The Green Light

Vol. 4 | Spring 2020

The Green Light is published annually in partnership with the
English Department and the Communication Department.

The Green Light is produced by and for students. Students and

alumni are invited to submit creative work. Send inquiries and
submissions to green.light@fresno.edu. Access other important
Green Light information at fpugreenlight.home.blog/.

The Green Light is a product of institutional support and a

student writing community. The language and ideas in The Green
Light are the property of individual writers and do not necessarily
reflect the views or values of Fresno Pacific University.

Copyright © Spring 2020. All rights revert back to author after

first printing.

Front cover design by Kassandra Klein.

Back cover and logo design by Jesse Dickens.
The Green
Light
Editor in Chief
Francesco Parisi

Copy Editors
Luke Fredette
Kassandra Klein

Product Editor
Taylor Benton

Communications
Coordinator
Kaitlyn Doolittle

Faculty Adviser
Daniel Larson

Reading Board
Madison Alley
Angelina Andrade
Jenna Janes
Alexis Lopez
Alyssa Stuebner
Nate Van Dyke
Table of Contents
Editor’s Note.........................................................3

Words.....................................................................4
Swing.....................................................................5
Light at 4AM........................................................7
Scarlet Dawn.........................................................8
Pain and Thought...................................................9
Mental..................................................................10
When My Anxiety Comes to Visit......................11
Overpriced Rickshaw...........................................13
Struggle of Reality................................................14
Sleep Paralysis......................................................15
In Dreams............................................................16
Whispers in the Wind.........................................17
Remember Me.....................................................18
Manifest Destiny..................................................19
A Letter from the Accomplished.........................26
Painfully, he changed ‘is’ to ‘was’..........................27
Lost Love............................................................28
Picking Petals.......................................................29
Vow of Silence......................................................30
Songbird...............................................................31
Who are you?: Mestizo........................................32
Hidden Feelings...................................................37
My Little Bit of Heaven......................................38
Sewed Back Up....................................................39
Every Morning.....................................................40
Odysseus’ Men.....................................................41
A Meaning...........................................................42
The Wall..............................................................43
Day-gone-bye.......................................................50
Special Needs.......................................................51
Collateral Damage...............................................52
Barbaric Rain.......................................................53
Tim, Dan, and Liz...............................................55
Shadows...............................................................56
Blackout Poetry....................................................57
Editor’s Note
It has been a true honor to serve as The Green Light’s

Editor in Chief this year. The journal has gained momentum in
the two years since I joined the team, and watching it thrive has
been a joy. Proudly featuring 35 pieces (almost double last year’s
count), this issue reflects a wide variety of FPU students and alumni,
as well as their backgrounds and interests.
This variety made it difficult to pick out a recurring theme
for Issue 4, as the selections take us from mythical settings to
everyday locales, from dreams to stark reality, from outer space
to a small home in our own Central Valley. What they have in
common is their creativity and passion, but beyond that they are
diverse in content and style—and in my opinion, that’s exactly
how it should be. Reading the pieces in order, should you choose
to do so, will hopefully give you a sense of the emotional ebbs and
flows in the lives of FPU’s students, and of the variety in our creative
voices.
Thank you so much to all of our writers, whether accepted
or rejected, and also to our readers, for bringing this journal to life.
I hope that it continues to feature and reach out to more people
across campus well after I graduate this May.

Francesco Parisi
Editor in Chief

3
Words
Months will pass where I have no poems on my lips,
Weeks where I could not beg my words to come to me.
But then one morning I will wake
And those same words will surround me,
oozing from my fingertips,

Covering my bedroom floor
So that all I can do is organize them on a page and wonder
How did I ever miss that I was feeling so much?

Carlie Dickens

4
Swing
Everything is great!
Life is going so well!
Nothing in the whole world could go wrong!

…Until it does…

One comment, one conversation; that’s all it takes

for the whole world to come crashing down. The abyss calls,
and the only guests that remain are anxiety and depression.
How can one continue like this?
What is the point of going on?

…And yet I do…

Eventually,
everything turns out fine.
Time is the only remedy it takes to wash the pain away
and what replaces it is the joy and happiness
that had been dammed away.
Everything shines with beauty and smells of delight!

…Until the swing strikes once again…

Anxiety.
One moment of doubt,
one moment of terror,
one moment of second guessing.

The confidence that I thought was real

breaks in front of me like a masquerade mask
and all I am left with is fear and trembling.
“What happened? Security, where did you go?”

My voice comes back to me in an echo.

There will never be an explanation.

5
 - Swing -
…But I don’t need one…

There is Good:
Faith, Hope, Love.

There is Bad:
Fear, Despair, Hate.

But life is more than good and bad.

The world isn’t written in black and white,
but in gray.

Nate Van Dyke

6
Light at 4AM
At 3:30AM, knuckles rap on my bedroom door,
and my eyes, crusted with sleep, crack open.
While I sleepwalk into a pull-over sweater
and slip on some Chucks,
my mom pulls open the front door
to let the cold air’s stinger
prick my face until I am awake.
The morning haze pools at my feet,
seeps into my layered clothes,
until I am soaked in the cold.
The ice crusted on the windshield
cracks and splinters as I pour water on it.

Driving down Manning, we can only hear

the engine’s soft hum
and the wind that seeps into
the cracked rear window;
the green traffic lights
blur past our heads while we slink through a vacant city.
The empty lot holds a few other
sleepwalkers like me, who keep warm and alive
in coffee cups, hand warmers, and snowball beanies.
Mom kisses my nose, shouts pick me up at 10:00AM,
and shuffles through the cold and into the
lighted double doors of Big Lots.

The moon dips back into the skyline

And drives the stars, the car, and my body back home.
Outside my house, with my key clicked into the lock,
I am compelled to stand still and listen—
the baying coyote who lives in the grapevines,
the humming lights of the 24-hour laundromat,
and the pomegranate tree rooting itself into the ground
are loud enough to keep me awake until dawn.

Gabriella Diana Quijano

7
Scarlet Dawn
We walk on this gravel path
Together we smile and forge on.
Barefoot. The stones bite at our heels
And we continue on anyways.
Our home in our hands
Clasped between our fingers
And swinging and swaying, so.
Gravel turns into dirt
And dirt shifts to sand
Which clings to our chapped soles.
No matter where we go, we continue on
For our home is where the other is,
As we march into the scarlet dawn.

Alexis Lopez

8
Pain and Thought
I call to myself for comfort I cannot provide
I hope the strength of my youth will be at my side
I collapse inwardly upon myself; I dare not look outward
I fear the healing truth, that could befall this doubter

I hope for things unseen

But cling to things of the past

Why do I invest in dismay?

And not what will last?

My speech is torn to shreds

As I flail, exhale, silently in the night

Am I doomed by my dread?
Or can it be that He’s right?

In what was, and what is

Pain and thought coexist

Incoherence drips as melting snow

Over the things I do, and don’t know

Timothy Myracle

9
 Mental
My companion when I am at my lowest,
The demon on my shoulder, whispering in my ear,
The pen scribbling on the paper of my mind:
Anxiety.

The barrier keeping me away from adventures,

A no man’s land between me and true happiness,
A cage that keeps me in my comfortable, miserable place:
Depression.

A familiar reminder of days gone by,

An unwelcome guest invading the company of my thoughts,
A chaotic rhino stampeding down the busy highway of my mind:
Trauma.

Day in and day out these devils scream and play

and I don’t know how to respond when people say
“How are you doing today?”

The answer that comes forward proclaims,

“I don’t feel right even though I should!”
but what comes out is,
“Good!”

Nate Van Dyke

10
When My Anxiety Comes to Visit
When she knocked at the door, all I did was unlock the
deadbolt and somehow she was in my living room. She subtly
slipped into the house, casually set down her bags, and asked what
I had to drink . Her visits had been less frequent and uneventful
recently, but I hadn’t planned on her coming over today. That’s how
she worked; she just dropped in whenever she felt like doing so.
I stared blankly at her, unmovingly. No matter how many
times she’d turn up, I still found her appearance unsettling. It’s not
that she was unseemly or disheveled; what was peculiar about her
was that she was a duplicate of me. We shared the same details of
light skin and hazel eyes, but the difference within our likeness was
apparent. Every feature of mine that she exhibited was somehow
flawlessly displayed in a way that made me look like a failed wax
replica next to her. Brown curls cascaded down her shoulders and
freckles dotted her cheeks, framing the space below her deep hazel
eyes. Today she wore a sundress that called attention to the curve
of her waist. She fiddled with the key that hung from a delicate
chain around her neck.
“I’ll take lemonade if you have some. C’mon now!” she

snapped. I rushed to the kitchen for her usual as she tugged her
shoes off and settled on the couch. If she asked for a drink, that
usually meant she’d be here a while. If she took off her shoes, there
was no telling how long she might stay, so I armed myself with
a Coke before reentering the living room . To my relief, she had
made herself comfortable under a blanket on the couch.
Maybe today we will just wallow in each other’s company,
I hoped.
She thanked me as I handed her a glass of lemonade and
in the armchair across from her. You have to understand that
sat
ignoring her makes her angry. I’ve learned that by making her feel
at home, she would generally be content to merely sit and stare
at me for a few hours until she got bored and left. I would much
rather spend an hour with her doing nothing, than ten minutes
with her being angry. Yet, after a few minutes rolled by, it became
quite apparent that today would not be a quiet sitting day.

11
 - When My Anxiety Comes to Visit -
“So how have you been?” she asked. She raised an eyebrow

as she sipped her lemonade.
“I’m fine.”

She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Now we’ve

been over this. You’re supposed to say I’m good with a big smile
on your face. You’re the girl who’s always happy, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Good, because if you don’t smile they will be able to see
that you’re not ok. And we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
“Of course not,” I habitually agreed. She had this tendency
to start referring to us as “we,” as if she was a part of me. I’ve done a
lot of work to remind myself that she is not a part of me. After a
moment of silence, she sprung from the couch, lunging for the bags
she’d brought in.
“You want to see what I brought you today?” Her eyes
twinkled with that horrible mischief that twisted my stomach into
knots. Refusing her meant potentially dealing with her angry side,
so I always agreed with her.
“Sure, what’s in the bag?”
A wicked smile spread across her face as she knelt on the
ground, rummaging through her bags to find the desired object.Within
a few seconds, she produced one of her intricate little boxes. She fidgeted
with the chain around her neck as she fit the key in and unlocked
the box. She shuffled over to where I sat and placed it in my lap, before
retreating to her place on the couch.
I took a deep breath. Each of her boxes is handcrafted
with a memory that I become entrapped in until I can find the
means to breathe again. These boxes are her nasty little ideas of fun.
Lifting the lid means sitting in agony remembering events I do not
want to relive: a dark car, hands on my skin; cuts on my thighs, the
pain in my chest; long hot showers, tears staining my cheeks.
“C’mon now, open it!” she whines, impatiently. I close my
eyes.
If I don’t play her games, she won’t leave. I take another deep
breath, open the lid of the box, and pray that this time I am strong
enough to wake up from her nightmare.

Kaitlyn Doolittle

12
Overpriced Rickshaw
120 rupees
Too tired and overwhelmed to drive
A hard bargain
At least it was better than 200
Although triple the proper rate
According to Alex

And what’s the difference really

A buck and a half
I couldn’t be bothered

I keep looking at myself

In the dusty rearview mirror
I find myself beautiful today

Deep in thought
Reality hits
The rickety piece of yellow and green metal
Thrusts forward
Wakeup call
You’re in India

Another stop
One among many
Heavy traffic
Reality slips away again

Am I delusional for finding myself

To be this beautiful
Or is this what they see
When they call me gorgeous
Or stunning or beautiful or cute

Why can’t I see it all the time

Wipe the dust off the mirror
Because, my love,
That is not
What it is to be human in this world

140 rupees
Lan Friesen

13
Struggle of Reality
There is no refuge or survivor when destruction hits within the
loving hold. All the trust and bonds gathered over a child’s life slip
into a fairy tale—memories are questioned into ever being made.
What once was this child’s only world slips into strangers trapped
together through boards and shingles. Condemnation becomes
character. Accusations overpower what once was unquestioned
favor. Their shattered lives cut all who enter the iron door.

Rachel Kaneversky

14
Sleep Paralysis
Underground,
The floor is a cold stone.
The air is murky and dark.
The silence is thick,
And my breath is slow.
Billowing clouds of silk and satin
Embracing my work-wracked frame
The silence screams
And my monsters answer.
The tiniest of fluttering
Makes itself known.
Its silent noise ghosts my mind.
My chest seizes at its din.
What can such a being do
To a worn woman,
As she beckons
The overwhelming gray
Of the room back over.
The silent aggressor
Is left unknown.
The ghosting hands
Of exhaustion
Are creeping into my marrow,
Grasping at the seams of my being.
Muscle and tendon slacken
And fingers and toes still.
Warmth is felt as corporeal hands rove
And grasp my own.
Protecting and soothing,
Cocooning and shielding me
From my fears.
Numb, I grow to the cold
And I embrace the warmth
That I feared so.

Alexis Lopez

15
In Dreams
At night, I dream of lonely, loved, lost things.
My mind begins to clog with tragedy.
Through worlds estranged, I soar on darkest wings.

A man once famed and called the King of kings

In valleys wails at his calamity.
At night, I dream of lonely, loved, lost things.

With angel’s voice, a youth is blessed to sing

And overwhelms his mind—insanity.
Through worlds estranged, I soar on darkest wings.

This maiden fair with locks like golden strings

Now weeps and weaves her cursed tapestry.
At night, I dream of lonely, loved, lost things.

A dragon, doomed with potent roar, now stings

The mountain tops with fire of vanity.
Through worlds estranged, I soar on darkest wings.

I pray for what these nightmares soon will bring,

As heaven now begins to atrophy.
At night, I dream of lonely, loved, lost things.
Through worlds estranged, I soar on darkest wings.

Kaitlyn Doolittle

16
Whispers in the Wind

Nate Van Dyke

17
Remember Me
As we stand in this cold parking lot, I listen to your hardships.
I know what bothers you—like slurping straws. No one listens
to you rant about the galaxy . . . for Two. Hours. Straight. The
truth you’ll never realize: I enjoy this. Just you, and me, below the
desert stars. Excitement with Klein Bottles and the fourth dimen-
sion. We already spent four hours standing next to each other in
the bleachers tonight, blaring “Hey Baby” with our saxophones
strapped around our necks, but I remain tranquilized by you,
longing to hear more until well after midnight. I’ll be here when
you vent about your sister’s long hair getting stuck in the vacuum
or your parents’ divorce. But when the day breaks and we’re in our
classes yet again, someone else will come along and I will vanish
into the background. Maybe someday, you’ll remember the one
person who never left you alone in the cold.

Rachel Kaneversky

18
Manifest Destiny
The pain subsides slowly, a thick and sickly-sticky throb-

bing slowly dying down into a more manageable dull thumping.
In time, he can reach up and grasp his head, feel the blood dried
into brittleness, and slowly force himself back to his knees.

He opens his eyes to see that his immediate surroundings,

at least, are as he had left them. The steel-colored walls of the small
scout ship remain no more dented than usual, and the only real
damage is among the wires and banks of computing matter that
have been crammed, tight in their frames, around the ship’s mid-
section. A few wires hang loose, their ends severed and sparking,
and a concerning number of red lights stand out prominently in a
sea of what is otherwise green.

The main difference from the last time he’d seen it, it
seems, was the small, rough splatter of red on the nearest wall,
slightly smearing downwards where he had sunk after his vessel
itself was struck.

Grimacing, he makes his legs finish the job and stand up.
For a moment, a perilous moment, he feels the whole world sway
around in his head. And then, that too passes, and he can take a
better look around.

At this height, he can see further towards the front of the

ship, where the small, angular cockpit sits bathed in about the
same number of sparks as the little corridor where he now stands.
Looking behind his own shoulder proves the next challenge, and
when he surmounts it he sees the small, spherical engine pulsing
with line upon line of cool blue electricity. A few leap from the
tight coils that typically constrain them, striking either nodes on
the surrounding walls or hitting those walls themselves, unleashing
more cascades of minor sparks.

It is, he reflects, his thoughts as dull and rhythmic as

the pain in his head, something of a miracle that the ship is still
functioning.

19
 - Manifest Destiny -
His head still feels weak; memories come and go like
running water. With one hand raised to cradle and caress the side
of his cranium, the man makes a slow beeline for the cockpit.

It is shaped roughly like the tip of a pyramid: three walls

come to a point at its head and, save for the cool metal frames that
hold the whole thing in place, are transparent enough to give a
good look at the surrounding space. He takes a look out of them
as he moves to slide into the soft, worn, and leather chair that sits
in front of the control panel.

Any stray thoughts are instantly blown away.

Stray chunks of space rock—not enough to indicate he’s

in the midst of an asteroid field, but far too many to say that he is
safely away from one—hover in various states of ruin, trailing lit-
tle pieces of themselves and leaking molten matter in all possible
directions. Scattered among them are tracts of metal, some with
deep, still-glowing scours. For an awful moment he thinks that the
damage his ship has sustained is that much worse than he thought,
but such a fear is quickly allayed—

—by a drifting, larger clump of wreckage, spitting out bits

of electricity, technology, and (unfortunately) raw biology, all of it
already beginning to be twisted, dried, and rendered unrecognizable
by the harsh, cold vacuum that grips it from all sides.

The wreck is not the only one; another soon joins it.

And then another.

And another.

And on and on, until a small forest’s worth of the dam-

nable stuff is joining him in his slow, painful exit from this oddly
green-stained area of space, moving with the same odd grace that
a lack of control offers but without the excuse of an injured pilot
to maintain some measure of their dignity.

20
 - Manifest Destiny -
Because whatever—whoever—had been in those hulks,
his eyes told his mind, they just weren’t anymore.

The man’s breath hisses, faintly, from between lips only

partway open. His eyes dart around frantically, seeking to escape
somehow from the wrenching feeling those ruined ships set to
work in his stomach. But there isn’t much use in that, because the
moment he looks up, he sees it.

At the very top—just peeking over the edge, really—of the

cockpit-wide window, is the smallest portion of a planet’s lower
half.

The tail-end of a continent stretches down into the midst

of an ocean. And what an ocean it is; close though it may seem,
there still must be over a thousand miles between it and his ship,
yet its turmoil can be seen clearly. Faint white lines dance over
its surface, in the sharp shape of waves, and layered atop them
are thicker swirls of cloud aglitter with ice crystals, visible even
through the distance of space. As he watches, they seem to shift—
slowly, gently, and deliberately, an almost insulting beliance of the
sharp chaos that seems to radiate from just the sight of the planet.
The crystals within wink and flicker with all the cold and sharp-
ness of the stars around both parties, and some part inside of the
man seems to wince and attempt to draw away.

He turns to the continent. There’s little to relieve him

there. The land is rent, jagged, a sea of its own right made up of
hard stone shelves, shattered cliffs, and drifts of ice resting brokenly
on the landscape. Straight down the middle, like a knife has been
taken to the world’s heart, a crooked line of orange reaches nearly
to the tip. It is around this place that the carnage of the sea seems
to center, as though it itself is an intrusion.

Come to think of it, he realizes as he looks out at it all,

this vision of desolation—perhaps he and all around him is little
different. No more than an intrusion.

“There was nothing here,” he hears himself say, “never.”

21
 - Manifest Destiny -
The softness of the chair greets his back like a gentle

embrace as he sinks into it; the clusters of wreckage around him
seem to jolt forward at the motion. His hands fall uselessly at its
arms . . .

. . . and strike something.

A part of the chair’s arm shifts underneath him, a piece of

the leather upholstery sliding free to reveal a small console at his
side.

For an instant he stares at it. Nothing comes immediately to

mind, but he knows that he knows what will happen if he interacts
with it. He knows so well what it will make him feel, what it will
make him do.

And the damnable thing is, he knows that he doesn’t want

to—but his choice in the matter is rapidly dwindling.

He reaches out and lets his fingers dance over it.

Immediately lights flare to life along the whole of the

cockpit, like some sort of runway in space and time, pointing
towards both a small, central panel directly ahead but also towards
the image that slowly manifests there.

It is of a man, a tired man, far too worn-looking for some-

one who seems not far from his middle years . As he coalesces in
front of the pilot, he lifts his face from a hand supported by his knee,
looking the other man dead in the face with an expression like the
remains of a fire: burnt out, exhausted . . . but not without its glowing
embers.

“This is our chance,” he says, “our last chance.”

“No, no, no,” the man, the real man sitting there, hears
himself saying. His head makes a beeline for his own hands.

22
 - Manifest Destiny -
“It doesn’t matter what waits for us,” the projected man

continues, “what sort of hell or heaven is out there on the ocean of
stars. What matters is that we reach out for it, that we make it our
own. That we . . . that despite everything . . . we at least try . That
our hands never stop reaching out , no matter what awaits our
grasp.”

“No . . .”

“Do you understand?”

“Damn you.”

“Of course you understand. This is what has to be done.
You—all of you—are all that’s left. You’re not our last hope, or our
final despair. All I ask, all that we all ask, is that you be, that you
are. So long as you do that, then—”

“They’re dead, damn you! Damn you!” He’s shouting from
between his fingers, now.

“—it doesn’t matter if you feel, or even are, hope.”

“Please . . .”

“But you might be able to give it. Godspeed.”

The man’s arm spasms, as though trying to throw some-
thing as hard as he can through the video and the window beyond.
As all things stand, he can grasp nothing but air. He is left alone,
in the silence, as the video winks out and the old level of light
returns to the cabin.

“Damn you all . . .” he hears himself mutter into his own
chest; his chin lies limply against it.

He sits there for awhile, straining to deny what’s happening
in his chest, struggling to run from what he knew would happen
the moment his hands touched the controls at his side. He tries

23
 - Manifest Destiny -
to cast his mind outward, to feel and embrace and, somehow,
internalize the empty husks, the ruined asteroids, and the desolate
planet that, in this alien expanse, is somehow both above and below
and in either case utterly outside, completely other.

But the embers have made their leap. The kindling has, damn
it all, caught. And the burning has begun, slowly and infuriatingly. He
bites his own teeth, trying to extinguish it before it can begin—but
it refuses, stubbornly clings to life, and continues to burn at that
painfully slow pace, picking up speed by the smallest possible
increments.

So the man sits there for a few moments longer, struggling

in vain as it grows from a few embers to a campfire, and from there
begins to aspire to consume the whole forest.

Eventually, he knows: he can’t contain it anymore.

His hands dance on the controls at his side once more.

Drawn on unseen lines, the central controls roll from a few centi-
meters ahead of him to his lap, him reaching out to grasp them as
though on autopilot even as he disengages the ship from it. His
movements would make a zombie look alive.

It lies ahead, awaiting, graceful at a distance but making no

secret of the chaos that it actually contains: that planet, surrounded
now by drifting waves of gas between which bolts of multicolored
electricity dance in crazed abandon.

He looks it dead in the face. If there’s some shift in ex-

pression, his own can’t feel it.

The flames are leaping up to the top of his chest, con-

suming anything and everything that he has inside him and using
it as fuel to move his hands and fingers, to tap out the final landing
instructions and seize the levers and knobs that will guide him to
the treacherous world’s surface.
Something rancid tickles the back of his throat; he swallows
and tastes a sort of coppery phlegm, ephemeral but unforgettable.

24
 - Manifest Destiny -
Ah, some detached part of his brain thinks, so that’s what
hope tastes like.

And yet as the words leave his mindscape he recognizes

the lie in them. That wasn’t hope, not in the sense you would ordi-
narily think the word. It is more an obligation, a robot-like drive,
than the illuminating lightness most would call that name. But
there is no other word for it. It is hope, but hope as a poison. A
necessary evil; some sort of required applied stress. He swallows
again, just to confirm himself, to commit himself.

The ship lurches forward, stalls for a breath, and leaving

that last bit of hesitation behind streaks towards its new home.

Luke Fredette

25
A Letter from the Accomplished
Frame and glass, frame and glass, nail, hammer, hang: the
pieces of paper that credit if I will become someone. The worth
of a person defined by who has the most holes in the drywall.
By insignificant ink on a page, we claim our success: trapping us
behind their reflective cage. These dozen sheets they said would
make me great have taught me to lose what once gave life to my
curious soul.

Rachel Kaneversky

26
Painfully, he changed ‘is’ to ‘was’
He looked down at his white and blue lined sheet—covered in his
penmanship from nearly two years back. This is his prized creation.
This is what began his inspiration, dreams, emotions—this string
of letters is what taught him passion for expressing creativity. The
story wasn’t relevant anymore; rather, it wasn’t realistic. However,
it was far too special for it to be thrown out like many other pieces
before it. Painfully, he took his red pen and began changing every
present word into the narrative of his past love.

Rachel Kaneversky

27
Lost Love
Running is to me as sunshine is to leaves.
I’ve run along this road so many times.
She was a vibrant blur of color that flashed along the path.
Beautiful and untameable, a wild flower in the dull grass.
She couldn’t be plucked from the earth.

Running is to me as water is to stems.

But every day I’d stop running and admire her fiery petals.
For her, I stopped breathing, stopped life.
She could only be found in this single place.

Running is to me as color is to petals.

But, I grew sick with the fever of flowers.
I dared to dig her roots from the soil.
I planted her inside the cavern of my chest.
I kept watering daily and went on running.
One tiny green leaf was the first to die:
I didn’t think anything of it.
But those brilliant, orange petals
Began cascading to the ground.

Running is to me as soil is to roots.

I still remember the last time I ran
Before her colors turned dull.
I opened that space within my chest

And there was nothing left of the wild thing

I had once known.
She forced her roots to run away
Along an alternate path.
Within the empty garden of my chest,
My heart wilted in her hands.

Kaitlyn Doolittle

28
Picking Petals
You loved to pick my petals.
To you it was just a game.
When all my petals were gone, out went the flame.

You left to go find something new

and I was too cold now to grow back my petals.
It seemed like suddenly, I didn’t know how.

I picked up the dying petals

and placed them back onto my skin.
I hate that I love to let you win.

For awhile I was just a stem, but spring surely came once again.
Soon I was happy and blooming.
Life had regained its color.

You watched me from afar

while fuming,
just puffing on that cigar.

You walked straight up to me

and grabbed me by my strengthening stem.
Why did I decide to ask you
if you would like to pick my petals once again?

Candy Quesada

29
 Vow of Silence
Speaking is such a burden,
full of expectation and performance.
When I speak, I feel fake.
In silence, I find my genuine self.

People think I am a good listener,

but the truth of the matter is different;
I am thankful for the chance to be silent.
I am thankful for the chance to just be.

Silence is easy.
Silence is genuine.
Silence conceals nothing.

Nate Van Dyke

30
Songbird
Sing to me, sweet songbird
Once the stars all cease to shine
As morning dews now kiss the grass
As sun begins its rise

Sing now as your morning song

Drifts softly through the flowers
Your song still sounds in chill and heat
Through sun rays, ice, and showers

Morning bird, the sky is dark

The air now holds a chill
And yet your voice still sings to me
Each note contains a thrill

Sweet song bird, now as you still sing

There’s no soul left to hear
And so it seems your song’s for you
For sorrow, glee, and fear

I know not how to help you now

Yet listen to your songs
The beauty of your every note
Disguises lyrics of their wrongs

So songbird, sound your every note

Each hour till sunlight’s through
We’ll take each song as though it’s ours
Yet each is just for you

Carlie Dickens

31
Who Are You?: Mestizo
Photo #1

32
Photo #2

33
Photo #3

34
Photo #4

35
Photo #5

Evangelina Rodriguez

36
Hidden Feelings
A little cabin, home to three.
But visitors many, come and see!

Exuberant, welcoming, pure of heart!

It seems that nothing can tear them apart.

But inside the heart of one,

a deep stirring love.
Hidden intentions, hidden hopes
behind humors and smiles galore!

But alas, the pain felt is too much

for the child inside has been long lost.

Many hopes, many dreams,

but in the end,
Reality is a cruel mistress.

Nate Van Dyke

37
My Little Bit of Heaven
I know angels exist because I met you.
Heavenly lips,
godly divinity,
glowing aura,
otherworldly grace.
You were a saint
present in the darkest of times,
my guardian of protection from
my own aching heart,
my only religion in this
tormented world.
But religion disappoints,
saints relapse back into sin,
and angels fall from heaven every day.

Candy Quesada

38
Sewed Back Up
I tried pinning her heart together, but the seams kept unraveling.
I tried sewing her heart back up, but again,
the seams just kept unraveling.
No matter what I did, no matter what I used,
the threads still came undone stitch by stitch.
Sleepless nights I spent trying to repair the damage,
but in the morning all there was evidence of
were fingerpricks upon my fingertips.
I spent entire days trying to repair what was broken,
but it was never of any use.
Her seams always unraveled faster than I could sew.
One day, I finally ran out of thread and my needle went dull.
In desperate attempt to still fix her,
I undid my own seams in order to have more thread.
I knew I would eventually run out
and that would be the end of me,
but I would do anything to save her.
And so I continued on stitching up the endless abyss
of a gap on her heart until the day
I
ran
out
of
thread.

Candy Quesada

39
Every Morning
I see him almost every day.
He’s tall, dark, and fair;
he warms me up when I hold him.
With the touch of our lips,
he rejuvenates me.
Who, girl? Your man?
No, my Starbucks drink.

Adam Dueck

40
Odysseus’ Men
The glow of stars through dark night’s fingers slips
as men leave Sound behind with her sweet din.
I turn my mind to Ithaca’s lost ships;
which ears had wax and what if waxless been?

The Siren’s silky voice will fall and cling

with whispers loud of song in lover’s cry.
She tempts the hearts of men, sets ears to ring,
takes names of these, fits them with wings, shouts, “Fly!”

But, how can lips—these—hers—breathe death and yet

at once can quell men’s thoughts and make souls bound?
I wonder if the sailors did regret
the ears of wax that once could hear such sound.
As poisoned tongues sing notes of each one’s name
they pondered if they’d ever hear the same.

Kaitlyn Doolittle

41
A Meaning
Death is silent,
or maybe just quiet.
It gives no hint.
It picks who it may.
It’s swift and painless,
I’d like to think.
It gives no warning.
It burns and tears
at anything true and real.
And steals our very breath,
leaving no secrets or words.
It fills what is alive with pain, doubt, questions.
“What’s the meaning of life?”—
“You’ll never know,
when you find out death follows.”

Mark Walker

42
The Wall
We were in the middle of Iraq, between the Tigris and

Euphrates Rivers in the area that gave this ancient land its name,
Mesopotamia, the land between waters. The town of Mahmudiyah
sat on the southwestern outskirts of the greater Baghdad metro-
politan area. The Forward Operating Base or FOB was on the east
end of the town. The area was juxtaposed between the city and
farmlands, beautiful mosques and trash-strewn streets, between
friend and enemy.
Our compound was what I envisioned our living situation

would be like in Iraq before we got there. Our Tactical Operations
Center was in a bombed out building. We had two computers, a
couch, and a TV. There was a small courtyard between our head-
quarters and our sleeping area. The courtyard had a table and four
chairs, perfect for sitting and drinking coffee and writing. This
space was covered by camo netting for shading.
Our trophies of blown up robot parts, fragged bomb suits,
demilled ordnance items, and license plates with Arabic numbers
hung all around the courtyard. The metal license plates were twisted
and burned from the bombs their vehicles held.
But the most haunting thing was the names. Each team
that had come before us wrote their names on the wall in black
marker; most names were followed with little sayings, like this:
“I swear it will never happen again…Bang!”
“It is all just rainbows and butterflies.”
“I don’t care who you are, that smells like catfish bait.”
These sayings were some kind of inside story to the
teams that wrote them, and only those that sat around the table under
the camo netting would have known what they truly meant. But the
short sayings gave all of us a glimpse into their stories, even if it was a
foggy one.
At that time, there were 92 names on the wall. Those
names had cleared thousands of Improvised Explosive Devices
(IEDs). Those names had countless untold stories. I would sit
and stare at the names of soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen.
Some of their stories I knew. They had become legends in the
Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) world. Some of them I had

43
 - The Wall -
been stationed with, others were classmates from EOD School,
but most I did not know. The names haunted me, so I would
make up little tales about these ghosts and their time in that very
compound.
There were also the names of 6 robots on the wall. One

of the robots was named “Misty the Black Talon.” Misty was a
legendary robot, a coveted robot. Talons were one of the two main
types of robots that we used in Iraq, but she was a Talon with the
latest upgrades. These upgrades made her lighter and faster than
the previous generation, and she had better video capability. She
was the only one issued to our unit. Misty literally was one of a
kind.
Team Foxy joined up with Task Force Iron Claw and

headed out early one morning to clear a road. Their job was to
clear route Temple, a road that connected Mulla Fayyad area with
Lutifiyah. The fog rose off the Euphrates River as the team turned
left onto Temple. The sun looked like a white disk through the
thick fog. The Humvees and mine resistant vehicles that made up
the clearance operation stretched off into the distance along the
route.
Team Foxy came to the conclusion that the enemy must
have had a sense of humor, because when they rounded a corner
the road was littered, as far as they could see, with Concertina
Wire, rocks, spent rocket motors, large oil cans, shell casings that
stood on end, and anything else that they could put in the road to
slow the convoy . Every one of those things could have been an
IED, so “Misty the Black Talon” examined each and every one.
The robot driver maneuvered Misty between a shell casing
and a large oil can. After checking the shell casing, the driver spun
to check the oil can , but the rear part of the tracks nudged the
casing . It tipped over and rolled toward the edge of the road .
The team held their breath hoping the casing wouldn ’t hit a trip
wire or crush switch. Slowly it came to a rest at the edge of the road.
“Sorry, Sarge, I swear it will never happen again.” The driver moved
Misty forward to examine the oil can. Misty lurched forward and
bumped the oil can. “Bang!” The oil can exploded.
Misty flew 11 feet in the air, did a double flip, and landed
off the road. The blast wave hit the vehicles and the cloud of smoke

44
 - The Wall -
rose as a signal that another IED had detonated. Misty came to
her end far before anyone expected.

There were also names that didn’t have sayings attached

to them, yet I knew their stories better than the rest. These names
had three letters next to them—KIA. There were six in all. Many
of the EOD Techs that had died in Iraqi Freedom had lived at this
FOB at the time of their death. They had sat in my chair; they had
spent their last night sleeping in our beds; they had driven down
the streets that were now ours to patrol. KIA—nothing made me
face my mortality more than those three letters written in black
ink on that wall on that FOB in the heart of Iraq.
This was where EOD Techs came to die. Something that

bothered me was the correlation between the robot names and the
EOD Techs’ names—six robots KIA and six military personnel
KIA. The robots represented our tools, our means of safety, our
expendable assets, that helped keep us alive, and yet the wall didn’t
lie.
The number was the same; six expendable assets and six
non-expendable names were listed on that wall, on that rough
plywood with black Sharpie, permanent ink. It could be argued
that if we did not have those robots there would have been many
more non-expendable names. We know that robots did save many
lives, but the connection, the same number, was bothersome to me.
I did not want to see any of my fellow Techs’ names on that wall,
but the truth was that they were there.

Our sleeping quarters were cramped. We each had a small

bed and several ammunition boxes converted into shelves for our
uniforms and personal items. I hung an Ansel Adams calendar
next to my bed and placed five framed pictures on ammo boxes.
My favorite picture was a close-up of my daughter sitting on my
lap on a swing outside my house in Washington. It was taken as
the sun was setting, in the golden hour. The sun caught her beautiful
light brown, expressive eyes.
I would sit outside in our courtyard, in my own private
paradise, and listen to the wind lift the camo netting above my
head. I was surrounded by our gear, our trophies, and our names

45
 - The Wall -
written all over the plywood that made up the outside wall of our
living quarters. Our body armor hung neatly in rows on 2x4’s that
were nailed into a wall.
I sat and stared at that wall for hours. I ran my fingers

along the coarse wood grain where the names are permanently
written. I knew there were many untold stories hidden in these
names, but each time I sat to write these stories they didn’t come
smoothly; they didn’t flow; they seemed stuck in that plywood.
The problem was, there were too many stories. I knew,
because I had only been there a few months and the IEDs I
had seen, the faces that I had met, had blurred together. Only a
few different days stood out, only a few different calls. When I
looked at my calendar, I knew that I had been on 40 missions
because I placed a tick mark on my Ansel Adams calendar each
day that I had a mission. I remember that the main charges of the
IEDs were made up primarily of military projectiles. Some were
122mm, 130mm, or 155mm. Some were HEAT rounds; others
were homemade directional fragmentation devices. I remembered
what kinds of switches were used: crush wires, command wires,
and pressure bars. But these kinds of things do not tell a story. Just
like the names and the sayings didn’t tell a clear story, just that 92
other people had been there experiencing the same life.
Along the way, I had heard parts and pieces and whole
accounts of the names with KIA attached to them. These came
to me at EOD School or sitting around a campfire or behind the
closed doors of a classified briefing room.

The first female EOD Tech to be killed in Iraqi Freedom

has her name on this wall—Army Sergeant Voelz—KIA. I came
across her story in EOD School. I was going through the
section of school when we learned about IEDs. It was close to
the end of the section, and the end of school. We were doing our
practical exercises, which meant that we were using explosively
driven tools to disarm fake IEDs. One of the practical exercise
areas had a picture of her. She had sandy-blonde hair and a big
smile. She looked so full of life and hope. Her date of birth was
listed and her date of death. I was told the story of the last day
of her life, and I have been told it many times since, but I won’t

46
 - The Wall -
retell it here because I don’t want to get it wrong and dishonor
her. What I want to say is that day I connected a name on the
EOD Memorial Wall to human flesh. This wall is one that sits on
the edge of the woods at the EOD School campus on Eglin Air
Force Base in Florida. The wall has four different sections, one
for each branch of the military. On the top of the section is that
service’s seal made of brass and below it are the names of all of the
EOD service members that have died, while in military service,
since WWII. I walked past the wall daily on my way to school.
Learning about Sergeant Voelz’s story attached a real life to one of
those brass names and it was shocking to me. That sandy-blonde
haired girl had been in my shoes a few short years before me. She
was actually my age and she had met her end somewhere in Iraq,
somewhere in the midst of Operation Iraqi Freedom. That girl,
full of life and hope and smiles and sandy-blonde hair, now lies
lifeless in some grave, but her name is on the wall there in Iraq in
permanent ink . Instead of a quote , there are three letters—
KIA. For me, that is how she is to be remembered.

A couple of months after I had gone through IEDs, I

found myself helping throw the annual EOD Memorial. Once
a year, on a weekend in May, EOD Techs come from all over the
world. On Friday night, there is a BBQ and an auction. Everyone
gets drunk and bids on junk, like ammo boxes with our military
badge burned into them. There are bidding wars and items anyone
could make in their garage, with a soldering iron and some lacquer,
go for hundreds of dollars. The money that is collected goes to a
memorial fund, which gives scholarships to the children of fallen
EOD Techs. On Saturday, there is a ceremony with a military for-
mation, a prayer, a speech, and a fly over, and the individuals that
lost their lives that year are added to the Memorial Wall.
I had not completed school yet, but I had spent the previous
month making several of the items that were to be sold at the
auction. It was my job to collect the money for the BBQ. I felt out
of place. I had not yet earned the right to be there. I was not yet
worthy of the title of EOD Tech, and I was around hundreds that
had been members of the society for 10, 20, or 30 years. Half-way
through the evening, one of my instructors came up to me and

47
 - The Wall -
whispered, “Don’t charge them.”
“What?” I asked.

“Don’t charge them. We’re adding her husband’s name to

the wall tomorrow.”
He was speaking of the next woman in line, her and her

two beautiful, innocent, blue-eyed, blonde-haired, little girls. At
that very moment in my mind that name, that name that we
would add to the wall the coming day, was given a family, a family
whose father left for Iraq earlier that year. That name was given two
beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, little girls who would never
see their father again. Two girls who would not have a father to
walk them down the aisle at their wedding or threaten boys when
they came to take them on dates, or a daddy to send them off to
their first day of school. At that moment, I knew what all of this
was all about. I knew why I had burned all those military badges
into all those boxes and lacquered all that wood. The two reasons
were standing right in front of me, and they were beautiful and
had blue eyes and blonde hair.
About a year after I graduated from EOD School, the first
Air Force EOD Tech to be killed in action in over thirty years died
in Iraq—Technical Sergeant Walter Moss. That day is still clear
in my mind. Everyone was at their work stations and the news
spread through the shop like a hushed rumor, followed by words
of disbelief like, “Wow” and “Really?”
We were all asked to meet in the training room and Staff
Sergeant Rob Whitehurst said that he’d like to say a few words. I
have forgotten most of what he said, but I remember how he said
it.
First, he started to choke on his words (Rob was usually a
very well spoken, articulate person), and then he cried. Rob men-
tioned that they were stationed together in Turkey; he mentioned
Walt’s son and daughter and then he said, “I don’t know what
those kids are going to do without their father.” Walt’s name was
on that wall, too, on that FOB in Iraq, between two 2x4’s, with
KIA after it.
Many of our Standard Operating Procedures were written
in blood. For each name added to the wall, we started to do things
differently so that KIA would not be added to any more of our

48
 - The Wall -
names. Why did it have to be that way? Why did our procedures
have to be written with our brothers’ and sisters’ lives?
I wanted so badly for Walt to be home with his kids and
for the KIAs to be stripped from that wall.
When I was in Iraq, I wanted this wall to be in my house
in America. I wanted to pack it up and take it home with me.
But I couldn’t. So I did the second best thing that I could think
of. I took pictures of each and every name. I leaned in close and
snapped picture after picture. I wanted to carry their names with me
wherever I went. I captured what I could, but what I really wanted
was this wall somewhere close to me so that when I walked out my
door in the morning on my way to my garage I could see the joy
and the excitement and the frustration in each quote. I wanted to
run my fingers over the acronyms that meant a life had been lost. I
wanted to do this so regularly, so religiously, that the wood under
these letters would become smooth and turn black, and eventually
it would be as if those letters were never even there. I wanted to do
this because I wanted to understand what Sergeant Voelz’s husband
did, what Technical Sergeant Moss’s wife and children must do
every day when they wake up, and relive their wife’s, husband’s,
father’s death. They touch religiously, whatever it is that lets them
know that he or she is gone and eventually, some day, the pain
isn’t so bad. They’ll miss them but the coarse wood will become
smooth, and they’ll be able to move over the feelings with less
pain.
I wanted this wall in my house, because I wanted to
understand the heart of war, not just the lives of the few that I’ve
mentioned, but every life that was lost and the ripple effects that
it caused. I wanted this wall in my house because the next time I
had to go to war I needed something to go back to. I needed to go
back to these names and back to the black-covered acronyms.
I wanted to look closely and remember how long it took to
cover up the pain, and then I would multiply that pain by thousands
and thousands and possibly figure out another way.

Mark Walker

49
Day-gone-bye
What have I done to today?
I ignored it and it left me
as it should have.
I suppose I can’t call it today anymore.
It won’t answer to that, I’m sure.

If I call out “yesterday”

will it remember that it used to be my day?
If I say I’m sorry for wasting our time, will it forgive me?

I suppose I got what I deserved, for the foolery I flaunted.

For I thought of what I wanted, instead of who I might have served.

Timothy Myracle

50
Special Needs
When they call him “special”
they don’t realize how accurate it is.
This word stands in the place
of the one they actually mean.

But saying “retarded” is offensive.

In this large family of boys,
the retarded one is rarely him.
The title switches from brother to brother,
with a veil of humor concealing
the insult hidden within.

Some express their sorrow to me,

whether for him or for me
I am not always sure.
The response is always the same,
“Sorry for what?”

He is a child confined within an adult body.

Many don’t realize what endless joy
is contained within his hulking form;
every day is full of pranks and play.
He may be the one considered needy,
but it is actually me who needs him.

Nate Van Dyke

51
Collateral Damage
I dream of sandwich lines where you tell
me the honey mustard will

change my life.

I dream of quiet libraries where your
face turns red when you make me

laugh too loud.

I dream of that late-night car ride as you
hold my hand for the first, and

only, time.

But you snatched the mirror of dreams
from the wall, smashed it on the

cold, hard ground,

And our dream’s reflection shattered into
pieces, scattered about my bare

feet.

You casually maneuvered your way
through the rubble and left me

alone to die in the fire.

I attempted to salvage what remained of
this something we had shared.

I picked apart the bits and pieces of
honey mustard and libraries and

late night car rides.

I fondled shards of glassy mirror that cut
their way into my finger tips.

You walked away without a scar: not
even a scratch upon your walled

up heart.

These pieces I will hold as a reminder
that these dreams are memories,
As a reminder for the next time someone
tries to turn me into one of their
casualties.

Kaitlyn Doolittle

52
Barbaric Rain
Concrete barriers,
reminiscent of a stone castle.
Four-score and seven years ago,
and oh so many more,
they would be log pole pines,
and this would be a fort.
I’d carry a Springfield
instead of an M-4,
and there would be a Colt .45
in my holster.
No Beretta 9 mil.

Freedom is never satisfied.

Every generation has laid its youth
at its altar.
The earliest memories tell us,
“This is a worthy death.”
Governments are parched
without the continued blood offering.
Barbaric thinking
still courses through
our economic veins,
and trickles into the hearts
of men.
More than once
in the grey shadows
of my armored vehicle
have I whispered, “I
want to kill a man.”

Standing along
bustle of auto and planes.
Staring up at the buildings
that scrape the sky,
it’s hard to imagine
man’s mind has not evolved far.

53
 - Barbaric Rain -
What gods were the youth
of history given to
for health of crop and promise
of rain?
For crops grew green
and rain did fall.
Turned fertile soil
black as oil.

Mark Walker

54
Tim, Dan, and Liz
The moon rose red tonight.
Within the futility of my slow salute,
I tried to honor three names.
Names that I will never know.
I looked across the detail
into the eyes of a lover,
a brother,

a mother,

a friend.

They wondered,
conflicted, confused.
They filled with tears.
“Order Arms”
was sung not as a command.
We slowly returned our hands
to their rightful place.

They loaded the coffins

one by one
to make their slow journey home.
To find their place deep within the ground.

Three names buried.

Six eyes closed to war.

Mark Walker

55
Shadows
What am I showing from the beaming shine?
With given vision from the Word we know,
we are to use ourselves to cast an image—
an image that is brought by Your delight.
The Man, our guiding way. What You show, we
conceal; we never can reflect your worth.
But this does not despair Your children’s hearts!
For through our stature and the way we breathe,
we cast Your will: the outline that You give.
Our chosen actions—how we point to You.
We want to point our darkness toward the life—
the life You brought to light and then made true.

Rachel Kaneversky

56
Blackout Poetry: A Contest

This semester, the Hiebert Library held a Blackout Poetry

contest. Also known as Erasure Poetry, this style involves blocking
out words from a pre-existing document , and whatever remains is
the poem. While using others' words instead of creating your own
may sound questionable, it is not as easy as it sounds. Unearthing a
poem hidden inside a compeletely different text is part of the
artistry and meaning of the genre, and can yield unexpected results!
As part of the reward, the winner of the Hiebert Library's
contest is featured here . The original source is also included for
context . I hope you enjoy, and maybe feel inspired to create your
own Blackout Poem!

Francesco Parisi
Editor in Chief

57
Blackout Poetry: Original Text

58
Blackout Poetry Winner

59
 ATTENTION WRITERS
Submissions for the 2021 issue of The Green
Light will be open as of September 01, 2020. We
currently accept artwork, poetry, fiction, and creative
non-fiction, but are willing to consider other forms
of creativity as well. All students, staff, faculty,
alumni, and FPU community members are eligible
for publication. However, we ask that rejected past
submissions are not submitted again unless you are
invited to do so by the editorial staff.

We ask that submissions refrain from gra-

tuitous language, graphic content, and/or glorified
substance abuse. We recommend that prose be kept
under 3,500 words (slightly longer works can be
negotiated).

Please send any submissions, questions, or

comments to green.light@fresno.edu.

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