ScholarWorks @ SeattleU (Seattle University)

Creson, Fren

Seattle University 
ScholarWorks @ SeattleU 
The Spectator Online Newspapers 
2-19-2025 
2025-02-05 Dormiliciouse: Rose Chocolate Cake 
Fren Creson 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/spectator-online 
The Spectator • February 5, 2025 • https://seattlespectator.com/2025/02/05/dormiliciouse-rose-
chocolate-cake/
Dormiliciouse: Rose Chocolate
Cake
Fern Creson, Staff Reporter
For my friend’s 22nd birthday, they had a deep-sea themed
party. Guests were dressed in elaborate costumes, dressed
as everything from an angler fish to a sardine. Every
birthday party I’m invited to, I jump on the opportunity to
make the cake. I love experimenting with flavors and
decorations; a welcome opportunity to show off the baking
skills I acquired over my middle-school baking
hyperfixation. Rose and chocolate might sound like a super
scary combo, but ask anyone at that party and I bet they
would vouch for it. 
Tools:
Whisk, Hand or Stand Electric Mixer
Large Bowl
Oven
Cake Pans
Frosting Devices: Spoon and knife, ziplock or piping bag and tip. 
Ingredients:
Chocolate Cake:
2 Boxes of Chocolate Cake Mix
Eggs
Oil
Water
Coffee (instant)
Rose Frosting
2 Sticks of Salted Butter
Powdered Sugar
Vanilla Extract
Rose Extract 
Food Dye and Decorations (optional)
Recipe:
Chocolate Cake
Fern Creson
Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Oil two cake pans then dump a tablespoon of flour into it, rotating the pan around
until it has coated both the bottom and sides of each pan. This helps your cake come out easily without breakage.
Make your chocolate cake mix according to the packaging but instead of water, use coffee by adding a few spoonfuls of instant
coffee to your directed measurement of warm water. Adding coffee to chocolate cake intensifies the chocolate flavor. You can’t
taste the coffee unless you know it’s there, giving box cake mix the boost it desperately needs. 
Pour the batter evenly into two pans and plop them into the oven for however long directed by the box’s directions, checking the
cake with a chopstick for doneness.
Once your cake is baked, allow it to cool before leveling the top with a knife. Once cooled, get your cakes out of the pans by sliding a
knife around the edges, placing a large plate or baking sheet on top, flipping it over, and tapping it out. 
Rose Frosting
Buttercream frosting is a labor of love. There’s really no comparing homemade frosting to store bought. This process is made
exponentially easier by using a stand or hand electric mixer. Unfortunately for my friends, I don’t have one, and therefore forced
them to take turns helping me whisk the butter by hand. 
Begin by beating your butter for about 5 minutes on high speed if you have an electric mixer, or just whisking by hand for eons, until
the butter becomes light in color and fluffy. Your butter must be softened to room temperature! Hard or cool butter will not work,
neither will melt. 
Sift a cup of powdered sugar into the butter and beat again, repeating this step until your frosting is your desired sweetness. I used
about 3 cups.
Add a teaspoon of both vanilla and rose extract. Beat to incorporate, taste, and add more extract to taste. 
Add your desired coloring; In my case, that good Red-40 and Yellow-2, ending up with a coral color. 
Stack the cakes with a layer of frosting in between. Frost your cake roughly with a butter knife, angled spatula, or the back of a
spoon. Add detail with a piping tip and bag, or by cutting the corner of a ziplock bag. Set your piping bag or ziplock into a tall glass,
scooping the frosting into it and tapping the air bubbles out. Decorate your cake as desired. For my friend’s deep-sea party, I made it
look like a coral creature with eye details and pearl sprinkles. 
Blow out the candles, slice it up, and share! Happy Birthday Kit! 


English

2025-02-05 Dormiliciouse: Rose Chocolate Cake

Bechtold, Dannie Jo

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 15 
2020 
Tender Creature 
Dannie Jo Bechtold 
Seattle University 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Bechtold, Dannie Jo (2020) "Tender Creature," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 15. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/15 
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1 
 
Tender Creature 
Danni Jo Bechtold 
 
 
We are an extension of our mothers. 
Their love is curled up inside of us 
Just waiting to unfurl and cascade into all of our dusty corners. 
My mother is a tender creature. 
She’s always shooting into her body 
Just so the world will stop beating her, 
The way the waves break against cliffs. 
I carry her pale blue eyes and roaring laughter. 
I wish she lived in my ribcage so I could keep an eye on her 
But instead she is staggering. 
What do you do when your heart is beating outside of your body? 
My mother is a peach just starting to soften 
and I choke on my anger at the cruelty of this world. 
She has been mauled and misremembered, 
Gutted and gagged and left hardly breathing all the years of my life. 
 
There’s a version of her I never met: 
She’s valedictorian, she’s off to a university 
She’s driving to Montana just for one summer. 
 
 
Loving her is like breathing with one lung 
Of course I’ll keep taking in air 
But I’m lightheaded 
Close to fainting 
I cannot climb any mountains 
Or spend too long underwater 
She has one lung and I have one lung and it’s all we can do to keep breathing. 
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She is sleeping it off. 
The icy wind whips all around her 
Her temperature drops too low this Montana winter and 
I’m jostled awake, states apart from her, 
Her, my beating heart, 
And I am shivering. 
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Fragments, Vol. 62 [2020], Art. 15
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Tender Creature

Jondonovan, Pia

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 20 
2020 
Swimming 
Pia Jondonovan 
Seattle University 
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Recommended Citation 
Jondonovan, Pia (2020) "Swimming," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 20. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/20 
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Swimming

Campbell, Ella

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 32 
2020 
Midnight 
Ella Campbell 
Seattle University 
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Recommended Citation 
Campbell, Ella (2020) "Midnight," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 32. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/32 
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Midnight

Payne, Cameron

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 30 
2020 
a note to the stop sign on my chest 
Cameron Payne 
Seattle University 
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Recommended Citation 
Payne, Cameron (2020) "a note to the stop sign on my chest," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 30. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/30 
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Payne: a note to the stop sign on my chest
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a note to the stop sign on my chest

Carlos, Margery

Fragments 
Volume 62 Interlude Article 31 
2020 
Untitled 
Margery Carlos 
Seattle University 
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Recommended Citation 
Carlos, Margery (2020) "Untitled," Fragments: Vol. 62, Article 31. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol62/iss1/31 
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Untitled

Ferguson, Emma

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 1 
2022 
Beautiful 
Emma Ferguson 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Ferguson, Emma (2022) "Beautiful," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 1. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/1 
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 
Beautiful 
By Emma Ferguson  
 
“You look beautiful!”  
I look up from trying to put in my links, surprised to see my mom leaning against the door 
frame of my bedroom.   
“Mom, don’t say that. I’m handsome or macho!” I correct jokingly, dismissing the compliment, 
as my mom walks into the room to sit softly on the side of the bed, half made and covered in the 
clothes I was wearing earlier.  
Putting on a suit is no joke, and making sure it looks perfect is even harder. But it’s prom, so 
might as well go all out, right? I smooth my hands down the side of my satin jacket, abandoning 
putting in the cuff links to admire the texture of my suit in the mirror. I had gone shopping with dad a 
week ago to find the perfect suit for the occasion, one that I could use again in the future. After three 
different shops all scattered across the city, I finally found this one.  
Putting a spin on a classic look, I chose the black satin jacket to go with the nice black slacks, 
white button up shirt and matching black satin tie. I felt like James Bond when I tried it on for the first 
time—even did the hand guns in the dressing room mirror, not that anyone needs to know that.   
  “No,” my mom says earnestly, “Aaron, you look beautiful.”  
I look up to see her with tears shining in her eyes as she looks at me in the suit. Overwhelmed 
by the emotion behind that statement, I look down at my shoes and put my hands in my pocket. I’d 
never thought of myself as beautiful before. I wasn’t super muscular like my wrestling friend Jake or 
super skinny like my friend Haris. I’d always told myself I was going to start going to the gym and get 
super fit, but it just never happened. I usually tried to not think about the way my body looked because 
it makes me anxious when I focus on it too much, my chest tightening painfully. But it sounds so true 
coming out of my mom's mouth.  
“Thanks Mom,” I say back softly.  
This is the closest I’ve felt to being beautiful. Is that weird? It almost makes me sad to think 
that this is something that I haven't felt before. My eyes start watering for an entirely different reason 
than my mom’s.  
I turn from my mom, facing myself to look into the mirror again as I, once again, start to 
attempt to put my cufflinks on. My mom’s feet patter softly over the carpeted floor as she walks up 
beside me, wrapping her arms around me to put her arms on my shoulders in a tender embrace. We 
make eye contact in the mirror just as I finish the last cuff, both of our eyes sparkling, and we share a 
private smile.  
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Ferguson: Beautiful
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She rubs my arms and then leaves the room to let me finish getting ready. I go and take the seat 
where my mom was and slip on my nice dress shoes, shiny from the polish my dad helped me give 
them last night. And as I stand up to go downstairs, I glance one last time at myself in the mirror and 
whisper quietly to myself, “I am beautiful,” before I quickly wipe under my eyes and hurry out of the 
room ready for a fun night.  
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Beautiful

Calton, Carissa

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 5 
2022 
10 
Carissa Calton 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Calton, Carissa (2022) "10," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 5. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/5 
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. 
It is 12:00 am. 
It is 12:00 am and we are sitting on the top of her car, my shoes rested gently against the windshield. I 
can sense her behind me, though I don’t turn to face her. I am thinking about our combined weight on 
the roof of her car, becoming increasingly conscious of gravity pressing down upon us. On some 
illogical impulse I shift my weight and lift my hands. They hesitate in the air a moment before settling 
back against my thighs. My palms feel cold against the metal. 
It is 12:04 am.  
I study the shapes of the hills in the dark. I read once that in the absence of light, the human brain seeks 
out the familiar. A primordial skill, but one with consequence when people see faces and figures in the 
dark that aren’t quite right. 
I don’t see anything in the hills. Just a vague impression that my brain is willing to accept as the rise 
and fall of land.  
It is 12:06 am.  
I feel her hand brush up against mine. Her fingertips rest beside my own, and I am more aware of her 
presence than ever. I know I should turn to face her, but gravity holds me in place. I wonder what her 
face looks like in the dark. It occurs to me that my brain may fill in the gaps, and I imagine her features 
shifting in the dim light; The curve of her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, the shape of her 
eyebrows, all subtly wrong. It is an uncomfortable thought. My hand shifts away before I can consider 
the consequences. It is done. The moment is over, the night has ended. My eyes are fixed on the hills as 
I hear the impact of her shoes on gravel. 
It is 12:10 am. 
We drive in silence. It is not unfriendly, and when I glance across she offers me a smile. But her eyes 
are distracted and far away. I suppose mine are too. The integrity of her face remains intact under the 
dim, shifting light of the streetlamps. She is whole and perfect, safe from my brain’s flawed 
interpretation. It feels impossible to explain this to her, but the silence is comfortable and brings its 
own sense of understanding. I close my eyes and let the artificial light wash over us. For now, it is 
enough.   
 
1
Calton: 10
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Kelly-Jervis, Lily

Fragments 
Volume 64 Emergence Article 16 
2022 
Malu 
Lily Kelly-Jervis 
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Recommended Citation 
Kelly-Jervis, Lily (2022) "Malu," Fragments: Vol. 64, Article 16. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/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. 
Malu 
 
in the malu 
of the mahina 
shadows 
 
in your malu 
in your body’s view 
 
a womb inside a womb inside a womb’s heart 
uncovers the malu of your hidden scars 
 
disturbing the heavens 
your art    
 tears apart   
heavenly silence   
trailing   
running 
 
reaching   
living       
 
between your 
‘umalu 
and you 
  
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Kelly-Jervis: Malu
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tails 
or heads 
Find a Penny/Pick it Up 
 
find a penny 
 pick it up 
  put it in your mouth 
       and suck 
all day long  
you’ll have [bad] luck 
   
 
            it doesn’t matter 
    your blood will still p 
        o 
            u 
                r 
        lo͞oziNG 
           iron 
      bleeding 
          air 
       leaking 
        cries 
          iRONically 
suffocating 
on the face of 
your maiden name 
who wouldn’t watch  
this amazing race 
handed down pennies 
reach down your throat 
hand you your heart 
pumping out blood  
in the fist of honest abe 
tarnishing the zincoln 
name 
 
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Fragments, Vol. 64 [2022], Art. 16
https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol64/iss1/16


Malu

Selthun, Elena

Fragments 
Volume 63 Pivot Article 4 
2021 
Superstitions 
Elena Selthun 
Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments 
Recommended Citation 
Selthun, Elena (2021) "Superstitions," Fragments: Vol. 63, Article 4. 
Available at: https://scholarworks.seattleu.edu/fragments/vol63/iss1/4 
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 
 
Superstitions 
Elena Selthun 
 
 
When I first heard the word “Sinagua” as a kid, around 
seven or eight years old, it sounded made-up, the kind of 
word you might find in a fantasy book as the name of a 
far-off city or a mysterious wizard. The context didn’t 
help: I was standing in a quiet, wooded canyon with my 
parents, sleepy little sister, and a small group of other 
tourists, all of us staring, agape, at the cliff dwellings 
surrounding us on all sides. “The Sinagua Indians built 
these pueblos over seven hundred years ago,” the guide 
told us, gesturing to the walls of reddish stone and adobe 
bricks tucked neatly beneath the canyon’s limestone 
ledges, just out of reach.  
I had no concept of how long seven hundred 
years might be, but I remember looking at the Sinagua 
pueblos and thinking it couldn’t really be that long. They 
looked old, but not that old. You could have told me that 
people lived in them fifty years ago – as old as my 
family’s little ranch house in Phoenix – and I would have 
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believed it. Some of the walls were crumbling; many were 
not. They had doorways, windows, even alcoves that 
could be beds or tables with a little imagination, and I 
wasn’t short on imagination when I saw Walnut Canyon 
National Monument for the first time.  
Some pueblos were enshrouded from our prying 
eyes, and unless the sun touched them at just the right 
angle, the doorways led to small pockets of total 
darkness, hidden in the safety of the canyon walls 
themselves. The longer I looked at these homes, the 
longer I walked down the meandering canyon trail and 
caught glimpses of more doors, more bricks, more 
worlds tucked just out of reach through the trees, the 
more I began to believe two things: seven hundred years 
was a very long time, and this was the most unreal place I 
had ever stepped foot in. I didn’t have the words for it 
then, but I felt like a voyeur in Walnut Canyon, peering 
into empty houses, breathing in the scent of dusty 
Ponderosa pine and wondering what happened here. The 
guide kept telling us they didn’t know where the Sinagua 
went or why they left, like it was some big mystery to be 
solved. I wasn’t so sure they had left at all. I kept looking 
at those black doorways, only to walk quickly past when I 
got close, cold sweat sliding down the back of my neck, 
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half-convinced that if I looked too hard, I might see 
someone looking back. I kept looking, anyway.  
Sinagua,” I whispered to myself in the backseat on 
the drive home. Saying it beyond that entombed canyon 
felt like a curse, or maybe a promise, although I suppose 
that’s what curses are. I had a fondness for words as a 
kid, but I didn’t know what to do with this one. I didn’t 
write it with the others, but I didn’t forget it, either. 
Maybe it didn’t let me forget it.  
It was only in my first Spanish class in seventh 
grade that the actual meaning struck me: Sin agua. 
Without water. I laughed as I put the pieces together: not 
a name of intrigue and magic after all, but a gross 
inaccuracy. The Spaniards, baffled by mountains without 
rivers, named them the Sierra Sin Agua, now the San 
Francisco Peaks. But their first name is from the Navajo 
(the Spanish thrust names upon people and places alike – 
their self-given name is Diné, the People): Dookʼoʼoosłííd, 
or “the summit which never melts,” the highest point in 
Arizona. These mountains, like all of the mountains 
encircling the Verde Valley (Yavapai name: 
Matkʼamvaha), are volcanic. They are quiet; just sleeping, 
not dead. Beneath their perpetual snowcaps lies ancient 
fire, but the Spanish were wrong – they hold water, too. 
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Without the water in the aquifer beneath 
Dookʼoʼoosłííd’s caldera, the neighboring city of 
Flagstaff would be just another of many ghost towns, 
lost to boom and bust. Unlike the Sinagua, the people 
who built those doomed towns didn’t understand the 
vital rule of the Southwest: water is life.  
I learned this early on. Heat stroke sets upon the 
human body with deceptive slowness; you don’t realize 
what’s been taken from you until your vision blurs and 
your skin grows clammy with the precious water wicking 
off of you. Even then, our brains don’t easily grasp 
dehydration. We live on the Blue Planet, our bodies are 
sixty percent water, the damn stuff falls from the sky – 
how can it ever run out? This is what I would have 
thought if my brain had any water left to think when I 
almost died in the Superstition Mountains. It wasn’t 
dramatic, the way it happened. I just sat down on a rock 
next to a saguaro old enough to remember the 
prospectors, tucking myself into its lone strip of shade, 
and told my family to go on without me with all the 
urgency of needing to tie my shoe. I only remember this 
vaguely, like the echoes of a dream right after you wake 
up. What I remember most is that big blue sky, cloudless 
and even like an ironed sheet strung between the 
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clotheslines of the horizons. In my desiccated haze, I 
wanted to sit there and stare into that blue sky until I 
joined it. Maybe it looked like water to my parched brain. 
Then my mom shoved her water bottle into my hands 
and made me drink.  
If they had left me, I think I’d still be there, 
staring. Under the Sonoran sky, it’s hard to tell if you are 
mortal or eternal, but the sun will always remind you in 
the end. Water is life. 
Water is also death. Walnut Canyon’s neighbor is 
another National Monument, the Spanish misnomer 
Montezuma Castle. It is neither a castle (more like an 
apartment complex), nor built by Montezuma (most 
likely the work of Sinagua women). The Castle was grand 
to me in the way I expected monuments to be, not 
tucked a mile down a canyon, but proudly on display 
ninety feet up on the side of a sheer cliff. As incredible as 
this was, I was a curious child who liked to wander off 
and read signs, hungry for new knowledge, new pictures 
to draw, and always more words to write. So I found a 
sinkhole.  
To be precise, I found directions to the sinkhole 
and convinced my disgruntled parents to drive there. 
Located eleven miles northeast of Montezuma Castle, 
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Montezuma Well (also unrelated to Montezuma, also not 
a well) can only be described as bizarre. It is a four-
hundred-foot wide pool of deep green-blue water formed 
by an underwater spring, bounded by cacti and creosote 
on bare limestone, and so prone to overflowing that it 
has to be regularly maintained. A charming collection of 
species call the Well home, including a leech found 
nowhere else, but there is a marked absence of fish. This 
is probably because the water is carbonated, with a 
generous dash of arsenic. Yet there are familiar homes 
around it, those stacked stone bricks and perfect 
doorways that say, The Sinagua were here. It was a 
conundrum. If I had a better grasp on arsenic poisoning 
then, I might have theorized that this was where the 
Sinagua met their doom, making their name all the more 
ironic. The signs didn’t answer my questions, but when I 
visited the Well years later, now with my iPhone at the 
ready, some deep-dive Google searches did: the Sinagua 
didn’t drink the water, but used the Well’s overflow to 
irrigate their crops.  
So the saying holds: water is life, even when it’s 
death. You can’t afford to be picky in the desert. That 
bubbly arsenic water’s not gonna drink itself.  
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The lack of fish would have been a red flag. But 
maybe they were too desperate to notice, or care. Or 
maybe they just had faith that this water could, in its own 
way, be life too. The Sinagua had water, until they didn’t. 
Maybe they did run out one day and had to leave all of 
their hidden homes behind, their poisonous, life-giving 
sinkhole and their not-a-castle, seeking a kinder oasis. 
Even if that’s true, their name is of their end. It’s like 
naming you after the worst thing that ever happened to 
you. 
Because that is the worst thing that could ever 
happen to you, here. It’s already happening to us. 
Sometimes I wonder how long we have until we start 
looking at wells of death with new eyes, abandoning our 
drought-stricken canyons of suburban streets and 
skyscraper castles, and leaving them to the sun’s mercy. 
Maybe that’s the pessimist in me talking. Or maybe it’s 
just the child in me, running past doors too full of the 
past to stand and face them.  
Sinagua. This is the first time I’ve ever written it 
down. I still wonder what they called themselves. I 
wonder what they’ll call us. 
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