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2024-2025
02 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW Table of Contents Foreword with “colours of time” by Angela Lee............................... 6 Nonfiction with “open air” by Angela Lee........................................ 8 “Peppermint Mocha” by Haley C. Kollstedt.....................................................9 “Reflections from Today” by Anna Brubacher................................................. 18 “Santa Ana” by Brosnan Butt........................................................................... 26 “Self-Service Snellen Test” by Elise Hunnemeyer...........................................34 “ABVE-PC” by Sophia J. Camillone ................................................................ 36 “The Snow on 146th Ln NW” by Adelyn Olson............................................... 43 “When the Planes Stopped Flying” by Grace Thornsbury .............................51 “Midwestern Goodbye” by Rebecca Neely .....................................................57 Art with “In Its Time” by Lydia G. Belsley........................................ 60. “Going Through It” by Pizgah M. Wadsworth.................................................. 61
03 Poetry with “Berlin’s Memory” by Rebecca Robinson......................62 “The Glorious Moon” by Grace Thornsbury ...................................................63 “Heimweh” by Justin Kemp............................................................................. 64 “Joy, Softly” by Sierra Ausfahl . ...................................................................... 65 “Freckles” by Lauren Crider.............................................................................66 “November (or Fall’s Gash is Gold-Vermillion)” by Savannah Battle ............ 67 “A Christmas Poem” by Savannah Battle ....................................................... 68 “Babelites” by Sarah Powley. ........................................................................... 69 “The Shipwreck” by Alaina G. Lowery . .......................................................... 70 “Celestial Waltz” by Sophia J. Camillone. ....................................................... 71 “The Bittersweet Knowing That There is Nothing Like Chinatown Elsewhere” by Brosnan Butt ............................................................................................... 72 “i grieve the pink clouds” by Meghan Wells ..................................................73 “The Moon over Ankara” by Hannah Shierman . ........................................... 74
04 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW Fiction with “peace by the river” by Angela Lee ............................... 75 “Jake’s Journal” by Hannah Fultz ................................................................... 76 “arctic spring” by Sierra Ausfahl . ................................................................... 86 “Grandpa’s Tea” by Brosnan Butt ................................................................... 88 Photography with “Doe, A Deer” by Brosnan Butt . .......................... 93 “Solomon’s Shame” by Brosnan Butt .............................................................94 . “Gilding” by Brosnan Butt ............................................................................... 96 “Rhythm” by Rebecca Robinson ....................................................................97 “In My Restless Dreams” by Benjamin Konuch . ............................................ 98 “Golden Autumn” by Julianna Williams . ..................................................... 99 “Tree Ablaze” by Brosnan Butt . .................................................................... 100 “Magnanimous Lotus” by Brosnan Butt ....................................................... 101 Acknowledgements......................................................................................... 103
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06 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW “colours of time” by Angela Lee
07 FOREWORD “And God said, ‘Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days and years, and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth.’ And it was so. God made two great lights—the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night” (New International Version, Gen. 1:14-16a). You step outside, onto your front porch, or perhaps the cement walkway in front of your dorm. It’s night. You open your hands, and light from the crescent above pours through your fingers, forming spindly shadows. For the first time all week, you listen to the sounds revealed by silence—crickets conversing, wind whooshing, and your lungs exhaling breath. The sacred quiet surrounds you. You stare up at the moon and consider its face, half-veiled but still shining. It’s been a long day—no clouds, searing sun. Now, the lesser light soothes you. Unlike the sun, it doesn’t shout sentences, but speaks syllables. It murmurs celestial poetry, sourced from beyond the stars. And you worship—your face upturned to the moon’s face, upturned to the Maker’s. Come and contemplate how gently art reflects His glory. Haley Kollstedt and Meghan Wells Editors In Chief
08 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW NONFICTION “open air” by Angela Lee
09 Peppermint Mocha by Haley C. Kollstedt Saturday, November 30th. RSW airport (which we remember as “really swell waves”), Ft. Myers, Florida. I’ve never traveled during Thanksgiving break until now. Getting here was easy. Dad’s a Delta Pilot, and I can use the Standby benefits. I’ve got time before my flight back home. Aunt Lisa insisted I arrive almost three hours in advance. “Thanksgiving,” she said, over and over, reminding me of the snapshots we’d seen on WINK news, the people piling into terminals like pill bugs under a log, suitcases in tow and slugcurved pillows around their necks. Tired. Bloated. Holidayed-out. Security is a breeze for me. The crowds aren’t half as bad as we’d expected, and I emerge from the line like a mackerel slipping from a net. The floors glisten with the pearlescent etchings of shells. They’re almost marble but not quite, and I find myself trying not to step on the lines. These floors hold something for me. Ft. Myers, Florida: home of Aunt Lisa, Uncle Mark, and my eternal summer. The place I dream about on those wet days back in Ohio, when I say to my mom, “it smells like there’s an ocean nearby,” even though we both know it’s an illusion. It’s the place where I can lick my face after going for a walk and ever-so-slightly taste the salt. The
10 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW place where wind is always gentle (except during the hurricanes), and the sky cracks and bleeds each night into hibiscus clots, bruising into irises. I’ve checked the weather in Cincinnati. High of 31. Partly cloudy. A dusting of snow in the yard, my parents say. A stark contrast to a Floridian 72. When I get to the gate, the plane isn’t even there yet. But there’s a Starbucks, freestanding right smack in the middle of everything. I’m sugared-out, but one last treat won’t hurt me. The line wraps around into a snail shell. I have the time to wait. Behind me, a mother argues with her teenage daughter about what drink to order. The mother is weighed down. Middle-aged, honey blonde, one little black suitcase leaning against a big, glossy grape one. “They won’t have time to make that, honey. We’ve got to get on the flight.” Dad calls me. I answer, trying my best to tune out the noise. “Hey,” he says. “When you get a chance, talk to the gate agents. Find out if they’re gonna give you a seat. If not, you’re gonna need to get on that next flight. The connection to Atlanta. It’s got 26 seats open so you’re guaranteed to get on…” “But Mom, I want the iced chestnut praline latte! Please? Pleaseee?” The girl whines. She looks to be about 13, caramel hair falling in strings over her shoulders, pooling up in her hood.
11 I try not to make eye contact with her, but it’s hard. Exposed beneath tented brows, her eyes glaze with longing. “Fine. You get nothing. You sassed me, that’s it.” “But Mom. MOM.” Dad’s voice brings me back. He’s not just talking anymore. He’s asking me a question. “Does that sound good?” “Uhh. Yes. Should I talk to the gate agent now?” “I’d wait until they’re not too busy.” “Okay, cool. Sounds good.” I glance over at the gate agents. A man and a woman. They’re busy alright. Their red-and-blue Delta vests pop, elegant against the pajama-gym-clothed travelers. What appears to be my plane is only now rolling towards the jet way. My dad and I exchange a few more words. “See ya, girl,” he says, and I’m grateful that the conversation is ending because I’m almost at the front of the line. “See ya.” We hang up. “What can I get for you today?” The girl behind the counter speaks before I’m ready. Her dull-buckeye eyes and toned, sweat-damp cheeks expose the exhaustion behind her smile. I’m suddenly glad I’m not a barista.
12 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW “Uhh,” I say for the second time in the same two-minute span. There’s a whip-topped, chocolateswirled creation pictured on the back menu, framed with a border of clip art snowflakes and ribbons. HOLIDAY SPECIALS. “Can you make the peppermint mocha…but frozen, like a frappe?” “Yup,” she nods. “What size?” “16 ounces,” I say, because I’m too ignorant of Starbucks’ lingo to call it grande. “Name for order?” “Haley.” And I find myself wondering which of the twelve ways it’s going to be spelled. “That’ll be…$6.75.” “Thank you,” I say, but she’s gone before I can even pull my credit card out. I add a $1 tip for good measure and step into the swarm waiting by the counter for their drinks. My back’s starting to cramp along the butterfly curve of my shoulders. Finals week weighs heavy in my bookbag. I tend to work well in spurts. Maybe the caffeine will give me a boost, and I can get some work done on my papers before boarding. A mousy little boy who looks to be about ten slips by me and grabs a drink carrier on the counter. His mom hovers over him, checking the names on the cups. Each one froths at the top with whipped cream and syrup streaks swirling down the plastic sides. Now I’m ready for that peppermint mocha frappe. I cup my hands under both sides of my backpack to
13 alleviate the weight. There’s a small book wedged behind my laptop, biting at my spine. I try to shift away from it. It doesn’t work. Minutes pass. More drinks slide across the counter. Fingers toy with lids, pepper-haired men adjust their glasses to read the names. I lean against my suitcase and peer beyond Starbucks to my gate agents. They’re behind the desk, just standing there looking bored. It would be a good time to talk to them. I won’t leave, though. Not yet. My drink is coming soon. I begin to realize that the people in my vicinity have all changed. I have a new neighbor: An older woman with a cropped, silver thatch, petal-pink sweater, and necklace with frosty-glass beads. She, too, is leaning against her suitcase. I wonder if she has arthritis. I glance down at the floor, noticing the details in the tiles again. Cobalt flecks adorn the outer rings of the rhombus pattern. I used to think there were little shell pieces embedded there but now, I’m not so sure. It just looks like shards of scrap metal. I think about the beach. The real beach, with giant conkles washing up from the gulf foam. I miss the authenticity of the beaches I once knew. We only went to the beach once on this trip. It wasn’t what it used to be before the hurricanes. Ft. Myers beach was once home to a Dairy Queen, to shell-studded sand that sliced into your heels when you walked, to tide pools that filled up by the shoreline and turned to spas (and probably toilets) for small children, to a concrete boardwalk that we once
14 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW sheltered underneath during a pop-up storm. I tried not to be afraid, even though I knew it wouldn’t keep us safe from the lightning. I could practically feel the electricity balling up on my fingertips, the way the air heated and cooled at random, gusty increments, stirring up a stench of rotten seafood. Now, the boardwalk is rubble. I step forward towards the counter and notice that they’re cleaning the blender. Three girls are back there, all college-aged like me, each of them not standing still for more than a zeptosecond. The one who waited on me, with the buckeye eyes, is the one cleaning the blender. I assume this is why it’s taking so long. She can’t make a frappe without a blender. I keep an eye on my rosesweatered neighbor. She’s been here for almost as long as I have, right? I turn to the windows, which obviously face the tarmac. Clouds have packed the horizon to the brim, seamless. This morning, the sky was cotton and blue-mottled, filling in white on the car ride to the airport, royal icing flooding exposed cracks. It’s the one day Florida hasn’t lived up to its Sunshine State title. Still, I know the sun is up there. It’s the kind of cloudy day that makes you want to squint. My plane’s polished top flashes under the invisible sun like a bald man’s head. I think about hurricanes, how they ripped away the Dairy Queen. How they coerced construction workers to dump truckfuls of imported sand over the pre-existing sand,
15 covering all the shells. The best shells I’d found this trip were not from the surf but rather, the toosoft sandbox sand at the top of the beach, too far from the water. To me, that doesn’t even count. By now, I’m starting to get nervous. Unbeknownst to me, Ms. rose-sweater is gone. I have almost certainly been waiting longer than anyone else. I approach the counter. “Um…excuse me?” My heart throbs in my throat. Thu-dump, thu-dump. “Yes?” It’s buckeye-eyes again. Guilt hits me like a wave (but one from the Atlantic side of Florida, not the gulf). “I’m so sorry…I ordered a peppermint mocha frappe about 20 minutes ago? I just wanted to make sure you guys didn’t forget?” “What’s the name?” “Haley. I’m so sorry.” “I don’t see it.” She glances at the labeled cups up by the cash register, sharpie-scribbled with names, and then returns to making drinks. “Uhh.” My face warms into a blaze. I can feel one hot glob of sweat dripping down my left armpit. As a last resort, I look down at the drinks already set out to be picked up on the counter. There, in a festive, grooved paper
16 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW cup, is my name with one extra letter. “Hailey.” I look at the receipt. “Pepp. Mocha frappe.” I wrap my clammy palm around the cylinder. It’s warm. I wanted it frozen, but they gave it to me hot. With smarting shoulders from the unbearable weight of my backpack, I pick it up and drag my suitcase as though it were a lazy bulldog on a leash. By now, I really do have to get my flight figured out. Boarding starts in 15. I’m scowling. The drink isn’t overly hot in my hand, meaning it’s been sitting there for a while, meaning I could have taken it, sat down, and studied, meaning I wasted time. Resentment settles heavy over me, weightier than all my luggage. I don’t want to go home. I’m not ready for winter, finals week, the real world. But then I slow my feet, lift the cup to my lips, and tilt it back. It’s cooled off to the perfect temperature. The minty-fudge elixir hits my tongue, almost spicy, but pleasant. I pause, find an open seat by the window, and sit down. I take another sip, exhaling before a woman speaks over the intercom. “Haley Kollstedt? Passenger Haley Kollstedt, can we see you at the desk, please?” My heart jumps, stomach knotting. I spring up with unexpected energy, drink still in hand. Perhaps the caffeine is already kicking in. People clump in various spaces along my path. I snake my way through.
17 The gate agent’s eyes meet mine. One black tendril falls from her ponytail, resting over her plump cheek. She leans against the desk and smiles. “Haley?” “Hello! That’s me.” I hold my breath. She glances at her computer. “We’ve got a seat for you.” “Really?” Surprise lilts my voice as she prints my boarding pass. “Thank you!” For a moment, I forget about my sore back, unwritten papers, and the coming winter. I take the ticket, and another swig of my Starbucks. Thick cocoa coats my tongue, and I savor it. The airport cacophony levels out for just a second, fading into some hiss between lapping waves and falling snow. A fire, perhaps.
18 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW Reflections from Today by Anna Brubacher “Hey! What’s the consensus on Senegal? How’s it going?” A text from my friend Sadie flashed across my phone as I woke up. I laughed softly, turning the screen off and crawling out from under my mosquito net. It had only been a day and a half since I’d packed a small suitcase and crossed the ocean, but my perspective on life had shifted in about a hundred ways. My dad and I were in Senegal to participate in an equipping conference for Senegalese missionaries. Our church was the sending church for the American couple who started the organization that sponsored these missionaries, and my dad came to teach a few conference sessions, while I was invited along to run a VBS program for the children of the missionaries. Sadie’s text floated back through my mind as I brushed my hair and prepared for the long, hot day ahead of me. Where to even begin? I thought, reaching for my phone. I opened my notes app and began to type— Reflections from Today:
19 *** “I have taken air conditioning for granted my whole life.” My eyelids fluttered open and shut as the dilapidated gray car bumped down unmarked sand roads, criss-crossing through the sleepy town of Somone, slowing and stopping every once in a while for motorbikes, pedestrians, scrawny cows, and wild dogs. Twenty hours of travel had taken their toll, and the hot, dusty breeze blowing through the open car windows did little to dry the sweat dripping down my back. “We’re almost there,” my dad said from the front seat. “I think.” He looked to our driver, Michal, but received no response. Like most of the people we had met, Michal only spoke French and Wolof, one of the regional languages of western Senegal. Next to me, our other travel companions, Ruth and Andrew, sighed and stretched. “I’d give anything to shower and change!” said Ruth. “You’re not kidding,” I chuckled. The car took a right as we passed a building with Mickey Mouse painted on the wall. The narrow street was lined with brightly colored concrete walls and iron gates on either side, draped in flowering green vines. One of the gates in the walls opened as Jill, the American missionary we were staying with, stepped into the street and flagged us down, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight. I was so glad to see her, I
20 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW could have cried. “Welcome to Senegal!” Jill said, wrapping me in a hug. We collected our bags, and Jill led us through the gate, across the yard, and into the house. She handed us each a cold bottle of water from the fridge and directed us to sit on the couches in the living room. As I sank into the faux-leather cushions, the weight of arriving on the other side of the world settled over me. I could feel panic bubbling in my chest— What was I thinking, coming on this trip!? It’s so hot and I’m so overwhelmed and I’m exhausted and I don’t even speak French! And it’s just so stinking hot! As if reading my thoughts, Jill grabbed a remote from the coffee table and turned on the A/C unit overhead. Delightfully cool air drifted over us weary travelers, and for a second, my fears diminished. “Your rooms all have A/C units, too,” she said with a knowing smile. “Just make sure you turn them off when you leave. We’ve only got a limited amount of electricity available.” That night, as I lay beneath my mosquito net, I thanked God for air conditioning for the first time in my life. As I prayed, the whir of the air conditioner overhead suddenly went silent, and the lights flicked off. Within minutes, the air in my room took on a damp, oppressive heat that made my thin, cotton top sheet feel like a woolen blanket. I heard Jill moving about in the
21 kitchen, speaking agitated French with someone on her cellphone. I guess “too hot” is the same in every language. I sighed. It was going to be a long night. *** “Senegalese food is delicious, and I can survive sharing a plate with four other people.” “Lunchtime!” Bryan, Jill’s husband, called out. The missionaries congregating in the tiled courtyard drifted over to the blue cloths spread on the ground in the few shaded areas. It was difficult to escape the coastal sun. One of the women, sensing my uncertainty of where to go, patted the ground next to her. Her husband joined us, as did Bryan and another missionary couple. As I sat there melting in the afternoon heat, I was handed a spoon, still dripping with tap water. Dear God, I prayed, please don’t let me get sick again. My head swam with memories of my trip to Kenya only a year previous, during which I had gotten badly ill from unclean water. I shook the spoon dry, hoping it would be enough. A few of the children carried over a huge metal platter piled high with spiced rice, whole roasted fish, carrots, cabbage, and potatoes. They set the plate on the ground, and the five of us circled around the dish. I swallowed hard as my heart pounded. As a longtime germaphobe, I wasn’t exactly keen on sharing a plate with four strangers.
22 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW “This is called thieboudienne,” Bryan said to me, digging in excitedly. “Here, just eat from the section directly in front of you.” I took a hesitant bite and immediately burned my tongue. Oops. One of the missionaries used his spoon to toss me a few pieces of fish. “Merci,” I whispered. I took another bite. Flavors exploded in my mouth—garlic, paprika, ginger, cayenne. My eyes watered from the spice, and I began to sweat, but I kept eating, surprised to find myself enjoying every bite. While we lingered over our meal, Bryan chatted with the missionaries in French, sometimes translating for me. Picking up pieces of their conversation, I learned that only a few of them had grown up with Christian parents. I heard testimony after impossible testimony of Muslim men and women choosing to follow Christ despite threats of rejection from their family members and communities, and I learned of growing prison ministries and community children’s programs in remote regions of Senegal where the name of Jesus was completely unknown only a few years before. I sat in awe of the men and women surrounding me, slowly chipping away at the pile of rice in front of me, when something sharp poked my tongue. A fish bone. I nervously brought a hand to my mouth and tried to remove the offender, unsure of proper fish bone etiquette. Looking around, I saw the missionaries simply
23 turn their heads to the side and discreetly spit the tiny bones onto the ground. Simple enough. Once we had eaten our fill, we set our spoons on the ground and leaned back. Some of the children, still hungry despite devouring platefuls themselves, eagerly swarmed our blanket and finished the remaining bits of rice and fish. The young girls in their long dresses tugged on the t-shirts of some of the older boys, demanding an equal share in the leftovers. Watching the kids banter, one of the older missionaries made a comment to his wife in Wolof, after which the others seated around our platter laughed. Fellowship is the same in every language, I thought to myself. As we walked through the ruts in the sandy roads on our way back to the house, my dad tapped my shoulder. “How’d it go?” he asked, knowing I had been nervous. “Good! Really good.” I smiled. And I meant it. *** “The sound of unaccompanied voices lifted in worship is a holy melody.” Perspiration soaked through my cotton dress as I stood at the back of the conference room, cradling Jean, the infant son of one of the missionary couples. The setting sun poured through the open door, bathing the pink walls in a soft, golden light, and the stillness of the quiet evening was
24 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW perforated by the gentle lowing of cattle in the street and the rickety wheels of horse-drawn carts driving past. While Bryan prayed at the front of the room to start the worship night, I stepped closer to the door, hoping to catch a breeze and escape the stifling air of the poorly-ventilated room. Jean stirred drowsily in my arms, leaning his tiny head against my chest, and the missionaries sat attentively in their straightbacked wooden chairs, apparently unfazed by the heat. Even the women in their elegant, colorfullyprinted, stiffly-ironed dresses sat comfortably, fanning themselves occasionally with small sheets of notebook paper. After praying, Bryan invited a missionary named Oumar up to the front, who then motioned for his friend Pierre to join him. Pierre and Oumar smiled shyly and then began to sing in Wolof: “Maa ngi jël dogal topp Jesus…” A smile creased my face. The words were new to my ears, but the tune was familiar—I Have Decided to Follow Jesus. As Oumar and Pierre continued singing, the rest of the missionaries joined in, voices rising and falling in tight harmonies. They sang faster and faster, louder and louder, perfectly in tune despite having no accompaniment. One man stepped out to grab a drum, and the others began clapping in complex, syncopated rhythms. The women swayed and sang— blues, pinks, yellows, and purples
25 blurring into a gorgeous mosaic as their swaying stirred the fabric of their skirts. The children joined in, too, holding hands, dancing, and jumping up and down. My heart swelled at this tiny glimpse of heaven—worship is the same in every language. Swaying gently with Jean in my arms, I began singing the song in the language I knew. “I have decided to follow Jesus.” No turning back. No turning back.
26 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW Santa Ana by Brosnan Butt THUMP. In December 2011, I awoke with a shuddering gasp in the darkness of my childhood room. The room spun and smeared around me like an abstract painting. My senses, resurrecting after slumber, became conscious of the wind howling around my window panes. I could hear their subtle vibration as a dull hum that wormed into my skull. THUMP. This was not normal. Something was terribly wrong. I slipped from my sheets and began to tread, wraithlike, out of my bedroom into the hallway, towards the wall of windows immediately outside my door. The howling wind crescendoed. I wondered what sort of mystery the windows framed. What sort of world lay between the fragile glass and me? THUMP. The first thing I noticed was the unnatural light that came from neither streetlamp nor celestial body. My mind, in a daze, thought that it was 7 in the morning. I
27 crept down the hallway toward the kitchen, fingertips tracing the floor-to-ceiling window panes to my left. With a growing sense of horror, I realized that the typical signs of a Butt household morning were absent. There was no sign of Dad typing away in his office. The familiar scent of Mom’s coffee was not present to stir my senses. THUMP. I glanced at the microwave clock, looking for some logic and clarity. It brought none. Chills traced my spine, and goosebumps sprouted across my body. 3 o’clock? I glanced out the windows once more. What had made this dark dream-world so bright? THUMP. I walked back to my spot in front of the window. This time, I noticed the trees spasming in the wind, their frames bending and twisting in ways that suggested great pain. Their leaves were torn from their branches and sent tumbling skyward. And this wind was unlike any other that I had experienced. It felt alive, but wholly unnatural. All this time it roared, yet it carried no rain and sent no lightning lancing across the sky. THUMP. I suddenly got the sense that a great presence hovered over our home, talons gripping the edges of our roof, ready to rip it clean off like a raptor pouncing on a rabbit. THUMP. In fright, I dashed to my parents’ room. “Mom, I’m scared!” I said, my lip trembling.
28 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW “Go back to bed,” Dad responded grumpily. As one can probably deduce, you do not tell an 8-year-old to do the impossible when the world around him is alien. But I crawled back to my sheets, gathered them tightly around me like chainmail, and let the twisted lullaby of my staccato heartbeat sing me to sleep. I awoke to the familiar cries of parrots soaring over our home, as they always did (they had escaped the zoo years earlier and moved into the neighborhood). The hallway windows outside my room outlined a fresh morning that glistened brightly and suggested that nothing out of the ordinary had happened overnight. The roiling wind seemed but a dream. The branches littering our backyard like battlefield corpses suggested otherwise. Mom tried to make toast for breakfast and learned that our power was gone, but the gas blessedly still worked. Dad got out the emergency radio and learned that thousands of trees were downed everywhere. LAX had grounded all flights. The area had experienced constant 97 miles per hour winds, with gusts up to 167. A state of emergency had been declared for the entire 385 square miles of the San Gabriel Valley. The Catholic school called and announced school was canceled. My brother Laurence and I giddily celebrated the break from school. We ate buttery scrambled eggs while overlooking the carnage in our backyard.
29 “What in the world happened last night?” I asked my father. My young mind searched for an adultish word to impress him. “It was… frightening.” Even that descriptor seemed inadequate. “It was the Santa Ana winds,” Dad explained. “The what?” I chimed. “What’s that?” Laurence chirped. “It’s a weather phenomenon that happens in California during the fall,” Dad responded. I spooned more eggs into my mouth. “It’s kind of like a hurricane, but without the rain, and it doesn’t rotate.” The description seemed odd. What kind of storm visits and bears no rain? And the name was so plain, yet haunting. In my mind, the name should’ve been whispered fearfully between passing strangers and hissed between gritted teeth like an epithet. Santa Ana is coming. She cannot be stopped. She shows no mercy. Our dad took us outside to check for any damage. In the backyard, the swings on the swing set were tossed over the crossbar. Paper airplanes that I had lost in the rain gutters were rammed in bushes and wet with dew on the grass. The mysterious midnight sun that I noticed was produced by transformers blowing across town. It was their light that had lent the night its freakish glow. The THUMP that had awoken me was simply our gate rocking drunkenly on its hinges, torn loose from its lock.
30 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW Santa Ana certainly showed no mercy to our fences. We were greeted by another remnant of a warzone in our driveway. The Hand of God had reached down from heaven, plucked up our pickets, and effortlessly scattered them across our driveway like matchsticks. One of our lattices was mysteriously missing, and it was never found. The basketball hoop lay lifeless on its side. Our forest-green Chevrolet Suburban had survived unscathed. “What in the world?” I said, because that’s what adults said. My dad observed God’s matchsticks and frowned. The Chinese neighbor’s stately oak tree—big around as I was tall and so massive it practically swallowed the sky—was casually uprooted, its soiled remnants lifted toward the clouds as if pleading for clemency. It had left a considerable divot in their yard and blocked the whole street. I remembered staring at it, mouth agape, longing to climb it and get lost in its branches, but lacking the courage and strength to do so. It was awe-inducing and eerie that such a great organism could be so unceremoniously felled. By dinnertime, the power had not yet returned to our home. With no stove to cook from and no real food to pull from the refrigerator, my parents decided to go to the closest area with power, find a grocery store, pick up dinner from the cafeteria, and bring it home. “It’ll be fun!” my mom said. “We can have a candlelight dinner and play board games. Whenever we lost power when I was your age, that’s what we did.”
31 “I like fire,” Laurence said cheerily, his eyes ablaze. “Please don’t let Laurence handle the matches,” I pleaded. As we drove, my family got a bigger idea of the carnage that Santa Ana had wrought on our town. My face was pressed to the glass, eyes sweeping over many destroyed trees. Fire trucks surrounded downed power lines, and bucket trucks frantically worked on power lines. The air seemed hazy and dusty. It was chaos, inflicted by the touch of an invisible meteorological entity. I recalled that great presence above our roof and shivered. It was incredible to see how quickly the ordinary could be swept away. About an hour later, my family returned home with breaded baked chicken, green beans, and wild rice in Styrofoam containers. My mom neatly distributed each dish to our places at the table while Dad pulled out the lighter and lit some candles. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, our dinner felt intimate and unique. For the first time in a while, my family truly enjoyed a meal and the simple blessing of green beans and chicken. It was ironic that it took the world to stop for it to happen. After dinner, Laurence and I cleared the table of dishes and laid out Monopoly: Canada Edition in their place. I picked the airplane, Laurence picked the racecar, Dad picked the rollerblade, and Mom picked the burger. As the youngest, I went first. “Six!” I exclaimed excitedly and
32 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW flew my plane down to Vancouver, which I then bought. Laurence’s racecar made it to Toronto. Dad rollerbladed straight into income tax. Mom’s burger sped to Ottawa. It was a fierce game, but slowly and surely, Dad bought properties and built hotels until all three of us went bankrupt. “I won! Da-da can never be beaten!” Dad exclaimed gleefully. Laurence and I pouted, but his teasing was infectious. Mom warned against the dangers of pride, but smiled at her husband. For the first time since 3 AM, I checked the time on our analog clock. It was almost time for bed. The irony of the difference in the situation struck me. The last time I had looked at that very clock, I had been surrounded by deafening wind, peculiar light, and tortured trees. The time did not go unnoticed by my parents. My mom snuffed out the candles. “In the wake of my smashing victory, it is time for bed!” my dad said. Laurence and I giggled in protest as he scooped us up and paraded down the hallway to my room, where he threw me on the bed. He then dragged Laurence, kicking and screeching with gaiety, to the other side of the house and deposited him in his room. I mindlessly did my nighttime routine, absentmindedly showering and methodically brushing my teeth until the toothpaste stung my gums and
33 tongue. I fiercely swished fluoride around my mouth (I was terrified of cavities). I frantically killed a daddy-long-leg in the corner, holding it as far away from my body as possible between toilet paper and flushing it away. It had become a weekly routine in an old house such as ours. Finally, I flicked out the lights and slid under my smooth, cool sheets. The house was quiet. The lights were out. I was alone for the first time all day. I’m alone for the first time all day. My heart began to throb anxiously. My sheets had been unmoved from their messy state since the night before. I thought of when the Angel of Death had passed by our house, rattled our fences askew, and lit up the windy night with an extraterrestrial glow. I thought of the gargantuan oak tree next door, torn asunder by a rainless fury. I thought of the grounded planes at LAX, who longed to soar and yet could not. I thought of the presence above my house last night, Santa Ana, who pondered clawing our roof from our walls. How she came, how she could not be stopped, and how she showed no mercy. And how she might return once more. In the darkness, I waited for her arrival. THUMP.
34 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW Self-Service Snellen Test by Elise Hunnemeyer
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36 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW ABVE-PC by Sophia J. Camillone Mustard gas is an agent of chemical warfare that causes severe burns to living things. Chemically known as dichlorodiethyl sulfide, the yellow fumes damage cells rapidly, though visible symptoms may take hours to develop after the initial exposure. Inhalation of mustard gas damages the airways. Skin reddens and blisters, and significant contact with the gas causes necrosis, the death of cell tissue. Even if necrosis does not develop, a quantity of redness that covers as much as a quarter of a person’s entire body indicates lethal exposure. There is no chemical that can fight mustard gas, and there is no antidote for mustard poisoning. Survival depends entirely on the level and concentration of a person’s exposure. *** My dad sits across from my hospital bed. In one hand he holds a cup of coffee, pure black just like he always drinks it, and in the other is his weighty Bible with large enough print for his eyes— they’ve never quite been the same since he had cataract surgery a few years ago. This last hour or so, he’s been my sole company, aside
37 from the occasional nurse. My mom is at home for now, just a 30-minute drive away, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t be here either if I didn’t have to be. It is my fourth visit to the children's hospital in the last two months, and each time my mom has made herself a temporary home here on the turquoise pullout couch that my dad now sits on. Of all my experiences in that hospital, the interior design choices are some of my least favorite. Usually, I like turquoise, but that couch paired with the offensively bright orange chair to its left created a garish effect. It is as if the interior designers wanted the furniture to compensate for the suffering that kids would experience in those rooms, like they thought that the brightly colored furniture would sit there with these plastered, blinding smiles. As if the color orange could tell hospitalized kids that tomorrow will be a better day with less nausea and more sunshine. My dad must have gotten tired of watching me just sitting on the white hospital bed, doing nothing except mindlessly scroll on my phone, and he tells me that we should go for a walk. The idea is strange to me. I can’t quite articulate why, but I don’t feel like walking. I guess I don’t want to go through the effort of getting up, even if I am feeling well enough to do so. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I don’t feel like doing anything at all, not when chemicals have so recently ravaged my body and not when I feel like a collection of limp bones
38 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW and strung-together ligaments. Theoretically, I should want to leave that still, sterile room and see what and who is out there beyond these boring white walls. But it seems to me that I will find an equally boring white hallway inhabited by purposeful nurses and the occasional scurrying doctor. I will stand out as one of their subjects that is passing through, un-belonging and only temporarily tethered to their domain by IV lines in my arm and a pulse ox monitor on my finger and the sickness that is constantly ebbing and flowing within me like the gray January ocean that churns only a couple miles away. I want to see that ocean, not rooms of sick kids surrounded by poisonous drugs and tired families and endless prayers. *** In World War I, chemical warfare agents like mustard gas caused the deaths of over 90,000 people. From the bodies of 75 autopsied soldiers, scientists found a common component in each: a decrease of white blood cells. Their research led Yale University to begin special investigations into chemical warfare agents during World War II. In 1943, U.S. Army doctors recorded a similar decrease of white blood cell counts in their patients from the German air raid on Bari, Italy. These studies led to the development of chlormethine, which became the first chemotherapy drug used to treat cancer. Between cancerous cells and mustard gas, the latter proves the victor, a poison even greater
39 than the rapid invasion of haywire cells. Chemistry used to kill now saves lives. *** The nurses have unhooked me from the various lines that usually trap me in a tangled web, and I am walking with my dad in a small loop around the pediatric oncology ward. I am free, but I feel small and insubstantial. I am a wisp of a girl, an adult in the eyes of the government and yet still a fragile child. We walk and I think about how I was born at this hospital, 18 years ago, in that imposing black octagon building visible from the windows here. I think about my smallness, that I was helpless then and that I am helpless now. So much of my life I assumed was my doing, my striding around and commanding and organizing. Now I realize that we are all infants, flailing and fighting but completely vulnerable. God help us. *** Chlormethine has treated cancers such as Hodgkin’s lymphoma, leukemia, and lung cancer for over 60 years. More recently, cyclophosphamide, a more stable derivative of mustard gas, has replaced chlormethine in treatment plans. The drug attacks rapidly dividing cells by compromising their RNA or DNA. It can also instigate apoptosis, cell suicide. Although cyclophosphamide effectively kills cancer cells, it simultaneously damages a patient’s blood cells,
40 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW cells lining the digestive tract, and hair follicles. Side effects of the drug include low blood counts, mouth sores, nausea, and hair loss. The body becomes a battleground in the war against cancer, and healthy cells are the casualties. After all, mustard gas is an agent of chemical warfare. *** Doxorubicin, bleomycin, vincristine, etoposide, prednisone, cyclophosphamide. The words have been tossed around me from late November to mid-February. They haven’t quite left me yet, but I can feel them fading away in the whispers of the ocean and the whip of the wind, slowly sailing across the Long Island Sound all the way to the distant thread of Connecticut on the horizon. I am finally seeing the ocean again. It is cold and beautiful. My parents and I walk down the rocky, shell-filled beach. There are bare, twisting trees on our right and lapping green-blue waves on our left. Overhead, streaking, puffy white clouds contrast the deep blue sky, and lone gulls soar across the water. The air is wonderfully salty. As my parents and I walk, we happen across our neighbor, Ruth, with a friend of hers and her shaggy black dog with graying fur. My parents’ greetings to her rapidly fade into confusion as they notice her distant but decided guard of a small gray lump several feet away.
41 There’s a baby seal stranded on the beach, fuzzy-looking and helpless. Ruth loves everything in nature, and I remember my mom saying that she used to be Buddhist. Or something ambiguously spiritual. Whatever her beliefs, she cares deeply about every living thing, as evidenced by her current worried chattering about the seal’s situation. She’s been trying to call a wildlife hot line, but the service on the shoreline is weak. Her dog is intrigued by its fellow creature, and she makes sure to keep him back. The seal pup shifts its head about but doesn’t try to move anywhere. I can tell he’s alive, though, with how his little nose wiggles in gentle snorts and how his back occasionally scrunches up and down. We wonder where his mother is and if he’s unconcerned by her absence or simply petrified in fear. Though we all give him a wide berth, I want to walk up to him and get a closer look at his dark gray fur speckled with white spots. But I know better than to frighten him, and I respect his vulnerability. Later that day, Ruth calls my mom to let her know that the wildlife experts think there’s nothing to be concerned about. The seal’s mother was probably out hunting and left her baby on the shore for a little bit. He seems to be patiently waiting for her return, content to lay there on the sand under the waning sun. I think about waiting, about newborns, about taking walks in hospitals and on beaches, about the warfare that it is to be alive, and I understand now that I am
42 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW waiting for the end of the world. It is as inevitable as ever, pressing into my chest with an undeniable weight. And I will wait here in the sun.
43 The Snow on 146th Ln NW by Adelyn Olson Snow falls heavy in Minnesota. Great blankets shudder over skeletons and snuggle into witches’ cauldrons as Halloween turns into winter. It slips in at midnight, falls to the rhythm of school bells, and marks the start of Christmas. It’s always cold here, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll still let the snowflakes sting my tongue and fingertips. I step outside our holly-red door, tiptoeing in three inches of snow. My hand sinks into the yard. I don’t find grass or the bricks surrounding our maple. But I do find the soft ache of wintertime, burning my hands red. Lifting them out, I study the flakes melting on my palm. Each is different, delicate, and disappearing. I’ve always been told each snowflake is unique, fashioned distinctly by God’s gentle fingers. I imagine their formation, water droplets freezing as they drift past clouds and stars. I always pictured snowflakes falling down readymade, perfect dendrites fanning out in six frosty branches. How chaotic must it be, the collision of water and windblown particles, gradually becoming heavier and heavier and heavier, the uncertainty of not knowing where they’ll land, of hitting concrete or tree or flake…
44 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW When I think of home, I think of snow. My memories have a white, misty tinge. Even in the mosquito-heat of August, the sky carries the promise of snow. Most despise Minnesota’s long winter. They ward off Jack Frost with weekends “up north,” chasing fish and runaway innertubes. Log cabins, sandy beaches, and tiny ocean-lakes trick everyone into staying just a bit longer: “No, it’s really not so bad in Minnesota. Have you been to Duluth?” But winter steals in, sometimes dripping all over October. The first snow is the most beautiful. Just before, some tangible feeling saturates the air. A new layer of cold, a new scent like pine and ice and nostalgia rolled into one, and you know snow is coming. I love it most at night, when I curl up on my window seat, a heavy novel balanced on my knee. Soft blankets shield me from the chill creeping under my window as I study the snow slanting across the sky. A street lamp stands by the road, and the swirling flakes under the light fool me into believing I’ve wandered to Narnia. Even in summer, my eyes always drift to that lamppost. While picking weeds, going on a walk, or driving to work, the lamppost whispers of coziness and comfort. I could find it even in dreamland, a marker which always promises that home is near with its creamy yellow paneling, pine green roof, and ruby red door. One of my greatest joys is to make snow cream. I can picture the recipe in orderly Calibri font, stuffed into one of my mom’s bulging binders.
45 *8 cups snow *1/2 cup milk *1/2 cup evaporated milk *1/2 cup sugar *1 tsp vanilla *chocolate chips *snow covered boots and numb fingers Fresh snow means fresh snow cream. To me, it was always a secret recipe passed down through the hands of mothers and grandmothers till it reached my small, eager fingers. With snow falling thickly down, we would set one of the silver metal bowls on our deck. Nestled into several inches of snow, the bowl would scorch our fingers after it gathered a fresh layer of flakes. Hands aching from the cold, I would rush inside to the kitchen island, where my mom and brother had spread and measured all the ingredients. Haphazardly, we threw everything into the bowl, desperately stirring it together with a spatula. Fighting the quickly melting snow, we scooped it into three smaller bowls, grasped our spoons, and devoured the vanilla-snow. To me, snow cream was a rare delicacy. The danger of it melting before I could mix in the ingredients added a layer of excitement and apprehension. I knew how quickly it could disappear, leaving nothing but a soggy reflection of something beautiful. Sometimes, though, I wished the snow would disappear a bit faster. I liked shoveling snow, but I also hated it. The first few minutes are fun, with the sharp air wafting through your nostrils and tightening the skin on your face. Manual labor holds a certain
46 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW appeal with the right frame of mind. But soon my back ached, and my fingers stiffened. Snow relentlessly multiplied and tire tracks stapled it to the driveway. Then I longed to run inside and burrow under my thick brown blanket with a book. I hated scraping my car off, too. Perhaps the worst part of going to school was scouring inches of ice off the windows and driving through slick, snow-caked streets. Shoving a bagel into my mouth, I would turn on the ignition ten minutes before take-off. Standing in the bathroom, I watched my car puffing steam while straightening my hair. I never estimated enough time. I always ended up late, tiredly excavating my windshield just enough to peek above the steering wheel. By the end, I could barely feel my fingers. During those times, I hated the snow and its persistence. I hated the neverending white which chilled the very bones. I dreamed of green grass and warm sun rays, cursing the black slush clumped on every curb. And yet, when I think of home, I think of snow. We take a white Christmas for granted in Minnesota. Blizzards lie just around the corner, and the day we have a green Christmas in Minnesota, I’ll know something is wrong. But we actually spend our Christmases in Ohio. When I was eight, we moved my life from Ohio to my now-home in Minnesota. Despite years spent putting roots down in Minnesota, we always return to my grandparents in Ohio for Christmas. I always wanted to have a white Christmas, but more often than not we simply got rain. But as a result, Christmas started
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