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Houzell, Ciara

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 47 
Spring 5-1-2025 
That One Uncle...This fool met Kendrick. 
Ciara Houzell 
College of DuPage 
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Recommended Citation 
Houzell, Ciara (2025) "That One Uncle...This fool met Kendrick.," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, 
Article 47. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/47 
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. 
Binary Code
Zofia Oles  
Digital Photography   
Uncle Sam: Salutations!! It’s your Uncle Sam, and welcome to the Great 
American game! 
Me: Sam used to be my favorite uncle til he got some fancy ass job and started 
acting like Tom,  then forgot he from the same concrete jungle we all from. 
Stand up straight, smile, and work painfully hard EVERY day, with none of  it 
showin’ on your  face and… you might win.  
THE GAME IS BULLSHIT AND IT'S RIGGED!! AM I THE ONLY ONE 
SEEING THIS?? 
Uncle Sam: NO NO NO NO NO! Too loud, too reckless, too ghetto. Ms. 
Houzell, do you  REALLY know how to play the game? THEN TIGHTEN 
UP! 
Me: OK bro, for real though? Keep ya head down, be nice, and don’t be TOO 
smart! So when you see their eyes start to dart, you know it’s all good on your 
part. Lean on your community, that’s not always necessarily the people you see 
in the house daily. Community can be anywhere, anybody, however… when 
the veil comes off, don’t storm no lobbies.  
Uncle Sam: Aaah, I see ya brought ya homeboys with ya, the ol’ cultured cheat 
code. Scorekeeper deduct one life!  
Me: Billy sang of  strange fruit hanging from trees and once they started to see 
the message being  broadcast… they were on her ass.  
Malcolm called them white devils and said if  he was killed it’d be by their 
hand, yet it was gonna  appear to be a black man. 
But the real problem was he spoke to masses and different classes of  ALL  
people from what I understand. 
You’re probably panickin’, sweatin’, wonderin’, “How do we win, what the fuck 
is the cheat  code?” 
    I don’t know…
That One Uncle…
This fool met Kendrick. 
Ciara Houzell
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Houzell: That One Uncle...This fool met Kendrick.
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That One Uncle...This fool met Kendrick.

Valdes, Leslie

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 54 
Spring 5-1-2025 
Tears Within the Apple 
Leslie Valdes 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Valdes, Leslie (2025) "Tears Within the Apple," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 54. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/54 
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. 
Unnamed,
did you know that the one you had slain would go unforgotten?
could you know that thousands would ponder about what happened in that farmers’ field for over 130 
years after your sin? 
likely for a hundred years after this century too?
maybe when the gravestone fully collapses into the earth and erodes into a nondescript boulder will 
people finally stop wondering, and you can be in peace with your sin
but at the present moment,
did you know we would forget your name but we wouldn’t forget what you did?
Unnamed,
did you think that we wouldn’t mourn it?
or its mother?
we may not remember its name
maybe it never actually had one
except for the secret one its mother might have given it,
whispered by a frightened girl against her baby’s still body
the name, locked behind the shrouds of history
if it did have a name then we are not privy to it
perhaps we are undeserving to know it
settling for the grave marker of “Nameless”
Unnamed,
the fact that it didn’t have a name makes your sin most deplorable
it inspired a reverend 122 years after the burial 
to unearth your sin to the modern public of britain
‘what is more tragic than a child’s grave?’ they wondered
‘perhaps one that had no name?’ they concluded
the idea sickens us, and we take upon ourselves to wonder about that nameless baby, who they could’ve 
been, and we plant daffodils around the sunken, moss covered grave stone as a belated apology, over 
a hundred years late
‘what is even more sick than that?’ i wonder
‘maybe this belated care is just the product of a frenzy evoked by a tragic mystery’ i conclude
Unnamed,
it’s hard to picture your sin, to make out the edges of it like an old degraded photo
i find myself wondering why?
why did you do this? why did no one protect this child? why did no one notice?
maybe they didn’t want to notice
if only to detest the rotting smell of its body, discarded in a farmer’s backyard, if only to rid themselves 
of any reminders that it ever existed at all
if the baby was allowed the things that we take for granted everyday then it would have grown up with 
a purpose outside of being sustenance for the local wild dogs and scavenging crows
this sin was so unique to a the british public, and they couldn’t make sense of it
however,
the senselessness goes on and on and on in the corners of the world that are disregarded and forgotten 
by the western gaze
it is considered a privilege for children in gaza, the congo, sudan, haiti, and others to receive a grave, 
to even have a resting place at all
will they get daffodils in 100 years?
the faded inscription on that anonymous grave in lincolnshire england stays true for the perpetrators 
of the deaths of every child on this earth, in all corners of the world
it read:
“be sure your sin will find you out”
Unnamed Sofia Love
I have gone 
By so many names 
I no longer recognize my own 
       I have worn 
       So many masks 
                      My reflection is unknown, 
My feelings of disgust 
    Meet parallel 
       To my pleasure.
Untitled: Unseen: Unknown 
Kathryn Bell
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 D
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 W
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Valdes: Tears Within the Apple
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Tears Within the Apple

Swinehart, Jim

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 58 
Spring 5-1-2025 
Wooing at the Writers' Gathering 
Jim Swinehart 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Swinehart, Jim (2025) "Wooing at the Writers' Gathering," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 
58. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/58 
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. 
Bitten by mosquitoes in dark bayous.
Crawling slow as lizards. Without applause
Moon strums a lonely banjo.
Riding into Jackson Square through fog
on a flat tire. One last saxophonist
wails in early morning hour.
Seeking a lighting café, to live on
with chicory coffee.
Trying to find the hopeful poet
that I was last year. 
Morninghawk
Mardelle Fortier
John L. Schrage
Digital photography
In Search Of  
Wooing at the Writers’ Gathering
 “Welcome to the first ever get-together of  the LaGrange, Brookfield, and Western 
Springs writers groups,” Hannah announced.  She was a member of  the LaGrange group and 
was the one who came up with the idea of  having a social gathering of  the three groups, which 
was being held in the cottage behind Irish Times in Brookfield. “Remember, this is for fun. There 
will be no writing exercises and no prompts.” Laughter from the crowd. “Just enjoy the evening 
and get to know each other.” 
 Howie was planning on enjoying the evening and getting to know one person in partic-
ular, Riley McNicholas, who was a member of  the Western Springs group that Howie had joined 
about three months ago, though he’d been fairly quiet at the five meetings he’d attended.  She 
probably didn’t even know who he was, but he knew who she was.  She was from Ireland and was 
probably about 28, his age. She was headlong into writing a book that she’d been workshopping 
at their writing group. In his estimation, she was a very talented writer... and a very pretty writer. 
He would have a beer, circulate a bit, and then approach Riley for a real conversation.  
 And that’s what he did. After about thirty minutes, he saw Riley sitting on a stool with 
her back against the bar, clad in tight blue jeans with one leg crossed over the other.  She looked
John L. Schrage
Jim Swinehart
Biking to the French Quarter
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Swinehart: Wooing at the Writers' Gathering
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ravishing. She was holding a pint of  Guinness and talking to two women standing by her.  Now 
was the time. He approached the women. “Hello. Sorry to butt in,” he said. “I was hoping to 
formally introduce myself  to Riley. Don’t get too excited. I’m not an agent seeking new author 
submissions.” They laughed, and the two women stepped aside, making room for him in front of  
Riley.
 One of  the women said, “We’ll let the two of  you get acquainted. See you later, Riley.”
That was convenient, he thought. “Gosh, I didn’t mean to drive them away,” he said, as the two 
women departed. “Anyway, I’m Howie. I’m in the Western Springs group with you but have kept 
a low profile, meaning I’ve not read any of  my writing to the group. It’s not ready for prime time, 
but this seemed like the time and place to introduce myself  to other group members.”  He didn’t 
want to sound like he was zeroing in on her, though he totally was.
 “That’s why we’re having the gathering,” Riley said with a smile. She extended her right 
hand, which he shook. “Pleased to meet you, Howie.”
 He’d follow with one of  the lines he’d mentally scripted.“I gotta tell you that you look so 
Irish.”
 “Well, after all, I am Irish.”
 “You could be on a tourism poster for Failte Ireland.” Oh, what he’d say to impress her.
 “Have you been to Ireland?”
 “No. It’s too arid.”
  She laughed. “Now that’s a new one.”
  So far, so good. “I, however, do enjoy reading Irish literature.”
 “Such as?”
 “Liked Dracula by Maeve Binchy.”
 “Ah, that would be Bram Stoker.”
 He laughed. He liked playing the humor card, and he, in his view, had played that one  
 well.  “In all honesty, I did read the book. A classic.”
 “A little too ghoulish for me,” she said.
 “And I like goulash, too,” again playing the humor card. 
 “You lost me on that one.”
 “No worries. Let me get to what I really want to say, which is that you are the best writer 
in the group. You are head and shoulders above the rest of  us.”
 “Thanks, but I’m not sure that’s true. Besides, you’ve yet to dive into the waters.”
 “Come on. You’re the star. And that’s great. I look forward to the meetings to hear you 
read your work.”
 “Such accolades.” Two others came over and greeted Riley. “Hi, Natalie.  Hi, Michael,” 
she said in return.
 “Isn’t this fun?” Natalie said. Fortunately, they, too, didn’t stay long and interfere with his 
chatting up Riley.
 Howie noticed her glass was empty, save for the brownish-white residue of  Guinness 
clinging to the inside. “May I stand you another pint?” He thought that sounded like an Irish 
phrase.
 “No, I’d better go easy. I don’t want to be regarded as your run-of-the-mill Irish tippler.” 
Hmm. There was nothing run-of-the-mill about her. “Back to your book,” he said. “I’m sure it’s 
going to get published when it’s done.  It’s meaty.  It’s gripping.  And the poor protagonist.”  
  He wanted to let her know he’d paid attention when she read portions of  her story to the writing 
group.  “Her fiancé dies in a car accident. She goes into deep grief. A month later, she’s diagnosed 
with breast cancer.  Her mother’s a raging alcoholic who offers no support or compassion. Yikes. I 
hope this is all fiction.”
 “As they say, write what you know.” 
 “God forbid.”
 She leaned back, placing an elbow on the bar. “Don’t worry. It’s not based on my life.”  
She turned her wrist and looked at her watch.
 So far, she hadn’t asked anything about his writing. He’d like her to. He didn’t want her 
to think he wasn’t serious about writing. He noticed she was scanning the room. Perhaps she was 
getting restless, wanting to move on.
 “Just one more thing, Riley. Could I bounce an idea off you for a story I’ve started?  I’d 
like to hear what you think.”
 She waved at someone across the room.“I guess so.” She placed her empty pint glass on 
the bar.  
 He’d better make this snappy. “Okay. It’s about a werewolf. A really bad werewolf.  Kills 
a lot of  people. His name is Bloodlust. What do you think of  that name?” He was proud of  it, and 
he wanted her to think he had creative chops.
 “It’s different, and no wonder you liked Dracula.”
 “There’s more.  He wants to prey on the truly innocent. So, he really gets off on devour-
ing young kids.”
 She gasps. “How horrible.”
 “It is horrible, but he’s that vicious. He even tells other werewolves about whom he 
fantasizes killing. Guess who that is?”
 “I have no idea.” Riley stood up and slung the strap of  her purse over her shoulder.  
“Mother Teresa?”
 “Wow. That would be good. But think innocent. Think kid-like.” She shrugged.  “Blood-
lust wants to... rip apart... Winnie the Pooh!” He stares at Riley, awaiting her reaction.  There isn’t 
one. “What do ya think?”
 She exhales. “I’m not feeling it, Howie. Sorry.”
 “Really?”
 “But I’ve got to mingle a little before I call it a night.”  She put a hand on his arm to 
push past him.  “Excuse me.”
 Hastily, he said, “But, in your writing, you take people to dark places.”
“I didn’t give Winnie the Pooh cancer or an alcoholic mother.” She walked several steps past him.
 “I’m just pushing the limits.”
 Riley turned around, saying nothing. He watched her put a fisted hand by the side of  
her head. She extended an index finger, touching her temple. She dropped her raised thumb to 
her curled fingers.
 What was that about? Oh. She must be thinking about his story.  
62 632
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 47, No. 1 [2025], Art. 58
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/58


Wooing at the Writers\u27 Gathering

Fortier, Mardelle

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 47 
Number 1 Spring 2025 Article 59 
Spring 5-1-2025 
On the Beat: A Cop Tells His Tale 
Mardelle Fortier 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Fortier, Mardelle (2025) "On the Beat: A Cop Tells His Tale," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 47: No. 1, Article 
59. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol47/iss1/59 
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. 
Why me? In dead of  night
I’m called out to his home.
He grins, babbles, twitches,
seems about to foam.
He’s listening almost over
a loose and creaking board.
Has he killed anyone—
this pacing, posing land-lord?
     Thud-thud-thud
He’s moaning and groaning,
might’ve lost a screw.
Don’t try crimes if  you’re nuts—
this I can tell you.
      Thud-thud-thud
Some perps aren’t too sharp,
I could write a tome.
Big hint: don’t bury the body
in your own home. 
*Apologies to Poe, and his “Tell-Tale Heart”
Mardelle Fortier
On the Beat: 
A Cop Tells His Tale
64
Michigan Avenue Musicians
Samantha Clanton
Digital Photography
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Fortier: On the Beat: A Cop Tells His Tale
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That One Uncle...This fool met Kendrick.

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