WINESKIN The North Central University Literary Journal

Volume 6 Spring 2015

WINESKIN

EDITOR S BROOKE VIKLA

OLIVIA DAVIS

FACULTY SPONSOR DESIRÉE LIBENGOOD

Cover Photography: Shannon Hill

This publication made possible in part by the generous funding Sigma Tau Delta receives from the North Central

Student Association.

All works published herein are copyright 2015 by their respective authors and artists and remain the sole property

of said authors and artists. No part of this publication may be copied or reproduced without the express consent of

the author(s) and/or artist(s).

PLEASE CONTACT US WITH YOUR COMMENTS: nculitjournal@gmail.com

CONTENTS

POETRY:

JUSTINE KOPISCHKE

BRANCHES 1

JAMIE NICOLE HOLLINS

TREASURES 2

DAVID PUTMAN

TODAY 3

JILLIAN CANFIELD

LONELINESS 4

KATIE FEIST

BEGGING NOT TO BE 5

BRITTA JENSON 6

WOODEN SLATS

OLIVIA DAVIS

MY BEATING HEART 7

KNOWING 8

DAVID KOLENDA

YOUR COLORS 9

THE VESSEL 10

SHANNON HILL

TRANSFUSIONEM 11

ALEXIS GUTIERREZ

LET YOU GO 12

HUNTER BAUGH

ON THIS CLIFF SOMEONE PLANTED 13

FICTION:

AUDRA KJETLAND

MURDEROUS INTENTIONS 14

SARAH JOHNSON

LEAH IS 16

ANISSA GODFREY

INVISIBLE INK 18

JOSIAH CASSELLIUS

LA LLORONA 23

CONTRIBUTOR NOTES 30

JUSTINE KOPISCHKE

BRANCHES

The pine trees are reaching to heaven

in a way I have forgotten.

I look at my hands and scold them for forgetting,

but my heart cries that it is he who has forgotten

and I am left in the desert with sand in my eyes.

The sand is now blinding

and my feet unmoving,

though I beg them to go.

Now my first love has come to guide my feet,

and my arms to meet branches.

2

JAMIE NICOLE HOLLINS

TREASURES

As a child, she had torn the perforated page from her favorite coloring book,

and preserved it between damp linens and molding raspberries.

There were broken pens and stickers from nurses, muted whistles

and a pet dinosaur sick with the chicken pox,

all tossed together, delicately, in a haven for missing things.

As a girl, she traded crayons for notes written in code.

At the close of each day of ruling over playground kingdoms,

the notes were plucked fresh from her pockets and strewn, clumsily,

across the glitter-freckled vanity. As a young lady,

she had ideas of who she should be

plastered artfully across her bedroom walls,

images of women she did not know,

sophisticated, important, and valued

for the beautiful things.

DAVID PUTMAN

TODAY

Clouds tangerine

climb over the trees

forerunning the sun,

and the warmth that it brings.

4

JILLIAN CANFIELD

LONELINESS

Loneliness is a long sigh.

It draws out your hope, like

air drawn from your lungs,

rippling over your lips to

diffuse into the air around you.

You sit there, with limp lungs,

a second

of panic chokes your throat.

You inhale, you

hold it, and you release

a brave whimper as

the cycle begins again:

release – hold – death?

Inhale, hold, release...

Hold the shards of life together

until morning, and maybe

the newborn sun will fuse

them again.

Then, on insomniac nights, when

friends feel as cold as

aluminum apples, you cry

out for one thing: the

presence of another soul.

KATIE FEIST

BEGGING NOT TO BE

I am me even when I beg not to be.

With each plea for change, a new chain of finality is cemented into me.

The intensity of my self-hatred is a brand I wear on my skin

still burning a blistering red.

Yes, some days I wish I was dead;

it is difficult to bend the human will to live.

Oh, what I would give not to be me,

to break free of the jail trapping me inwardly.

I know I seem cowardly for not valuing my mortality,

but the reality is my bravery is hidden.

No one knows how hard it has been

to have kept death at bay.

But the darkness of self-hate will never allow me to rest.

I strain to hide the pain within my chest,

but with each suffocating breath, I feel a tickle from death.

So please, hear my plea.

I am just needing not to be me.

6

BRITTA JENSON

BETWEEN THE WOODEN SLATS

She peers through the fence, one eye barely visible

between the wooden slats.

The boy walks past her house, the one in the green sweatshirt.

She’s seen him before

Between the wooden slats.

Older boys, bigger, stronger, fiercer.

They, with distorted faces, toss the boy like a lifeboat at sea.

Words unfamiliar to her, ugly words in ugly voices

scraping, scuffling, scratching

The boys are gone, the one in the green remains.

She peers through the fence, one eye barely visible,

Helpless to save,

between the wooden slats.

OLIVIA DAVIS

MY BEATING HEART

I looked up.

Her lips crawled across her face

like fat caterpillars

mouthing words,

always words.

Her eyebrows bounced up and down

as if she knew what she was saying,

as if she could know.

“What are you going to do?”

I sat there

dumbly, thinking how stupid,

how stupid she was.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could

and pulled out two shoelaces

attached to my heart.

I pulled out my heart

and set it on the desk

next to the brass name plate.

The brass name plate

of an expert, a professional,

paid to fix my pain,

paid to fix my swollen eye

and blackened rib,

paid to mouth words,

and write out plans.

Paid to tell me that it would all be okay,

that it was beyond my control.

I pulled out my heart,

attached to two shoelaces.

Then I got up and left;

left my beating heart,

on the table next to

the brass name plate.

8

KNOWING

The first cell felt no call to divide.

So there it sat

upon the telephone wire,

holding tightly to the

electric string that

split through its

two forked feet.

There it sat

with feathered wings,

crouched through seasons,

weathering the hunger

to divide and soar;

holding tightly to

the thing it could touch,

to the thing that it knew.

DAVID KOLENDA

YOUR COLORS

I remember just how the light hit your face.

It shone with an amber glow

when you first said my name,

and I knew I would love you.

So I learned all your colors, meanings, and lines,

and took them to heart.

wearing you on my chest

like embers from a glowing fire.

10

THE VESSEL

This sinking ship has come so far,

having lost the dawn, it wanders on.

Through memories of blight and storm,

of weathered rocks rammed through the hull;

this ship fell into disrepair.

Shadow of her former self

when the noon sun was high,

and her wooden frame strong.

She docked, neglected in a frozen harbor.

Then a captain found his gem of the seas.

Long he labored day and night,

when at last her polished beams shown bright.

In silken white gowns he clad his gal,

crowning a gallant vessel long understated.

Perfect in his eyes from the start of his work;

this lady has his heart,

and she is mine.

SHANNON HILL

TRANSFUSIONEM

Valleys of dry bones wait,

buried beneath sinew and skin,

slowly scraping away in restless slumber.

They wait for any small moment

of awakening.

A drop of that precious nectar –

just one!

It is the kindling that sets them ablaze.

All-encompassing fire in these deserted bones

petrifies porous marrow into amber honey,

sweeter than the most forbidden of fruits.

Digested by the heart, it is bled out

as precious love

that is not my own.

12

ALEXIS GUTIERREZ

LET YOU GO

“I miss you” just sits on the page

like a small singular thing,

with no action at all.

I wish I wasn’t still sore

about that night you lied to me

so casually,

like you’d done it before.

I let you go a little more each day.

I guess it's better that way.

HUNTER BAUGH

ON THIS CLIFF SOMEONE PLANTED

On this cliff someone planted a grove of petalled bushes

But this season they divorce their flowers and stand naked in snow.

The little trees wait,

like saints in graves, for spring.

For eschaton come, petals:

counsel that hastens old loves

to bud in the cold cold morning.

Budding for the day when

Spring shall come, ne’er to depart again.

14

AUDRA KJETLAND

MURDEROUS INTENTIONS

I was best friends with Nathan Simonton before I killed him. Don’t be mistaken;

I committed a justice, not a murder. I was taking one less hurting person out of the

world and giving one more soul to the celestial beings. Nathan didn’t have the heart for

life’s ruthless adventure. Instead, he had a soul more suited for death. So I appeased his

longing for peace. That’s all. It was easy really, all it took was a large dose of rat poi-

soning.

For a brief minute or two, I experienced a shallow sadness in which I contemplat-

ed all that Nathan would be missing out on in life. I looked at Nathan’s pale face and

rolled my eyes. This world has nothing for you.

Without warning, I doubled over as my stomach twisted into knots. I can handle

it. I am brave. The pain is worth it. Giving Nathan the poison was right. It was just.

After the cramping in my stomach became more bearable, I straightened myself

back up and gazed at my alarm clock. The red numbers changed from 6:05 to 6:06. If I

did all my calculations correctly, I had approximately six hours to escape this place. My

God, I had to let that sink in. I am actually leaving this place.

I hurried over to the nearest waste basket. Leaning over it, I clenched my stomach

and spewed chunks. The acidic taste was nasty, but the experience was delicious. I was

getting a chance to start a new life, a chance to discover potential happiness. My true

self awaited.

I groaned, and after vomiting one last time, I pulled myself away from the trash

can, still feeling nauseated but relieved. As I stumbled over to sit on my bed, I came

across the note that I had written earlier. I skimmed through it.

I was best friends with Nathan Simonton before I killed him…so I appeased his

longing for peace…All it took was a large dose of rat poisoning.

I squinted at the words, trying to figure out if I should add anything else before

the tremors started to kick in. Once I chose what I wanted to say, I completed the note

with a shaky hand.

Nathan Simonton knew what he was doing when he told me he wanted to die. He

knew he would escape from this plastic world, and he knew that bliss awaited his earthly

departure. And I knew what I was doing when I gave Nathan the laced soda. He knew he

was drinking death, and I knew I was drinking new life.

I stared one last time at the note, trying to think as rationally as possible. Should I

sign the note, or date it, or something? Probably. But I decided not to. I had long ago de-

clared to my family that I was my only friend. It was then that started referring myself

Nathan. So, at least when I talked to myself, I didn’t feel so alone.

Well, that’s settled. They won’t have any doubt that I wrote the note.

I looked back at my alarm clock. 9:32. It should only be a matter of time now be-

fore the arsenic kicks in to its full ability. Bracing myself for the oncoming seizure I

would have to endure as a side-effect, I let the note flutter to the ground. Seconds after, I

blacked out, anticipating to wake up free of the world’s shackles.

16

SARAH JOHNSON

LEAH IS

She does not know my name, but I know she sees me. I sit here in the same run-

down orange chair, book in hand, like every day. I know she watches me because I

watch her too. She always sits with a strange man, his dark coat covering his shaggy un-

tamed hair. I know he does not love her. He never looks her straight in the eye. When

she talks to him, her voice gets squeaky as if she’s about to cry. I can feel her frustration

as we both heave a dramatic sigh.

Today the man is not here. She catches my eye as I look up. I glance away, hop-

ing someone will come to her rescue. I know she needs it – empathy, I mean. I can feel

her screaming for attention. My heart aches for her and I need to hear her story. I need

to.

My book sits on the table and my eyes glaze over it. Have I read this page al-

ready? Why do I keep looking at her? I dog-ear the page that I am sure I read five times

already. I need to get out of here.

The girl suddenly sits up and combs her fingers through her disheveled hair,

mumbling to herself. She’s kind of pretty. No, she’s beautiful. I watch each hand stroke

wiggle down through her hair. Her fingers, so small, delicately weave in and out, and

her hair sways from side to side. I dog-ear the page of my book once more and place it

on the table. Just ask if she’s okay. My eyes automatically trace back to her frame, stud-

ying each crease and curve. I gather all the air I can and slowly exhale, trying to calm

my nerves. I somehow manage to stand and walk towards the girl. I muster a smile

and place my hand on her shoulder. It tenses up.

“Tell me your story,” I say, still smiling. She eases up, her shoulders relaxing un-

derneath my touch. She casts a smile in return and points to a chair nearby. I bring it

closer to her, holding my breath, and wait for her to say something. She doesn’t. I intro-

duce myself and ask her again to tell me her story. Instead, she tells me her name. Leah.

What a beautiful name.

18

ANISSA GODFREY

INVSIIBLE INK

There he is, all sorts of fine and perfection, and here I am, wearing a wrinkly old t

-shirt and a pair of dirty pumas. I never wear any make-up, so I don’t have that whole

“wide-eyed Disney princess thing” going for me. I mean, the bags under my eyes are so

dark my swim coach asked me if he needed to call the police. No, I did not get mugged,

and yes, this is my God-given morning face that I regularly glare at in the mirror recit-

ing, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Yeah sure, tell that to Mr. Hottie-mc-

hotpants over here. “Fearfully and wonderfully made” sounds like one of those Dove

Chocolate wrappers if you ask me; unless of course you age like Jennifer Aniston and

have a body like Jennifer Lopez. Then it’s encouraging.

So I’m face-to-face with this guy, who physically looks like my dream guy that I

described in my Password Journal once I hit puberty - in invisible ink of course. I’m ex-

pecting him to be the piece of crap I know every other guy to be, but he shakes my hand.

He shakes my frickin’ hand. Who even does that anymore? I introduce myself, praying

to the God-of-the-morning-face that Password Journal Guy won’t remember me after

this. Then I can reintroduce myself with a little more fineness and a heck of a lot more

self-respect at a later point in time. With my good God and great fortune, Password

Journal Guy tells me he’s got a knack for remembering people, and he’ll be sure to say

“hey” when he sees me around campus. Great. Exactly what I want, another reminder of

this moment, of how subpar I am in comparison to every other girl at this school. Yeah,

yeah, comparison is the thief of joy. Whoop-de-freakin’-doo, President Roosevelt and

every single girl who has re-pinned this quote to their “words to live by” boards on Pin-

terest.

Let’s get real here. Password Journal is here pretending to weed out who’s wife

material and who’s not, based on their love for the Lord and their self-confidence. Real-

ly, Password Journal Guy is looking for here is a rocking body for the night of “I do’s”

and the removal of purity rings. He’s on the prowl for eye candy, and looking like he

does, he’ll find it. And I’ll be here, purity intact, waiting for Jesus to come and save me

from the nunnery I’ll be encouraged to join when I graduate this place, utterly single.

Password Journal, in his buttoned-up dress shirt, black slacks, and Calvin Klein cologne,

smiles at me, nods, and continues on his way through the hall. By the time he’s turned

his back from me, I have no clue what the heck his name even is. I stare at him as he

walks away like a pathetic mega-creep, and swipe my hand on my pant leg.

I just picture my mama wrinkling her nose and shaking her head ever-so-slightly

in disapproval at my appearance right now, asking, “Why don’t you wear make-up like

every other girl? God gave you big blue eyes, and it’s a darn shame that you won’t

frame his handiwork.” She’d try to convince me that I should never leave my dorm hall

dressed in anything less than what a person might wear on date- at least until I get one.

Good thing for me, my “appearance is lacking,” so I don’t have to worry about this guy

getting to me. Truth is, he’s probably seen at least 300 other girls by now who have

butts like Jennifer Lopez. The first day of fall semester at a Christian college? More like

the first day on set of “The Bachelor.”

I contemplate going to change before my second class, but decide that the dam-

age to my reputation has already been done. I might as well keep up people’s expecta-

tions of me. I try to wash some of the dirt off my shoes in the single-stall bathroom on

the first floor of the lecture hall, but suddenly remember that there was a line behind me

when I walked in, and everyone else out there probably thinks I’m taking the biggest

dump on this side of the Mason-Dixon. So I got that going for me. I take my half-clean

pumas out of the sink, put them back on my feet, and proceed to make the walk of

shame. Another girl begins to walk in as I walk out, scrunching up her face like some-

one who’s preparing to be slapped. Lucky for her, my day so far stinks way more than

any dump I could have taken.

20

The group of girls standing outside the door to my class is giggling, like Tickle-

Me-Elmo dolls. My eyes hit the floor. I catch one chick attempting to make eye-contact

with me so that I can see her forced pity smile. I pretend that I didn’t notice and blow

right past her skimpy outfit. I walk into the classroom planning on hurrying to the back,

because no one will see me there, right? Wrong again. God must think He’s some sort of

comedian or something, because Password Journal is the first face I see. He begins wav-

ing me over to sit by him like we’re new best friends or something. Okay, pal. You can

lay off the nice-guy routine. The front row? Really?

I don’t want to seem like a total jerk, so I have to sit by him. He starts to ask me

those three questions that every college freshman has to answer at least 30 times a frick-

in’ day. Where are you from? What is your major? What do you want to do with that? I

try to sit up straight and pull out my shirt as much as possible. That way the Grand Can-

yon of all wrinkles will hopefully look more like a crack in the sidewalk.

I tell him I grew up in the cities and then give him the whole “I’m coming in un-

decided because I’m waiting for God to reveal His calling to me” speech. The edges of

his lips nearly touch his eyeballs, and he nods his head in approval. I nod my head in re-

turn, wondering what I’m supposed to say next. Out of obligation, I ask him about him-

self since he asked about me. I figure that it’s a pretty safe topic. I can just shut up, con-

tinue nodding, and pretend like I remember his name.

Password Journal rocks back and forth in his chair a few times and wrings his

hands, like what he’s about to say is going to impact history and that maybe I should be

taking notes during such a big moment. Closing his eyes, he tells me that he wants to

start a mentoring company for young men.

“I tried to dress like a business major,” he says. “I thought it would help me to

feel like one.” Well, now I feel like the load of crap that I didn’t leave in the single-stall

on the first floor for thinking that his passion would be something with a few more dol-

lar signs. However, I also feel that my assumptions are still somewhat justifiable, be-

cause honestly, if you’re wearing business causal on the first day of college, you’ve

probably got something jammed far up your rear end or at least a bad case of professor-

pleasing.

I make an attempt to look like I’m trying to take in everything he just told me, but

in all reality, I’m glancing around the room, noticing how every girl looks like a super

model at 7:45 a.m.

“Sure,” I mumble. “That’s why you’re dressed in business clothes.” He asks me

to repeat myself because he missed what I said. I make up a load of BS about how it’s

pretty commendable that he wants to work with young men. He seems to believe it, and

lets me off the hook.

I start shifting in my seat, wanting desperately to get the heck out of here and run

to the safety of my dorm room. Then, I can continue to forget Password Journal’s actual

name and pray that I forget this moment. Especially the half-truth I just told.

Password Journal gives me that weird head-nod-thing that guys seem to think is

cool. Really, it just ends up looking like they woke up on the wrong side of the bed and

got a crick in their neck. He makes a gesture with his hand towards my shirt.

“I have that same tour tee. I saw Mumford and Sons in Dallas. What show were

you—”

The professor cuts Password Journal off in midsentence, giving me the break

I’ve been praying for. The routine of class expectations takes the place of our conversa-

tion.

“I’ll ask you after class,” Password Journal says.

Dear Lord, why must you torture me so? I mean, come on. How could he notice

that my tee is Mumford & Sons without noticing its critical need for wrinkle remover?

Just burn my mangled appearance into his mind, why don’t you?

22

I somehow manage to spend the rest of class preparing my escape plan and list of

excuses. The professor lets us go a few minutes early since there’s nothing to talk about

quite yet, other than the syllabus.

This is my cue. I stand up and shove my notebook into my book bag. Then, I hur-

riedly weave through the slowest people on the planet. Some people have lives other

than loitering after class. So, I’m weaving and dodging and plowing through piles of

people, and I hear this muffled voice calling after me.

“Wait,” he says. “Hold up!”

I sigh and pray that my morning face has at least somewhat faded in the past 50

minutes. Turning slowly, I find Password Journal huffing and puffing to catch up to me.

“I take it math’s not your favorite subject.” He laughs obnoxiously at his own

joke. “So, what show were you at?”

“Woodlands.”

“Sick, so you’re a pretty big fan then?”

The group of girls from earlier files one-by-one, out of the classroom. They take

a long look at Password Journal and I talking. The-girl-with-the-pity-smile makes a sec-

ond effort to catch my eye. I manage to muster up a half-smile and a little eyebrow

movement. After she walks by, I turn back to Password Journal, who’s patiently waiting

for an answer.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head in agreement with myself. “I’d say so.”

JOSIAH CASSELLIUS

LA LLORONA

The three boys sit in Rodrigo’s room. Rodrigo and Alex play FIFA on Rodrigo’s

Playstation while his little brother Beto sits on the floor and listens to the two older boys

attentively.

“They say that on bright nights you can see her sitting on the bank of the river,”

says Rodrigo. “Still weeping for her two children.”

“Why does she weep for them?” asks Beto. His brown eyes wide with wonder.

Unfortunately for him, he became the fall boy for his brother early on in his life. Just

two weeks earlier, Rodrigo had tied a rag dipped in gasoline to a rat’s tail, and setting

the rag on fire, released it in the backyard. Luckily, the grass was still green from all the

rain they had gotten and the fire never took hold. But when their parents found out, Ro-

drigo had said that it had been Beto who caught the rat and lit it on fire. Not wanting to

disappoint his brother, he had taken the punishment.

“I hear it is because she is sorry for killing them,” says Alex. Chiming in for his

friend.

“Yep,” agrees Rodrigo. “When her husband cheated on her she went mad. She

killed her kids and threw them into the river behind the house.

“What happened to her?” asks Alex.

“No one knows. They found the kid’s bodies, but she was never seen again.”

“So, did she die?” asks Beto.

“Maybe,” says Rodrigo, his voice lowering to add effect. Winking at Alex, he

24

whispered, “Or maybe she still haunts the land, looking for her children. And if she

catches little children wandering around at night she gets mad and kills them.”

“Stop,” said Beto. His small arms clench around his knees as he begins to rock

back and forth.

“What?” teases Rodrigo. “You scared?”

“No,” says Beto, trying to look brave. “I’m not scared of a story.”

“But it isn’t a story. It’s true. A boy at my school says he saw her out at the old

ranch house. White she was. Kind of like a shining cloud.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Beto, his voice cracking.

“Well,” says Rodrigo. “I bet you wouldn’t go out to the house and see for your-

self.”

“Sure, I would,” his little brother responds.

“Let’s go, then,” says Rodrigo as he stands and shuts off the console.

“Do I have to go too?” asks Alex, his face showing terror at the thought of being

out at the old haunted house.

“Of course, you idiot. There has to be a witness.”

“But I can’t go, I, um, have to be back or my mom will worry,” he stammers, his

dark face growing pale.

“No you don’t,” Rodrigo states authoritatively. “You were going to stay the

night.”

The prospect of going out to a dark, haunted house was bad, but the thought of

Rodrigo making life difficult for him was infinitely worse. So, he reluctantly follows the

two brothers out to the bicycles. As the full moon took the baton from the sun, they set

to pedaling to their encounter with “la Llorona”.

The bicycles squeak as they pass over the gravel road. It is a warm summer night

and the full moon beams down upon the landscape from a clear sky. Bushes alongside

the path stretch shadows across the way. Their twisted images play on the boys’ minds.

They press onward, lest they should be called cowards. They had grown up in the foot-

hills of the mountains. The cattle ranches that surround the small village of La Paz in the

Eastern Sierra Madres of Mexico have been around for generations. The house of la Llo-

rona once belonged to one of the wealthiest ranchers in the area. Now it is in ruins.

Abandoned for years.

Soon the path opens up into a once cleared expanse of land. The arroyo is audible

in the distance. Long, thin grass rises up past the handlebars of the bikes along both

sides of the path that leads up the broken down house. It’s a skeleton on an island.

Bathed in moonlight, some of which is visible, streaking into the house through large

holes in the roof. There are no windows or doors left. It is an empty husk that the boys

pull up to. Three flashlights click and the light of the boy’s beams scan the house.

“I’m scared,” says Beto in a trembling voice. “Let’s go back.”

“No, you idiot,” snaps Rodrigo impatiently as he drops his bike.

“Well, Rodrigo,” says Alex, “where is your Llorona?”

“She will be down by the river. She never comes out until midnight.”

“How do you know that?”

“That is what time my friend saw her,” says Rodrigo as he takes a tentative step

onto the old porch. The wooden step groans as he places his full weight upon it. “Come

on, let’s go in.”

“It can’t be safe,” protests Alex. “What if we step through a hole or something?”

26

“Quit crying and come on,” says Rodrigo.

In the house, moon streaks through the roof and windows, illuminating portions

of the rooms. They enter a sort of entryway. Half-a-dozen doorways lead into different

sections of the house. Rodrigo walks quickly into the first one facing the river. It once

was a living room. A fireplace is on one wall and a window looking out over the proper-

ty on the other. Broken chairs and a dusty table sit randomly around the room, and a pic-

ture of an officer, his visage fading due to age sits propped up next to the fireplace.

Those are all the items in the room.

“It is almost midnight,” remarks Alex looking out the window. “She should be

here any minute now.”

Alex’s voice trails off as he continues to look out the window. Noticing his

friend’s unnatural silence, Rodrigo joins him at the window. Off in the distance, shim-

mering in the moonlight is a shape. It walks along about a hundred yards from the

house. The hidden arroyo cannot be much farther away than that. Suddenly the shape

bends down, and picks something up and in a motion throws it into the darkness.

“Did you hear that?” stammers Alex.

“It sounded like a rock being thrown into the river,” says Rodrigo. Any bravado

that he had has left him. He is pale in the moonlight.

“What is happening?”

The two older boys are startled as Beto tries to poke his head out the window to

see what they are looking at. The window has pointed edges of glass protruding from

where it has been broken by so many rocks. The glass is unrelenting as Beto’s neck is

pushed into the shards, by the startled, involuntary movements of his brother. Blood

flows down Beto’s neck as he falls to the floor, clutching his wound.

“Beto,” exclaims Rodrigo. “Don’t sneak up on us like that.”

“Help me.” The sound is barely audible through the gurgling blood in his throat.

“What happened, Beto?” asks Rodrigo. As he shines his light on his brother’s

neck, he sees the blood spurting out. Too late, he tries to stop the bleeding but Beto’s

body goes limp in his arms. Devastated, Rodrigo begins to scream. His voice carries far,

across the old ranch house grounds and down to the arroyo.

“Rodrigo, look,” says Alex, still looking out the window.

“Leave me alone,” says Rodrigo, sobbing.

“But you need to see this,” he says. The terrified note that has crept into his

friend’s voice catches in Rodrigo’s head and he reluctantly leaves his brother’s corpse

and joins Alex at the window again. Towards the river, but much closer now, is the

specter. Undoubtedly moving towards the house. Soft crying is easily heard across the

quiet grounds. The woman, la Llorona, walks nearer and nearer the house. Her head

down, she trudges along.

“Let’s get out of here,” whispers Alex.

No response from Rodrigo. Alex looks at his friend, who is entirely peaceful.

Alex’s flashlight beam shows two streams of tears quickly drying up as he looks out the

window at the approaching ghost. In horror, Alex shakes his friend, but to no avail. He

doesn’t know what to do. A legendary ghost is approaching that is said to like to kill,

there is an already dead body on the floor, and his best friend will not move. Over-

whelmed, Alex shakes Rodrigo one last time and runs from the room. He gets on his bi-

cycle and pedals away.

Several hours later, the ranch house is awash in flashing red and blue cop car

lights. Radio dispatches are audible around the scene. Crickets still chirp as light begins

to appear in the eastern sky. Two officers stand in the old living room that is taped off.

Gloved medics examine the two dead bodies. The smaller of the two with cuts along his

neck, and the older boy with deep gashes running down his abdomen.

As the officers talk a detective walks into the room.

28

“Morning, gentlemen,” he addresses the policemen.

“Morning,” responds the taller of the two officers.

“What happened here?”

“We found them both in this room just as the other boy said he had left them.”

“Where were they when you first got here?”

“The younger boy was sitting up against the wall next to the window, and the

other one looked as if he was reaching for something out the window. If you look at his

wounds, the cuts begin at the top of his abdomen and he appears to have been dragged

partially out the window based upon the cuts.”

“Are there any footprints outside?” asks the detective.

“None that we saw,” says the officer.

“How is that possible if there are no footprints outside?” asks the detective. “The

ground is soft enough with all the rain we have had recently that if that is true then there

should be footprints.”

“It’s hard to say, sir,” says the officer. “The other boy came to us saying that he

saw the la Llorona. We thought he was crazy by the look on his face but we checked it

out, and sure enough, here were two bodies, neither one dead more than a few hours.

The medics say that there is no way for the boy to have been able to push himself out

the window as far as he did on his own.”

“That doesn’t mean that it was la Llorona,” replies the detective. “There is no

such thing as la Llorona.”

Down along the river, the woman sits. Amidst her weeping she cries,

“My poor children, where have you gone? Come back. I didn’t mean to hurt

you.”

30

CONTRIBUTOR NOTES

JUSTINE KOPISCHKE: Senior, English Literature

JAMIE NICOLE HOLLINS: Senior, English Creative Writing

DAVID PUTMAN: Senior, Biblical Studies: Languages

JILLIAN CANFIELD: Senior, Interdisciplinary: ICS and English

KATIE FEIST: Senior, Elementary Education

BRITTA JENSON: Alumna, English Literature

OLIVIA DAVIS: Junior, English Literature and Creative Writing

DAVID KOLENDA: Senior, Interdisciplinary: Business and Pre-Law

SHANNON HILL: Sophomore, English Literature

ALEXIS GUTIERREZ: Junior, Recording Arts

HUNTER BAUGH: Junior, English Creative Writing

AUDRA KJETLAND: Sophomore, English Creative Writing

SARAH JOHNSON: Junior, English Literature and Creative Writing

ANISSA GODFREY: Sophomore, English Creative Writing

JOSIAH CASSELLIUS: Senior, English Literature and Creative Writing

A 2015 publication of

the Alpha Nu Sigma chapter

of Sigma Tau Delta

English Honor Society

Justine Kopischke

Jamie Nicole Hollins

David Putman

Jillian Canfield

Katie Feist

Britta Jenson

Olivia Davis

David Kolenda

Shannon Hill

Alexis Gutierrez

Hunter Baugh

Audra Kjetland

Sarah Johnson

Anissa Godfrey

Josiah Cassellius