for a better place
And I so I’ll see you again
So just you wait
Just save me a spot
In the back of your brain
And remember the times
When we used to play
Basket full of dirty laundry
Rewash but the stains won’t go away
Bleach and dirt stains
Show the sign of past mistakes
New ones show up
Just like every other day

Some people use their poems as wingmen
But my metaphors are too busy
Taking care of their kids
To go out.
Sometimes it’s hard
When you’re all by yourself.
Can one long metaphor
Keep a poem together?
Can it work all day
And still leave room
To take care of the
Little metaphors?
Can it make a poem
That’s full of love and compassion?
A place for baby metaphors to learn and grow
Without feeling like they have to change what they are,
Because they know
That no matter what they become,
They will always have their mama
And a poem to come home to.
Indecisiveness
by Adrian Arnold
I never know what to do.
Standing in a crossroad
Examining all of my options,
Scratching my head in confusion.
Standing in a crossroad;
Two different paths to choose,
Scratching my head in confusion.
Do I take the road less taken?
Two different paths to choose.
Less adventure on the known path,
Do I take the road less taken?
Or do I follow my gut?
Happy Poem
by Asher Gulley
Less adventure on the known path,
I should just take the safer option
Or do I follow my gut?
I can’t stand here forever.
I should just take the safer option
I never know what to do,
I can’t stand here forever
Examining all of my options.

Beware the Wicked Witch
by Simone Griggs
Beware the Wicked Witch,
a cackling, devilish woman,
with skin unlike another,
and words that lead men to their ruin.
Hair unruly,
dark as night and eyes like scabbing blood.
Long hands and longer fingers,
to scrape along the mud.
She’s been around for years,
they say playing with fire when she can.
Suffrage sashes, shorter skirts,
and other evil plans.
The Puritans couldn’t drown her,
or burn her at the stake.
And now she’ll make them sorry
for their very grave mistake.
She hobbles ‘cross the land,
seeking her revenge.
She stirs the pot, and boils it.
Better listen to that wench.
Beware the Wicked Witch,
for she is just like me,
She’s just like everyone of us,
who wants to be the change we see.
Can You?
by Ben Oberman
Can you really waste time, if you have no time to waste?
Can you really waste time, if you never had time to waste?
Can you really waste time, if your time is not for you to waste?
Can you really waste time, if you set your own deadlines?
Can you really waste time, if you only rest in your mind?
Can you really waste time, if you are just a slave to the grind?
Can you really waste time, when you have no direction?
Can you really waste time, without self-reflection?
Can you really waste time, now that others call for your attention?
Can you speak from the self,
For the greater good,
Doubting if the good is ever present?

Your Day is Not Done
by Ben Oberman
The old speak to new.
What will you be? What will you do?
Laying the seeds for internal strife,
Simple curiosity, casting doubt on life,
The setup is not clear.
A seedling with wonder? Or with fear?
Courageous encouragement is how we steer,
Choosing to say what they should hear.
As we let the vegetation grow,
Only the plants will know.
The time of pollination has begun!
Exploration of what is fun,
A trial of survival is at hand.
Will o’ the wisp will rise within the land
From ourselves, rooted where we stand.
As the flora walks it understands.
The seasons have passed,
Their thoughts amassed.
Did they find a way?
Did they know the things they wished to say?
Now at the end we just sense dread.
Picking petals of the mind, they’re dead.
If only you had finished while ahead,
You wouldn’t be buried by thoughts never said.
Postmodern Urban Romanticism: A Re-Imagining of Slavoj Zizek’s
Perversion of “Ode on a Grecian Urn”
By Alexej Savreux
There is everything, basically
I mean it quite literally
But then how do things emerge?
Here I feel a kind of spontaneous affinity
With a Mozart concerto!
Where you know, the idea that there is . . .
That the universe plays beautiful music
Not a void, just a positively charged musical phrase
And then particular things happen when the balance of
silence is augmented or re-written
And I like this idea spontaneously very much
That the fact that there is not just nothing;
That something exists and is out there
It means something and everything went just right!
What we call creation isn’t a kind of cosmic imbalance
It’s a kind of cosmic joy;
That things exist because they can
And I’m even ready to go to the end
And to claim that the only way to reclaim joy is to assume
the symphony and the music
And we have a name for this! It’s called: Love!
Isn’t love this kind of cosmic joy?
I was always awe-struck by this notion of “I love the world”
…” universal love”
I love the world
I’m basically somewhere in between “I love the world” and
“the world is a fucking work of art”
But the whole of reality is just it’s wonderful! It’s out there!
I adore it!
Now, love for me is an extremely peaceful act
Love is not, I pick out something and it’s again not this
structure of imbalance,
Even if this something is a fragile, individual person
And again, it’s this structure of cosmic joy; of reciprocity
I say, “I love you more than anything else”
In this quite formal sense, love is wonderful

Joy of Life
by Alexej Savreux
1.
There are many varieties of experience, those
which lack absence and those with many subtle
distinctions between negation, negation of
experience, experience itself, both active and
passive, the unity of the given, the unity of
construed, the deconstruction of the constructed
and the misconstrued of the construed;
the construction of one place of what is given
can be both positive or negative; the distinction
between the absence and the presence or
absence of presence and the experience of every
relationship as an absence is the presence or the
division of loneliness and of a perpetual solitude;
. . . between a provisional hope or hopelessness
and a permanent despair; the part I feel I play in
generating this state of affairs determines what
I can or may do or can or may or may not do
something about it
2.
Intimations of non-being in the Breast otherwise
Mother is absent; nothing negates the origins or
the absence of someone or something; no friends,
no relationships, no pleasure, emotionless, no
meaning in life, no ideas, no mirth, no money ---
as applied to the various pieces of my body like
da Vinci:
No breast, no penis, no good, no bad content,
no emptiness, Freudian; the list is in principle,
quite endless; take anything and imagine
the very absence of anything; the absence of
everything; but both being and non-being is the
central theme of all; East and West; Words aren’t
harmless, and I don’t doubt the egg of the East
its glory; words are not harmless and innocent:
verbal; Arabesque; except a rather endless tide
and strides to take forth in anything into the
imagination between relationships and the
experience of elemental negation
3.
The creative breath comes from a zone; where
the poet or the artist were and cannot descend
not even if Virgil were to lead him into that very
inferno; this zone this nowhere zone of non-
being and bogus politics and mind-wash cash,
the silence of silences, is the ultimate source we
forget that we are there all the time as pictures
or glyphs in a poem; as writings on a piece of
cardboard, or sounds in a movement, rhythm in
space, or the various hard-pressed attempts to
recapture personal meaning and personal space
out of a depersonalized and dehumanized world
4.
These are the bridges into the territories of
the damned and the forgotten; their acts are
insurrections, the source of which is the silence
of the center of each of us; wherever and
whenever such a whirl of patterned sounds
thru spaces are established in my external
psychological reality; the power that it
contains generates news lines and force thru
stanzas whose effects are felt and echo down
the centuries
As activity has to be understood in terms of the
experience in which it emerges from here and
beyond here and here beyond all questions
except those of being and non-being; of
incarnation; of birth, of life, and of death;
hold fast to dreams – to hope -- in dreams there is
hope – in hope there is joy – and in joy,
there is life!

FICTION
Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.
— Albert Camus

FICTION | 45
Mind’s Eye 2020 Fiction
FIRST PLACE
Distractions
by Asher Gulley
would say that. She’s obviously Asian, but apart from that I
honestly can’t tell. “No. I don’t know,” I say.
“Just guess.”
I wonder if she really expects me to guess her ethnicity?
Maybe it’s a trap. To me it sounds racist to guess, and I’m
not racist so I say, “No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t assume where someone is from based on how
they look.”
“Why not?”
“Because assumptions are bad,” I say. “Dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Yeah, do know how much shit assumptions have caused?”
“I don’t think it’s so bad.”
“World War II.” I think for a second. “World War I--”
She cuts me off. “How were they caused by assumptions?”
“Well World War II was based on the eradication of the
Jews,” I say, “who were rounded up because of
the assumption--”
She cuts me off again. “There was more to World War II than
that,” she says.
This is getting annoying. Although it’s better than what I
was doing so I finish off my drink and continue to engage.
“Like what?” I ask.
“I like my beer like I like my women,” I say loud enough for
the entire airport bar to hear me, and after a dramatic pause
I say, “dark and German.” I start laughing at my own stupid
joke. I’ve only had one drink, though I’ve found pretending
to be drunk will sometimes get me there faster. And God
knows I need to be there.
When my laughing settles down, I realize that the woman
next to me is staring so I ask, “What?”
“Did you say something to me?” she asks. She stares at me
as if she wants something. I can’t tell if she’d like to talk to
me or if she’s mad, or what.
“Yeah,” I say, “I said what.” I completely lose the drunken
act I was doing. “You were staring at me.”
“No, I mean before that,” she says. “I was staring at you
because I thought you said something.”
“Oh that,” I say realizing she heard my joke. I don’t think
she would be too happy if I told it to her, so I say, “That was
nothing. It was a stupid joke.”
“Was it a good joke?” she asks. I wonder why she cares so
much about my joke.
“No, don’t worry about it,” I say. I decide to change the
subject. “Where are you from?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks.
It isn’t obvious. At least not to me. I don’t know why she

46 | MIND’S EYE 2020 FICTION | 47
“Do you have a lot of history classes in China?”
“We learn about everything except China.”
“What do you mean?” I ask happy that she suddenly
decided to answer questions.
“We don’t learn about real Chinese history,” she says, “like
do you know about the massacre at Tiananmen square?”
“Of course.”
“Because we don’t learn about it in our schools. You have to
be careful talking about it on the streets. We could go to jail,
or even be killed.”
“Shit,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Is that why you left?” I ask.
“What?”
“Is that why you left China?”
“Oh.” She thinks for a second. “Yeah, I guess that’s part of
it.” We sit for a few seconds. I empty another bottle. A new
one arrives on cue.
“You drink too much,” she says.
“I don’t drink enough,” I say and finish off the new bottle
without removing it from my lips.
When I slam it down, she asks an unexpected question.
“Why are you so sad?”
Where did that come from? I thought we were about to have
a normal conversation, but now she’s back to being weird
and annoying. “How do you know I’m sad? Maybe I’m just
thirsty,” I respond.
“Thirsty people drink water. Sad people drink beer.”
“I thought we talked about generalizations,” I say in
reference to our previous conversation.
“No, we talked about assumptions.”
“Same thing.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Why the hell would I?” I say a little louder than I mean to.
“I just met you, and in the short time that I’ve known you
you’ve been nothing but a bother. A splinter in my foot.
What the fuck do I need to tell you anything?” She looks
surprised. I kind of like that.
“I’ve never been talked to that way.”
“Welcome to the real world.”
She stands up in a huff. “You are sad!” she says angrily.
“My girlfriend left me!” I yell. leaning over the bar laughing.
“That’s no reason for you to be rude.”
I smile at her and say, “It’s no reason not to.”
“I see why she left you,” she says as she leaves the bar. I sit
thinking again about what I tried desperately to forget.
“She left me” I say to myself. “Why did she leave me?” I
think for a second, then I decide to call her to ask.
My ex-girlfriend’s name is Sarah. She’s the most beautiful
person I’ve ever seen. I told her so. We were a great couple.
Sarah was sweet, and kind, and the most patient person in
the world. Patience: it’s important. It really is. That’s why
I thought she would be the one. She’s the only one who’s
ever been able to keep up with me, as I try to travel myself
to death. I travel for a living. I go around helping schools in
impoverished countries stay on their feet. That means that I
have to be away for extended periods of time. I love my job,
and I love my Sarah, but in the end I had to choose. I think
I made the wrong choice; I don’t know. I made my choice,
Sarah made hers.I sit there, listening to the phone ring
almost to full, then
“Hello.” I hear a beautiful voice. One I have longed to hear
ever since it said goodbye. A voice full of love. It’s a voice
that carries a bit of longing and a bit of pity. A sobering
voice. When you listen in your head you can pretend what
it would be like to hear that voice, that precious voice, but
it’s different. There something unexplainable about hearing
the real thing. It’s a sobering voice. I suddenly realize that I
just called Sarah drunk. I start shaking. I wait a few seconds
then hang up the phone. I try to pick up my beer, but my
hand is still shaking.
Suddenly, to my great surprise, my phone starts ringing. It’s
Sarah. I stare at it, hands still shaking. Why had she called
back? I answered it, but don’t know what to say. There it
“The Jews were just the scapegoats,” she says. “Hitler was
angry about World War I, so he used them to encourage the
German people--”
I cut her off this time. “They couldn’t have been used as
scapegoats if it weren’t for the assumptions the German
people had of them.”
“Yes, but the assumptions weren’t a cause.”
“But they were a means,”
“I’m just saying that you guessing where I’m from is not
going to start World War III”.
I finished off a third beer, then order another one. “I guess
that’s true,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean I have to do it”.
After a long pause, I ask again, “Where are you from?”
She finally gives in saying, “China.”
“China huh?”
“Yes. China,” she says.
“Why was that obvious?”
“Because I look Chinese,” she says.
I laugh. “Really?”
She gets defensive. “Yes, I look Chinese. Can’t you tell?”
“Obviously not,” I say, then get another beer. “So, you’re
from China?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”

to stay drunk.”
“I don’t know why I answered this phone.”
“Because you love me,” I say, “And also because,” I start
singing, “Mercury’s in retrogr-”
“David!”
I stop singing. I feel bad so I say, “I’m drunk, I’m sorry.”
“Why did you call me?” she asks. She sounds annoyed and
concerned at the same time.
“Because I love you,” I say, “it’s the honest truth.”
“I know,” she says, “but we’re not together anymore.”
“I know.”
“We’ve not spoken since.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“I’m sorry. About how it ended.
“Me too.”
“But David,”
“Yes”
“I do love you.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“You do?”
“Yes”
“Then why’d you--”
“You broke my heart!” She yelled interrupting me.
“Breaking up with you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,
but it needed to be done.”
“I was a shitty boyfriend.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No! I did. Fuck, I’m sorry! I can’t get you off my mind. I love
you so much. But I screwed it up. I don’t want you back, but
I don’t want you to hate me either.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Yes, you do!”
“No, I don’t”
“You don’t?”
“No. I love you. And I miss you. But you don’t love me as
much as you love traveling, and that’s okay. I don’t hate
you for it.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Quit saying that”
“I’m sorry”
“David”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes”
“No, I mean it. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
We stay on the line for several minutes. Neither of us want
to hang up, but neither of us have anything more to say.
Finally, she hangs up. It’s just as she had done with our
relationship—hung up long after we both knew it was over.
I didn’t lie to her when I said I’m okay. I am okay. I am. I’m
okay, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy. I grab my beer and
begin drinking this time slower, with more purpose—not as
a distraction, but as the next thing.
goes again: that voice.
“Hello?” it says, “David, is that you?”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“What?”
“I’m drunk, I’m sorry.”
She is gentle and patient as ever. She says, “It’s okay. Are
you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” I say not know what else to say to her.
“What’s up?”
“Not much, what’s up with you?” I say almost as a joke.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, what did you mean?”
“I just meant” She pauses. “Never mind.” There is another
pause then she asks, “Where are you?”
I look around the bar. The cloudy haze of exhaustion
coupled with the haze of intoxication makes my
surroundings indiscernible. I look at my beer and think
of a song, so I say, “SoHo” then start laughing.
“What?” she asks, confused. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m sitting in SoHo trying to stay drunk.” I start
laughing harder.
“I don’t understand.”
“Block Party!” I yell, “I’m sitting in SoHo trying

FICTION | 51
RUNNER-UP
The Green Gardener
by Corey Davis
strip of paint from top to bottom before it had dried. Oil
paints can take up to a week to dry. It seemed like the
artist was overwhelmed and tried to ruin their painting in
one frustrated stroke of the knife. It was ruined, but it was
nothing that couldn’t be fixed.
I could fix this, I thought. I could refinish this painting.
I checked the corners for a signature. Nothing. I could
even sell it if I wanted to. Nobody would recognize it. The
painting was selling for cheap since it was left unfinished
by an unknown artist. If I was going to try and sell this piece
as my own I would need to be able to repair the painting
flawlessly. I needed the money from this piece as soon as
I could possibly get it. I was tempted to simply sign the
painting and sell it as was, I’ve done it before, but no one
would believe someone with my portfolio was selling an
unfinished painting, especially in the fine art community.
They would think I was trying to make a statement, but
statements are for modern artists. That is probably why
this unfinished masterpiece was with this mess of soiled
canvases in the first place. Some idiot thought that the
painter of this brilliant work was being clever by scraping
away this perfection, but I know better.
I needed to repair the painting. I needed to match the
painter’s style perfectly. I needed to make sure that my
paints were the exact pigment used already. I was surprised
to find tubes of paint left by the original artist stashed
behind the canvas after my purchase was final. I had no
idea why a painter would keep tubes of paint attached to
1.
I woke up to find an invitation at my door to an art show
downtown. I didn’t see much there that interested me. It
was mostly modern art. Seemingly random shapes and
lines thrown onto canvases with acrylic paints. Maybe I just
don’t understand it. I prefer works of art that take time and
effort to make. I like creativity, but I want to be impressed
by the artist’s skill, and I eventually was. Toward the end
of my visit, I found a single painting that fascinated my
artistic preferences. The frame was roughly two feet tall
and three feet wide. The scene was of a garden. Each bit of
oil paint was meticulously placed into a scene so realistic
that if the frame touched the ground, I’m sure that I could
walk through the wall into the garden itself. It was vibrantly
green with highlights of blue, gold and scarlet flowers.
This city needed a garden like this. I needed a garden like
this. The painting was brilliant, but there was something
that fascinated me more than its brilliance. The painting
was unfinished.
I had seen unfinished paintings at shows before. Usually,
they have just a base layer of paint and some exposed
canvas with basic pencil illustrations that were meant to
be painted over. I have never seen one this detailed before.
This painting looked like it was essentially finished, except
that a thick painter’s knife had scraped away a massive

I painted the gardener as closely to the hidden illustration
as I could. A man with pale white skin, a giant hat to protect
it and a strangely concerned look in his eyes. He was just
standing there. Looking at me. Why? It didn’t matter. There
was an auction in a week and I had connections to get a
last-minute painting in the queue of pieces to be sold. That
was going to be about the right amount of time for it to dry.
Of course oil paints take centuries to dry, but after a week it
would be dry enough to sell.
3.
I was excited to see how it was drying the day after I
finished. With eyes crusty, I walked over to the painting,
now hanging on the wall. Beautiful. I was usually my own
worst critic, but not then. It was beautiful. The leaves and
petals matched perfectly. I used the right brushes, and my
technique was flawless. The drying was going very well.
Almost nothing was drooping or sagging. Almost nothing.
The gardener looked different. Weird. It looked like he was
leaning on his shovel more than he was. It’s a good thing
he has something to prop himself up with. The lighting
in my studio made his skin look a shade greener than I
remember. It was nothing that needed to be fixed. He wasn’t
exactly how the original was but at least he still looked
proportional. Changing it then might mean having to
wait to sell it. The paint might not be able to dry in just the
four days before the auction and I need the money now.
That night was exhausting. Maybe it was the stress
of deciding not to fix the paint that moved. Maybe it was
my financial anxiety.
4.
The next day, I was less hasty to see if the gardener was
doing alright. The paint wasn’t dry yet, but wet paint
wouldn’t go anywhere today that it didn’t go yesterday. I
struggled to get out of bed and grabbed my first mug of
coffee. Then I stood and admired my painting.
That’s not right. The gardener was leaning even more on his
shovel and he had dropped his pail. Paint had moved. No,
paint doesn’t just move like that. There were colors there
that I didn’t paint. There were new details and shading.
His skin. It wasn’t just yesterday’s lighting, His skin was
green. His skin is green. Something else was wrong. The
day before, the gardener looked concerned. No longer. He
looked panicked now. Eyes wide open, and sweat beading
on his face. I didn’t know how the paint was moving.
Nothing else was changed, just the gardener. I definitely
couldn’t fix the painting now. Not enough time. I’ll just
come up with a story as to why he looks like that and leave
it be. It might even create more buzz at the auction.
Miserable doesn’t even describe my condition that evening.
I felt absent like my mind was somewhere else but my
consciousness was still here. I was a body without a mind. I
was only able to concentrate on one thing at a time and not
for very long. Mental tunnel vision. My eyes, neck and lower
back were burning and my kidneys were the source of the
flame. A few pills and a glass of water made me feel better
the frame of a canvas they were painting, but I didn’t care.
It was too convenient. Having the artist’s paint would make
my work blend flawlessly with theirs.
I brought the painting back to my apartment and leaned it
against a wall in my studio. The artist took their time and
I wanted to do the same. It sat there against the wall for at
least a week. I didn’t forget about it. I studied it. I needed
to know the painter before I finished their work. Why did
they paint this painting? For me it’s money. Who were they
trying to impress? A buyer. Or was it just for the money?
Absolutely. More than anything, I needed to know what
was scraped from the painting. What was missing? After a
few days of studying the absence, I noticed a faint pencil
illustration of a man holding a pail and shovel about a third
of the painting from the top and under the green smear of
paint the knife left behind. A gardener.
2.
Once I saw that gardener I couldn’t spend any more time
studying what used to be there. I’m not sure if it was my
lack of patience or my excitement to get this painting
sold, but I needed to start painting as soon as I could. It
took me a few days to get the painting looking exactly
how I wanted it. Using the original artist’s paints was a
supernatural experience. The paint was perfect. In an effort
to differentiate my paint from the paint found in the frame
of the canvas, I put every tube of paint back where I found
it in the back of the canvas. This proved to be more helpful
than I thought it would be.
but put me to bed sooner than usual. I was alright with that.
5.
The pills had worn off sometime before the sun was up.
Sweat was everywhere. There was more sweat than sheets.
I tried to sit up, but the burning in my back and head made
that a real challenge. I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my
palm. Green. My hand was green. Just like the gardener.
Yesterday the gardener looked the way I feel now. My
mind was racing around a circular track with no turns out
of the loop. Why can’t I think right? I’m not myself.I was
losing more of myself to the gardener with every minute
that passed, And with every minute I cared less and less. I
finished the water left on my nightstand. Much better. My
mind was clearer. Yesterday the gardener looked the way
I feel now. How does he look now? With a frantic effort, I
placed my wet feet on the cold ground. I needed to see the
gardener. I need to see how I might feel tomorrow.
The gardener sat on his red soaked knees. One hand on
the ground, the other clutching his stomach. His skin was
still green. His head was bent up to lock his teary eyes with
mine. He is worse than before. Much worse. He is dying. I
didn’t know what to do. I had never heard of green skin.
Jaundice causes yellow skin. Low circulation can make skin
look blue. My skin didn’t look yellow or blue, and it couldn’t
be some combination of these two. It was sap green with
brown blotches. I was like a bruised green apple.
That night my condition was noticeably worsening. That

morning was rough, but I had been more sick than that.
That was no longer the case. I could barely move. I needed
help. If I start to vomit blood like the gardener, I’ll get help.
I drank a large glass of water with more pills before bed.
The pills made it easier to sleep and the water kept my
mind clear of the fog that banished thought. How is this
happening? Curse? Poison? I kept two glasses of water
next to my bed that night. Is the water fighting or feeding
my sickness?
6.
I woke up a few hours after lying down. I was wet like the
night before, but this was not sweat. It’s blood. A rush of
adrenaline launched me from bed. I tripped on the wet
sheets and my face collided with the corner of my dresser.
My lips were split near the right corner of my mouth. More
blood. I think that I hit my head too, but that pain was
there before so it was hard to tell. The realization that I was
fluttering in and out of consciousness brought new waves
of anxiety and adrenaline. I found myself at the baseboard
of the wall that held the painting. I must have crawled to
my studio. I stood up to see how the gardener was doing.
He was gone. I saw a garden with a sunhat, shovel and pail
on the ground. There was also a wet smear of blood leading
away from where he last knelt. Did he crawl or was he
dragged away? Am I dying? I couldn’t think straight.
I need water.
I stumbled to my nightstand and drank one of the glasses
of water in one long draft. This painting is killing me. This
painting is killing me! I was in a sick rage. My face was
bleeding. My knees were failing more and more with every
passing second. Unbelievable burning pain from my back
dominated my senses. My mind started to slip back into
its dead state. I can’t let this happen. Not to me. One more
passionate push carried me back to my studio. My last
memory was from the ground, on my back, painter’s knife
in hand with my masterpiece’s partially dried paint rolled
onto its edge. My mouth was full of blood from my lips
and stomach. I must be safe now, but I need more water. I
turned my head to see the green smear of paint that was cut
from the garden just like before I had ever seen it.
Sleep took me.
I hope I wake up. I need water. I hope I wake up.

WORKS PUBLISHED

A Date with Death
by Itzach Rose
The beating of a heart, the blood circling around the lungs,
kidneys and even the bladder that I have to replace. My
scalpel seems too dull to cut his kidney off, the nurse is
saying something incomprehensible. Then suddenly the
man’s heart-rate goes haywire when a light bulb falls onto
his heart. I told her to replace that damned thing. The
damage is minimal, but it’s enough that we need to start
giving him the defibrillator. My black-haired nurse ineptly
grabs the shocking equipment, but before it even touches
the killer’s body his heart-rate flat lines, and the man dies
at the hands of my own nurse. A fitting end for the man so
despicable that he hates his child, but I was nonetheless
frustrated with this outcome and about to slap my nurse
for her incompetence, but then there was this bright light
and suddenly ... An undead woman shined into the room.
She had a beautiful, elegant, regal cloak over her head
and body, it almost reached to her feet, which was saying
something since I estimated her to be about seven feet
tall. She bore a scythe bigger than her own body. Her face
was grotesquely stunning. She had one eye flopping out
of her skull and another red bloodshot eye that was still
in her head. It wasn’t just the eyes though; her chin was
nothing but bone and there was a large crack about the
width of a needle running from her chin all the way up to
her nose. Her hair was done up in a bun and was full of dirt
and grass. It looked she’d been rolling around in the dirt;
her cloak was open giving me a good look at her excellent
figure. Unfortunately she was wearing a black shirt and
jeans so I didn’t get a perfect view of her body. She had
only one breast and in the place where her breast should’ve
been was a clear look at her ribs. You could actually see her
heart. You could see a healthy amount of muscle going up
her leg; even her pants couldn’t hide that. She came for
the soul of the murder and ultimately, she left as soon
as she came”
“She sounds ugly.”
“Shut up mph mph mph”
“What’re you-”
“Anyways I asked my nurse, “Who... who was that?”
“Oh that, that was Death!”
“She, she was beautiful. How do I see more of her?” I said,
grabbing her. “Dude, what is wrong with you?” and she
slapped me. Can you believe that she slapped me, but
I’m glad she did. For she turned my head to an interview
between Johnny older and God. God was a stout old man
where God answering a rather strange question said,”Oh I
know all the afterworld people like Satan, Kharon-”
“Even death?”
“Yeah I know death. What of it?” It was at this point that
I knew I had to get in communion with that man, that
God! So I told my nurse, “How do I get an audience with
that man?” I pointed at the screen, and she responded by
saying, “Who’s Johnny Colder?”
“No,” I said, slapping her. “I’m referring to him!”
“God? Why?”
“Because if I wish to talk to her, I need to go through him.”
“Okay ...? His email is God@gmail.par.com”
“Yes, she will be mine, hahahaha!”
“You know, if you feel so entitled to a goddamn reaper’s
body, maybe you should just go masturbate.”
“You don’t understand. Surgery, fighting, even women
are sport for me. I don’t do this stuff because of some
Hippocratic oath. I do this to prove myself.”
“Mr. Halbert, the boss wants to see you!”
“Huh. Why?”
“I dunno. Just go see him!” I did as told and went to the
boss’s blue stone office. Before I could even sit down on the
red leather stool, Mr. Halbert yelled, “You’re fired!”
“Wait what why?” I asked, looking around. The room which
was ... poorly lit, but there was just enough light to see the
felt portly figure of Mr. Halbert. He had a beard sharp nose
and red eyes that made him look like a demon. He said,
“Oh don’t worry. It’s not by any fault of yourself, or your
character!” He blew a puff of smoke from his mustache into
my gaping mouth. “It’s just that we don’t have any money
to keep you on the books. Sorry, Smith.” I left the room
in a storm, turning away from his grotesquely fat figure.
I walked past the dull white Devil Judas general hospital
sign. The bright blue letters felt like they were laughing
at me, but before I got into my Ferrari I was stopped by ...
officer Mark Wallace.”
“Oh, he sounds annoying.”
“He is or rather was. Heck, even his portly figure with his
big beefy arms, backwards hat, and orange annoyed me to
no end. Mark cried to me, “Hey how ya doin, Allen, oh sorry
about this.” Mark had a ticket in hand. “But you know ya
can’t really park in a disabled spot.”
“Mark, I don’t want to talk to you!”
“Oh come on man. Have any go-”
“I was fired Mark!”
“Oh, that’s bad, but I’m sure you’ll find a good job.” Mark
crumpled up the ticket he was writing and threw it on the
ground behind him. “Anyways, I guess I have no more
business with you. See ya around.”
“Wait, why did you come here?”
“Oh well, you know your hospital or should I say your
former hospital!”
“Get to the point.”
“Hmpf Hmpf Hmpf, Your hospital doesn’t receive funding
by the U.S. government and still spends hundreds of dollars
on people like you...”
“I know this, Mark!”
“Okay, getting directly to the point, we the police believe
you or should I say your former hospital to be funded by the
Mafia.” I stared at Mark for several seconds before getting in
my car and driving away from him.
I went home, found God’s email address, and sent the
“Hello God, I would like to talk to you about death!” email.

After a few hours of me waiting at the computer, refreshing
my email over and over and over again for what felt like
an eternity, looking at the vibrant glowing screen made
my eyes tired, but I couldn’t look away. Only taking a short
break from the eternity to eat some disgusting cold French
fries, I thought was going insane until ... he messaged me
back saying, “Oh, u wanna contact her? Well, it’s gonna
be kinda hard since she doesn’t have a phone or ... email
address, but if ur trying to get in touch with her then just
hang round when someone dies. Should be easy to do since
ur a surgeon. I know this cause I’m all knowing.”
“Can’t I get you to call her for me?”
“Nah. Reapers like to keep out of human affairs, unlike
me and Lucy. She’d prolly just fob me off when I call. Why
do you want to get in touch with er?” How useless, but
nonetheless I went into the alley beside my apartment and
shot a hobo to death, watched as the poor man crumpled
to the ground. Then suddenly a woman showed up over
the putrid rotting corpse, a reaper. It wasn’t death; it was
some black woman with wings and rather large breasts, her
clothing remarkably less conservative then death’s. She was
wearing a white cloth that started from her neck as a rather
small bit of nothing and grew larger to encompass her
boobs, and again shrank to expose her midriff. Her skirt was
the same shade of white although it barely covered her ass.
She was bald, so sorry, there will be no lurid description of
her hair. I stood up and asked, “Huh, where’s death. Who
are you?” To which she replied, “I am Iddhi and I am one of
the angelic reapers.”
“And death?”
“The death that you speak of is our ruler. However, a person
of your stature often does not get what they want,” she said,
looking down at the recently created corpse. I said in a tone
I now regret, “What are you saying, bitch?”
“Hmm ... You know what? Maybe you can get her to come
out if you murder a smaller individual, perhaps a baby
for example.”
“Wait, wouldn’t she grant me to hell in that situation?”
(That’s not how reapers operate)
“Oh, how silly. Clearly you aren’t worthy of death’s love!”
“How dare you assert that I am incapable of showing lady
death the sweet, sweet love she needs!” Oh god, hearing it
again I sound so fucking stupid.”
“That you do, my dude. That you do.”
“Hmpf Hmpf Hmpf,” lady Iddhi said as a response trying
(and failing) to contain her laughter. “My you’re passionate
hehehe, but I’m still unsure if you were to murder a
babe, however.”
“Fine. I’ll go do that then.”
After I turned around she probably laughed at me and took
the soul to one of heaven’s provinces.
The child was going to die in about five years anyways, so
I shot him and he died. Blood spilled from his crib down to
the floor. Suddenly a white light came down and a young
child came forth. She had a regal appearance about her.
Egyptian really. She had wings like the previous reaper, a
crown made of gold and a white robe adorning her body
and she said, “I am Makarth B Chorat and what’s going
on here exactly?”
“Huh, they let children be reapers these days?”
“Well, I do reap children, after all, so it does make sense
and besides, I’m technically-”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not the reaper I’m looking for
anyways!”
“Oh, you’re looking for a reaper? Well, that makes
sense, considering-”
“I’m looking for death.”
“Oh, um, death, uh-”
“This is useless. I should go murder someone else. Maybe
then I’ll see her again.”
“What? Ugh. Okay, bye murderer.”
“Bye!” Again I heard some muttering under her breath and
I think she was saying, “Oh god, I better go find death or
this’ll go wrong real fast.” Or at least that’s my best guess. I
never ended up seeing her again.
I went back to my apartment and started plotting who’d be
my next victim when suddenly I heard the doorbell ring.
I released the door and saw before me a ghoulish female
devil with massive wings, red skin and a massive tale that
extended all the way from her waist to my floor. She was five
foot eight inches. She had two ponytails draped over her
shoulders that were braided in pigtails. She slowly walked
up to me, grabbed me, and said, “Hey bro, what’s up?”
“Oh nothing much, Suzette. How are you?” I said, holding
my knife behind my back and thought to myself “maybe she
could be my next victim.” “Oh I’m doing fine. I came over
because I heard that you had been laid off from your job so I
... do you need money?”
“Hahahaha.” I put the knife down on the table and said,
“No, I will never need money from you, sis.”
“Well, that seems a little... presumptuous.” She tried to
look behind me at the knife. I moved to obfuscate her view.
Instead she smiled awkwardly and said, “Okay, bye Allen.”
“Bye Suzette!” Oh god. I wish I could apologize to her now.
Anyways after my sister had come over I got an idea. My
mom broke up with dad because he had cheated on her
with a demon, producing my sister. At the time I hated both
of them but I eventually grew to like Suzette, but I never
made up with Tophel.”
“Who?”
“Suzette’s birth mother. I’m going to go kill Suzette’s
birth mother.
I rolled up to the old folks home in my blue pickup truck,
walked into the lobby, and said to the receptionist who I
believe was an angel, “Hello, there I am here to
meet Teuful.”
“’I’m here to meet Tophel’?”
“Yes Toopheel. I’m here to meet Teuful.”
“sdjvxcjkxcvjvcxkxcjm angel blood?”

“No no, I’ve never smoked blood.” Angel blood was my
little way of dealing with Teuful. Yeah the lows were
terrible, but It’s not that addictive and besides you’ll know
why I didn’t want to comprehend Tophel’s words. “Tophel,
you have a visitor.”
“sjfdjkvnkxjjhxz Teuful?” (What she called Suzette)
“vj jnxk Allen!”
“Ugh the human send him in.”
“She ndjjx 206”
“Tank pou!”
“Stop ingesting my people’s blood.” Heh, I don’t know
why I could hear those words of all things; I guess I just
have keener ears for exposition. I then crossed the orange
halls over to room 206 barged through door with my knife
forward and said, “HEEy Toph-”Tophel kissed me and
somehow managed to take every speck of angel blood out of
me and said, “You know if I was an angel I’d be very cross
with you ingesting that stuff.” Tophel looked very good for a
demon of her age, about 300 years old (the average lifespan
of a demon is 400 years), and she still had perky scarlet
breasts, luscious green hair, and relatively few wrinkles. I
didn’t care for her appearances, she was my stepmother,
and I hated her for it. “How did you?” She coughed up a
bunch of blood and said, “Are you here to kill me?”
“Hr”
“Well I can’t blame you. If I was a pathetic creature like you,
I’d also try to kill every better creature.”
“I’m not here to kill you?”
“Child, please don’t lie to me. I can understand murder, but
I cannot condone lies!”
“Seriously you were one of Obscenity’s greatest generals
and you can’t stand lying?”
“Well you know the old saying: ‘A murderous child is
obedient, but a lying one is trouble. By the by am I the only
one you’ll kill?”
“Yes, for you are the only one worth killing.”
“Oh that’s too bad. Could you do me a favor and kill some
others around here?”
“No!” I then stabbed at her and she swiftly dodged it,
grabbed me, threw me to the ground and punched me with
greater force. Eventually she stopped and said, “FINE.
I’ll just settle for killing you, GUARDS.” The guards burst
through the door with a demonic man in front and a human
woman in back and Tophel said, “Heh I believe you were
the one I was having sex with.” She violently thrust her
knife into the man’s face which was perfect. I grabbed the
broken ruler from the trash-encrusted floor and stabbed
her in the neck. Watching her crumple to the floor was
hilarious. I didn’t want her to have dignity so I attempted
to cut her wings and rip off her clothes, but the guards
stopped me unfortunately. The guards looked uneasy
before saying, “Sir, we’re going to have to take you in for
questioning.” The demonic man motioned to grab me
while the human woman started calling the police. “Wait,
isn’t there supposed to be a reaper?” My former boss,
“The reaper of demon’s Damuon is a frightful sort, has
mankiphobia you see.”
“Come out here,” I yelled, and then a demon as white as
snow walked out, her wings and tail rather small, about the
size of a bat’s. Her hair and robe were darker than her skin,
about as dark as a spider’s web. A guard touched me which
produced a “Get your damn hands off me.” I then grabbed
the young reaper and screamed, “Where is my love, where
is the reaper who stole my heart, WHERE IS DEATH?”
“Please stop yelling,” she said, crying and trying to get me
away from her, A man grabbed at me but I just ignored him
and the reaper then said, “I’ll see w-what I can do o-okay.”
This was enough. I then had to work on fighting through the
guards when suddenly the reaper from the alley showed up
and knocked out all of the villains who would dare stand
in my way. The pale white reaper then looked up and said,
“Iddhi wh-what are you doing?”
“Don’t worry, Damuon. Just deliver that soul to the black
hole. I’ll deal with this one!” The demon then left muttering
to herself, “I need a drink.” While she was doing this I
said to the black reaper, “Huh I thought you reapers were
supposed to stay neutral in human affairs?”
“Well, yes It’s just that you interest me far too much too just
let you die.” I looked down at my former boss, then said,
“Hey I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to murder this
man right here, okay?”
“Oh no that’s fine. Just murder, pillage ... rape. It’s all fine
with me!”
“Murder and pillage, yes,” I said, while taking my knife
out of Tophel and stabbing Mr. Halbert, killing him “Rape,
however, is always wrong!” I stepped back and started to
walk out the door. Iddhi followed me and said, “Well, many
a man would consider murder and pillaging wrong as well,
so why is rape wrong.”
“Because it’s not murder. Murder is quick and painless.
Rape is long and painful.” Iddhi looked out the window
and saw Makarth out the window, before she disappeared
into smoke. Iddhi said, “That miserable child Makarth B
Chorat has had it in for me for a century now. Now I have a
request of you.”
“Is this about Makrat?”
“You are damned for an eternity in the worst pit of hell
Tartarus, but if I you can help me dispose of that child,
then I may help you escape.
I cowered in my hotel room for a solid hour, building my
disguise, but at this point I was unsure if I would ever find
my precious death, and then,
I heard a ringing from my phone and checked it. “Hey bro, I
think you need to go see me how ‘bout the cafe.”
“Fine I’ll c u there!” So I adopted a red coat and a hansha
mask as my disguise, and then I went down my apartment
stairs and out the grey door, walked a block and simply
waited for Suzette. She flew in on her wings. “Ah, finally
you’re here, precious sister.”
“Yeah, um, I wanted to talk to about ... well, there’s a
murderer on the loose and the cops are saying he looks a lot
like you, but I’m sure you wouldn’t”
“Yes, I am the murderer!”

“Wait. What? Why?”
“Because I have fallen in love with that which is beyond
mortal minds. I have fallen in love with the reaper known
as death!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh sister, don’t you know of the beauty of death? You
should since you’re a demon after”
“What, Allen? She’ s a fucking skeleton. What is wrong
with you I-I’m calling the police.” I grabbed her right hand
and said, “NO YOU WON’T!” But to my dismay this was a
public forum and my assault against Suzette drew the alarm
of many of the other patrons. They called the police and
sure enough, the police arrived. “Stop or this woman will
die.” Then the usual stuff happened. Suzette protested by
flapping her wings, I shot her wings, a police officer came
up and tried to talk me out of things, but then ... Mark came
out of the woodwork and said, “Why are you doing this?”
“Huh, what are you talking about? I’m doing this to
not die!”
“Yes but if you die, you meet her again.”
“Not necessarily!”
“Yes, but what other choices do you have?”
“You’re right. Bless you, Mark, I’ve hated you for all this
time, but thank you!”
“Yes. Now let her go.” I did as told, but Suzette replied,
“Mark ... Allen.”
“Get out of the way, Suzette,” Mark and I said in unison.
“I don’t want to lose my brother,” and then the worst I
could’ve done happened. I stabbed Suzette in the leg.
Actually quite glad I did. I would just feel ...”
“Allen, get back to the story.”
“Sorry, sorry. I opened fire onto the police and the police
shot me back until I was dead and then I finally saw her
again. I said, “Finally I see ag-”
“Oh, great. It’s you again. Can I get someone else to reap
this one?”
“Who, who, are you talking to?” stammering incredibly.
“I was joking. I mean, can’t I be a little funny? I have to be
serious all the time?”
“I love you!” This gave her pause before looking at me with
her red eye. “Oh, like you’re the first to fall in love with me.
Whether they want me or the title or whatever, but trust me,
you ain’t the first. Now follow me.”
“Death, I’m sorry!”
“I’m not death I am Umhondi, reaper of killers.”
“Oh uh. an I meet the other reapers.?”
“No!”
“But, but, the black one told me you were death.”
“Uh, you’re gonna have to be-”
“The bald one!”
“Oh do you mean Iddhi. Yeah well, Iddhi’s a liar.”
“And god, he also called you death.”
“Oh yeah, well, Godly powers tend to wane when you get
old like him. We’re here.”
“Where is here?”
“Boy, do you ask questions! Just look and see!” I hesitantly
went over to the silver door, opened it and was swiftly
kicked into the depths of Tartarus.
“Woah, that’s messed up, dude!”
Yes, and so hell is now where I reside. Where I am hated
for my privilege. Hell, where I am hated for killing the great
Tophel, grand general of Tartarus, but don’t worry. I’ll be
out with good behavior in about 300 years.”
“Heh, whelp, sucks to be you!”
Da da ta, the end?

NONFICTION
Creative nonfiction is such a liberating genre because
it allows the nonfiction writer, whether he or she be
journalist or essayist, to use all of the techniques of the
fiction writer and all of the ideas, creative approaches,
that fiction writers get a chance to use, but they have
to use it in a true story.
— Lee Gutkind

NONFICTION | 69
Mind’s Eye 2020 Nonfiction
FIRST PLACE
Angry, Black Butterflies
by Samantha Hughes
That’s how I’ve always described my anxiety. This anxiety
that fills me with dread. That makes me nauseous. That
makes me hate myself. That makes me wish I wasn’t here.
This anxiety—which I thought everybody experienced like
this—has been with me for longer than I can remember. I
can’t think back to a time when I didn’t feel like this. Like
the whole world is moving faster than I can keep up with,
leaving me gasping for breath and throwing up the food I
couldn’t muster up the energy to eat. Like I’m the one who’s
broken and damaged and fucked up.
These butterflies eat me—destroy me—from the inside out.
They want to escape. I don’t blame them. I’m the one who
put them there, I think. They slam against the inside of my
stomach, trying to find a weak spot in my fragile body so
they can finally break free. Freedom. That’s what they want.
Free to flap their wings in the fresh air that cuts my throat
and stings my eyes I think they’d do anything to escape the
confines of my body. I would, too.
But they can’t.
They can’t leave. They can’t escape. Are they not trying
hard enough? Is it impossible? Is it my fault? Am I really so
broken and messed up that I’m the one doing this? Keeping
them with me to make them suffer, too? Am I such a horrible
person that I would hurt harmless little butterflies?
The best writers make readers feel what they’re feeling. Hughes’ piece did
that for me. Her language is spare, vulnerable, beautiful.
Maybe they don’t want to leave. Maybe they won’t leave.
Maybe these butterflies are a parasite feeding off of every
panic attack, every held back sob, every “maybe I should
just do it.”
I don’t know.
I don’t know what they want from me.
I know that they’re always there. There are times that they
fall into hibernation, sure, but they’re still there. Sometimes
they wake up and become more aggressive (are they?) and
my downward spiral starts again.
Medication helps. Therapy helps. I think.
Sometimes it’s only a few that wake up and stir so I can
manage them. I’m used to them, to a degree. I’ve made it
this far, I suppose—what’s another few years?
I want them gone.
I don’t want them to be inside me. I don’t want to cry and
scream and I don’t want to hurt. It’s so tiring to hurt all
the time.
I would do anything to get rid of them.
But doctors can’t take this out. They can’t get rid of this
pain. They can’t stop the whirlwind that starts when I think
too much (or is it too little?). There’s no surgery to rip these
butterflies out of me because they’re not really there. I’m the
only one who can see them. I’m the one who’s making a big

70 | MIND’S EYE 2020 NONFICTION | 71
deal out of them. I just need to get over it, right?
I’m stuck with them. They’re a part of me at this point.
Or am I a part of them?
They drain me of all of my energy. Why is that? They’re the
ones doing these things, throwing themselves against the
insides of my stomach, not me. So why do I feel tired all
the time?
Sometimes existing is hard. Existing means butterflies, and
butterflies mean pain and crying and hurting. Sometimes I
just want to fall asleep and not wake up. (I’m not suicidal,
I just don’t want to exist.) Just fall into a deep slumber and
let the unknown engulf me. Let it wash over my body and
overtake my mind.
But that makes me even more anxious.
(Am I suicidal?)
I’m twenty years old—legally an adult. But that can’t
be right.
Can it?
Is it normal for adults to break down and cry in the middle
of a store because it’s “too overwhelming”? Is it normal for
adults to hide behind their mom when they’re introduced
to new people? Is it normal for adults to not be able to
order their own food at a restaurant? Is it normal for adults
to not be able to call their own grandparents and aunts
and uncles because phones are “scary”? Is it normal for
adults to dissociate when they get too stressed, to lose all
control over their body? Is it normal for adults to not be
able to be alone with the therapist they’ve been seeing for
over two years, when she’s been nothing but patient and
understanding?
What does “adult” even mean? Is it a real word at
this point?
What’s “normal”?
I’m always reassured that I’ll be able to deal with these
butterflies, that I’ll learn to cope with them or learn to get
over them. That I’ll “be stronger” than them. Stronger than
them? What does that mean?
They’re just angry, black butterflies.
Right?

NONFICTION | 73
SECOND PLACE
Tag
by Emily Garcia
small nipping breeze, but nothing unbearable since the sun
was shining as bright as ever. We weren’t quite old enough
for the green playground and wouldn’t be for another two
years. So we made the best of our situation and enjoyed our
time on the smaller red playground, imagining the
day when we could finally go on the green equipment
with the big kids.
Arriving outside, my classmates and I had to face one of
the toughest decisions for a second grader: what were we
going to play that day? As everyone was discussing this very
pressing matter, someone came up with the suggestion of
Tag. Soon enough, almost everyone had joined in and was
playing, save those that were swinging or bouncing balls.
As the game goes, we all ran around, running as though it
were life or death on the line. In that moment, it truly felt as
though that was the biggest concern in the world. We played
on and on, having the time of our little lives, laughing
without a care.
I had already been tagged a few times and had quickly
caught someone else to tag. But this time was different.
Normally when I was tagged I would quickly look around
and find my target. I saw Will and though I had never talked
to him much, he was the closest and easiest target, so I
decided to tag him. After all, we were all playing and that’s
how the game goes. You find someone and you tag them,
no questions asked. But as I went to tag the short-haired,
buck-toothed boy, he recoiled away from me with a look of
disgust and exclaimed, “You can’t touch me!” I stood for a
minute just stunned at the outburst and confused.
Content dictates form in Garcia’s piece: the first half doesn’t even mention
the narrator’s eczema; it doesn’t affect her worldview until the game that
changed everything.
One of my biggest joys in life as an eight-year-old was the
moment the teacher would announce our freedom to recess.
Every morning from the moment the bus pulled up to my
own personal prison, and I descended into the dungeon to
reach my classroom, my countdown to release began. The
days felt never-ending and boring, but the light at the end
of my tunnel was recess. I would only need to wait
two short hours, but those hours felt like years. So,
anxiously, I waited.
In class on this particular day, Mr. Martin had instructed
us to continue working on our Flat Stanley book reports.
The classroom was silent except for the sound of pencils
furiously writing. My eyes would continuously stray from
my paper to the clock, only to see that just a few minutes
had passed since the last time I checked. So I turned back to
my paper and continued my work, hoping that the next time
I looked up it would be time to go.
Finally Mr. Martin stood and announced it was time to line
up for recess. We all stood as fast as possible and shuffled
over to the sea of jackets. I quickly found my pink jacket
with white fluffy trim on the edges and threw it on. Off we
went in a single file line up the stairs and threw the doors
to our Wonderland.
It was a cool fall day, the kind of day perfect for second
graders to chase each other around. It was a bit chilly with a

Following his gaze, I found my answers. My outstretched,
eczema-covered hand seemed to be the cause of the
problem. I still didn’t understand though. No one had ever
had a problem with me before. I stayed where I was and
watched as Will just went down the slide as if nothing
had even happened. But my whole world had shifted. My
oblivious world came crashing down. After a few moments
I snapped out of my thoughts, found someone else to tag,
then quit.
The rest of the day went by in a blur. I couldn’t quite
concentrate, and Mr. Martin just became background noise
in my turbulent young mind. I couldn’t quite wrap my
head around it. I had always had eczema. And the days of
itching my dry, irritated and constantly burning skin, that
made my skin a cracked mess, had become normal. We had
already spent so much time in the dermatologist’s office,
but nothing was helping. That didn’t matter to me much
before though. I didn’t notice the stares or whispers. No one
had said anything to my face before. No one else in school
seemed to care. But now eczema instead of school became
my jail, keeping me from the freedoms of childhood.
All of a sudden I was thrown into a world where I did
notice the lingering eyes and the whispers. Gone were
the carefree days. For years, I was self-conscious, always
wearing jeans and long sleeves. Even when the heat was
unbearable outside, I would cover as much of my skin as I
could manage. By junior high, I avoided my classmates by
enrolling in online school. Though in public, adults were
the worst. I now noticed the times that people would walk
up to my mom and ask in distaste if I had chicken pox or
if I was contagious. I didn’t want to have eczema anymore,
and I absolutely didn’t want to be receiving those looks. I
wanted to be “normal.”
My mind was tainted. I couldn’t go back to how things were
before. I struggled with that mindset for so long. Year upon
year went by, and I still felt embarrassed to wear skirts or
shorts. I was embarrassed to be looked at. And if my eczema
flared up, I would prefer to stay home rather than let anyone
see. My skin would be painful, but all I could think about
was other people. I felt trapped with no escape.
I was so sick of trying to hide myself away. So, when it was
time for high school, I made the decision to take control
of my life. People’s judgments weren’t going to dictate my
life. I wore shorts if I wanted to, because I realized that
no matter what, people are going to give their unsolicited
opinion. Therefore I might as well just live my life and be
happy. It wasn’t easy and I still struggle with that mindset
to this day but it gets easier with time. I’ve finally won the
game of Tag that has been going on since I was eight.
I am free.

NONFICTION | 77
THIRD PLACE
A Trip to D.C.
by Sam Riddle
making tons of phone and video calls. However, there
are some months where he makes many business trips. I
think he makes a lot of spreadsheets, reviewing data about
how programs and people running those programs are
performing. Then he tells his boss, and his boss tells the
CEO. That’s all I really understand about his job.
He decided to take me on this business trip so we could
have a good time doing father-son things. Also, he went to
the Capitol when he was close to my age. Taking me to the
Capitol is going to be fun for both of us.
Going on this trip means I’m going to have to hang around
his office for two days. So what? It beats being here. I even
get to bring the tablet! I never get to play video games! This
is going to be even better than vacation!
Packing
I’d rather we just leave and skip the whole packing thing.
The Day Before
I’m getting excited! We’re leaving tomorrow! We’re going
to fly there! That’s so cool! I’m going to have a hard time
sleeping tonight. I usually do before and on trips. My
youngest brother keeps bugging me about how I am going.
I think my other siblings are jealous too. I don’t care too
much, because I’m the one going!
We have to leave really, really early in the morning. I have to
wake up at like four in the morning or something. Ugh.
Riddle captures the wonder and boredom of seventh grade. The present-
tense vignettes suit the story well.
The Beginning
May 16th, 2015: Today is Saturday, and I feel good about…
copying the Declaration of Independence. I think I’ll try to
make a literal translation as well.
Me
I don’t like fall too much, because it’s cold, and it means
school. Starting school is okay, because I’m in seventh
grade, which is super cool. But soon the newness of it all
goes away. Every day is the same old thing. I wake up at 7:15
AM, have breakfast, and get straight to work. And that’s it.
There’s nothing else to my life. Just school.
Surprise
Dad’s calling me up to his room. Oh dear. I wonder what I
did this time?
Wait a minute…Dad is going to take me where? And he
wants to do what with me? And we’re are going when? I
don’t know what to think quite yet. I am super excited, but
I don’t know how to show it yet. This could be the most
amazing thing that ever happened to me. But it might go
completely wrong too.
The Trip
Okay. Dad and I aren’t going just to go to the Capitol. We’re
going for Dad’s work. Dad is the Director of Operations for
a national prison ministry. He usually gets to work at home,

Leaving
My alarm rings. What am I doing up at four? Wait! I’m
leaving for D.C. today! YES! I’m getting dressed, and I am
outta here! It is actually kind of fun being up this early.
Mom is barely awake to say goodbye to me. That’s okay, I
just wanna go! It’s kind of fun driving at night.
Airport
Airports are always so interesting. I just have to see
everything. Security is usually pretty stressful, but since
it’s just me and Dad this time, it isn’t so bad. It’s still dark.
I have always wanted to fly on a plane at night. I just hope
the sun doesn’t rise too soon.
There
Oh my goodness, I am actually in Washington D.C.! I saw
the Washington Monument as we touched down. That was
so cool. Now I have to wait through one and a half days of
sitting in an office before we actually tour the Capitol.
The Rental Car
Our rental is pretty nice, nicer than our car. It’s a dark blue
Hyundai Elantra. I want one of these when I grow up.
The Hotel
Huh. It turns out Dad’s workplace has a “Guest House”
where you can stay if you don’t work at the home office,
but visit once in a while. It’s really nice. It’s not exactly
like a hotel. On the outside, it looks kind of like a small
two-story brick office building. The first floor is a social
floor with a pantry to raid, and the rooms are upstairs.
To get to our room, we only have to walk down the hall
after a balcony next to the stairs. On the balcony there is a
little sitting room, where Dad says I can sit sometimes and
read my book or something. Our room is really nice too. It
reminds me of Dad’s room at home.
Dad’s Office
After we get settled in the room, Dad and I walk to his office,
which is right next to the guesthouse. The office actually
looks a lot like the guesthouse, just much bigger. We walk
in the sets of glass doors, into a gigantic reception area. The
whole room appears to be made of marble, and so is the
front desk. There’s a bookstore farther on to the right, and
it’s mostly glass.
Dad’s company only has offices on the third floor of the
building. We walk down a few hallways and get to the
elevator. It seems unimportant, but Dad scans his company
pass to use the elevator. The first thing that I see when I
walk off the elevator is an American flag.
Dad’s office isn’t very impressive. It looks like a typical office
floor. There are many cubicles in the center of the open floor
plan. On the outskirts are a couple conference rooms and
bigger office rooms. There isn’t very much natural light. The
place I will sit for several hours is basically in the center of
the cubicles. It’s a coffee and tea station, surrounding by a
lot of art important to the organization. I am going to sit at
a table in front of the coffee station, and will probably get to
meet a lot of the employees coming through.
The first person Dad introduces me to is a woman, about in
her mid-30s, named Kate. I always hate getting introduced
to people, because it makes me feel so weird. Kate quickly
makes me feel better about myself though. She asks me
about what I like to do. I talk about the latest book I’ve been
reading. She’s very impressed, and she makes a joke to Dad
about how smart I am and where I’m headed when I grow
up. It was the first introduction of many.
Dad introduces me to a few other key people he works with
before he gets to work. I don’t meet his new boss though.
One person I met was the office coordinator. Her name is
Heidi. Her name reminds about the book about a girl
named Heidi that I just read. She’s even nicer than Kate.
Hanging around the office for a while isn’t going to be
that boring after all.
The Metro
At the end of the second day at the office, we check out of
the guesthouse and drive to the airport, but not to fly home.
We first turn in the rental car. Then, Dad and I look at the
map of the Metro (the D.C. subway) to try and find
the correct subway to get us within walking distance of
our new hotel.
After figuring out the correct subway, we make our way to
the airport’s Metro station, where we wait 10 minutes for
the subway to arrive. The subway is old, painted yellow
with a red stripe, and inside is antiquated leather and utility
carpet. It isn’t crowded, and we easily find a seat. The ride
takes about 20 minutes, as the subway makes multiple
stops. After we arrive at our station, it doesn’t take very long
for us to walk to our hotel. After settling in our room, we
walk a short way to find a good place for dinner.
The Meeting
I wake up, and realize that today is the day! We are going
to the Capitol!
We have to start the day by meeting Dad’s Congresswoman
friend. We get dressed in our best; I’m in khakis, a green
and blue striped shirt, and a bright red fleece. We go down
to the hotel cafeteria, where the meeting is going to
happen. It’s the early morning, so it is pretty busy with
breakfast traffic.
Dad makes me sit in a corner and read a book while he
advises his friend. I am more than happy to do this, because
I am so shy. About 20 to 30 minutes later, he comes over
and introduces me to his friend. I feel extra nervous about
meeting someone so important, but she quickly makes me
feel much better. She seems really interested in me, like
what I am doing for school, and am I having fun on the trip.
She asks me if I am excited to go to the Capitol. I say yes.
The Congressional Offices
The Congresswoman (I would later find out that she wasn’t
the congresswoman, but her chief of staff) is going to take
us to the congressional offices in her car, because we had
turned ours in. To get into the office, we first have to pass a
police checkpoint on the road. At the checkpoint, there is a
road barrier that is white with red stripes, and it says STOP.
The Congresswoman opens her trunk, a policeman comes
and inspects it for a few seconds, and after a few other
proceedings, the road barrier retracts into the road,
and we drive on.
After she drops us off to park her car, Dad and I go into

the building. We have to pass another security check. The
checkpoint looks almost exactly like an airport check,
and we basically follow the same procedure as we do in
airport security.
After we quickly get through, we spend a few minutes
trying to find the office. As we walk by each office looking
for the right name, I notice that the names come from
many different states. We go through many hallways,
and we have to go up a few floors in the big building. The
hallways are 20 feet tall and wide, and the floor and walls
are marble. The doors to each office are huge, and made
of a solid dark wood.
We find the correct office, and slowly push the doors open.
To our immediate right is the secretary’s desk, and to the
left is a doorway leading to the Congresswoman’s office.
The office is actually pretty messy, mostly with photographs
and awards. A young man walks up to us and introduces
himself. He is going to be our guide for the private Capitol
tour that the Congresswoman scheduled for us. His name is
John. He is about 5’ 6”, with shorter blond hair, and a face
that seems to always be in a smile. I like him immediately.
We don’t spend too much time in the office, and we are on
our way to the Capitol!
THE CAPITOL
The Tunnels
There is a whole network of tunnels under D.C., and not
just subway tunnels: walking tunnels make up the majority
of this network. They mostly run in between the Capitol
and the congressional offices, but I have heard there are a
few under the White House. I have sometimes wondered
whether there is a secret network of tunnels for only the
most important people in case of emergencies.
John takes us to the lower level of the office building,
where there is a tram line that takes the office workers and
Congress officials to the tunnels under the Capitol. It’s
open air, it’s bright red, and about the size of a minivan,
but it looks more like a roller coaster car. There are four
sets of benches, two on each side of the driver, who sits
elevated in the middle, and each set of benches is a pair
that faces each other.
We are on the tram for about 60 seconds before we make
it to the end of the track, and the beginning of walking
tunnels. We get off the tram, and then begins our long trek
to actually get under the Capitol. I don’t know why they
didn’t build the tram to go all the way under the Capitol.
The ride is fun though.
The tunnels are very interesting. There must be miles and
miles of them. They are pretty bare, kind of like a school
building, but there is a lot of interesting art on the walls. I
think it is decoration for these tunnels, but lots of the art
doesn’t make much sense. I see a lot of different art exhibits
posted, and, as there is nothing else for me to do while
walking, I think about what each of these exhibits must
be like. I also envision Congressmen and women hurrying
down these tunnels, papers in hand, secretaries at their
sides, getting brisk debriefs. This whole experience in the
tunnel is somewhat spooky.
The Visitor Center
After about 20 minutes in the tunnels, we finally come to the
center where all the visitors are. I see all the tour guides in
their red coats, and I remember the pictures of them in my
government book. I see some statues from Statuary Hall,
and they excite me, even though my legs hurt from the long
trek we just had.
After more elevators, escalators, and walking, we come to
the actual building! I look at the small rotunda in one of
the wings of the Capitol, and I remark to Dad about how the
dimples in the ceiling preserve the structural integrity of
itself. Dad and John are impressed.
We walk through the building some more. We are trying
to get to the Rotunda, the center of the Capitol. After more
staircases and passages, I am beginning to take in all of
the old architecture. All of the weird art patterns, the old
material used to make some of the walls, and occasionally,
the huge marble staircases and pillars. The staircases are
the most fascinating of all. They are at least 30 feet long at
the base. I don’t think we’re going to go up any. It must
be fun, though.
The Rotunda
We come to the Rotunda! Boy, is it high up! I can barely
see the painting of George Washington and the angels
representing the thirteen colonies!
Almost all of the Rotunda is covered in scaffolding. That’s
a real shame. The scaffolding makes it hard to see the eight
famous paintings that my book talked about. I recall that
most of these paintings were by Jonathan Trumbull,
a witness of Washington’s campaigns, and he puts himself
in some of his paintings on the Rotunda walls. It is
amusing to try and find him, but I have a cheat, because
my book told me where he is. This whole experience would
be better without the scaffolding, but my neck is hurting
as we come out.
The Whispering Gallery
Then we go to Statuary Hall! Those statues that I saw in the
visitor center had excited me, and I am ready to see more.
The hall is huge! I get my picture next to Barry Goldwater,
the newest addition to Statuary Hall, even though I don’t
know why Dad wants my picture next to him.
The statues are massive, about 10 feet tall or so. But big
statues require big halls, and the Statuary Hall doesn’t
disappoint. It is roughly circular, and it is about 100 feet
by 100 feet. The floor is covered in black and white tiles,
checker-style. The dome is not quite circular. The walls
are marble at base, and they are painted red up from the
marble. There are columns all along the walls, with enough
space between the columns to fit the statues. The center is
completely unobstructed though. Just a huge chess game.
John tells me that this is the famous Whispering Gallery.
This excites me, and I am dying to see it in action. He says
that if he stands on one side of the room and whispers,
I could hear him perfectly clearly on the other side of
the room, right about where one of the tiles has been
replaced with a plaque. We proceed to try “the whispering
challenge.” However, there are too many people in the room
at the time, though, so I can’t really hear him. I think I can

Mind's Eye JCCC 2020 Literary Magazine

Mind's Eye JCCC 2020 Literary Magazine

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