DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

Hlavacek, Alison

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 22 
Fall 12-1-2019 
Personal 
Alison Hlavacek 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Hlavacek, Alison (2019) "Personal," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 22. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/22 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Personal 
The radiant warmth of  shifting earth 
beckons the subconscious
whispering softly 
“Don’t go”
nay asleep, nor awake 
the silence stretches
S
       l
            o
                  w
                         l
                                y 
as crystalline waves brush up 
that intoxicating scent 
gives peace of  mind 
and the melodic 
soul put to rest.
Alison Hlavacek
Blessing with Wind
Shiao-Lin D. Hui 
Jewelry
Get Down 
(at right)
Allison Fudacz, 
Photography
1
Hlavacek: Personal
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2019


English

Personal

Hui, Shiao-Lin D.

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 23 
Fall 12-1-2019 
Blessing with Wind 
Shiao-Lin D. Hui 
College of DuPage 
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Recommended Citation 
Hui, Shiao-Lin D. (2019) "Blessing with Wind," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 23. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/23 
This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Personal 
The radiant warmth of  shifting earth 
beckons the subconscious
whispering softly 
“Don’t go”
nay asleep, nor awake 
the silence stretches
S
       l
            o
                  w
                         l
                                y 
as crystalline waves brush up 
that intoxicating scent 
gives peace of  mind 
and the melodic 
soul put to rest.
Alison Hlavacek
Blessing with Wind
Shiao-Lin D. Hui 
Jewelry
Get Down 
(at right)
Allison Fudacz, 
Photography
1
Hui: Blessing with Wind
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Blessing with Wind

Voegtle, Olivia

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 26 
Fall 12-1-2019 
Ad Astra Per Aspera 
Olivia Voegtle 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Voegtle, Olivia (2019) "Ad Astra Per Aspera," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 26. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/26 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Ad Astra Per Aspera
It’s two thirty in the morning. The lateness of  the hour makes my 
eyes sting and my body ache in odd places. I’ve been awake for 
twenty hours and will have to be up again at six am, but I don’t care. 
I breathe in and the Adirondack air is all around me and inside me, 
cold and clean. The coolness of  the night settles at the edge of  my 
wrists where my sweatshirt doesn’t quite reach, and on the backs of  
my exposed legs, and at the tip of  my nose. 
Jack lays beside me, the glittering darkness above and the lake lapping 
at our feet. We don’t look at each other, we’re watching the sky. As 
he talks, I trace the patterns of  the stars and mentally check off the 
constellations I know: Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, Orion… 
I know there’s more that I can’t make out, but at home the sky is so 
charged with ambient light that I’ve never seen such a clear picture 
of  the heavens before. Jack’s voice drones on and I find myself  at 
home in it. The cadence and rhythm of  his speech has become 
familiar and comforting in a way I hadn’t thought another man’s 
voice could be.
“You’ll be gone in fourteen hours,” he says, and then doesn’t say 
anything else. 
I don’t respond, because the pain in my chest is overwhelming and 
all I know is that suddenly I can’t remember what it was like not to 
know him. 
Olivia Voegtle
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Voegtle: Ad Astra Per Aspera
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Ad Astra Per Aspera

Kennett, George

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 42 
Fall 12-1-2019 
Flower Boy 
George Kennett 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Kennett, George (2019) "Flower Boy," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 42. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/42 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Flower Boy
I stared into the mirror in front of  me. I was terrified because the person 
looking back at me was not the person I know. The body that stared back at 
me in that mirror was not the body I recognized. 
In many ways, I looked the same as I always did. I was the same height, the 
same weight, the same brown hair, crooked teeth, freckles. It was the little 
differences. My skin was pale. My eyes, once a light hazel, were now a deep 
red, like an apple. The inside of  my mouth tasted different. It was faintly 
sweet, like honey. I even smelled different. I wasn’t wearing deodorant, 
but it wasn’t normal body odor. I smelled like mildew.
My arms felt itchy. like something was tugging at them. I took off 
my hoodie and gasped.
Flowers. There were flowers on my arms. Some were little 
buds, poking out like ingrown hairs, but some were in full 
bloom. They had five long, thin petals each, in bright red. 
They weren’t like any flowers I had seen before. They were 
a unique species. I pulled on one. I plucked it from me, 
and a stinging pang ran up my arm. The stem was still 
on me. They were growing out of  my arms. 
I looked at my hands. The veins that ran blue before 
were now a deep, dark green, like vines. I staggered 
back, as a thousand thoughts ran through my head. 
If  I cut myself, what color would come out? Would 
my blood be red or green or brown like sap?
I stared at my eyes again. Tears were   beginning 
to well up. My eyes were bloodshot: again, green 
veins. I looked closer at my hair. There, too, I 
saw flower  bulbs beginning to sprout.
I threw my sweatshirt back on 
and pulled the hood over my 
sprouting hair. No one could see this. 
I didn’t want to look at it anymore. I 
didn’t want to see this person, this thing that was 
not me staring back.
It’s been two days now. I haven’t left the house. I haven’t 
even opened the blinds. I can’t let them see me. I have 
food, and water. But the flowers are starting to 
wilt, and I’m getting sicker all the time. 
I need sunlight. Sooner or later, I’m 
gonna have to 
go outside.
George Kennett
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Kennett: Flower Boy
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Flower Boy

Scher, Rebekah

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 48 
Fall 12-1-2019 
The Lone Witness 
Rebekah Scher 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Scher, Rebekah (2019) "The Lone Witness," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 48. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/48 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
The Lone Witness 
I’m so lonely in this body,
this body I’m in all by myself.
The sunset is deeper and more
vivid than I’ve ever seen.
I fear I’m the only witness. 
The world keeps catching 
me off guard
with its beauty, handing me 
moments made for two. My eyes
see for one. I try to memorize 
each shade of  light as it melts
into the next, wishing I could be 
melting into someone,
but this sunset blooms and fades 
for me alone. I stand beneath
this melting sky as it drips down 
the horizon. My God, it is beautiful.
My God, it is lonely.
Rebekah Scher
Inspire. Peter Bosy, Photograph
41
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Scher: The Lone Witness
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The Lone Witness

Bosy, Peter

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 49 
Fall 12-1-2019 
Inspire 
Peter Bosy 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Bosy, Peter (2019) "Inspire," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 49. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/49 
This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
The Lone Witness 
I’m so lonely in this body,
this body I’m in all by myself.
The sunset is deeper and more
vivid than I’ve ever seen.
I fear I’m the only witness. 
The world keeps catching 
me off guard
with its beauty, handing me 
moments made for two. My eyes
see for one. I try to memorize 
each shade of  light as it melts
into the next, wishing I could be 
melting into someone,
but this sunset blooms and fades 
for me alone. I stand beneath
this melting sky as it drips down 
the horizon. My God, it is beautiful.
My God, it is lonely.
Rebekah Scher
Inspire. Peter Bosy, Photograph
41
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Bosy: Inspire
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Inspire

Krebaum, Joseph

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 54 
Fall 12-1-2019 
Unfinished 
Joseph Krebaum 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Krebaum, Joseph (2019) "Unfinished," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 54. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/54 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Unfinished
Between the lines I read these words
Scrawled across the pages of  a notebook
Never to be seen anywhere but here
Where nobody else would care to look
Carving the distance from my head
To my heart with the touch of  lead
On the paper surface of  this mirror
Reflecting on what I could do better
Stray marks and eraser bruises
Patch up the rough spots of  this list
Never did find a way to make it end
Faded it out and punched in an ellipsis
Through the eyes of  an empty face
That hid itself  within a blank white space
And when I tried to make it disappear
I realized that I was not so sincere
And now all that’s left is nothing
Joseph Krebaum
Golden Moment 
Mike Stone
Digital Artwork 
45
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Krebaum: Unfinished
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Unfinished

John, Jamie

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 63 
Fall 12-1-2019 
When Eve Learned To Walk Upright 
Jamie John 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
John, Jamie (2019) "When Eve Learned To Walk Upright," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 
63. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/63 
This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
When Eve Learned How To Walk Upright.  Jamie John, Acrylic on Canvas
53
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John: When Eve Learned To Walk Upright
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When Eve Learned To Walk Upright

Crawford, Ronda

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 67 
Fall 12-1-2019 
Opal's Muse 
Ronda Crawford 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Crawford, Ronda (2019) "Opal's Muse," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 67. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/67 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Opal’s Muse
Ronda Crawford
     It had been Pumpkin’s idea to steal dogs, Opal just rode shotgun to that bad 
idea like she always did. Her head was always out the window and in the clouds, 
as her momma was fond of  saying. But no one understood that she just liked 
the feel of  the sun on her face and the way the wind moved her hair. Things just 
looked brighter somehow.
     Now Opal was born beautiful, and not in that all babies are cute kind of  way, 
she was what folks would call a natural stunner. Strangers on the street would 
stop her mother, astonished by the unique shade of  green in her eyes, or admire 
the head full of  perfect large sandy blond curls she was blessed with from birth. 
And by the time she was a year old those ringlets made a perfect halo around 
her small head, making her look like God himself  crafted her as a model of  
heaven’s perfect angel. She was the picture of  rosy cheeked health, when other 
babies were gross with snot running from small pug noses, Opal’s perfect 
upturned nose was dry. And while everyone marveled at the model, long, well 
formed limbed perfection she was growing to be, no one had noticed that the 
child was slow. 
     Why it had taken her own momma almost 5 years to realize that her perfect 
doll still only spoke baby talk! She was so cute that the coos and gagas that 
should have been words went unnoticed as anything more than an adorable 
affectation that she would soon outgrow, which of  course she did, eventually. 
But even as a grown woman she found herself  lapsing into the sing-song lilt of  a 
child, which had the advantage of  making men just melt into fantasies of  taking 
care of  her. 
     In school there had been at least one teacher every year, who would mention 
that she wasn’t doing something at grade level; they would tell her mother that 
Opal was below average in reading, or math, they were concerned and wanted 
to do an assessment. Her mother refused, of  course, attributing their concerns to 
jealousy, because anyone with eyes knew there was nothing the least bit average 
about Opal. Besides, she knew that no one would ever ask her baby girl to do 
any thinking. When you were pretty, tall and blond, there was always a man who 
would do that thinking for you. 
     Which is why Opal, just smiled and nodded whenever Pumpkin came up 
with a BIG IDEA. That’s what Pumpkin’s words looked like in her head when 
he started talking, big letters in bright pretty colors that made her feel happy 
and smart that she had such a man looking after her. There were times when 
Pumpkin would be trying to explain how they were gonna get rich, and how 
all she needed to do to help was to make herself  up pretty, and take pictures 
for Instagram, and that there were strangers who would give her money just 
because they liked to look at her. And how he would take that money and turn it 
into more money, and while she never could see the details as clear as she could 
easily understand the BIG IDEA. 
     The details they were these small gray letters, close together like in books, and 
reading was boring to her. But that was okay because when it came to thinking 
up things that involved all those small gray letters close together type thinking, 
Pumpkin had a brain that was big enough for the both of  them.
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Crawford: Opal's Muse
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      “Rich people like their dogs better than their own kids. 
Why some of  those dogs cost thousands. You think Miss Rich Lady in her 
LuluLemon wouldn’t pay a king’s ransom to get her emotional support dog 
back? That’s a special breed, the emotional support ones. They buy all types of  
clothes to put on them and whatnot for a DOG…”
     Pumpkin sat leaned all the way back in his chair, glass of  brown in one hand, 
cigarette in the other, his thinking pose. During thinking time, Opal was still and 
careful not to make any sudden movements that might break his concentration, 
she had learned not to disturb him and she couldn’t join him because brown 
liquor made her hurl, and she hated being sick. 
     She was content to sit on the bed and watch the TV with no sound, paint her 
nails or just scroll absently through her phone looking at things she’d like to have 
when the BIG IDEA became a reality and all the things that Pumpkin touched 
would turn to silk instead of  to shit, as he would say. She could only think it 
through because she wasn’t allowed to curse out loud.
     “See the way I got it figured is we follow one them rich chicks to the dog park 
and when Fido is running around pissing on trees and yapping, you go and grab 
the dog and just walk off with it in your dog purse thing we bought. Rich lady 
post flyers, and we return the dog catch the reward, rinse and repeat. Easiest 
money we ever gonna make.”
     The sentence is punctuated with the last single ice cube in the cheap plastic 
glass, clinking as it rang back and forth like a cow bell in the big man’s hand. She 
could only smile as she watched him clang the ice back and forth, it was a good 
sign. A sign that there would be no yelling tonight, nothing in the hotel room 
would get smashed, there would be no loud banging on the walls and no red and 
blue lights. 
     Tonight it there was just the shuffle of  cards, a worn, tattered,  incomplete 
UNO deck that she had gotten on the first day they met at that gas station in 
Tulsa where she was working. She remembered removing the wrapper, and that 
slippery fresh from the pack feel. How there was just too much to hold at one 
time so she could never get her shuffle right. But Pumpkin’s hands, massive and 
coarse, somehow managed with a dexterity that seemed foreign in hands that 
looked as if  they were incapable of  anything graceful.
     He had gone through considerable effort to teach her not just how to play but 
how to win, and even beat him sometimes, although she knew he never liked it 
when she did. She looked at those cards and smiled and thought about the hours 
that they had stretched out with nothing to do, and all the time he took teaching 
her the game. No one had ever made that much effort just for her, and he wanted 
nothing in return. Just to see her smile, hear her laugh, see the joy in her eyes, 
he said.
     Because of  Pumpkin she knew things now like the fact that when they started 
there were 108 cards in the deck. But over time, the number had dwindled, she 
knew because each time they played she counted them. She never knew exactly 
what had happened to them, but tonight she knew that she was down to 64, 
almost halfway all gone. Some had been lost, she figured, in their many moves, or 
damaged by spills or soiled with food until they were too unpleasant to the touch 
and thrown away, and some just seemed to disappear. But after the dog caper, 
Pumpkin promised he would buy her some new ones.
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The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 42, No. 1 [2019], Art. 67
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/67
     They played two hands, and Pumpkin won both of  those, so he let her order 
an extra large pizza and let her get mushrooms and black olives but only on her 
half. They drank cold beer, shared the same bottle back and forth just like they did 
when they first met. And they laughed, it had been a long time since she had seen 
that laugh reach his eyes.
     “You know I saw this story on Instagram, a video with a woman who walks 
dogs for a living. Makes all kinds of  money doing it too.” She took a long slow sip 
from the bottle. It was almost empty. “Why, with my looks and your brains I bet 
we could make a killing. People love funny pet videos.” She tapped the now empty 
bottle against the table, leaned forward so she could blow into it. She always liked 
that sound.
     “Dog walking? Huh go figure. So rich folks pay you to walk a dog? How much 
we talking?”
     “I don’t know but the girl in the video says that it’s all a part of  what they call 
the gig economy and that is how you make money doing things for rich people that 
they don’t want to do for themselves.” She was popping the cap on a fresh bottle, 
icy cold from the little refrigerator tucked in the corner of  the room.  She took a 
long swig, it burned a bit going down, but her mouth was all of  a sudden dry. She 
watched his face, from the corner of  her eye, waiting for the light of  recognition 
in it.
     “You know what baby, I think we should start a dog walking business. Maybe 
take some videos with that phone of  yours.” Opal handed him the bottle, let all the 
air the she had been holding in her body escape with a soft sigh as she stroked his 
hair as he took a drink. She spread herself  across the bed, gathering all her cards 
and placing them back in the tattered box. Shuffling and counting them one last 
time, just for luck. 60… 61… .
     “When we get this money, I’m gonna buy you a brand new deck, cause these 
have seen better days.”
     62… 63… 
     “No Pumpkin, I think I’ve just finally gotten used to these.”
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Crawford: Opal's Muse
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Opal\u27s Muse

Saintcross, Peg

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 42 Number 1 Article 79 
Fall 12-1-2019 
A Monosyllabic Garden 
Peg Saintcross 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Saintcross, Peg (2019) "A Monosyllabic Garden," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 42 : No. 1 , Article 79. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol42/iss1/79 
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It 
has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For 
more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
A Monosyllabic Garden
Anne’s lace
mint leaf
pink stock
brown seed
red bud
bad weed
spring bulb
puce kale
tall grass
Joe-Pye weed
lime thyme
lamb’s ear
lung wort
bee balm
sweet pea
good dirt
swiss chard
grape vine
date palm
moss rose
gum tree
green bean
Peg Saintcross
September Widflowers. (at right). Lindsay Piotter, Photography 
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Saintcross: A Monosyllabic Garden
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