ScholarWorks @ SeattleU (Seattle University)

Scott, Tristan

Seattle University 
ScholarWorks @ SeattleU 
The Spectator Online Newspapers 
2-12-2025 
2025-02-12 Voices Off Lounge Creates Space for Capitol Hill Deaf 
Community 
Tristan Scott 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/spectator-online 
The Spectator • February 12, 2025 • https://seattlespectator.com/2025/02/12/voices-off-lounge-
creates-space-for-capitol-hill-deaf-community/
Voices Off Lounge Creates Space
for Capitol Hill Deaf Community
Tristan Scott, Staff Reporter
All interviews were conducted in American Sign Language
(ASL) with the help of an interpreter. Special thank you to
Seattle University First-Year Cell and Molecular Biology
Major Rio Slevin for providing interpretation assistance.
Located on the corner of Broadway and Denny Way, just
steps away from the Capitol Hill Light Rail station, a
vibrantly decorated window stands out against the
otherwise drab city street. Passerbys looking inward will
catch a glimpse of Voices Off Lounge, Seattle’s brand new
holding space for the Deaf community. 
Upon entering, the lounge is welcoming and cozy. People
mill about, sipping coffee, watching TV and relaxing on the
provided couches. There’s only one real rule, as written on a
sign in the entrance: “Voices Off, Please!” Visitors are free
to sign, gesture, write and type, but in order to create an
entirely safe and respectful space that centers the Deaf community, Voices Off requests that no one communicate verbally. 
The space officially opened Jan. 31, 2025, but had been in the works for over 10 years according to owner Kellie Gillespie.
“Capitol Hill used to be a great place to be Deaf,” Gillespie said. “This was partly because [Seattle Central Community College] used
to have a popular [ASL] interpreter program, but it was shut down in 2011.”
This was around the same time that Gillespie moved to Seattle. Upon arriving, they struggled to find Deaf-centered spaces or places
to make friends. Having been born Deaf, this struggle had been present throughout Gillespie’s whole life. It was here that they
realized the community space they had always wanted was something that they could create. In 2012, they became the CEO of
Visually Speaking, a Seattle-based company working to make learning ASL accessible.
In 2023, Visually Speaking partnered with Seattle Restored, an organization dedicated to helping artists and small businesses get
off the ground through hosting pop-up shops in empty storefronts. This was the first iteration of Voices Off, lasting roughly five
months in the heart of Downtown Seattle. The success of this experimental pop-up encouraged Gillespie to seek a more permanent
location, finally landing in Capitol Hill in late 2024.
The lounge celebrated its permanent opening with two parties at the beginning of February, one aimed at just those who are Deaf
or Hard of Hearing, and another open to everyone. 
“The energy was great. The music was so loud you couldn’t talk. But you can always sign!” Gillespie said.
Alan Behar
Through the window, vibrant decorations are visible alongside a
sign asking, 'Know ASL?'
Having opened so recently, Voices Off is still a work in progress being shaped by the community to fill whatever needs may arise. 
“It’s all still a big experiment,” Gillespie said. “At this point, we do whatever people want to see happen.” 
Jason Shields, a frequent visitor of the Lounge and ASL instructor for Visually Speaking, described the wide variety of events Voices
Off has already had the chance to offer.
“We’ve done art, played games, watched Deaf TV shows, even worked with Braille,” Shields said.
Visually Speaking also hosts a weekly ASL meet up every Sunday at Seattle U alumni-owned Boon Boona Coffee, Shields explained.
The event is aimed at ASL learners and speakers of all levels and serves as another opportunity to create connections and make
friends.
While Voices Off Lounge is a Deaf-led and Deaf-centered space, Gillespie made it clear that everyone is welcome to visit, learn, and
support the community.
“Disabled people aren’t scary, we don’t bite,” Gillespie said. “That’s why our window is so inviting. People can walk by, wave, and feel
welcome. We want to spread ASL everywhere, not just in these specialized spaces.”
In addition to their publicly open hours, Voices Off offers ASL classes for learners of all levels, including specialized classes such as
those aimed at the LGBTQIA+ community. These profits from these classes help fund the lounge, enabling them to offer more
events and activities. 
“Everyone was so kind and welcoming, which really reflects on how much of a community oriented space it is,” Rio Slevin, a first-year
cell and molecular biology major, said after visiting the lounge. “I’m glad that a space like this is starting up because it is definitely
needed, and hopefully it will encourage more people to learn ASL and grow the community.”
Slevin emphasized the importance of immersion in the language as well as learning from those who are Deaf as they did when
beginning ASL.
Voices Off Lounge is open for drop-in visits from 12-8 p.m. Wednesday through Sunday. They plan to host frequent special events
like their upcoming Sign-a-Raoke Night Feb. 13 from 7-10 p.m. at the Crescent Lounge. Information about upcoming classes and
events can be found on their Instagram, @voicesoffseattle.


English

2025-02-12 Voices Off Lounge Creates Space for Capitol Hill Deaf Community

Gollersurd, Nils

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 7 
2020 
Ambivalent Vacancies 
Nils Gollersurd 
Seattle University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Gollersurd, Nils (2020) "Ambivalent Vacancies," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 7. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/7 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
1 
 
Ambivalent Vacancies 
Nils Gollersrud 
 
 
The rusty red shell of the rundown Ford pickup truck raced the horizon along the 
desert highway, Luke Lemon determined and damned if they didn’t make it to 
Phoenix by nightfall. Hands gripped the steering wheel and a foot stabbed the gas 
pedal, nerves twisted and contorted under the high tension of a frantic getaway. 
Whistling along out of tempo and out of tune to the twangy chords of Ry Cooder on 
the radio, he nervously eyed the fuel gauge as the needle flirted towards the empty 
mark. 
“Will you cut that out?” Asked Logan Lemon. His partner in crime, equally 
quixotic, impulsive, and bound by brotherly bond and oath, sat opposite in the 
passenger seat, a flimsy highway map in hand while the other toyed with a silver 
revolver with three rounds recently expelled. 
Luke’s whistling made a sudden decrescendo, and a quick hand switched the 
dial on the dashboard. 
“New updates just in,” came the voice of the announcer on the radio. “The 
Lemon brothers are presently under police pursuit following the failed robbery of an 
El Paso bank. The brothers are believed to be in possession of almost two thousand 
dollars having lost most of the cash in a shootout with police-” 
And just like the crack of a bullet, an abrupt and abrasive metal cough erupted 
from inside the engine, a hissing and steaming death rattle announcing inevitable 
mechanical failure. The truck dangerously swerved across the road as it slowed to a 
stop and the stillness of the surrounding desert seemed to amplify itself. 
“Aw hell,” Logan began, sounding off a series of poetic insults that would 
have riled their mother, Miss Lucy Lemon, from the grave. He stepped out of the 
truck and kicked at it, hoping that some miracle of engine resurrection would 
manifest. 
“I knew we shoulda taken the Cadillac instead,” Luke said. “It’s as good as 
dead. Let’s grab the money and go. The longer we wait the sooner someone finds us.” 
 
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Afternoon slowly crept towards evening, and the oppressive heat beat down while 
imaginary vultures circled overhead and mirages of passing vehicles in the distance 
faded. Time seemed to fold into itself, the distant horizon appearing further and 
further ahead as the long road stretched on in the infinite afternoon. Luke and Logan 
stumbled under the agony of the sun, their silence quelling futile squabbling and 
threats to leave the other behind. Night soon set in and the flaming sky faded with 
occasional glimpses of distant celestial beings while a symphony of crickets sang 
amidst the humid air. 
“Luke, I won’t make it,” Logan groaned, dropping to his knees. “Carry on 
without me…” 
“Oh hush,” Logan snapped, kicking his brother. “Look, down there.” 
“What is it?” 
They approached the crest of a sandy hill and the apparitions of their arid fate 
disappeared upon the sight of civilization just ahead in the distance. The transient 
road into town gave way to occasional signs of life, aimless pedestrians and distant 
nighttime traffic. They wandered through the streets, passing by dingy dive bars and 
roadside diners, welcome sights of a seedy oasis 
“The promised land,” Logan remarked, catching his breath. “What’s our 
plan?” 
“I’m beat,” Luke said. “We rest for the night, grab a car, then get back on the 
road.” 
A half respectable motel sat at the end of the main street, between a 
questionable car dealership lot and a graffitied pawn shop. The vacancy sign flashed 
occasionally, as if unsure if any rooms were available. 
Logan looked to Luke, and his brother gave a weary but affirmative nod as he 
imagined the heavenly comforts of tepid bath water and cheap bed sheets. 
As they entered, a dutiful dog barked to greet them, then returned to a futile 
nap while the owner at the front desk peered up from a wrinkled newspaper 
crossword puzzle. 
“Can I help you?” Came a slightly discernable sound from the inner bowels of 
nicotine infested lungs. A careless hand with the eternal presence of a cigarette 
straightened a useless nametag with a jumble of handwritten letters that resembled 
something like Clibe but might have been Clive. 
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3 
 
“You got any vacancies?” Luke asked. 
“Probably.” 
“What do ya mean probably?” A clueless glance was the man’s response. 
“You either got a room for us or ya don’t.” 
“What’s the sign outside say?” 
“Couldn’t tell ya…looked like it was half blinkin’.” 
“Interesting. I can offer a room, but I can’t promise a harmless stay.” 
“We just want a room for one night, is all.” 
“I should tell you that this place is…how shall we say, not quite up to proper 
operating standards.” 
“I don’t care if your bathtubs don’t got hot water or if the television don’t 
work—” 
“I can assure you, those luxuries will be the least of your worries.” 
“Lovely, we’ll take it.” 
Clibe or Clive, or whatever the hell his name was, ignored an empty logbook 
and opened a box of mismatched keys, while Luke handed over the payment, 
mysteriously and promptly denied. 
“I don’t know which one is which one, so try em’ out and take your pick,” 
Clibe or Clive said, giving Luke a handful of keys. “And lastly, please, enter at your 
own peril.” 
“Sure, uh…thanks…” Luke replied, grabbing the keys. Walking out, the 
curious dog eyed him and his brother with a look of mild uncertainty. 
 
“Rooms 3, 9, 4, 25, 22, 7, 11, 8, and 29,” Logan said, examining the handful of rusty 
mismatched keys. They began with room number 3, and upon opening the door, they 
were greeted with the sight of a couple in mid argument debating what seemed like a 
matter of life and death but sounded like a disagreement over the television channel. 
“Apologies,” Luke said. “Don’t mind us.” 
Room 4 was occupied too, this time with a group of four children engaged in a 
deep game of Monopoly, ignoring the unwelcome intrusion of the motel’s new 
guests. A boy who looked no older than seven clenched the dice in a tense fist and 
rolled a five. Piercing grey eyes shot back at the brothers, and he turned back to the 
game, collecting a small stack of pink paper bills. 
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4 
 
“Carry on,” Logan told them, nodding. He shut the door and picked the next 
key. “Should we let management know about the…occupied rooms?” 
“He’s seen enough of our faces,” Luke said. “We’ll take the first room that’s 
empty then call it a night. This place is gettin’ weird…” 
Room 7 was empty. They turned on the lights, and examined the beds, 
satisfied that nothing seemed out of place. Logan stepped into the bathroom, turned 
on the sink, and the creaky faucet spewed a viscous pink liquid turned dark crimson. 
Covering his mouth, he ran out of the bathroom. Luke held up the bed sheet, 
revealing the faint outline of a vaguely human shape stained upon the mattress. They 
shook their heads and approached room 8. 
“Freeze!” Shouted a police officer, with a pistol raised as the door opened. He 
squeezed the trigger and the plastic toy made a harmless pop. The man laughed, 
stepping aside, revealing a costume party in the crowded space of the room, a faint 
disco ball hanging from the ceiling above a punchbowl that reeked of cheap wine. 
“Come in, come in!” Greeted one of the guests, dressed as a flapper. Luke and 
Logan made a courteous nod, then closed the door and moved on. 
Room 9 had tattered curtains and suspicious marks on the wall, hints of what 
resembled a vicious attack by an unknown feline predator. Room 11 featured a horrid 
paint job of floral patterns and ambiguous threats written in black paint on the walls, 
bed sheets, and carpets. 
“‘Your soul looks delectable,’” Logan read off the poorly written markings. 
“‘Enter all who swear’…’death to those who pass the threshold’…let’s try the next 
one, shall we?” 
In room 22, they saw a gaping hole in the floor, the bed leaning into the depths 
of an empty abyss. As they left, the door seemed to pull itself shut but didn’t close all 
the way. 
“We gonna find a room here or spend the whole night doin’ this?” Luke asked. 
Logan shot him an equally confused look. 
In room 25, a man sat in an armchair watching a distorted television, 
hypnotized by the spectral glow of the white noise and luminescence of a blank 
transmission. A shape began to form from the television screen resembling a hand, 
grasping the beguiled viewer’s head, pulling him into the screen. Logan kicked the 
door shut and they moved on. 
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5 
 
“We got one room left,” he said, holding up the key for room 29. “Shall we?” 
“After you,” Luke said, stepping aside. Logan unlocked the door and pushed it 
open, staring into the uncertainty, damned if they didn’t find an adequately harmless 
room, or perhaps, damned if they did. 
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Ambivalent Vacancies

Le, Annika

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 16 
2020 
Before Bed 
Annika Le 
Seattle University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Le, Annika (2020) "Before Bed," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 16. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/16 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
1 
 
Before Bed 
Annika Le 
 
 
I filed the fridge this evening– 
sauce shelf now tallest to short, 
a library of labels. 
 
In a Ziplock, half a lemon shrugs, 
smiling to show its seeds, 
and in the bottom corner, 
silver cans crawl in shadows. 
 
I assemble a monument, 
turn tubs into towers: 
Hummus then pesto 
with salsa as the steeple. 
 
I imagine it’s a dollhouse– 
the onions spill secrets 
in basement drawers, 
minced garlic guards 
the entryway. 
 
I’ve put it into place now, 
evicted the expired. 
Purring as I shut the door, 
it burbles a brief prayer 
into pitch darkness. 
1
Le: Before Bed
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2020


Before Bed

Perry, Bri

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 3 
2022 
Roots Claim the Ruins 
Bri Perry 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Perry, Bri (2022) "Roots Claim the Ruins," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 3. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/3 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
Roots Claim the Ruins 
B. Perry 
1 
 
 
Gardens are hardly the worst place to be buried. As the 
world would warm into springtime, tender sprigs of mint stir the 
rain-moistened soil. Fleshy curves of youthful crocus flowers push 
rich earth aside, rising to take their place amongst the changes of the 
season. They were perennials; as windblown particles of silt darken 
the pebbled surface of my headstone, as rainfall smoothes the 
chiseled edges of its epigraph, nourishing the lush patches of moss 
that obfuscate my name, years, relations with each drop—I watch the 
blooms rise and fall, rise and fall. Every wave fuller than the last, 
every wave bolstered by the last.  
Sat beside the crocus patch, I lean against my slab of stone, 
its bumps and ridges pressing the cool of shade into the base of my 
neck, shoulders, back. I reminisce about the times that its divots and 
cracks would have stamped their shape into my flesh; purpled 
impressions would fade to red as blossoming warmth announced the 
return of blood. You would think nothing of it, not beyond noticing 
the dents during a hasty brush of the palm over raw skin. But this 
world doesn’t leave its mark on ghosts. Death tempers the soul into 
its final form, and out from the churned ground arises a phantom, 
tragically impervious to change. 
I rest my hands into the dense pad of clovers blanketing the 
burial plot. My shape sinks away there, replaced with verdant rounds 
of supple growth. They continuously shrivel, decay into the soil, and 
sprout, unfolding broad leaves and redolent trefoils as I 
absentmindedly run my fingers through the phasing greenery, eyes 
turned towards the sky. I gaze beyond the tips of maple branches 
framing the garden; they lengthen further into view as I follow the 
arc of stars across time, across space. Rocks crumble off the mound 
of stone at my back. Rain freezing to ice carves fissures into them, 
giving way to cracks, then crevices, then breaks. Granules of dirt and 
sand soften the jagged edges. Returning roots claim the ruins. I 
wonder about the moment after stars burn out, the way the celestial 
elements sift away, their light finite, expended.  
But their light reaches me, luminous pin pricks bellowing, I 
be here, and you, too after stillness gives way to dust. The clovers, 
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2 
plush and warm after a day of consuming sunlight, feel alien in my 
touch. The breeze, lulling summer heat down to an evening’s cool, 
humid curve into night, whispers in peculiar tongue. Its breath stirs 
the garden into a chorus of rustling waves while I remain, unmoved, 
deciphering the lyrics. And I decide that while this garden graces my 
death, the cosmos commune with my soul. 
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Roots Claim the Ruins

Hyman, Emma

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 8 
2022 
Wake of the Flood 
Emma Hyman 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Hyman, Emma (2022) "Wake of the Flood," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 8. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/8 
This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
Wake of the Flood 
“Golden hills, now veiled in gray 
Summer leaves have blown away   
Now what remains? The Wind and Rain,”  
- Weather Report Suite, Grateful Dead. 
 
 The summers of my childhood were spent outside, in the park that bordered my 
small, suburban neighborhood. The “barn park,” as the neighborhood children 
colloquially termed it, was the beacon of all neighborhood activities, equipped with a full 
playset, basketball courts, a street hockey rink, and a big, crimson barn meant for 
community events but mostly just there for decoration. Eventually, when we all outgrew 
the slides and baby swings, we moved on to the park’s primary attraction: the creek—a 
skinny, shallow, meandering waterway fed year-round by snow runoff from the Rocky 
Mountains. The creek gave us very little as children but a chance to act as adventurers, 
unbound by the set rules of the playground. In the creek, we were free; free to jump 
from rope swings crudely hung upon low-hanging branches and build dams amidst the 
creek’s slowly flowing waters. Most of all, we were free to sit all day on the creek’s banks, 
fishing for crawfish using slimy, chopped up hot dogs.  
 I don’t know where the crawfish came from—they’re hardly native to Colorado—
but they lived within the walls of the muddy creek beds of my childhood park. At every 
possible chance we got, my brother, our friends, and myself would head down to a nook 
in the creek that we claimed as our own and spend hours using makeshift fishing gear to 
reel in as many crawfish as we could before our parents called us home for the night. It 
wasn’t much, and we hardly ever caught enough to cover the bottom of our bright 
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orange Home Depot bucket, but it got us out of the house for a few hours a day. At the 
end of the day, we would return our bounty to the muddy creek and go home to join our 
families for dinner.  
 September 11th, 2013, was a Wednesday, meant to be like any other. I was a 
month into 7th grade and on that Wednesday, I woke up in a panic, terrified of missing 
school. I saw the clock and ran out of my room, yelling to my parents that I was late to 
school.  My father laughed, informing me that school had been canceled due to 
torrential rains that turned the roads to rivers and turned an otherwise dry state into a 
wetland. Growing up in Colorado, weather usually never posed a barrier to our 
education. I remember once in 1st grade, when school had been canceled due to a 
blizzard that nearly trapped my mother and I in a Costco parking lot, but due to our 
Alaskan superintendent, our snow day prayers weren’t met again until my senior year of 
high school. And so, when school was canceled for rain on a random September 
Wednesday, I suppose I could have thought more about the potential significance of this 
missed school day. But I was 12 years old, and, in that moment, the pros of the 
impromptu rain day far outweighed its cons. 
 But then our solo rain day turned to four and suddenly the weight of the situation 
was firmly pushed to the front of my preoccupied 12-year-old mind. Suddenly, there 
were calls for evacuation, roads were buckling under the enormous weight of the waters, 
and homes and people were lost as our creeks swelled past their banks and flooded any 
earth they could get a hold of. Homes, lives, and memories were all lost in the torrential 
rainfall that ravaged Northern Colorado.  
 At some point during the four-day endeavor, one of my best childhood friends—a 
girl named Remy who lived down the street—and I went to assess the damage in our 
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beloved barn park. Our once narrow creek now covered nearly half the park. No longer 
could we jump from bank to bank with ease; now, the dainty creek of our childhood was 
a behemoth, eating away at our park inch by inch. While I wouldn’t fully come to terms 
with the impact of this once in a lifetime storm until I was in my late teens, my 
childhood was forever altered by these four days of rain. Shortly after the flood had 
receded and left millions of dollars in damage in its wake, Remy moved to her dad’s 
house full time and was no longer right across the street from me. All my childhood 
afternoons spent with her suddenly drifted away with the receding flood waters as we 
grew from best friends to acquaintances.  
 I don’t know where the crawfish came from, and I don’t know where they went. 
But after the flood, they were no longer burrowed into the mud walls of Dry Creek. 
Summers from then on were no longer spent squatting in the mud with a hot dog 
jammed on a paper clip at the end of a twine rope, hoping that we would catch as many 
crawfish as we could find. The nook that we had spent countless days at was no longer 
level with the creek. Rather, the perfect creek bed was replaced with a six-foot drop as 
the flood had sledged away any traces of our childhood exploration.  
 When the crawfish left, they took our childhood naivete with them. We could no 
longer separate the water from the destruction that its floods caused and so we 
separated ourselves from the creek all together. One day, we went fishing down at the 
creek, packed up our gear to leave, and never went back. I returned to the barn park 
many times in the years following but I never went fishing again. What was once a 
quintessential part of my life shrunk to a distant memory and what strikes me most 
about this whole experience was how little the missing crawfish seemed to mean after 
they disappeared in the flood’s wake. I believe that sometimes when you’re enveloped in 
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these situations, especially when you’re not quite old enough to understand them, they 
begin to seem almost trivial. Nothing about the flood was trivial, but my 12-year-old 
understanding of the world had yet to grasp the gravity of it all, and so, like the crawfish 
in their muddy dwellings, I began to retreat inside myself.  
 It has been almost ten years since the flood and my hometown is still reeling from 
our 100-year flood. In the last nine years, I hadn’t taken the opportunity to reflect upon 
the flood until December 30th of this past year, when half my county was on fire and I 
desperately wished for the flood waters to return and quench the thirst of our dry, 
burning grasslands. In the fire and the floods, I watched as pieces of my childhood were 
slowly stripped away by an angry Mother Earth, but only in the fire did I fully feel the 
weight of my childhood slipping away. I suppose you could say that the nine-year gap 
between the two natural disasters changed me into a more reflective, if not nostalgic, 
person, but I don’t know if my processing of the Marshall fire was as reflective as it was 
cathartic. I’ve realized that I don’t want to have to reflect upon growing older or 
becoming more of myself, or whatever. I don’t want to think about the greater 
implications of these events. I don’t want to think about where the crawfish went or if 
kids still fish for them on hot, slow summer afternoons. I just want to be that kid on the 
creek again. I want to be the one throwing grimy hot dogs into the muddy water hoping 
to catch crustaceans who weren’t even supposed to be there in the first place. I want to 
walk the streets of Louisville without seeing the charred remains of businesses my 
friends and I used to frequent in high school. I want to be able to look back at my 
childhood without seeing the broken pieces of what once was. I suppose that, ultimately, 
my 12-year-old and 20-year-old selves just want nothing more than to let out one big, 
cathartic shriek, finally allowing me to release the last nine years of pent-up stress that 
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come with watching your hometown burn or simply wash away with the rain and Rocky 
Mountain runoff.  
I don’t know where the crawfish came from, but I know that when their rusty, 
dirt-splattered shells were swept away from their muddy dwellings, they took a part of 
me with them and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fully grasp what was lost in those 
floods. I don’t know where the crawfish went but I hope that they live on elsewhere, 
encouraging a new generation to explore and find their own nook in the world, at a 
creek or otherwise.  
 
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Hyman: Wake of the Flood
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Wake of the Flood

Jurado, Alicia

Neglected
Alicia Jurado
She finally got up. She faces me without any recognition.
My eyes welled up with tears -- look at her! She can stand on her own without having to
hold on to the edges of the sink for dear life. Her hair clings to her scalp in sweaty patches,
and it’s flattened in from laying on her side for so long. The same shirt from last week hangs
off her frame, her sweatpants are a second skin. If I could only reach her, I would tell her
everything she’s ever wanted to hear. “Yes, yes you are magnificent and finally able to
move.”
But she will never hear me. The glass will forever separate us.
She stood before the sink and stared at her toothbrush, her shoulders sank. She tapped her
pointer finger to the bristles as she considered her next action. The blue bristles do not
bend because of the dried leftover solution. The porcelain sink is stained by past attempts
to clean. A frown tugs at her lips, and her resolve crumbles.
“One minute,” I whisper. “Just give yourself 60 seconds. It doesn’t need to be your best work
but at least try.” I don’t know why I bother. She can’t hear me. The glass above her sink
separates us, but I need her to know she can still try. She does not need to cave in. If my
movements were not confined to hers, I would pound the glass to get her attention, but
even the efforts of a whisper exhaust me. By some miracle she hears.
She wets the brush and puts toothpaste on it. We both grimace, knowing it will sting. The
taste of the mint and pressure on our gums are a familiar pain, bordering on nostalgia. We
contemplate not brushing today, after all, how will anyone know under our mask? Yet we
have already prepared the tool.
She sets a stopwatch on her phone in an attempt to keep track of the ever elusive time.
Then she sticks the brush in her mouth. And I follow.
Our technique is rough. As children our mother told us, if you can't brush everyday then the
days you do make sure it counts. For that reason we ignore any pain, we haven’t brushed in
a week so we have a lot to make up. Perhaps in an alternate world she would have the
endurance to complete this task regularly and could go outside more often. In that world, I
would follow her to big windows, pristine lakes, and beaches; instead of haunting her in
half-empty plastic water bottles and dark computer screens when she waits for the next
episode. Our reality is that there is no point in brushing our teeth because they will still
need to be cleaned tomorrow. It’s importance does not matter, we have already moved to
inaction. Sometimes even on good days we cannot bring ourselves to do it, but we do it
today.
Starting at the far upper left, we scrub the ivory that has yellowed. We cannot see inside, so
we imagine that the film-like plaque is gone and our teeth are now smooth. We turn our
attention to the gums. In kindness to ourselves we move slowly and let the gums
understand our purpose, then we work harder. The bristles grab on to everything without
prejudice. We wince and continue moving the brush back and forth in small circular
motions. Our purpose is to clean, at whatever cost. Our eyes meet, as we move to the next
quadrant of our mouths we stare into our face.
I know she is searching me for blemishes, I can feel the intensity of her gaze on a cluster of
acne growing on my chin. She is considering an appointment to wax our eyebrows, and
wonders how we got a sunburn in March, and what to do with our hair today. As for me, my
eyes cannot leave hers. She does not visit me as often as she should, always avoiding her
reflection so I savor this reunion for everything I can. For every second we meet I spend it
all looking at her eyes, the blue with specks of green near the pupil. I swear everytime I get
to see her, her eyes are different and I can never get enough.
The stopwatch reads 00: 59. 89, close enough. Our mouth is scrubbed clean, no more white
plaque covers our teeth and our gums are red. We spit out the foam solution. It is more pink
than white.


Neglected

Caulton, Carissa

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 18 
2022 
Where are They Now 
Carissa Caulton 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Caulton, Carissa (2022) "Where are They Now," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 18. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/18 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
Where are they now? 
 
 
You never cared for the moon. 
I know, because I would always be the first 
- sometimes the only - 
to notice her. 
and when I did, I’d make a point 
to stare up at the sky 
and admire the curve, 
the brightness, 
the size, 
whatever it might have been 
on that particular night. 
and I’d smile, 
in a way so I knew you’d see, 
but still,  
so often, 
you wouldn’t say a word. 
 
How do you live a life 
so joyless? 
Where do you find your respite 
1
Caulton: Where are They Now
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2022
in a world you’re convinced  
is out to hurt you? 
 
You haven’t convinced me, love. 
You never convinced me. 
 
And why, so often, 
does it sound  
like you’re trying to convince yourself? 
you are so afraid of 
looking inward, 
of finding a man 
different than the one 
you claim to be. 
 
And you would find him, 
love. 
 
At times, it seems 
I am disposed 
to be afraid. 
But still, I’ve fought it 
every moment I live, 
2
Fragments, Vol. 64 [2022], Art. 18
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/18
every moment I breathe, still, 
I fight. 
I have never seen 
you lift a finger, 
love. 
 
You do not have to love the moon 
and most of me knows 
you never will. 
You do not have to love me, 
though most of me knows 
you will always think 
you do. 
 
There is no feeling left to give ; 
no time left to spend. 
I will move on, or  
I will die, 
and you  
will  
stay still. 
3
Caulton: Where are They Now
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2022


Where are They Now

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 18 
2021 
Oshibana 
Annika Le 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Le, Annika (2021) "Oshibana," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 18. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/18 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
OSHIBANA 
Annika Le 
 
rummaging through bookshelves 
I thumb the mismatched lot 
 
there’s  
a book on motorcycles 
a world atlas with lost pages 
a whole throng of childhood stories 
that once sang me still 
 
my hand is drawn to 
a sleeveless book 
skin exposed 
 
I unhinge its paper jaw 
and find a page full of  
pressed cherry blossoms 
 
this nameless tomb  
preserves a past spring 
pickles its pink hues 
cans its delicate flesh 
into silence 
 
I thought about  
taking them with me 
but left them in their place 
1
Le: Oshibana
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021


Oshibana

Knudson, Olivia

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 31 
2021 
Lily 
Olivia Knudson 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Knudson, Olivia (2021) "Lily," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 31. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/31 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
LILY 
Olivia Knudson 
 
I’m walking through the garden, 
where she told me, she loved me.  
We followed the hedge maze  
turning deep rights into songs 
that she whispered to me in bed  
with my head on her chest, 
as she traced my chin 
with the softness of a finger 
pointing which direction to head. 
As we drift throughout the green 
she sings 
a hymn that was her child 
brought forth in water 
screaming glory 
that kisses the maze 
of beloveds lost. 
I chase after her, 
catching hems and tails 
to find her at the pond, 
removing her dress, 
sun catching her curves. 
She steps into, 
slipping in algae. 
Lily pads that she sketches 
four times over, 
remembering her Lily, 
her Hymn 
her Song. 
Now amongst nature, 
in the breeze, 
in the sun. 
She mourns. 
1
Knudson: Lily
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021


Lily

Leone, Shelby Joy

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 32 
2021 
No Man's Land 
Shelby Joy Leone 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Leone, Shelby Joy (2021) "No Man's Land," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 32. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/32 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. It has been accepted for 
inclusion in Fragments by an authorized editor of ScholarWorks @ SeattleU. 
NO MAN’S LAND 
Shelby Joy Leone 
 
 
HALLOWEEN, LIVING ROOM 
I’M WEARING ASSLESS CHAPS, COWBOY HAT, BOOTS AND ALL   
MY COCK HIDDEN SOMEWHERE BETWEEN HERE AND NOT 
WOULD YOU STILL WANT TO CONSUME ME IF I WAS A MAN? 
EVIDENTLY, YES, YOU ANSWER 
BUT ONLY WITH YOUR FINGERS DRAPED ACROSS THE ORGAN 
BOY MEETS BOY 
HOMOTOPIA IS WHAT HE CALLS IT, TOM, THAT IS 
SHELBY OF FINLAND HAS A NICE RING TO IT 
BUT THESE DRAWINGS DON’T HAVE TO BE DESTROYED QUITE YET 
 
1
Leone: No Man's Land
Published by ScholarWorks @ SeattleU, 2021
 
THEY CAN LIVE HERE AT THIS PARTY 
MY LOVE IS LEATHER BOUND 
CAN YOU SEE MY PHYSIQUE IN BLACK AND WHITE? 
BULGING OFF THE PAGES? 
I DARE YOU TO. 
 
       IT’S A FANTASY EITHER WAY  
 
 
2
Fragments, Vol. 63 [2021], Art. 32
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/32


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