Johanna Navarrete

Goache on Paper
18 in x 24 in

Jessica Uko-Abasi

Digital
1600 px x 1200 px
March 18, 2022

whenever i daydream of home,
and lately i often do,
when i close my eyes, it’s not a place
it has always been you.

   The house was embedded with bad memories, and it behaved as such. It was almost as if the house wanted its inhabitants to know it was unhappy. There was an echo of fights and accusations. There were pipes full of frustrated tears and pillowcases stuffed with sleep-less nights. There were hopes and there were dreams, in that house, but they were hard to see when the blinds were always drawn, the lights were always off, the TV was always droning on. It was too quiet, and too loud all at once. With every step the floor would creak and shadows seemed deep and many. There was a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom, like any other house. There were a couple bedrooms, a few closets, and one attic. There was a front yard; there was a backyard. There was a porch. But all of it, even in the light of day, shone dim.

   The little boy who grew up here never saw his parents very much. They were always busy doing something else. The house treated them coldly, and for some reason, they seemed to fear it almost. However, the house, so bristly and cold, seemed warm and welcoming to the boy who had never known kindness. So, he sat alone and made friends with this dark creature, and he soon made a habit of hiding in dusty corners to talk to the house about his day. The house, to the boy, seemed to respond in kind, and although it never really answered, he spoke all the same. Many years passed, and nothing changed.

   And then one day, the boy turned eighteen. His parents, who hadn’t spoken much to him before, called from downstairs that it was time to leave. The boy (for he was not yet a man), begged and pleaded to remain with the house, the house that had been his only friend. But he was denied and kicked out. Heartbroken and sorrowful the boy walked onward, having no where to go. Every thought was of the house: it was almost unbearable to leave it. He had never known anything but sorrow and fear and loneliness, and he definitely didn’t know how to leave. This house, which he had learned to befriend, represented the loneliness and fear he had lived in for so long. When he left that place, he finally realized that there was so much more out there than the cold little world he had known. And so, he decided to make his own house, one no one could take away from him, one where he could be happy.

   In his mind, he made a house of love and care, something he had never experienced. It wasn’t a castle, it wasn’t a mansion, it was just a shack. But it was his and it was beautiful and that was more than enough for him.

   This shack was lovely in every way. The sun shone through open blinds every morning, and there was a chair in the backyard just meant for looking at the stars. Everything was a perfect little mess, not too neat, not too disorganized. A marvelous, controlled chaos. The door was always open to anyone who needed a place to rest and grow and love. There were no shadowy corners; there were no creaky floors. There was a soothing, peaceful quiet—the kind of silence where people heal--but there was so much laughter, too. There wasn’t a screeching TV, just an open door. And although his old, cold house sat across the way like an early memory, it didn’t taint the joy of his sunny shack because he chose not to let it.

   The old house became farther and farther from his thoughts. He learned how to love others and how to make real friends and to be joyful. All that came from a choice. And although he once believed home was a place, he now knew it was a feeling, and he finally understood. Home is where you choose to be, in your heart and soul, and what emotions you spend the most time cultivating in your mind. He smiled and knew everything would be okay. Love and joy was exactly where he wanted to be. And no one, no one could ever take that away.

K. Night

Acrylic on Canvas Panel
8 in x 11 in

To most, home is a singular and physical place.
It is a house with a roof and windows and doors and rooms,
but the people who reside in it matter more.
To them, home is a solid concept,
a community full of comfort, reassurance, and joy.
But I have many different homes
With different moods and memories.
My collective home is an amalgamation
Of different places, stories, and memories,
each with their own feelings and perspectives.
I enter these homes of mine through sudden sensory.
A taste of red velvet cake can take me to a home
Full of cheer and laughter on my birthday,
And yet the sound of breaking glass brings me to a home
Full of discord in just a few seconds.
This concept is fluid and everchanging
To me, home is almost everywhere.

    Once upon a time, there lived a happy little family on a happy little hill. They were per-
fect. Perfect car, perfect house. Perfect people. They lived happily ever after. The End.
    That’s how most stories go, right? I must be an outlier. My home is lack thereof. My
home is barely a home. Home is a four-letter word with millions of meanings and yet I still
cannot find one for mine. I have searched for eighteen years, and I have to say, my eyes need
to be checked.
    In the dark hours of midnight, my twisting and turning is a result of the overwhelming
steam engine of thoughts chugging through my head. 3 a. m. has a way of bringing out the
anxieties buried during the day. My brain is a home for nestled thoughts. As I pull out my
laptop and open YouTube, I mindlessly scroll, searching for a video to flood the racing brain.
“New House Tour” flies up the page and my scrolling ceases. While I watch the pretty wife
pan the camera around the elegant marble walls, the anxiety surfaces. Why can’t my home be
like this? What did I do in my past life to deserve less than nothing?
    As the hours tick by, the sun peaks its head out of the horizon. I sit on the porch with a
cup of coffee, hot steam blending with the morning dew. The chirp of the blackbirds snaps me
into reality. The structural layout of the world around me is something only a God could con-
struct. Maybe home is not so dreadful as the demons of midnight make me believe. Finishing
off my last sips of coffee, my mother comes out of the door and sits on the porch with me.

    “You’re up early.”

    I jostled in my seat.

    “Never went to sleep.”

    This conversation repeats itself often. My insomnia enjoys playing games.

    With the sun settled in its place in the heavenly sky, my thoughts settled, too. My home
is not my home. My home is the stars in the sky and the grass on the ground. My home is the
teacher that greets me every morning with a smile and knows the instant that something is
wrong. My home is the parents of my friend that make me feel like their own. My home is the
beaten-up stop sign that resides on the end of my street. My home is my crazy family that hoot
and holler at any given event. My home is around my home. And yeah, I don’t have a perfect
house and a perfect family, but that definition simply does not fit in my meaning of of home.
And that’s OK.

Callie Hallowell

Digital
March 14, 2022

Sarah Lancaster

Oil on Canvas
16 in x 16 in
March 22, 2022

Hadley Roten

Colored Pencil on Paper
18 in x 24 in
March 22, 2022

    Home is not a place. It’s not a person or a physical object. Home is a feeling. It’s the
validation you receive after getting a good grade on the paper you poured your heart and soul
into. It’s the comfort yet disgust you feel when you see the crockpot sitting on the counter. It’s
the butterflies you get before pressing play on the new season of your favorite show. Home is
the good, the bad, the sweet, and the sour. Home is where you feel complete and fragmented
at the same time. It’s where you find solace in your imperfection.
    For me, literature provides the feeling of home. There’s something special about shar-
ing intensely personal experiences and finding a vast amount of people who relate. When
you can’t find the words to express how you feel, it’s comforting knowing someone else has
probably already found them for you. Pick up It’s Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini and
you’ll find you’re not the only one who’s mental health suffers once they join an academically
prestigious high school. You could check out Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell and discover
you’re not unaccompanied in your insecurity with body image. However you may feel, there
is certainly a book that helps express those feelings. If there isn’t, you could be the one to write it.
    Home does not have to be the house you come back to at the end of the day. Home in-
cludes relief and relaxation, and for most people, those are not found in the place you go to af-
ter school. Literature provides a form of escapism that allows individuals to teleport to another
place. If one is feeling alone or misunderstood, venture to Northern Italy in Call Me By Your
Name by André Aciman. Or, if you’re feeling held back by your anxiety, vacation to Australia
in A Room Called Earth by Madeleine Ryan.
    One shouldn’t let the intimidation of pre-existing art stop them from creating some-
thing beautiful themselves. Writing creates home. Some individuals favor buying a house, but
some crave building it. I love creating a written piece where I feel I’ve used my creativity to
make an impact or stir up an emotion. When someone writes— whether it be a story, poem, ar-
ticle, etc.— it presents an opportunity to give a voice to the voiceless, to welcome them home.
    Literature offers not only an outlet, but an expression of self. It allows people to com-
municate as well as listen. It provides representation, comfort, and a way to clear your mind.
Reading and writing provide a feeling of home to me. When things get difficult, I can always
pick up a John Green novel and feel listened to. I know when I end up buying my own house,
it won’t be complete without a library. Home is where the books are.

Ellie Pugh

Digital
March 22, 2022

    Forward Infront of me, the greyish slab of earth seemed to stretch on forever as the seat
I had been placed in proceeded forward until it reached a break, light in front of me blink-
ing red. Cars of many different colors turned in-between the break in the slab trail, produc-
ing quick loud whooshing sounds as they proceeded. It seemed like forever that I had been
stopped there motionless as the colorful vehicles passed and I had begun to close my eyes
tiredly when the light’s color again changed to green, and I was once again strolling down the
greyish path ahead of me.
    The buildings surrounding me were tall and wide. Windows – which I had enjoyed
looking out to the flowers from in my bedroom at home – filled nearly every inch of the struc-
ture and I wondered if they too were looking at the flowers that filled the grass that was con-
tained in the gray slab in the center of the quickly passing by vehicles. I was sure they were.
The path in front of me was certainly not something I’d look at from a window. It was boring
and colorless. It must be the flowers.
    A loud squall filled my ears but the people who walked along alongside me and my
parents did not seem alarmed by this peculiar sound as it echoed through the tall structures
around us. It was a sound I mostly heard on nights when wind shook the trees and loud cracks
of light filled the sky. It was a scary sound.
    The people around me were as peculiar as the sounds themselves. Some walked past
quickly, holding a square suitcase in their hand before walking to a stairwell that went un-
derground. I had no idea where the underground staircase went but I imagined it must go
to another part of the place. Maybe that place too had tall, windowed structures overlooking
flowers. I thought it must, though I could not stretch my neck far enough to see any of it. Other
people stood on the sides of the tall structures with shiny instruments in their hands, music
filling the air around them. It was strange to think that my dad had grown up in such an odd
place with such unusual places and people. It was vastly different from the quiet of home.
    As we continued the path over the large flag covered bridge, our pace slowed, and my
parents began to talk about the color of the river.
    “They dye the river green for St. Patrick’s Day,” said my dad as he looked down to me,
“Might be able to come back and see it sometime.”
    But the water was already green. Its color was unlike any other water I’d seen which was
typically a blueish grey. Its color was just lighter than the trees that crowded around its sides
below the bridge. I told my dad this and he laughed. The water could get greener.
    After my mother took a few pictures of the very green water, we moved forward and
were once again sandwiched between the big, windowed buildings. What they could possibly
need all of the large buildings for I did not know, but they stretched on for seemingly forever.
We stopped at some of them as we went but even when we did there seemed to be no explana-
tion for the height as most of the stores my mother wanted to stop in to look in did not tower to
the sky as the buildings they were in did.
    The buildings stopped once again on the left side of the street for the park which was ac-
companied by a giant peanut. We did not stop at the giant peanut but continued past it and the
green lions ahead of us – which I made an attempt to pet from my stroller – and turned down
the street ahead of with trees, shrubs, and flowers completely replacing the large, towering
buildings that had towered above me moments before. Ahead, water shot up in the air, creating
a loud thundering sound as the airborne water fell back to the pool at its surface.
    The pool of water looked good for swimming but there was no one swimming or
splashing in it and as we got closer, I saw that there had been a fence placed around it to pre-
vent this. Quietly, I wondered if anyone had ever gotten past the fence and sat alongside the
light blue-green horses that lay in the fountain’s water.

Amanda Smith

Acrylic on Canvas
14 in x 11 in
March 25, 2022