DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

Osman, Zainab

The DuPage Senior Citizens Council

The speakers welcomed attendees and provided an overview of the Symposium\u27s schedule and key information to help orient participants

Burt-Nicholas, Laura

Orenic, Kenneth

Hammond, Christine M

Stock, Lisa A

McIntosh, Jennifer

Welcome and Opening Remarks

Research for this presentation began as an investigation into why women are drawn to the horror genre, specifically to horror films. Findings suggest that the genre is the only mainstream genre in which women are represented roughly as often as men, and that horror offers a chance for women to vicariously explore the many facets of womanhood in a controlled environment.
Faculty Sponsor: Professor Aleisha Balestr

Brabant, Kayla

Such Sights to Show You: 
Exploring Womanhood 
Through Horror
Askin’ All Them Questions
● Why do women like horror? Isn’t it meant to do just that—horrify the 
audience? 
● The genre isn’t typically kind to us, either. Many films involve the 
subjugation or exploitation of women as a major plot point, and 
shouldn’t that repel us?
● What attracts us, specifically as women, to this genre, and keeps us 
coming back for more? 
Do Women Enjoy Horror?
In a June 2024 
survey conducted by 
Statista, it was 
reported that 50% of 
horror fans identify 
as female  (“Target 
audience”). 
Archaic Archetypes
A majority of horror prior to the 1990s portrayed 
women as little more than stock characters in 
one of three primary categories:
Mother
Wife
Sex Object
Final Girls: The Exception to the Rule?
While more recent horror of the last couple decades or so has much 
improved upon these old archetypes, we women rarely had much positive 
representation in the genre, save for the Final Girls, of course. 
Facts First
The Geena Davis Institute on Gender in 
Media
“[F]emale characters receive 53 percent 
screen time within the horror genre, along 
with 47 percent of the dialogue being 
spoken by women”  which is “a major 
improvement over just 36 percent screen 
time and 35 percent dialogue in other 
genres”  (qtd. in Enoch).
San Diego State University’s Center for the 
Study of Women in Television and Film
In 2022, “horror movies were much more 
likely to have female leads … than male ” 
(qtd. in Sun).
The study noted that roughly 43% of horror 
films had a female protagonist , whereas 
just 4% of horror films featured a male 
lead . 
Alyssa Miller’s “Girlhood to Monstress”
“Some critics argue that women work as the leading 
characters because it is easier for the audience to fear a 
protagonist who is viewed as weak  in comparison to the 
thing that is feared” (Miller).
Robin Wood’s “An Introduction to the American Horror Film”
“The dominant images of women in our culture are entirely 
male-created and male-controlled . Woman’s autonomy and 
independence are denied; on to women men project their own 
innate, repressed femininity in order to disown it as inferior ” 
(Wood 112).
Carol J. Clover’s “Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film” 
“[H]orror  and pornography  are the only two genres  specifically 
devoted to the arousal of bodily sensation. They exist solely to 
horrify  and stimulate , not always respectively, and their ability 
to do so is the sole measure of their success ” (Clover 189). 
Male Sexuality in Horror
“The release of sexuality  in the horror film is always presented as 
perverted, monstrous, and excessive  … both the perversion and the excess 
being the logical outcome of repression ” (Wood 127).
This is perhaps best exemplified in John Carpenter’s Halloween, wherein the 
opening of the film features a famously long point-of-view tracking-shot that 
“establishes the basis for the first murder as sexual repression ” (Wood 132).
Female Sexuality in Horror
We live in a culture “whose attitudes to sexuality remain largely negative 
and where a fear of sex  is implanted from infancy … the sense of horror  
[in these films] is motivated by sexual disgust ” (Wood 130).
Looking back at Carpenter’s Halloween, “the girl is killed because she 
arouses  in the voyeur-murderer feelings he has simultaneously to 
deny and enact in the form of violent assault ” (Wood 132). 
Rape Revenge
Writer and horror enthusiast Lindsay Lee Wallace gives her thoughts on the 
rape-revenge subgenre: 
Another popular explanation  offered for women’s interest in horror  is 
based on the genre’s penchant for portraying sexual assault and its 
aftermath. Films like I Spit On Your Grave (1978) helped create the 
rape-revenge genre , which some feel explores the trauma of sexual 
assault and allows survivors a vicarious opportunity to even the score . 
(Wallace)
Actions, Not Roles
Lindsay Lee Wallace sums up the relationship between women and horror by saying:
Horror gives women an opportunity to explore representation not through 
roles, but through actions . While emotions and reactions in even the most 
progressive stories of other genres often fit relatively well into societal 
expectations, women in horror refuse to play by the rules . Horror demonstrates 
the worst possible situations, and in turn its women demonstrate the worst 
possible reactions, from killing your rapist to eating your best friend’s boyfriend. 
(Wallace)
Works Cited
Clover, Carol J. “Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film.” Representations, No. 20, Misogyny, Misandry, and Misanthropy, 
Autumn 1987, pp. 187-228. www.jstor.org/stable/2928507. 
Enoch, Jenika. “It's Official: Horror Is the Only Movie Genre in Which Women Speak as Often as Men.” Vocal, https://vocal.media/ho 
rror/it-s-official-horror-is-the-only-movie-genre-in -which-women-speak-as-often-as-men. 
Miller, Alyssa.  “Girlhood to Monstress: How Women in Horror Have Always Been the Hero and the Villain.” No Film School, 9 Aug. 
2021, https://nofilmschool.com/women-as -hero-and-villain-in-horror. 
Sun, Rebecca. “ Men Out-Talk Women Almost Three to One in the Movies, Study Finds.” The Hollywood Reporter, 7 Mar. 2023, 
www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-news/hollywood-gender-study-women-1235342517/. 
“Target audience: Horror fans in the U.S.” Statista, June 2024, www.statista.com/study/122550/target-audience-horror-fans-in-the-unite 
d-states/. 
Wallace, Lindsay Lee. “Why Women Watch Horror.” Blood Knife, 18 July 2021, https://bloodknife.com/why-women-watch-horror/. 
Wood, Robin. “An Introduction to the American Horror Film.” The Monster Theory Reader, edited by Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock, 
University of Minnesota Press, 2020, pp. 108-35.


English

Such Sights to Show You: Exploring Womanhood Through Horror

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 2 
Spring 5-1-2025 
Title Page 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
(2025) "Title Page," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 2. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/2 
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DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of 
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Spring 2025
Prairie Light Review
Blooming 
in 
Chaos
Volume XLVII No.1
Front Cover
Affirmation   Kendalla Puckett   Digital Collage
Back Cover 
To Chicago   Karen Janas   Photography
11
et al.: Title Page
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Title Page

Houzell, Ciara

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 7 
Spring 5-1-2025 
A Note from the Editor 
Ciara Houzell 
College of DuPage 
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Recommended Citation 
Houzell, Ciara (2025) "A Note from the Editor," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 7. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/7 
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Editorial Team
Editor-in-Chief
- Ciara Houzell
Production Editor
- Brooklyn Ross
Marketing Editor
- Maya Washington
Faculty Advisor
- Dr. Trina Sotirakopulos
A Note from the Editor
Editors
-Jorie Alexander
-Ivan Hayes
-David Janas
-Regina Mayer
-Kendalla Puckett
-John Santaga
 I think I can speak for most when I say: This semester has been 
a challenging one! From changes around the school to the changes in 
society, it’s safe to say these first five months of  2025 will go down in 
history. In this issue, I wanted to encapsulate the voices and views of  the 
community in these historic times, especially the diverse student body of  
College of  DuPage.  
 
 As a writer, beginner activist, and parent to a very expressive 
child (I love you, Kai!), I now understand the importance of  your feel-
ings (via words and/or visual art) being seen and related to. I started my 
journey with Prairie Light Review as a student who, out of  curiosity, 
picked up a cool-looking book outside of  the library. That grew into me 
needing to know how I could, first, be involved in creating something so 
nice and, second, get my own call to action out in the world.  
 
 From reader to assistant editor, and now to editor-in-chief, I am 
honored to be a part of  helping others broadcast their feelings through 
art to the world. To the amazing editing team of  PLR: David, Kendalla, 
John, Jorie, Ivan and Gina, my fellow officers: Maya and Brooklyn, and 
to Trina, I extend the biggest thank you. This issue would not be possible 
without you all.  
 
 …I must take this time to give special thanks to Bob Hazard and 
Sam Mitrani. Through multiple semesters of  excessive tardiness, the two 
of  them saw the internal fight I was having with the ways of  the out-
side world and encouraged me to stop being quiet about it. Without the 
two, I never would have found my voice. Finding your voice is the most 
influential and important thing you will ever do as a person. Do it by any 
means necessary! Even in chaos, you can bloom! 
 
Ciara Houzell, Prairie Light Review Editor-in-Chief  
4 51
Houzell: A Note from the Editor
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A Note from the Editor

Benbow-Niemier, Glynis

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 10 
Spring 5-1-2025 
Mt. Baldy 
Glynis Benbow-Niemier 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Benbow-Niemier, Glynis (2025) "Mt. Baldy," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 10. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/10 
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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. 
Gateway
 Karl Weber                
 Photography
   On July 12, 2013, Nathan Woessner, then 6, fell into and was buried 
                       in an 11-foot hole on the dune for 3 1/2 hours. 
                      Chicago Tribune
Mt.Baldy 
Glynis Benbow-Niemier
What does it feel like to fall through sand, to pray 
for hands to dig you out? Do you hear the dune 
shifting around you like an enormous 
silk coat? Anomaly. Dune decomposition 
chimney. He waited hours to be pulled 
into air. Sand in his lungs: part dune now.  
Called singing sands: step and they speak 
back to you. Mt. Baldy shifts, swallowing 
trees, part of  the parking lot. We marvel 
at its pace as it heads south—despite marram 
grasses, dune roses planted to slow it, despite 
fewer people climbing for the view. This dune 
remembers its birth, the momentum of  ice. 
8 91
Benbow-Niemier: Mt. Baldy
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Mt. Baldy

Pattanaik, Mina

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 16 
Spring 5-1-2025 
Workhorse 
Mina Pattanaik 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Pattanaik, Mina (2025) "Workhorse," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 16. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/16 
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more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Express Yourself
14
 Everyone thought I’d be a dancer since Lucy was: that I’d get into the Royal Ballet and 
smile out at the crowd every night just because we could arch the same way. They didn’t say well, 
all you have is your flexibility, but I knew they were thinking it. Every time I attended one of  Lucy’s 
shows I thought the same thing--the dancers looked like gazelles and moved like them, too. They’d 
disappear for months on end after some injury or another. I was built like a workhorse, Lucy said, 
and she promised she meant it like I was resilient, but I knew what she was looking at: my thick 
neck, my stocky legs. All strength and no grace.
 Lucy retired my last year of  high school. She said she wanted to teach instead, and it 
was as obvious a lie as anything else, but whenever I brought it up she laughed and replied that 
sometimes things just didn’t work out. I pretended I didn’t care to know long enough that I really 
started to believe it, and it joined the pile of  things we’d never revisit.
 Then it was just me attending classes daily, bending neatly in half, pretending that would 
be enough to make up for the rest of  me. Twice a week we did pas de deux with the boys and I 
hated it every time. All of  them worked out for hours beforehand and none of  them could carry 
us anyway, and they joked that I should be the one lifting them up instead. I felt like an oaf  in 
tights, and my partner was a swan trying to support a workhorse’s clumsy promenade.
 The month I quit ballet was the month Lucy began teaching at my academy. “You 
could’ve gone anywhere else,” I said. She was prodigious; she had articles written about her dating 
back to when she was six, and I was at a place deemed at best second-rate. “You could’ve started 
your own studio. You would’ve stolen half  our students.”
 “I had to be home,” she replied, circling her fingers loosely around her wrist. I didn’t 
get why--all she seemed to do was get into arguments. Lucy had an issue with the way everything 
was cooked: she wanted avocado oil, not olive oil, and then she just wanted spray oil and only a 
single quarter-second of  it. For dessert, she ate exactly three strawberries. She bought thirty-five 
calorie bread slices and cried when Mom used the regular loaf  instead. She accused her of  trying 
to fatten her up, and one night when Mom made chili-oil dumplings, fried chicken sitting in thick 
slices on top, Lucy looked at me and then at her bowl and said, “God, no wonder--”
 I didn’t ask no wonder what? because everyone at the table knew the answer. Instead, I 
put my bowl in the sink and after that I began using spray oil, too.
 When I quit, Lucy didn’t speak to me for a week. I didn’t notice. I was too busy looking 
at my reflection, trying on old leotards and stealing her outfits. The girls in my class were all built 
like her: long necks and slender, delicate fingers, nails filed down to the cuticle. My knuckles pro-
truded and my fingers looked like tree stumps. When I tried on Lucy’s tutu I remembered how it 
made her look--a waist the size of  a toothpick. Mine just looked like a barrel.
Mina Pattanaik
Workhorse
Gabriella Jurinek 
Digital Photography 14 151
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 My classmates all had regimens to make sure they didn’t get too muscular: they didn’t 
run, and they never jumped, and they were proud that they bruised so easily, proof  of  their hard 
work. I did both too much and it had ruined my calves, and when I tried to undo it I just per-
formed worse in class. So I stopped going. Mom was so relieved she tried to take me out to dinner, 
but I couldn’t figure out how much butter they used when they were cooking, so I passed.
 “You should go to law school,” Mom said, and then, “or med school. Grad school.” 
She’d never gotten to brag about my ballet; she was trying to make up for lost time, now.
 “College,” I replied, “would probably be a good start.”
 “You had a future,” said Lucy. “You could’ve been so good.”
 I was born wrong for it, I didn’t say. “I don’t want it.” She just rolled her eyes and tried 
harder to convince me while I tried to figure out what I wanted to do. None of  it stuck, and instead 
of  researching I usually spent my afternoons scrolling through Instagram, checking my old class-
mates’ posts and critiquing their turnouts. I watched their toothpick waists and jutting collarbones, 
counted their chest bones until I felt sick, and then I decided I’d major in business and left my 
soul-searching at that.
 The weekend I told Mom this, she was making a four-cheese pasta with full-fat ground 
beef  even though Lucy had bought the ninety-nine percent lean last week. “Wonderful,” she said, 
putting everyone’s pre-portioned plates out. Lucy stared at hers and picked out one noodle with 
chopsticks she wasn’t good at using: rubbed off all the sauce, scraped the cheese onto the dish, and 
popped it into her mouth. I began counting her chews.
  “Business is safe,” Mom continued. “Great way to earn a respectable income.” Her eyes 
cut to Lucy. “Teaching can’t keep everyone afloat, especially when you want to start a family.” This 
was the topic of  every meal these days, even though Mom used to print off newspaper clippings of  
her shows to brag to her morning yoga classes. None of  her friends had dancers as children; all of  
theirs were in grad school, or in big tech, or working at banks. 
 After exactly seventy-five chews, Lucy swallowed. “I’ll do what I want, and I want to 
teach.”
 “The older you get, the harder it’ll be to start a family.”
 “Oh, god,” said Lucy drily. “Won’t someone think of  the children.” I bit back a laugh 
and ate my own pasta. I could only get to thirty-six chews before it dissolved in my mouth. I won-
dered if  this was more proof  of  my wrongness, and it ate at me until I dissolved, too.
 Why the heck did I let him do it?  And is it my fault?
 I’m sitting here, holding my broken Spider-Man guy. My brother Steven blew him up with a 
firecracker. And I let him.
 He said, “Hey, Mark, want to do something cool?” and of  course I did. He said, “Let’s take your 
Spider-Man guy, tie a string on his hand — you know, like his web — and throw him out the attic 
window. He’ll fly and swing around just like the real Spider-Man!”
 Why wouldn’t I? I’d be crazy not to!
 I admired my big brother. He did more fun things than I did. He was the star pitcher or 1st 
baseman in Little League, and when us neighborhood kids played sandlot softball, I was the catcher 
for him. By the time I was allowed to join Little League, he’d be out of  it, so I’d never get to play with 
or against him on a real field, but I knew that.
 He got to go camping with his jerk buddies, and I stayed home. But I climbed more garages, 
rode my bike further out into the far west, explored more wooded creeks, and swam in more pools 
and rivers with my friends than he ever did, so I had that on him.
 And he would beat me up. Now and then. But we were family. That’s what older brothers did 
to younger brothers. I’d be mad for two days, and then we’d play some game, and all was forgiven.
 And then he’d smack my skull into the heater. Now and then. But we were family. That’s what 
older brothers did to younger brothers. I’d be mad at him until the bump went down, and we’d watch 
Saturday morning cartoons together, eating Cap’n Crunch.
 He was kind of  mean to our sister, now and then, and he got me to help him take the heads off 
her Barbie dolls and throw them in the pool. That was kind of  fun until Amber got mad and yelled at 
me, and I knew I wouldn’t want that to happen to my toys. But Steven said, “Who cares?  She’s just 
a sister.” She was mad at us, but we were family. That’s what older brothers did to their sisters. She 
stayed mad for a while about that and some other stuff I don’t know about, but Steven didn’t really 
care and told me I shouldn’t, either.
 A couple of  times, my money went missing. Now and then. But we were family. That was what 
big brothers did to younger brothers. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. If  I asked about it, he’d just 
deny it. I suppose he needed it for something. One time, he created a club and told me to get my 
friends to join. It cost a quarter to join. We each gave him a quarter. He held the first ten-minute 
meeting in our garage and then never had one again.
Let’s Blow Up Spider-Man!
DJ Janas
16 172
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 47, No. 1 [2025], Art. 16
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Workhorse

Rogers, Lidia

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 39 
Spring 5-1-2025 
A Silence Kept 
Lidia Rogers 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Rogers, Lidia (2025) "A Silence Kept," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 39. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/39 
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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 Silence Kept 
Lidia Rogers
He drives me crazy—not in the way the poets write, 
not in sonnets or sighs, 
but in half-read messages 
and stolen birthday horses, 
in old arguments about Easter 
and silence when I want words. 
I never thought you'd like me, 
never thought you’d even look, 
but at midnight, when the world was quiet, 
you were the first to remember me. 
Like a secret you almost told, 
a whisper before the dawn. 
You save my pictures like keepsakes, 
but forget my messages like scraps. 
Calls me stubborn with a half-smile, 
but won’t say what he really means. 
The clock struck twelve, my mom beside me—just another birthday, 
I thought.
 Then my phone chimed. 
His name. Just two words:
Happy birthday. 
My heart lurched, a ridiculous thing, betraying me again. 
But maybe this is what we are— 
halfway between holding on and letting go. Maybe we’ll stay like this 
forever— 
a message sent, 
a silence kept. 
44
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Rogers: A Silence Kept
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A Silence Kept

Lane, Kassandra

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 43 
Spring 5-1-2025 
Crestfallen Stars 
Kassandra Lane 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Lane, Kassandra (2025) "Crestfallen Stars," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 43. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/43 
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more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
 Wiping the lipstick that had migrated onto her chin, her fingers attempted to make their 
way through the clumps of  knots in her hair. Her head swiveled back and forth, attempting to 
navigate the unfamiliar street of  Beverly Hills, stumbling with every step while leaving the director’s 
office. Betty didn’t remember his name but he would remember hers. Her role was promised after 
the show she had given him. 
 This audition was suggested by Sylva, she had some past connections and got Betty the 
address. Her heels clicked against the concrete floor, she held her head high and kept her shoulders 
back. A confident smile, not too big, not too small, just like Sylva always taught. 
 “You have to let them know you’re confident without being too egotistical, you’ve got a perfect face for that 
middle ground, darling.” She said while getting her ready for previous auditions, lightly tapping her cheek while they 
waited for the rollers in her hair to cool.
  Confidence was always something instilled in her by Sylva; she recalled her advice each 
time she crossed the threshold of  a casting call room. She knew she’d get the role, her ways un-
known to all except for her, the casting director, and the four walls of  his bedroom. Sylva was one of  
the only people who believed in her when she announced to their small town that she, Betty Peters, 
would soon be gracing their cracked TV screens. 
 They all laughed and said she was destined to end up like everyone from Felcrest--a  
tattered town riddled with caving roofs and decrepit buildings. The glitz and glam of  Beverly Hills 
was just within reach but no matter how hard any Felcrest resident scratched and clawed, they never 
made it. To them, Betty was no different. She was destined to work forty-five hour weeks, try not to 
kill herself  before every shift, and then return to her mouse-infested apartment. Not Sylva though, 
she only nodded and gave her a soft smile, saying no words but conveying exactly what Betty need-
ed. They’d been inseparable ever since.
 “Red blush is what’s perfect for the screen, gives you a natural flush without looking too pink.” The brush 
tickled her skin as Sylva continued to make her up perfectly.
 Betty scrunched up her face, “Red? You trying to make me look like a clown? Trying to get all my roles for 
yourself ?” 
 She hit her shoulder lightly, “Don’t scrunch, you’ll crease. And, no of  course not. I know what I’m doing, 
trust me.” 
 “How did you learn all of  this? It’s not like the girls around here are looking picture-perfect all the time. 
Except for you and I, of  course, the starlets!” 
 Sylva rolled her eyes fondly, “I haven’t been in this town my whole life. I’ve lived millions of  lives before I 
ended up stuck here. I was in your shoes once, you know.” 
 “You wanted to be an actress?” 
 “Oh, I would’ve done anything. I begged my mother to let me go to auditions and to get me ready.” 
 “What happened? She didn’t agree?”
 “No...no, she agreed. She was so happy for me. In fact, my mama always wanted the best for me. Did 
everything she could to make sure I was happy.”
 “It killed me to come back home after every audition, ‘No, Mama not this time.’ It went on for years. She 
never gave up though.” The corner of  Sylva’s mouth tugged upwards, the movement almost unnoticeable. 
Crestfallen Stars
Kassandra Lane
 “She passed a couple of  years ago and she was born here. I came to honor some things asked of  me and 
just never left. The acting route wasn’t sustainable after she was gone but, God, I do wish she could’ve seen me on her 
screen at least once.” She shook her head as if  to take herself  out of  the memory. Lips stretched thin, Sylva picked the 
brush back up and continued to dust the color onto Betty’s cheeks. 
 “But hey, not doing too bad in this shabby town am I?” Her laugh sounded wet and far less natural than 
usual.
 Betty reached out and intertwined their fingers, sending a small smile her way. She couldn’t say that she 
understood the closeness of  Sylva and her mother because her relationship with her own was so minuscule. Betty didn’t 
know what love between a mother and daughter was supposed to feel like, but she was sure what she felt towards Sylva 
was the closest to it.
 Whenever she thought of  that conversation, one of  the first meaningful ones that she and 
Sylva had, her stomach turned, and feared that her face had gone green. Betty knew that she would 
not be proud of  her, no matter how much she tried to delude herself. She knew that Sylva clawed 
her way into the industry the hard way and still failed. So, who did she think she was? Sleeping 
around to get a cameo in an upcoming TV show because the biggest actress right now was the star 
of  it. And, if  she was lucky, her two minutes of  screen time would get bumped up to three! 
 She often brushed off the feelings of  self-hatred, never letting it manifest into something 
bigger because Sylva was proud of  her, she had to be. The first time Betty returned with the news 
that she had secured a role, she immediately pulled her into a bone-crushing hug, rejoicing that she 
had the “Hollywood glow.” Sylva sat her down and demanded to know each and every detail, Betty 
never wanted her beaming smile to fade. 
 Betty didn’t know how long she could continue this charade. But soon, both she and Sylva 
would be free. Betty would be recognized for her star power, not her skills in bed. Yes, she had put 
herself  in a foolish situation but it would pay off soon.
 The porch, on its last legs, creaked under her while Betty fumbled with the broken door-
knob. She expected Sylva to demand details, as always. However, when she entered, Sylva’s eyes 
were completely void of  their usual emotion. It felt like a bleaker, more devastating alternate reality. 
 “Bad day?” she whispered, internally cursing herself  for how meek her voice sounded.
 Sylva said nothing for a while, opting to stare back like Betty was an intruder inside of  her 
home. “You do know I got you this casting audition because of  my connections, Elizabeth.” 
 In their year of  knowing each other, Sylva had never used her full name; Betty sometimes 
wondered if  she knew it. This might be the most scared Betty had ever been in her entire life. All at 
the hands of  a 40-year-old woman who took spiders outside to show them mercy. 
 “Yeah? Sylva, are you okay? Do you need to lie down?” Betty crept forward, like if  she 
got too close she might combust or something. 
 Sylva scolded her like a child, “When you have connections, you get told things that hap-
pen behind the scenes one way or another. That’s common sense, don’t you think?” 
 “Giving me a pop quiz on the industry? I don’t know if  I’m quite there yet but I promise 
once I get on a set I’ll start studying.” Betty breathed out a nervous laugh, her usual charisma gone. 
 “I know you’re sleeping with the casting directors! I know that you haven’t gotten a role 
on your own accord this entire time, Elizabeth!” Sylva screamed, her voice at a decibel Betty didn’t 
know it could reach. 
 “I thought it was odd that you had gotten every single one of  your auditions, but I 
believed in you. I was the only one that believed in you in this shitty town and this is how you repay 
me? I’ve helped you for months, Elizabeth! And instead of  making yourself  a star, you’re making 
yourself  the industry’s biggest slut.” 
48 491
Lane: Crestfallen Stars
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2025
 Betty stumbled back at that, never in her life did she think she would hear something 
like that come from Sylva’s lips. Much less directed at her. It made her see red.
 “You’re just angry that you never made it! I’m working my way up in the industry and 
you’ll be stuck here for the rest of  your life! You said you would’ve done anything to be an actress, 
Sylva. Well, guess what? This is that, I’m doing whatever it takes!”
 “I would’ve never slept around just so I could get five minutes on a stupid show! You 
have talent, I don’t know why you’re choosing to do it like this!” 
 “I’m choosing to do it like this because I don’t want to end up like you!” Betty yelled, 
a finality to her words. Before she had time to regret it, to think about how Sylva made her life a 
million times better, how she loved Sylva like a mother, Betty opened the front door. 
 “Keep my things. You can sell them when I make it big.”
 With that, Betty turned a blind eye to the tears on Sylva’s face and slammed the door. 
Outside, her breaths came out uneven and her eyes filled with tears. Behind the door everything 
was comfortable and secure, Sylva would take her back in even after this. If  she just turned 
around, everything would be okay again. 
 But, with a deep breath, she pulled a compact out of  her purse and fixed the mascara 
that migrated under her eyes. Betty dusted the red blush over her cheeks and rolled her shoulders 
back. She almost laughed at the irony, as she stepped off the porch: everyone does say that red is 
the color of  a harlot.
Rhythmic Essence of  Spring
Devona Barnes
Abstract photography
Dear boys and dear girls I have yet to find and love
Valeria Garay
You terrify me. You scare me to the depths of  my soul
 I say I want your body and mind
I wish I could tell you I’d choose you over myself
My independence is my air
sleep in the warmth of  my own blankets
Not tugging for one end
I am scared that you’ll see me
The champagne problems and omens will flood your vision
 Handwriting on the walls of  my bedroom
 I wouldn’t have to explain my relationship with my father
 How he is the reason I am clinically depressed and go to therapy
He is one reason you terrify me so deep to my core
I cannot let you see me fully, behind the curtain of  my regrets
You will inspect me
 Become the judge of  me
 So instead I will choose myself  and bodies
So I can feel the heat of  them pressed up against my own
Hot breath against a car window
Sweaty skin meshing into one
Just fucking a new person every once in a while
When I need a reminder of  what skin feels like.
50 512
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 47, No. 1 [2025], Art. 43
http ://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/43


Crestfallen Stars

Garay, Valeria

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 45 
Spring 5-1-2025 
Dear boys and dear girls I have yet to find and love 
Valeria Garay 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Garay, Valeria (2025) "Dear boys and dear girls I have yet to find and love," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 
47: No. 1, Article 45. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/45 
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. 
 Betty stumbled back at that, never in her life did she think she would hear something 
like that come from Sylva’s lips. Much less directed at her. It made her see red.
 “You’re just angry that you never made it! I’m working my way up in the industry and 
you’ll be stuck here for the rest of  your life! You said you would’ve done anything to be an actress, 
Sylva. Well, guess what? This is that, I’m doing whatever it takes!”
 “I would’ve never slept around just so I could get five minutes on a stupid show! You 
have talent, I don’t know why you’re choosing to do it like this!” 
 “I’m choosing to do it like this because I don’t want to end up like you!” Betty yelled, 
a finality to her words. Before she had time to regret it, to think about how Sylva made her life a 
million times better, how she loved Sylva like a mother, Betty opened the front door. 
 “Keep my things. You can sell them when I make it big.”
 With that, Betty turned a blind eye to the tears on Sylva’s face and slammed the door. 
Outside, her breaths came out uneven and her eyes filled with tears. Behind the door everything 
was comfortable and secure, Sylva would take her back in even after this. If  she just turned 
around, everything would be okay again. 
 But, with a deep breath, she pulled a compact out of  her purse and fixed the mascara 
that migrated under her eyes. Betty dusted the red blush over her cheeks and rolled her shoulders 
back. She almost laughed at the irony, as she stepped off the porch: everyone does say that red is 
the color of  a harlot.
Rhythmic Essence of  Spring
Devona Barnes
Abstract photography
Dear boys and dear girls I have yet to find and love
Valeria Garay
You terrify me. You scare me to the depths of  my soul
 I say I want your body and mind
I wish I could tell you I’d choose you over myself
My independence is my air
sleep in the warmth of  my own blankets
Not tugging for one end
I am scared that you’ll see me
The champagne problems and omens will flood your vision
 Handwriting on the walls of  my bedroom
 I wouldn’t have to explain my relationship with my father
 How he is the reason I am clinically depressed and go to therapy
He is one reason you terrify me so deep to my core
I cannot let you see me fully, behind the curtain of  my regrets
You will inspect me
 Become the judge of  me
 So instead I will choose myself  and bodies
So I can feel the heat of  them pressed up against my own
Hot breath against a car window
Sweaty skin meshing into one
Just fucking a new person every once in a while
When I need a reminder of  what skin feels like.
50 511
Garay: Dear boys and dear girls I have yet to find and love
Pu lished by DigitalCommons@COD, 2025


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