- lllSi\11: . · . . ' 1~ -

Lit Wir:iners 5 The Funeral of Emma Buck 6 Ashley McHugh The Afterlife 7 Kade Harden Acorns 9 Lois Kwa Lit 10 Asylum Beginning 11 Ashley McHugh ' Billy's Settled Down Now 12 Lois Kwa Cleveland Shore - 13 Alexandra BentayotJ Barbecue in Black 14 Sylvie Kim Death of a Poet 17 Suellen Kasiara Lady Clementine 18 Suellen Kasiara All the Way to Dallas 19 Bryan Hurt ' Lit Bios 26 The In-Between I Submissions II Friends of Mosaic Ill Staff IV The Inward

1.1'1' \~f INN 1:11s From the Outside Looking In ... KADE HARDEN THE AFTERLIFE prose winner Susan sits in her oldest daughter Allie's kitchen watching her childproof the house. Allie is six weeks pregnant and is sitting on the floor, testing the caps to all her cleaning products. "Can b~bies figure out how to use Windex?" she asks. "You and your sister never could." THE FUNERAL OF EMMA BUCK NGood." ASHLEY MCHUGH What Susan meant was that Allie and her sister Julie never cleaned a window _in their lives, but she doesn't feel like poetry winner explaining this. Allie is aggravated enough, terrified by her own house and all the hidden toxins ready to kill her unborn The first fruit drops onto the casket with a hollow thud children, so said the newscaster on channel 4 last night. When she is done with the cabinet under the sink, she stands up and others follow. I run my fingers slowly, supporting her back. "I think I felt a kick," she says, pressing a hand against her stomach. over my orange's imperceptible pores; Susan says nothing. She doesn't remember feeling anything until at least three months, right about the same time of squeeze the fruit and feel the flesh give way. her wedding to Allie's father, Jack. She was terrified somehow the guests would see the sharp little kicks poke through her dress and disprove the common conception that she was just getting fat. She looks at her stomach now, poking the soft, In rhythm with the empty drumming of dropping oranges middle-aged flesh. I dig my thumb nail into the rind. The juice surges up "I'm so excited about having a baby," Allie grins and sits down at the kitchen table slowly, with both hands pressed tb lick my cuticle, then slides down, against the small of her back. "Wasn't having a child the most amazing experience of your life?" coating my palm in sticky sweet sap. Susan snorts. She remembers the pain and the panting and the gripping of bedrails, focusing on a paper bunny someone had taped to the wall of the delivery room for Easter. The bunny was painting an egg lavender and pink with happy I peel away the rind until the naked fruit little chicks peeping at his feet. She concentrated onthat damn bunny and his stupid chicks through the whole delivery as she is unprotected between my hands, then slip a slick finger pushed and screamed and swore until the blood vessels in her eyes burst. Jack arrived just in time to see the placenta and into the cool, damp center, separate slices from the whole; pass out. listen as each wet piece slaps the pine. She had always thought that of her two daughters, Allie would end up most like her in the end, but marriage had changed her. That little girl who used to draw unicorns on her notebooks and read A Wrinkle in Time under the covers of her bed had turned into a worshipper of domestic duties, a person who got excited about buying new curtains and cooking dinner. Last year, Allie had dedicated her life to her wedding, to that moment when two-hundred-plus guests would watch her step down the aisle in a Vera Wang to Pachelbel's "Canon~ Susan had sat in the front pew in a matronly peach dress, eyes down, folding the program into an airplane. She felt fat and old and disappointed. Her own wedding had been at a Lutheran church on a Friday, because it was cheaper to get married on a weekday. Jack had to go back to work at the GM plant that following Monday, so they spent the weekend moving furniture into their new house, a small blue duplex with wood paneling and a cement patio in the back. This year Allie's obsession is having a baby, having already applied for maternity leave starting in three months. Susan watches as her daughter opens a can of caffeine free diet soda and slurps the foam. "My doctor says I shouldn't be drinking caffeine." Nit's amazing you kids ever survived." Allie doesn't seem to hear. She flips through a book titled Your Baby's First Years: What Every Responsible Mother Must Know. For the past three months Allie has been calling her with questions like "When was your first sonogram ?"and "When did Julie and I start to sit up?" Susan forgets those little landmarks, those things she should have kept in their baby books that remain empty in a box in the basement._She does remember expecting motherhood to come to her naturally, that she would know when the baby needed feeding, why she was crying, how to get her to sleep. She remembers panicking when it didn't and having to discover things on her own: caffeine passes through breast milk and keeps babies awake. Swaddling the baby tightly keeps her from crying. Putting mittens on the baby's hands keeps her from scratching her face up with her own tiny, needle-like nails. She remembers spending the night on the floor of the nursery, listening to Allie fuss and screech bababa as though she were speaking in some sort of secret Morse code. Sometimes she would pick her up and hold her at a distance,

6 crying, "What do you want? What do you want?" Times seemed so much harder back then. Jack had been laid off two weeks before Allie's first Christmas. GM had closed the plant and moved to Mexico with promises of finding work for its former employees. For weeks they waited for the letter, but it never came. There was a small severance check from the union, with which they bought a real Christmas tree, a turkey, and some new clothes for Allie. They built fires in the fireplace to save gas; some of Susan's fondest memories were of sitting in front of that fireplace, watching Jack lay on his back and thrust Allie into the air, singing "Believe It Or Not." Somehow they had made ends meet; somehow they had su rvived. Susan isn't so sure if she is as strong now as she was then. Allie doesn't ask about these things .though. She wants to know whe_n she and Julie started to talk. ACORNS LOIS KWA "16 months?" Susan guesses. She decides it must have been right before Julie was born because she remembers Allie poetry - honorable mention crying "Up, up, up!" and her stomach was too large to pick her up. Allie was only nine months old when she found out she was pregnant with Julie. This she remembers. It was a March morning and she was on to her way to the gynecologist to renew her You know of her youth not from bright eyes birth control pills. Allie was stuffed in her car seat like crab in a mushroom, sucking on Cheerios. The lock on the passenger but from the hot hope in her mother's face, side of the Dart was still broken. They were late because Susan had had to rig a bungee cord from the door handle to the a woman who did not expect this child parking break to keep the door shut. As they waited for her test results at the clinic, Allie refused to stay still, lunging for the --not a decade so late, when she was bleeding Redbooks as though desperate for beauty tips from Bo Derek. To keep her quiet, Susan sang along to the receptionist's radio to the rhythm of tropical storms not the moon-- down the hall--- nor the yearning that crowns her creased-linen brow Hey ram~lin ' boy why don't you settle down? as surely as bridal wildflowers. Boston ain't your kind of town There ain't no gold and there ain't nobody like me Scrape the deep-vanilla petals from a wild orchid, for the honeymoon bed, or such ·a sin: just say that She didn't hear the gynecologist come into the examining room; he had had to clear his throat. "I'm afraid I can't her hands could yet cradle the soft skull of a grandchild. renew your prescription," he said with a small smile on his bear-like face. "Congratulations Mrs. Hurwitz. You're pregnant." · The doctor gave her a lecture, but Susan couldn't hear a word he said. Her head was buzzing; her ears felt hot. She You'll see the change--like sudden, warm moonlight simply left after he shook her hand. She didn't remember why Allie had one of her earrings in her fist when she strapped her soaking the fissures of her brown-paper skin, into her car seat or where the pamphlet on folic acid had come from she searched her purse for her keys. She drove home as if her veins could cast out nets and iron anchors with one hand pressed against the still-loose·flesh of her stomach, imagining she could feel the baby inside, a parasite, a little and they stretch out to accommodate roundworm growing, clinging to the wall of her uterus. She had just gotten her period back. She could finally wear her old a limber, searching body of old, old hunger. bras again. There was no way they could afford two children. She would have to start potty training Allie, she told herself, just as soon as the other was born. One of the children would have to go to cosmetology school instead of college. At a long red You will see the fires grow beneath her cheekbones, light she absently pulled the parking break and the passenger door swung open, letting cold air and snow rush into the car. like soaked torches thrown down, old limbs Allie began to scream and Susan began to cry. like old friends a blessed heap, crackling, at t he gnarled roots · But Allie doesn't ask about these things. She wants to know what her and her sister's first words were. (blackened by spit and coarse love and autumn storm) "Duck," Susan says. "Both of you." of a twice-forked oak tree,

you'll see it can shame all greensap mothers who did not have to try.

8 9 ASYLUM BEGIN.NING ASHLEY MCHUGH I wound the rope around my wrists. He offered: Let me take you to the hospital. The circulation cut, my skin was red and white like petals from an apple tree.

' I closed my eyes imagined looping rope around the fire escape's iron bars, the tiger lily rust just flaking off under tightening knots. I pulled the rope until it pinched the skin around my wrists. My fingers throbbed when I let go-all red ' and white like petals from an apple tree

Let me take you to the hospital.

Unafraid and still as ice, I looped the rope around my neck and practiced­ pulled it tight, recited that without a god or legend to refer to there is no hades, heaven, hell then closed my eyes and jumped. The rope uncoiled until, taut it snapped to stop my fall. My eyes bloodshot, my pupils dead as olives laid in ash, my slender knees knocking together; saw myself all flushed and fl oating down to dirt like petals from an apple tree. 1.1'1'

11 CLEVELAND SHORE BILLY'S SETTLED DOWN NOW ALEXANDRA BENTAYOU LOIS KWA You r laugh startled me sudden and sharp like rocks jutting from the lake. I laughed too at the dog we found Last year, Becie wore a knotted silk kerchief back then, she had hands with layered calluses stinking on those rocks wrapped about soft black hair, and heavy and drawing them across the crawling sweet-peas hair washed away, yellow skin. low as the sweet georgia soil swung hoops on the wooden fence border was a sad prayer. How disgusting. How hilarious. from lush, comma-shaped earlobes. (Willing the petals to stay on, and to bless her His eyes are gone, the fish ate them. Even when brushing her teeth at night, _ hard body, long, lanky and wider We shrieked at gulls paralyzed in wind. you could tell from the careful way she leaned at the shoulders than hips.) Those were hard nights You hurled stones those whip-tight sapling hips against the sink but B bloomed since 1985 as they stupidly flapped. that she wore her dowry to bed. Beautiful birds were on the sand, and last year, when she rode the train down wooden, smoothed by water. Indian art. These were not thin skeleton discs, but the true to summer Tennessee in the rain, she had no doubts Blue and green jewels too, polished among brown weight of pirate-solid copper coins reaching down to and when a man touched her bracelet-bound arm shards our feet feared. tap against a bold lady's jawbone, just like she almost sang. She kept her backbone to the chair You didn't wear any shoes. a knowing fingertip would be tap-tapping just like a dowry, of course. "No raised brow, The lake was dull and flat all along the hollows of Becie's curvature. please, I mention these lady-mysteries because of (the way you say your "A''s) She's lushed out since 1985, though, what it means to be no lady at all''. a sheet of old steel. blosso~ed from Valdosta to the Bay Area That was last year, her glory sunrise I loved it and laughed till you touched that fish with the maggots­ and nobody is as knowing as that. and so Becie wore eyelashes like a woman's maiden name, tiny pearls nursing flesh flakes What with some of us born to shake had them rich as sweet butter. and said They're hungry too. from awkward feeling, to jive with our weak knees And they did not fade, eyelashes that drew a man, instead of feet, B can scorn us now-- being as lovely as moon-fresh clover. But they never she sways like 18 years of practice spoke out louder than the rings on her fingers. out on the gravel path in mama's backyard just like a woman can move

12 13 wanted to make it known that they had in fact been proper, bereaved guests and dropped oft an entree,desser,t or appetizer SYLVIE KI M in honor of the deceased, and that they would appreciate getting their dishes back. They had had their moment, albeit brief, BARBECUE IN BLACK to suitably deal with his mother's death, but Grant hadn't. And now he had to sit through hours of a barbecue in black before The funeral for Grant's mother, Margaret, was held at the cemetery that sat adjacent to St. Anthony Academy where he could get his chance. He scanned the masking tape nametags on each of the dishes and pulled the one that read "Jeff Grant was in grade seven. The reception was held at their house and his father, Stephen, had confided in him on the ride home Mark" closer to him, a glass pan full of almond cake, his mother's favorite. that the car accident that killed her occurred while she was driving home from seeing a boyfriend. From his seat, he began popping lids off of dishes, a fork hela in his right hand. When St~phen finally walked into the "I eavesdropped on their phone conversation that night," he said quickly, probably not wanting to dwell on the fact kitchen, probably after making his first rounds around the house looking for strange men, Grant was three-quarters of the way that this was the first significant thing he had shared with Grant in all of his twelve years of fatherhood. "I don't know who he through a Pyrex pan full of carrot cake. Stephen took a seat next to him, moving aside dishes to make room for his elbows. He is or what he looks like, but I heard his voice." stared at his son, probably wondering how he was managing to fit that much dessert into his 80-pound body. "What did he say?" Grant asked. He feigned curiosity; he already knew that the man's name was Jeff, that he was tall "Is that all you're eating?" He asked, picking up a casserole dish and passing it in his direction. "You should eat some with glasses. Grant had only seen him once, when he stopped by the house to visit his mother. Grant was supposed to be in real food before taking on an entire cake." Grant waved away the casserole and continued making quick, clean incisions into bed, sick, but had watched his mother embrace and talk with him from the stairs. He never thought it was weird seeing her the cake with his fork. hug a man that wasn't his father; it seemed to make her happy, like suddenly she knew how to tell a joke and how to laugh at "I'll get to it later," he said, taking a small sip of milk. "Can you put the salads and stuff in the fridge?" one. Grant then made a silent pact with her to never tell him about what he had seen. He added it to the list of things he kept Stephen looked across the expanse of the large kitchen table and then back at his son. "Well, we're supposed to leave from him, like the fact that she would say nearly every day that his father was "Conventional. Horribly conventional in every it out so other people can eat it." way." "Nobody died in their family," Grant said. "I heard him say one sentence," Stephen continued. "He said, 'I'm about to.drive into a tunnel. Call you back."' "That's not the point, Grant." Stephen looked over his shoulder. "These are our guests and some of them look like "Not much to go on," Grant said. · they're starving. They should get to eat." "Not true." Stephen pulled into their garage and turned off the ignition. "I have this gut feeling that he's going to "Well, then they shouldn't have brought food to our house if they were just going eat it themselves. It's insincere." show up to the reception. Maybe try to blend in as so-and-so's cousin. But I'm going to find him." Stephen rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "I know you'd rather not have half the neighborhood in your "How?" face, but it's what we're supposed to do. I don't know why, it's just how these things go." "All I have to do single out the guys that I don't recognize. I'll start up a conversation, and get him to say a couple of "How conventional," Grant said. those words. I just need to hear them once; and I'll know." Stephen looked oddly at his son. "Since when do you start using words like 'conventional'?" Grant opened the passenger side door and then shut it on his father who was still in his seat, waiting for some kind of "I learn a lot harder words at school," he said. "Besides, Mom used to say it all the time." validation of his plan. During the service, Grant had felt so empty that he actually looked to his father's face for some kind of "In what context?" Stephen asked. consoling glance or nod. But his father looked preoccupied rather than devastated, like he was trying to remember the last "What?" Grant placed the cover back on the cake pan. item on a grocery list or the name of a song that was just on the tip of his tongue. Now he knew that during the burial, his "When would she say 'conventional'?" father was tr~ing to piece together the image of some phantom man who had successfully made his wife happy. Grant Grant leaned forward in his chair and started surveying the food again. "Don't remember." He placed a hand on his couldn't believe he was the only one that was there to mourn. stomach, which now had the curvature of a tortoise shell and stuck out from beneath his black sweater. He opened a new dish It wasn't long before the doorbell started to ring and guests started arriving. Grant had answered the door when the and wiped his fork clean on a paper napkin. Stephen placed his hands on top of his until they were lying flat on the tabletop. St. Anthony PTA, armed with Tupperware, walked into the kitchen like they had a right to draw the curtains just because his "You're going to make yourself sick." mother had been the lynchpin of their quarterly bake-sales. They told Grant that they would take care of setting up the food "Don't worry," Grant said. "I'll tell everyone that you tried to stop me." for the guests. He watched one woman pick up a Jell-0 mold that said "Grace Franklin" on a piece of masking tape on the side Stephen moved his hands into his lap and lowered his voice. of its dish. "That buckethead, Grace," the woman said, dumping the dish out into the trash can. "So tacky." She looked up to "Can you come outside with me just for a few minutes?'' Stephen asked. "I need you to help me find him." see him watching her with wide eyes. She curled her mouth up into one of those close-mouthed smiles with her head tilted to "What are you going to do if you find him? Punch him in the face?" the side. "Grant, why don't you go play outside?" "We'll worry about that when we get there," Stephen said. He took a seat at the table. "I don't feel like playing." "You don't even know if he's here." He could tell they were dying for him to leave so they could be themselves; so they could start to rip apart their "I'm pretty sure." Stephen rubbed the back of his neck. "I told you, I have a feeling." friends and neighbors all under the guise of being angels with serving spoons. The rest of the house was already occupied by Grant slumped back in his seat, his bloated belly sticking out even more. His mouth was slightly agape and glistened people who had left their solemn faces at the cemetery. They had started hushed conversations about his mother, saying with dessert glaze. He wiped his mouth and then slid his chair out. He stood up, grabbing the dish of almond cake and then things like "Too young, just too young" but shortly moved on to talks about gas mileage and cholesterol. He wouldn't let them headed for the backdoor, with Stephen following close behind. He had had enough of his father and his gut feelings. take the kitchen. Stephen told him to start talking with random men, to ask them how they knew his mother. He figured that the He looked across the table at all the pans and bowls and platters, courtesy of the funeral attendees who had boyfriend would be more receptive to talking to Margaret's kid rather than her husband. Grant was supposed to alert him expressed their condolences for this dead mother with macaroni salad and pigs-in-a-blanket. He figured the guests had just when he met someone that seemed especially nervous or suspicious.

14 lS -"Stay close," Stephen said. "So I can see what's going on." Grant darted off into the crowd, snaking around toddlers and fat adults, clutching the dish in his hands like a football. When he knew he was hidden from his father's eyes, he started examining people's faces, trying to spot his mother's boyfriend. The people and their nasally chatter was killing him, so he slipped past the side of the house and into the front yard. He saw him right away, sitting on the curb next to the same car he had driven the day he visited their house. He took a seat beside him and DEATH OF A POET looked straight ahead, the sound of the man's sniffling making him feel awkward. He unwrapped the dish and placed it in the SUELLEN KASIARA man's lap. ''And then/ looked at the pen and said to myself, what the hell am I grabbing this for? Why am I trying to become "I forgot a fork," he said. "Sorry, Jeff." what I don't want to be?" Jeff wiped at his eyes with his forearm and tried to smile. "It's okay," he said, grabbing a piece with his fingers. He ate the . cake, brushing at the crumbs that fell down the front of his suit jacket. "Want some?" He scooted over and placed the dish - Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller between them. Grant dug in too, even though an acidic feeling was shooting through his stomach. "It's nice to finally meet you," Jeff said. Workshops wear me like a broken sales tag "You too." Bleeding red like Biff's stolen pen. "I almost didn't come here," he said. "I didn't know if it would cause trouble." My work marked down to clearance, "You should be here." All words must go. Poets pry my images apart, peeling Jeff brushed his hands off and then ran them down the side of his pants. "Yeah . I thought so too." Layers of voice away until the faint echo of past poets appears Grant turned around to see his father approaching, his eyes squinting to see who he was sitting w ith. And I am but a memory of what might have been. "You have to go," Grant said, pushing Jeff.on the arm. "Thanks for coming." Jeff turned around to look and then got up, I am a shredded onion, crying confused hyperboles walking swiftly to his car. Down my cheeks as I stare at my pen in iced accusations. "Hey!" Stephen shouted, quickening his step to a jog. Grant grabbed onto his leg as he passed. Put it away, I say. But it moves in red blurs: "Dad, I'm going to be sick." Clarify more. Check syntax. Word choice. Stephen tried to wrench his leg loose as he watched Jeff get into his car. "Grant, who is that? Who is that guy?" Call me crazy '.'I'm really going to be sick," Grant said. He held onto his father's leg until he heard Jeff's car start up and rumble past But this feels colloquial. Repetitive. Overused like a wet paper towel. them before letting go. Stephen grabbed him by the shoulders and shook them as he spoke. Don't use references. Especially if they don't relate. "Was that him? It was, wasn't it?" Move this here __Take that out. Grant looked up at his father whose. face was full of the wrong emotion on the wrong day. Jeff had cried, alone, without Nice imagery but don't capitalize every first letter of a line. the audience and setting of a gravesite to encourage him. He had been hoping to fully grieve alongside Jeff, but again his plans i'm looking for diamonds in the jungle with Uncle Ben. were stalled. He looked up at his father and wished he was strong enough to hit him, but he was still only eighty pounds, maybe searching for a Song of Myself, as my scythe slashes eighty-two w.ith the added food in his stomach. He ran the back of his hand over his forehead which was speckled with sweat. through the everglades of each stanza, pythons choking He leaned over and vomited, letting the day of his mother's wake splash onto his father's shoes. my heartbeat blue. i'm a salesman selling out to the highest bidder: Whitman, Pound, Ginsberg. i hear them say, There is no absolute truth ... but perhaps mine. and their voices kick me until my fingers can barely be seen clutching the corners of the page, red with stressed syllables. I don't want to buy fruit in A Supermarket in California. I don't want to quote cantos. Or cover half the page with references. Or slap a big vat of imagistic steak on the grill until all my blood has dripped off into a wad of grease. I refuse to record my lines pause by pause. Yet I've washed the pastoral country dirt from my hands and shuffled my poems below today's sales charts, into the bottom of a ~econd hand briefcase. And yet again I head to another meeting with the buyers. with the final nail on my briefcase, I wander out into the poem's epitaph. Biff, tell Willy I say hello.

16 17 ALL THE WAY TO DALLAS BRYAN HURT

I work at a little convenience store, a privately owned deal on the outskirts of McKinney, Texas. It's not a bad job, but LADY CLEMENTINE I'm too old for it. Out of college, I'm afraid that if I stay here longer I'll become one of those old ladies with hairnet and smoker's cough, one who flirts with truck drivers and construction workers. . Not that guys like that don't try to flirt with me now. I just don't reciprocate. The other day this guy slipped me his SUELLEN KASIARA phone number. I'm not sure what he did for a living, but he definitely was local ar:id not one of those who keep their bed and blanket in McKinney and commute into Dallas. He wanted cigarettes and a lotto ticket; charged for both of them, didn't even carry around ten dollars in cash. He winked and smiled and signed his receipt. He slid it across the counter and underneath the signature was his number. Faced with such an unflattering proposal, I slid him his cigarettes and lotto ticket. let orange juice drip down the toothless "Maybe it'll be our lucky day: He stuck the ticket in his breast pocket and grinned behind his two days stubble. usee vault of your mouth - wind down you around, Annie." I tugged on my nametag and glared at him. your wrinkles like tributaries, Out the door he walked, a hole in his blue jeans showing the pattern of his boxers-lumberjack plaid. Not even rivers in a half-loop cross-stitch across the skin wanting to know his name I flipped over the receipt and shoved it into the register. My shoulders and neck hurt; with an hour where your last steps are swept away in the undercurrent. to go in the shift my legs were like gravy. Bending over the counter I pressed my forehead into the glass. My eyes' reflections looked tired and beneath my mirrored pupils reels of instant lottery tickets mocked. If there were such great amounts of let the river take you down the waist unclaimed wealth, why was I still pulling register duty at the OK-Convenience? Why then was I still stuck in McKinney? If I won high cornstalks in your field, the lottery that's the first thing I would do. Get the hell out. riding the water bucket up the well, But it wasn't that simple-life never is. My roommate, Karen, she has a real job and still lives here. It makes good through the needle loops of a patchwork quilt, sense, she says. It's so much cheaper than in the city and it isn't half as bad as I make it out to be. She wouldn't say that if she rest your bones on the belly of your sleigh bed. spent every second of every day here getting handed telephone numbers on cigarette receipts. The door chimed and the guy was back in my store; his face was white like the walls, like the mayonnaise in aisle three. allow your limp feet to drip down as your family "Annie," he said. I arched my eyebrows. He was intelligent enough to read my nametag,did I really have to spell it out lowers your roots into the earth, pat the soil to him that I wasn't interested? around you like the smoothing of a warm quilt "I won," he said. He was bracing himself over the counter and shaking the ticket in my face. His breath smelled smoky on your lap, lay your head in the patchwork softness of the leaves, and repugnant-of charcoal and canned tuna, fire and brimstone. His forehead perspired. seep deeper as your flesh falls away. "Won what?" It was weird the feeling I got from him at such proximity. Only once before had I felt like this. Back when I started here and had to do nights, I was robbed. That man had been wearing a ski mask and instead of a ticket he'd been allow the winding rivers waving a gun. Money or your life, he'd said to me. And even though it was stupid like that, it was the easiest decision I've ever of your face to erase the path behind, made. sweep the trail of orange rinds at your feet, uThe lottery,"the man said and I wanted to cry out, my life! With a heavy hand he slapped the ticket on the counter as the juices recompose themselves into a four-post bed, for me to see. He sure did win. He'd played 'The Money Train' and won big. $30,000 big. I felt left at the station and wanted to beneath the tributaries of your open field. cry right then and there. It would have been easier to face the stick-up artist again-the man with the gun who was not afraid to use it. That, at least, is a situation I knew how to deal with. I'd give him the money, save my life, move on. I'd dealt with robberies. I'd been trained and te~ted. Open the cash drawer and lay the money out in neat and separate stacks: twenties, tens, fives, ones. We have video cameras and insurance. A robber would be caught eventually; I just needed to keep things running smoothly. The robber, at least, didn't come back to gloat. But this guy, the lottery winner, was waving more money than I made in a year in my face. Thirty thousand was more months of rent than I'd like to think about. It was boots and a skirt and a top and boots and a skirt and a top times a lot. It was health insurance. "That's a lot of money," I said, still grasping for the meaning of this exchange. I didn't know how to react to a man whose body language was so unintelligible-armed only with a ticket yet exhibiting such excitement, such aggression. He

18 19 was large and forced his bulk against the counter, his belly fat went north and south. Spittle dried in the corners of his lips. "I and I didn't get anything for it. Bags of money certainly didn't fall into my lap. The last promotion I received was when I was won" sounded so much like a threat. moved from nights to days and it wasn't like anyone threw me a party for it. "Yeah,• he said. He leaned forward even further his stomach swallowed the counter. "It is. So where is it?" I inhaled and held the smoke in my mouth. "Anyway, tell me something good." He wasn't, of course, serious was he? Did he really expect that I had thirty thousand sitting around just in case "What?" Karen was getting annoyed with me. She was sucking on her cigarette so hard I could hear the crackle of somebody hit the jackpot? I closed my mouth and struggled to find the words. All I could think about was what Karen had paper burn. I'd forgotten that today was her day and I shouldn't bring her down with my problems. "Do you play the lottery, told me once during happy hour over too many margaritas. She said that my worst day here wouldn't compare to what she Annie?" had to put up with. Listening to the ridiculous things her clients felt entitled to, she said, was like being held-up every minute "No," I said. "But I'm going to start." of every day. I didn't understand the pressures she felt dealing with the clients, the lowlifes, who demanded the services of her Karen stubbed out her cigarette. "I don't see how you can complain theri. It's not as if you were going to buy that employers, Maynard & Hochstein, attorneys at law. ticket but the guy beat you to it. It had probably been sitting there for hours, days even. It's all about risk and reward, Annie." The door chimed musically and an old woman entered the store. She went straight for the condiments, grabbed a "I take risks, Karen, and I'm sick of waiting for my time to come." I wanted to scream. Of course Karen didn't get it, she bottle of mustard, and took her place behind my lottery winner. Her face was serene looking and I hated her for her inner got things handed to her-her job, her promotion. She didn't know what it was like to work and never get ahead. "Just, I don't peace. She stared into the man's collar and her fingers played the bottle like the keys of a piano. Even though her nails, know, tell me about your party." manicured pink and glossy, suggested a better part of town, she was in no hurry to get back there. She lit a new cigarette and handed a fresh one to me. "Well first of all, it's not all about me. Sure, my esteemed friends He winked. "Come on sugar. Give me the money and I'll take you out for a nice steak dinner." I almost gagged and and coworkers are coming together to celebrate my promotion. That's true. But I like to think of it more as celebration of the old woman froze. She gripped the bottle and her knuckles flushed. In that moment she looked a few bats of the eyelids America, of upward mobility and the future." away from bawling. She squeaked. "And where comrade," I said, "are we celebrating this revolution?" The man noticed this. He pushed himsel( off the counter and wiped sweat from his brow. He looked around like a "Didn't I tell you? Downtown at the JFK museum." sleepwalker as if he'd forgotten where he was, who he was. The woman breathed shotgun snorts out her nose. Inhale, I I hiccupped. "The book depository?" thought. You've got to inhale. This man is stupid but he is not here to rob. "One of the clerks has a boyfriend that's a guard there. He's going to open it up for us." Still the words were not escaping me. "That doesn't seem right." I didn't like any part of the whole JFK death cult-the conspiracy museums, the walking The man turned around to face her. "Ma'am," he said. "Are you okay?" He reached out and touched her arm and with tours that followed the assassination path chronologically, the families who posed for pictures on the grassy knoll. It was that connection something seemed to snap in all of us. obscene. · "Breathe," I said desperately and the woman burst into tears. She dropped the bottle. "Please don't hurt me," she "Annie," said Karen. "Lighten up." said. I snubbed my cigarette on the cement. That was classic. I had to remember to tell Karen to lighten up next time I was "It's okay. It's just-" the man stammered at the woman's recoil. "It's just-I won the lottery." Tears ran down his face short on the rent payment. "I'm going to change. Let me know when we're going." as well. Our apartment was a mess. Junk mail littered the carpet, extra OK-Convenience shirts were draped over the couch and the easy chair. There were cigarette butts in the palm plant and my cereal bowl from this morning was still on the table. Befo.re getting ready for her party, I told Karen this story. She was being promoted, moved from one stable of junior When we first moved in together, both of us used to be neater. lawyers to another more important one within her firm. Her coworkers were rewarding her with a party and she was But that was right out of college and things were more equal between us then. Now I worked behind a counter and rewarding herself by taking up smoking again. Sitting on the porch after two months of abstinence she lit a cigarette and Karen had a real job. Because she paid most of the rent, I didn't feel right asking her to pick up her stuff. She didn't seem to inhaled with her eyes closed. care what I did with mine. · "What happened next?" she asked. Karen had just painted her toes and was fanning her coral nails. I swapped my uniform for a peasant shirt and jeans with a long skirt over top. It was a look that was catching on and "I thought I was going to be sick," I said. "I mean, what did that guy ever do that was so great he deserved all that one for which I was thankful. Jeans and a skirt made me feel secure and European and feminine, like what throwing a blanket money?" I shook a cigarette out of Karen's pack and lit it. I held the smoke in my mouth. It reminded me of kissing. over my shoulders and playing princess used to do when I was little. "You don't smoke." Karen grabbed the cigarettes away from me. That was funny. When I was little I wanted to be a princess. Now I'd settle for anything with decent benefits. "In light of recent events, I have decided to live dangerously." I went into the living room and picked up the TV remote. I put it down. I was afraid to turn on the television and find the "I meant what did the guy do next," Karen said. lottery winner:-bragging on the local news about his new fortune. "He left," I said. "Once he'd calmed down, the lady and I, we explained to him that he would probably need to get in I put my cereal bowl in the sink and hummed a hybrid of the last two songs I heard on the radio. touch with the state Lottery Commission. The guy was disappointed, like a little kid who learned he had to wait a whole year Back outside, the screen door clapped shut and Karen leaned back to see me. "Ready to go?" for Christmas to come again." I nodded and stared down the road, Highway 75. From out of the setting sun, cars and SUVs sped east. Other Dallas The whole scene was almost touching. Almost. But, I didn't see how it was fair. I worked hard, as hard as anyone else, commuters who lived in the better half of McKinney, in their million dollar houses with floor to ceiling windows and in-ground

20 21 pools around back. With their country clubs and golf courses and built-in sprinkler systems. "I thought you said I'd know people." "Come over here," Karen said. "Let me see you." "You just need to open up," said Karen. Karen's beautiful but insecure. She's got hair that falls in helixes and frames her face. She takes an hour every "Let me have a cigarette," I said. morning making sure it falls just so. She tans as regularly as a nun prays and only wears clothes that make sure men worship "I liked you better when you didn't smoke." Karen pushed me up towards a chatting couple. "Oh my god, I'm so at the altar of her. She exercises more than anyone I know and she smokes for two reasons-to keep her appetite down and happy you came." because it's sexy. She'll pretend to quit every once in a while because that looks good, too. Karen says I have natural beauty The museum was one room divided like an unfinished maze. Half-walls held grainy pictures of black and white and likes to critique me before we go out. She'll bite her lip and pout. Then she'll tell me to put my hair down, or to change my crowds waving flags and hands. nckertape hung in the air like ashes. On other walls, built at opposing angles, there was light shoes, or my top, or my bra, or whatever. I hate it. I really do. But her advice is usually spot-on. reading to remind everyone why this mattered. Most history is accidental, read the wall nearest me. "You're not really going out like that?" she said. No deliberation time at all. "Don't be a child. Pick one or the other. Somewhere between the 'President's Arrival at Lovefield' and the 'Single Bullet Theory' exhibits, 1losrKaren. Everyone Pants or skirt." Another car sped by. Things here are so flat you can watch taillights shrink until they are small enough to be was dressed so nicely. I wanted to hide or walk out of here. stars. When I found her again, Karen was making out with a guy in a window overlooking the grassy knoll. The Corner Karen had changed into a black dress with strappy matching shoes. She carried a bright orange handbag. Window; a plaque said. I'd been introduced to the man earlier. He was a partner, one of her bosses. "Do you know that at work, they teach you how to handle a stick-up," I tugged at the sides of my skirt and smoothed I grabbed another drink and walked over to the elevator. There I picked up one of those handsets that do the them along my legs. This was not a childish look. "Seriously, we've had day long classes about it. An entire day where we self-guided audio tours. I pressed it hard against my face and felt the words worm in my ear. If I pretended that the recorded watch videos and have to role play robbers and victims." voice wasn't talking about shooting angles, bullet trajectory, or velocity at the point of entry, it was almost romantic. "Change you.r outfit, not the subject," said Karen. "Excuse me." A man grabbed me by the elbow. His hair was cut short and graying. He had crows' feet around his eyes. "It's just stupid," I said. "The job." "You're not from the firm, are you?" She ashed her cigarette. "I know. It is a stupid job, but it's only a job," Karen sighed. She stood up, walked over and I shook my head and cradled the handset against my ear with both hands. A bit of hair came loose and fell across my hugged me. She smelled sweet like vanilla and warmth. "Just stop moping. Have fun tonight, for me. And change." She broke nose. He looked like a high school principal and I feared that I'd been caught somewhere out of bounds. the embrace and slapped me on the ass. "Go put on something that will guarantee you don't have to spend the night in this "I could tell," he said. "We seem to walk around lighter on our feet. We're not so burdened from defending the wicked stupid town for once." and the guilty." He took my hand and shook it. His skin was pink and soft like he'd just washed it. "Name's J.T." Driving to the party, on the edge of town and in my new outfit-a denim skirt with knee-high boots and a "Annie," I said. Karen was still kissing in the window. "Who do you know here?" shoulderless shirt-Karen brought up the lottery ticket again. "Did you keep his phone number?" She was fiddling with the "No one really. I'm just a friend of a friend. But I'm a nut for this stuff," he motioned to indicate the whole museum. radio looking for something fun. "The cloak and dagger, the conspiracy shit. When I heard about this party, I had to co'me." "Stop," I said. "Just put something on that we can both ignore." Traffic into Dallas was getting heavy. The city inhaled J.T. worked for an advertisement agency. The car commercial with the kids jumping rope-that was his. He believed and exhaled cars. the Cubans killed Kennedy. "Was he cute?" she pressed. "What about you?" he asked. I said.he could have been an underwear model. I flipped the radio off and watched the city lights grow bigger. The "I don't know," I said. "I think it was one guy. I'd like to believe that some psycho got lucky, rather than in conspiracies." skyline sharpened into sturdy skyscrapers emerging from the tangle of highways. "Your job," he said and smirked. "I meant, what do you do for a living?" "It's like this," Karen said. "Everybody gets what they deserve. It's karma. You'll get yours too. But not tonight. If there I smiled back with all my teeth. "Oh, nothing important, really." are any doctors there, you'd better stay the hell away. I've got a whole lifetime of karma to cash in." "Who does?" he said. He was hovering in on me. The gravity of his body pushing mine against a wall. "No one I know. So what kind of unimportant stuff do you fill your day with? How do you earn that log you come home and throw on the fire The book depository was rectangular and brick and didn't look important enough to be what it was. At the door the every night?" guard, the boyfriend, let us in and told us to go to the sixth floor. Even before we got there, we could feel the music and the "I act," I said. The little museum was growing warm from people. "I'm an actress. I do plays mostly." electricity of people gathered. Upstairs the museum was crowded with no one I knew. Lots of them. Legal people who "Anything I'd know about?" He held his beer bottle by the neck and swirled it. He tapped his bottle against my own, clapped for Karen when we stepped out of the elevator. They handed us bottled beer and Karen put her hand to her chest too hard so that I almost dropped it and splashed beer on my top. pretending to be humbled. As if she didn't believe she deserved this-the party or the promotion. All her talk about karma "Let m!'! get you a new one," he said. "I'm empty anyway. Be back in a flash and we'll act out a play. I'll be Romeo to and she acted lucky. your Juliet." Karen pulled me around the room. She introduced me as if she were showing off a new handbag-This is my I picked up the handset and wandered further down a head-high wall with neatly arranged pictures and words. In roommate Annie ..Doesn't she go great with my dress? I smiled and flipped my hair and shook hands and didn't remember a the photos, the black and white electrified faces from the crowd that were so happy near the elevator, holding signs and single name. waving hands for the president were now shocked. '12:30 PM; read the heading for this exhibit. 'President Kennedy Shot in

22 23 Dallas'. In the pictures, every mouth in the crowd hung open forever. President Kennedy was shown bleeding from a wound He kissed back, cautiously at first, all lips and no tongue. But then he was into it. He shoved his tongue into my mouth that would never heal. I shivered and afterwards there lingered a buzzing in my fingers and temples- the alcohol and rubbed his hands up and down to the left and right of my breasts, working his way towards. He tu!ned me against the reverberating in my body. wall and leaned in. Along the wall opposite from the entrance, a flight of stairs led to the next floor. I saw the lawyer, the guy who was I pulled away and faked a self-satisfied moan. I opened one eye. pushing the title partner to the limits, leading Karen up by the hand. I saw her giggle, look over her shoulder, her eyes stopped Karen was standing there. "What are you doing?" This could be the Pulitzer prize winning photo-man with hands on me and she flashed a smile. on my breasts, me one eye opened, and behind a roommate ready to strangle the both of u~. · Lucky Karen was going to get lucky "'."ith one of her bosses. "You know her?" said J.T. His hands retreated hastily J.T. came back with the beers. "I wanted to see the gallery," I said. Karen's boss stepped beside her from around the corner. Hands in his pockets, he "What's upstairs?" I said. nodded at J.T. · He shrugged. "It's a photo gallery, I think. The exhibit is 'Great Moments in History,' or something like that." "Do you have to be so selfish?" asked Karen. "Seriously, Annie. Why do you have to steal this from me?" 'Great Moments in Karen's History' was more like it. It was just like her to take something huge like all of history and The men bristled with discomfort. They looked at each other and looked away. J.T. coughed. make it her own. In light of recent events, I thought, I've decided to live dangerously. "Let's see it," I said. "I didn't mean to." 'The Seventh Floor Gallery: a small sign announced. It was a room with a high ceiling and in the half-dark, shadows "It was an accident?" Karen threw aside a little "ha" and made fists. My knees shook from agitation. slashed across life-sized photographs. J.T. was close, but not entirely right. The exhibit, another sign informed, was a Everything's accidental. Karen had said as much earlier. That whole circle of karma bull. We were here but for a series retrospective of Pulitzer Prize-winning photography. Temporary walls were arranged in alternating triangles, like sharp teeth. of unfortunate events. In my case I was pulled from one to another, caught in the slipstream of the lucky. One faced up and the next faced down so you had to zigzag through sixty odd years of human tragedy. "It's a conspiracy," I said. "We're all in on it. We want to ruin your make-out session." In the back I heard Karen giggle and then.whisper. Then a suggestive silence. More giggling. J.T. grabbed my hand "You're not happy with your life and you want to take it out on mine?" Karen crossed her arms. "Should I keep lying to and tugged so that I'd stop. He shook his head and nodded towards the back. Someone's back there, he mouthed. you Annie? Telling you your break will come. I'm here because I earned it. I worked hard for this promotion. It didn't land in Karen had methods for kissing. A quiver of her lower lip, a literal slip of her tongue, these were signals she sent out. my lap. When's the last time you worked hard for anything?" She sighed and pulled a cigarette out of her purse. Both J.T. and According to her these were the subtleties that decided things like your place or mine; next week or tomorrow. Karen's boss were ready with lighters. I was entitled to try and figure if Karen was inviting a sleepover guest to our place or not. I pressed my finger to my In the momentary flash of butane I could see what I couldn't before. Karen was crying. A runaway line of_mascara lips. "Let's see who." under her left eye. "Maybe you should go. Both of you," she said. · On the most basic level she broke her kisses down into two broad categories, eyes opened or eyes closed. Eyes opened, Karen said, she did because it made her laugh. Staring cross-eyed down the bridge of her nose at another face In J.T.'s car, a decade old Toyota with frayed stitching on the seats, parked conspicuously at the top of the garage, I making like a fish in front of her. It was her bar kiss, her club kiss, the kiss she planted on someone just because she could. said, "let's go home." The air was muggy and in twilight,J.T.'s forehead was shiny with moisture. There probably wasn't a guy in the world she· wouldn't kiss like that. "Your place or mine?" J.T. and I tiptoed to the back of the hall. On the wall in front of me a monk was on fire. A Vietnamese man was about I'd never been so happy for those words in my life. I was worried that he'd believe Karen, or worse, tell me that she was to lose his head. Starving children with pregnant bellies smiled like jack-o'-lanterns. In big letters underneath each picture wrong. That I was a go-getter, without having anything to base it on. was the name of the photographer. "Let me tell you," I said. I leaned across the seat, across the gearbox, and into him. Maybe Karen was right and I didn't Not one of the victims had a name. And in the memorial of one of our national martyrs, no less. work hard, but for what came next I didn't need to. I felt entitled. . The silence in the back once again grew intimate. It took on physical dimensions, depth and volume. It made the room feel big enough to get lost in. I could feel the pulse in J.T.'s fingers. Karen's other kiss, her close-eyed kiss, was where things got intricate. When I close my eyes, she'd said, I want to live inside it, you know-the kiss, the moment, whatever. I try and let everything else go. · When we got to the back of the gallery, I wanted to turn the corner and see what it was for someone to be out of this world, to escape the gravity of it all. I wanted to see how the fortunate half lived when I wasn't watching. I turned the corner and found Karen waiting for me. She glared. Her beau stared at his loafers. I thought we'd been quieter, but they must have been nervous and listening-on the lookout for security or the boss of Karen's boss. Caught, I ducked back and pushed J.T. into the wall. The thump his body made was muted by the blood pounding in my ears. I closed my eyes and kissed him.

24 25 Bryan Hurt Bryan is a senior majoring in both English and German. When he grows up he wants to be either an astronaut or a professional baseball player.

Lois Kwa Lois is a first year student here, and is hopefully thriving in her environment. She is a reader, before anything else. Her most heartfelt interests of study are people, folklore, and baked goods. She wants to always say thank you to everybody who has ever taken care of somebody else, in all the ways we know and do not know about.

' Sylvie Kim I'm an English major, film studies minor, graduating in Spring 2005. I'm moving to California this summer to volunteer with Americorps for a year and hope to attend film school.

' Kade Harden Kade is a senior studying English and Japanese.After graduating, she plans to get a crappy job and begin applying to graduate schools. She is from Detroit, Michigan.

Alex Bentayou I graduated from Shaker Heights High in 2001 then spent one year at the University of Oregon in Eugene. Currently at OSU I am an English major with an interest in creative writing and I hope to graduate at the end of this quarter.

Ashley McHugh I see visions. I could change the world if only I were up at the same time as everyone else. Caffeine is my only god. 1.1'1' lllllS Lit Bios ... 27 Friends of MOSAIC. ..

Thank you to those Albert J. Kuhn people who have Amanda Appleton-Wetli supported our Arienne McCracken magazine over the Bernie's Bagels & Deli years: David and Mary Citino Gregory B. Damico '79 Jodi Barnhill JoeJ.Rushanan'82 Linda L. Harlow Mary Jo Bole Ms.AmyGuda Nancy Hubbard Byron Prof. Steven Fink Stauf's Coffee Roasters Terry Barrett, Professor, Art Education

We would also like to Eric Van Cleve thank those who read Sylvie Kim and displayed art at Ashley McHugh our poetry readings, as Kate Polak well as those who Bryan Hurt participated in other Mike Wright yearly events: Lois Kwa Kade Harden Eve Warnock Elise Kahl

Professor/Protege : Lee K. Abbott Shira Handler Tony Mendoza Jeremy Kalgreen

Like what you've seen in this year's Mosaic? Are you interested in submitting your own works of art or literature?

Mosiac accepts poetry, short stories, photography, sculpture, paintings, etc. from Ohio State undergraduates. When submitting your works, please include the following:

Literature submissions require both a hardcopy and a digital copy. The hardcopy should be typed and should not contain any personal information (name, address, etc.). The digital copy should be clearly la bled. Literature submissions will not be returned.

Original works of art are accepted, as well as slide or photographic reproductions. We ask that all art submissions be accompanied with slides or a clear digital copy. All original artwork will be returned.

Please also includ~ a submission form listing the titles of your submissions and your name, address, and telephone number. This form can be found on the Mosaic website at http://mosaic.org.ohio-state.edu

Send submissions to:

Mosaic Kuhn Honors & Scholars House 220 West 12th Avenue Columbus, OH 4321 O

See you in 2006!

Submissions ... Inward ...

Creativity is contagious. Its green freshness is invigorating, infectious and inspiring, serving as the very best kind of educator. True creativity holds its audience captive to a unique idea-inexpressible in quite the same way by any other medium at any other time by any other author. To be a creator, an inventor, an artist or a writer is to posses-s an extraordinary power for translation and communication. To be in its presence is to catch a quick glimpse of light in a world of dancing and elusive shadows.

Those bf us who contribute to Mosaic-as editors, writers, artists, friends, staff members and advisors-understand and appreciate the value of this magazine's originality within the Ohio State community and are proud and excited to be a part of its 28th year of publication. We hope that you will find the creativity within these pages provocative of new thought and reflection with each reading.

We are confident that the undergraduate works in this 2005 edition are representative of the innovation pervading the university's artistic community and extend our gratitude to all those who submitted for publication. As always, selection is neither an easy nor a fast process but in the end, gives way to the emergence of the most visionary creations. Congratulations to all our featured artists and writers; you are clearly a colorful few among a gray many. May you carry good luck and the rare ingenuity exhibited in your works with you thr9ughout your journeys.

A great thank you must also be extended to this year's staff. In order to incorporate the ambitious goals and ideas of the minds behind Mosaic, responsibilities continue to expand, providing for one of our busiest and most rewarding years. More than just an annual magazine, Mosaic has evolved into an active, fun and visible presence in the artistic community. Always endeavoring to increase awareness and exposure of undergraduate creativity, Mosaic hosts a variety of events throughout the year to bring students and faculty together in celebration of art. From Friday afternoon meetings to posting fliers to late nights in the computer labs to battle raps-this organization would not be what it is without your individual impressions. Thank you for your resilience and dedication.

For years, Mosaic staff members have been indebted to our long-time advisor, Karrie Mills, and this year we are also grateful for the added insight and dedication of a second advisor, Dana Derose. You are both challenging, motivating and encouraging leaders who provide the editorial board with the subtle and reliable continuity that allows us to express and implement our own ideas. You_are irreplaceable.

Finally, we would like to recognize the sustained support of the Honors & Scholars Program and Friends of Mosaic. The publication of this impressive color catalogue relies upon the generous investment of these individuals and we would like to recognize their integral contribution.

Sincerely, Amanda Fojtik & Kyle Benner Co-editors-in-chief

Kyle Benner Co-Editor-in-Chief Amanda Fojtik Co-Editor-in-Chief Yoonhee Ha Business Manager Erin Voden Layout Editor Becky Koller Assistant Layout Editor Jessica Boggs Assistant Layout Editor Hailey Stroup Art Editor Susan Sprague Assistant Art Editor Kim Senter PR Editor _ Peter Bergan Assistant PR Editor Elizabeth Cook Literature Editor Carolyn RC Wilson Assistant Literature Editor Ling Kho Webmaster Karrie Mills Co-Advisor Dana Derose Co-Advisor

Layout Staff Art Staff Joanna Chiu Jennifer Lemasters Stephanie Chandler Jessica Cortes Stacy Schlanger Weifei Zheng Jessica Wilson PR Staff Celia Angelo Literature Staff Nicole Baas Elise Allen Kristin Brzoznowski Carolyn Bills Amy Hilbert Alison Eakin Kelly Krugh Chelsea Eberly Kate Riestenberg kaela King Eric Samuels Amanda Thompson Kristin Sembach Eric Van Cleve Julie Starzynski Andrew Wood - Meg Wiegand

... Staff