DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

Romanowicz, Adam

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 45 
Number 1 Fall 2022 Article 40 
Fall 12-1-2022 
Thor's Well At Sunset 
Adam Romanowicz 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Romanowicz, Adam (2022) "Thor's Well At Sunset," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 45: No. 1, Article 40. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol45/iss1/40 
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Nancy Heil. Taking a Break. Digital photograph
Adam Romanowicz. Thor’s Well At Sunset. Digital photograph
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Romanowicz: Thor's Well At Sunset
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English

Thor\u27s Well At Sunset

Janetka, G. Tarsiscis

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 45 
Number 1 Fall 2022 Article 47 
Fall 12-1-2022 
The Table 
G. Tarsiscis Janetka 
College of DuPage 
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Recommended Citation 
Janetka, G. Tarsiscis (2022) "The Table," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 45: No. 1, Article 47. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol45/iss1/47 
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more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Thicket
Ixta Julieta
Ours is the impulse to win at love.
Endless emotional gamble; broken after 
surrendering nearly every chip.
Running your hands through my hair 
once formed the nearest stars in the galaxy.
Kettles of  color tipped and bled through 
the cages encasing our hearts.
You held me like a prism in the light.
Somewhere whispered into my ear 
somewhere a fawn is opening her eyes 
for the first time. Can’t you see it?
The Table
G. Tarsiscis Janetka 
    “You’re back?”
     “I can’t help it. This is where I was happiest.”
     “Here? A cheap metal table and chairs, in a strip mall, under the 
blazing hot Arizona sun?”
     “Sure. Well, content anyway.”
     “That was 11 years ago. This—THIS—was 11 years ago. How are 
we even here? I’m no longer this person. This moment was the only 
time I’ve ever been this person. We drank chai and you gave me your 
biscotti, that’s all.”
     “We drank and I gave you my biscotti. And we sat and looked at 
each other. And we were truly alone for the first time. And the breeze 
made your hair dance and we were both off  our guard, trying to make 
sense of  the situation and I, for one, didn’t want anything else, any-
thing more, for the rest of  my life. I only wanted to sit with you here, 
at this table, drinking chai.”
     “So you return, trying in vain to recapture that moment. You 
wrote it down in detail then, you’re even writing about it now, aren’t 
you? If  it was so great, why even bother to go on?”
     “To repeat the past until I get it right. You used to believe that 
was possible too. You sat at the end of  that dock, staring ahead at the 
promise of  a tomorrow solidly anchored in a happier past.”
     “I don’t think we were happier then. I know we weren’t happier 
then.” 
     “Which is what made this moment all the more special, earned. 
We earned this through our tears, don’t you see? The restless, angry 
hours, the sad drinking, the endless attempts to escape reality—in the 
midst of  such deafening bullshit was this quiet, soft moment—the 
only one I’ve ever had. We had more emotion then, more of  a poten-
tial, a future to believe in. We called ourselves jaded, but we were only 
naive. We believed in things, things that could save us, make us happy. 
Make us breathe deep. This moment is the eye of  the storm, peace 
amid chaos. For everything else I’ve learned since then I’m no happier. 
I have less understanding and less belief. This is the greatest moment 
of  my life, can’t you see that? When I get drunk I return here, in 
dreams I return here,
 at the moment of  climax I return here—to peace, to calm, to the only 
moment that makes sense. Can’t you see that?”
     “Can we just drink our chai?”
     “I’d love nothing better.”
     “Good. Let’s make it last as long as possible, but then  never, ever, 
return here again.”
     “Yes, let’s. Maybe this time I can finally get it right.” 37
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The Table

Truby, Lex

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 45 
Number 1 Fall 2022 Article 62 
Fall 12-1-2022 
Lost At Sea 
Lex Truby 
College of DuPage 
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Recommended Citation 
Truby, Lex (2022) "Lost At Sea," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 45: No. 1, Article 62. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol45/iss1/62 
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Jim Waters. The Margaret Todd (at left). 
Digital photograph
Lost At Sea 
Lex Truby
Sailing onward past the familiar green sea,
Far out onto uncertainty; mysteriously…
Fading into the distance
Nothing but wide, open blue to see,
This is no place to be.
As my dreams of  fortune and opportunity float 
away freely,   
   I must face this reality:
It’s far away from me.
Drifting on tides that rage violently, thrashing 
wildly, 
   Any hope of  escaping a mere fantasy,
Petrified, the murky depths reel me beneath.
Deeper and deeper I sink, as I think,
Desperately, “Oh, no! Oh, no! It can’t be!”
Though, it’s clear to see, that,
I’m lost at sea. 
It’s far away from me…
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Lost At Sea

Barnes, Devona

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 45 
Number 1 Fall 2022 Article 89 
Fall 12-1-2022 
Sunday's Best 
Devona Barnes 
College of DuPage 
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Recommended Citation 
Barnes, Devona (2022) "Sunday's Best," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 45: No. 1, Article 89. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol45/iss1/89 
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Sunday\u27s Best

Sikes, Paul

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 92 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Garden Hammock 
Paul Sikes 
College of DuPage 
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Recommended Citation 
Sikes, Paul (2022) "Garden Hammock," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 92. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/92 
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Garden Hammock Paul Sikes
     I open the slider leading out to the backyard.  I feel the sun on my face, but 
what I seek is the shade of the garden, the protection of the trees, an intensity of 
green-growing things, and the peace of a swaying hammock.
     If I make the effort to notice, I hear a constant background chatter of cicadas. 
Birds are calling to each other in the trees. As I make my way toward the ham-
mock, these sounds become muffled by the shrubs, trees and gardens that form 
this shadowed haven. Then I spy my two grandchildren on their knees, heads 
together, watching something wriggling on the ground. I say nothing but move 
more slowly, trying not to disturb their investigation.
     Under the trees now, I feel a cool breeze and hear a slight buzzing of bumble-
bees searching for nectar in a flowering berry bramble that circles one of the trees 
supporting the rope hammock.  The grassy ground is a little spongy today due to 
recent rains, so I can move undetected until I am nearly standing on top of my 
grandkids.
     I can see now what they are seeing – a caterpillar.  This fuzzy fellow looks like 
the last two inches of a bottle brush, covered in yellow hairs with extra-long black 
and white bristles at either end.  It looks otherworldly - more like Maurice Sen-
dak’s Where the Wild Things Are than Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar. 
No wonder the kids are mesmerized (and uncharacteristically still!).
     “You guys know not to touch one of those, right?” I caution.
“Grandpa!” squeaks Isaac with a wide, welcoming grin.  He recently turned two.
“We know, Grandpa. Momma always says ‘look, but don’t touch,’” states Abigail 
sagely, because she just started kindergarten and is incredibly mature for her age.
     “That’s a banded tussock caterpillar,” I state, not to be outdone by their wise 
mother, my oldest daughter. “What do caterpillars turn into?  Do either of you 
know?”
     “Butterflies!” first Abigail, then Isaac repeats.
     “Not this one. What’s like a butterfly, but not exactly?”
Silence, and that ‘give me a hint, please’ look on Abigail’s face. Isaac was back 
looking at the creepy crawler itself, caring less about the science of metamorpho-
sis.
     “It starts with an “m” and looks a lot like a butterfly.”
     “Moth!” proclaims Abigail, pride and self-satisfaction showing on her face.
     “That’s right!” I exclaim, pride and self-satisfaction showing on my face too.
     “Okay, you two, Grandpa is going to take a nap in the hammock. Don’t let me 
bother you.  I’ll be right over here.”
     I grab the near side of the hammock with both hands spread out beside and 
behind me. I gingerly squat until my rear touches rope.  I take a deep breath, say 
a little prayer, tighten my grip on the hammock’s edge and lean back.  I swing my 
legs up and around and recline into the hammock, letting gravity pull me down 
into its embrace.
“Aaaaaahhh,” I may have said out loud as my body sways side-to-side, slowing, 
slowing, slowing.
“Grandpa, can we get on, too?”
Silence, and that ‘can’t I just rest a bit, please’ look on my face.
“Grandpa?”
“Sure, why not?” I smile and open my arms wide.
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Garden Hammock

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 4 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Rolling Submissions 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
(2022) "Rolling Submissions," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 4. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/4 
This Prefatory Note 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. 
R
O
LL
IN
G
 
SU
BM
IS
SI
O
N
S
The Prairie Light Review accepts 
submissions throughout the aca-
demic year. We accept submissions 
of any in the following categories: 
original fiction, nonfiction, essays, 
drama, poetry, graphic essays, black 
and white and color photography, 
and 2D and 3D artwork of any me-
dium. If you are interested, please 
submit all work to:
prairielightreviewsubmissions@gmail.com
SC
H
O
LA
R
SH
IP
IN
FO
The Budilovsky Literary Scholar-
ship provides one $500 award per 
semester in conjunction with being 
published in the College of DuPage’s 
Prairie Light Review. To be consid-
ered for this award, the entrant must 
remain a student at COD the fol-
lowing semester and have written a 
quality piece of any type (i.e., essay, 
poem, short story, etc.). Preference 
will be made to pieces that are auto-
biographical in nature.
1
et al.: Rolling Submissions
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Rolling Submissions

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 13 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Nathan Boone 
Paul Sikes 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Sikes, Paul (2022) "Nathan Boone," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 13. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/13 
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. 
Nathan Boone            Paul Sikes 
 
       Last semester, Mr. Nathan Boone dropped into our school like a bomb. We 
had never seen or heard anyone, or anything, like him.
       Our previous English teacher was on maternity leave, so we were ‘enjoying’ 
the attention of an endless series of substitute teachers who tried to keep us in line 
and engaged in the study of the American Short Story. It was impossible for any 
of them to see us through a full cycle of in-class reading and discussion of themes, 
let alone test us to see what we had learned.
       We were wasting our time, but none of us were inclined to expend the effort 
needed to learn much on our own. It was easier to just make fun of the substitutes 
as they struggled with roll calls, tardy slips, bathroom break requests, and the 
incessant chatter that increased row by row the farther away students sat from the 
teacher’s desk.
       We even developed a scale for grading the relative worth of each of our 
new ‘classroom attendants.’ The “Give-a-Shit-o-Meter” measured each substitute 
teacher’s level of organization, overall temperament, and communication skills. 
We also had a fourth category that rated them on their concern for our education 
and wellbeing - thus, the meter’s name.
       When he showed up, Mr. Nathan Boone completely ‘blew the curve’ for all 
the rest. But not immediately. First, we had to adjust.
     “Ding, ding, ding! I think we have a winner!” he shouted gleefully about five 
minutes after he entered the classroom. We all sat there in stunned silence. All the 
rows.
       He had started class by asking for a show of hands of those who had read 
the assignment  “Sonny’s Blues” by James Baldwin. Stevie, the shyest kid in the 
class, was the only one who raised a hand. Mr. Boone got so excited that he yelled 
and clapped his hands. Then taking advantage of our shocked attention, he asked 
us all to pull out our books, and he started reading the first paragraph.
        “‘I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. I read it, and 
I couldn’t believe it, and I read it again.’ Can you see it, students? Can you hear 
it? Put yourself in that subway car. 
       “You, in the back row with the backwards ballcap, tell me your name, please. 
Jeff? Excellent!  Jeff, ever been on a subway? No? Young lady, you, in the next 
row, laughing. Your name please? Lauren, how about you - have you taken the 
subway? Fabulous! And I assume you carry your phone with you. Wonderful! 
       “Now everyone, close your eyes and imagine yourself sitting in a subway 
car, looking at your phone, flipping through Instagram or TikTok maybe, reading 
a headline about a drug bust in your neighborhood, and you see your brother’s 
name listed there. Someone you know and love has been arrested. How do you 
feel? Embarrassed, angry, shocked, numb, guilty? What is Baldwin showing us as 
this older brother, the narrator, is reading about the arrest of his younger brother 
in the first couple pages of this short story?
       “Your homework, for tonight, is to read this story. See it. Feel it. Read it 
aloud and hear the words that Baldwin uses to create powerful images and moving 
characters. Warning - there is a lot of darkness in this work - drugs and death - but 
there is also light and music. Tomorrow, we will discuss it. One question to ask 
yourself as you read this story: Who do you think is the main character, the pro-
tagonist, of the story? Is it Sonny or his brother? I am very interested to hear your 
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thoughts on that tomorrow. Class dismissed.”
        Mr. Boone was true to his word. He showed up the next day, and we dutifully 
discussed “Sonny’s Blues” with an interest that surprised us all. 
       Mr. Boone almost screamed “Eureka!” when Leticia answered a question and 
shared her feelings about the story.  He shouted, “By George, I think he’s got it!” 
using a terrible British accent when Tony gave an example of a simile found in 
the story. Then Mr. Boone was almost operatic as he sang out “Éccola, éccola!” 
(“Behold, behold” in Italian, apparently) when Jonathan found and read a passage 
in the story about the old folks gathered after their Sunday dinner.
        Every class with Mr. Boone was the same. He got excited when a student con-
nected with a story we were reading. We got excited waiting for him to yell “Shaz-
am!”, “Holy Moly!” or some other crazy thing at the student who did. During the 
spring semester, he must have run out of new material, because he started reusing 
interjections we’d already heard, but no one minded. Some of his earliest excla-
mations were now our favorites.
        One day in March, Mr. Boone wasn’t in class when we arrived, and there was 
no substitute for him. Ten minutes into the hour, as we were discussing whether to 
go to the office and ask about him, Mr. Boone arrived without a word. He sham-
bled up an aisle, head bowed, and slumped down in his chair behind the desk.
        “Everyone in your seats, please,” he said without looking up. “Turn to page 
317 and let’s read the first part of William Faulkner’s ‘A Rose for Emily.’ Hailey, 
would you please read the first paragraph and then Ahmad, will you continue, and 
so on?”
        At this point in the year, we were all comfortable reading aloud these short 
stories that Mr. Boone helped bring to life. He usually paced the room as we 
read, jumping in with a “See it!” for well-imagined scenes or “Yes! Read it again, 
please!” if the writer’s language was especially rich or distinctive. Today, he just 
leaned over his open book on the desk. 
        While students read, we noticed he wasn’t following along because he didn’t 
turn the page when the time came. Those of us who had read the whole thing in 
advance started to get nervous because the word “Negro’ had already appeared 
several times in the story, and we knew there was another word coming that none 
of us wanted to read aloud.  About the time that Melody read, “‘I have no taxes in 
Jefferson. Tobe!’ The Negro appeared. ‘Show these gentlemen out,’” Mr. Boone 
shuddered, rubbed his eyes, and ‘rejoined us’. Then he stopped the reading and 
stood up.
        “Class, William Faulkner wrote ‘A Rose for Emily’ in 1931. He lived most 
of his life in Oxford, Mississippi and his writings record the decades-long decline 
of aristocratic, white families following the Civil War. The language he uses has 
historical realism, as suits this work, but some of his terminology is not appropri-
ate in today’s pluralistic society. We’ll stop here.”
        Mr. Boone made this declaration in a flat, monotone voice that we’d never 
heard from him before. There was none of the energy or music that we’d come 
to expect. When he finished speaking, he just stood there. Then he sobbed and 
crumbled to the floor beside his desk and didn’t move.
         The principal announced that Mr. Boone was on ‘leave of absence’. That 
was all they could say due to “HIPAA privacy laws,” but we all knew he had a 
breakdown. We saw it, we heard it, we were there. 
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The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 44, No. 2 [2022], Art. 13
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/13
        The parade of substitute teachers started again, but this time the class decided 
to try and teach ourselves. We read, we discussed, we looked up literary resources 
online and we quizzed each other weekly. Near the end of the semester, we even 
gave ourselves a final exam. We each took a different short story we’d read during 
the year and wrote our own stories in the style of the selected author. 
        The school administration had no idea what to make of us. Some of us even 
continued reading and writing during the summer. For shame! Near the end of the 
summer break, word spread that Mr. Boone was coming back to teach, but our joy 
at this news was overshadowed by our concern for him.
        On his first day back at school, Nathan Boone felt fear, shame, and some 
hope. He had wanted to make a difference last year, had worked hard to reach 
the kids, but knew he had failed in the end. His mind and his body chemistry had 
betrayed him. 
        The school administration had been more understanding than he expected, 
so he took them up on the offer to return to the classroom in the fall. He wasn’t a 
quitter, and he’d worked hard over the summer to manage his illness. He knew he 
just needed to get back in there and start again.
        As he entered the building, students were mulling around their lockers, so he 
kept his gaze low and started down the hallway to his classroom.
        “Hi, Mr. Boone. Welcome back!” someone shouted down the hall and he 
froze.
        “Hi, Mr. Boone,” on his left.
        “It’s good to see you again, sir,” on his right.
        “We missed you, Mr. Boone,” said a young lady coming up behind him.
        He looked around and saw Leticia wearing a brightly colored t-shirt embla-
zoned with the exclamation, “Eureka!” As he turned back, he noticed scattered 
along the hallway were other students from his last year’s class wearing similar 
t-shirts inscribed with some of his other catchphrases: “Shazam!”, “Holy Moly”, 
“Yippee Ki Yay” and “Éccola!” 
        “Thank you, thank you,” Mr. Boone whispered, as he wiped his eyes.
        “Ding, ding, ding, Mr. Boone!” declared Stevie, “I think we have a winner!”
Relationships (at left) , 
Aleksandra Vali
Eye of the Storm (at right), 
Linnea, Sardina
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Nathan Boone

Sardina, Linnea

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 16 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Eye of the Storm 
Linnea Sardina 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Sardina, Linnea (2022) "Eye of the Storm," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 16. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/16 
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more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu. 
Nostos                  Karian Markos
 
If it was not for the moon, night would swallow the open sea at the horizon.
The Captain of the Tahitis waits to see the flicker of the lighthouse,
sole along this coast to guide him, before he turns to port.
The sky’s velvet curtain is pricked with longing and hope.
He knows these patterns; how they change with the seasons year after year.
The waters he navigates are unpredictable and so he is mindful;
cautious not to run aground, as he steers his ship into the narrow, shallow-botomed bay.
This sea has swallowed the dreams of many;
draping billowing, black sails over ships and windows,
sending widows into its depths to follow.
Every woman in this village has bowed over mixing bowls
and seasoned their food with salt and bitter tears.
His was not the only grandmother who whispered nightmare omens into the East wind
to be carried away by the sunrise.
The path is narrow and the bay only deep enough at the center
for his caique to pass without running aground.
As he enters the bay, the lantern-dotted mountainside sings of his homecoming.
A sentinel lamppost illuminates the jetty. A bronze hearted mother,
shading her eyes day and night, gazes over the horizon,
so no man returns to an empty shore.
 
After carefully docking his ship, the Captain greets the woman
with a tip of his hat and a courtly smile.
He ascends his marble plinth and turns to the North
toward the mouth of the bay.
He takes hold of his binoculars and straightens his shoulders,
whereupon he assumes his watch.
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Eye of the Storm

Blanco, Tania

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 27 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Floating Fallen Leaves 
Tania Blanco 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Blanco, Tania (2022) "Floating Fallen Leaves," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 27. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/27 
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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. 
Floating Fallen Leaves, Tania Blanco
Nature Reclaims Bridge, Courtney Chomycia
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Floating Fallen Leaves

Jordan, Bailey

The Prairie Light Review 
Volume 44 
Number 2 Spring 2022 Article 51 
Spring 5-1-2022 
Untitled 
Bailey Jordan 
College of DuPage 
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr 
Recommended Citation 
Jordan, Bailey (2022) "Untitled," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 44: No. 2, Article 51. 
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol44/iss2/51 
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. 
Untitled 
Bailey Jordan 
 Only men who have felt ultimate despair
are capable of feeling ultimate bliss
so answer me this
without truth to fear
does limbo exist?
 
Through trials and tests
though trauma I detest
who says were the best?
when life is nothing but the best
 
If life is designed to live
And the bane of life
is living
Why do we hinder the final days?
If heaven is forgiving?
 
Oceans will forever flow
Trees will forever grow
Stars will forever glow
knowledge is nothing but knowing what we don’t know
Wisdom is truth and truths are absurd
‘Flowers are only flowers’
Is all we need to know
Occupied, Morgan Marrazzo
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