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"To Love" by Fern Fraer Poetry - Winter 24/25 Issue Fill a pot with water slowly turn up the heat this way you won’t notice the difference always go nine over don’t look in the rearview mirror make eye contact with the driver who’s tailgating you attempt to dice a tomato with a date-stained blade you borrowed from last week’s stress and hunger though you know a dull knife is a dangerous one push the emergency exit door while we run laps because you are tired and out of breath and crave a cold slap against sweaty skin shower yourself in blue cheese dressing until your already-red tips turn an unforgivable brown and your croutons get all soggy fold your shadow like a bedsheet and tuck it in your backpocket feel a scarlet rash sprawl across your face like a parasite and fill your chasm wound with sugar-free maple syrup notice your reflection in the stainless steel and the oblong silver and the stinging leftovers and the sleek gym floor and the salad tongs and the sticky mess you’ve created see the piece of forgotten fruit deserted on your island its white hedges guarding precious rubies succulent yet neglected now feel your pulp collapse in soft layers and curl up on the kitchen counter wishing someone could just slice you open and see how you rot from the inside out but instead let it fester because you are too far gone and there are forty six ways to open a pomegranate but none of them are easy Turn off the stove and take note of the various stains you’ve created on your perfect white tile backsplash feel your pink exterior fade to a sickly orange as your insides turn brown— and all that’s left of you are the seeds.

Poetry - Grapevine , Winter 24/25 Issue my cousin whispered stories to me in the dark about something so un-human the soul recognizes it,  twisted faces and clawed fingers, bent at different angles and it eats little girls, she tells me,  how horrifying, how silly  heads shifting under a soft blanket, small warm hands grasping mine for comfort, a flashlight  illuminating  the side of her face, an orange shield meant to keep the evil out  more ghost stories muttered, interrupted occasionally by giggles or gasps, a scene I understand  watching from a corner, a thread of loneliness strung through me, I am practicing keeping my hands to myself we argue once, about something I saw in her eyes when she spoke of the monsters, how her eyebrow twitched she tells me to keep that to myself, and I do upon meeting someone, I like to greet them with a firm shake and wait  to see what they do, understand that they are something cultivated and soft  small hands clenched together for warmth, she is observing, face spasming  something bent, warped with skin stretching, in a corner and grasping  There's a moment in between, when my hand reaches and the light hits it just there, you can see all  the way through, no tissue or veins or blood, my ring finger and thumb are bent backwards so I smile harder, make sure I don't meet her eyes, watch an eyebrow twitch until I am all soft and light

In late 2020, I found myself in the pediatric unit of Pine Rest Christian Mental Health Hospital, a psychiatric hospital focused on incorporating faith into treatment. Obviously I did not want to be there, but I didn’t want to be there even more because they wouldn’t stop bugging me about my relationship with God and how that influenced the decisions that landed me there. They kept sending this weird chaplain man to come talk to me, which helped me none because the only thing I could focus on during our conversations were his completely shaved hands. Needless to say, I felt their attempts to improve my condition via the Holy Spirit were pointless and dumb.  If constantly being tracked down and cornered by a bald handed freak wasn’t enough, I was surviving off of honey nut cheerios and chocolate pudding because mealtime was nothing short of vomit inducing. They restricted and monitored our portions heavily, which I thought was ridiculous because almost no one seemed to be able to force down the first heapings of slop they served us. As healthcare professionals, you would think they would know that good food increases dopamine levels and can improve mental health. But of course, as evident by the half painted walls scattered with fist-sized holes, good food was not in the budget.  A few days into my stay, I was starting to get sick of pudding cups. I went hungry most days. The food became such a problem that one nurse questioned if I had an eating disorder, and to that I promptly responded, “You try eating this shit”. I was making very little progress with my mental health because that terrible, windowless prison cafeteria from hell was doing the opposite of remedying my “I have nothing to live for” mindset. That was, until dinnertime rolled around on the fourth night.  I waited in line for around five minutes until it was my turn to receive my own saran-wrapped tray of garbage. I tried my best to hide my repulsion from the food service worker. I found a table and sat, setting my tray down with a clack. Peeling back the wet plastic, I got my first look. For dinner tonight, a delectable selection of blanched vegetables, canned pears, and a mysteriously dense yellow cube. I started on the pears, sure that nothing could be wrong there. They were cold and slightly grainy as normal; I was safe. I ate my serving of those. A particularly lousy looking piece of broccoli was making eyes at me, its appearance more pitiful than my own situation. I decided against that one.  Still hungry, I began inspecting the yellow block before me. It smelled like cornbread, which was encouraging, but I became skeptical once I noticed the kernels of corn scattered throughout it. It sort of made sense, so I tried to reason myself into taking a bite. I like corn. I guess I like cornbread. The smell was not forging an attack against my nostrils, and its appearance, though verging on offensively yellow, didn’t look that bad. I dug my fork into it, then took a bite. Immediately I was thrown off guard, like this mystery casserole had just thrown a mad uppercut straight into my jaw. Its unexpected sweetness was comparable to cheesecake, and so was the way it rolled across my tongue with unforeseen grace. It was almost the consistency of pudding, and since I had decidedly abandoned my reliance on Snack Pack pudding cups, this was exactly  what I was looking for.  Though there were few windows on my unit and the November overcast was undoubtedly gray, I felt the room brighten. The sterility of the place softened, and for a moment, I was comforted. I was almost giddy as I took bite after bite of the wonderful mix of Jiffy corn meal, butter, and canned corn. With each spoonful, I felt more purpose, more will than I had in years. I was a changed man. For the rest of my stay, Pine Rest continuously attempted to inject faith into my treatment plan. But no matter how hard they tried, they would remain unsuccessful, because the only time I truly felt God during my time there was when I took that first bite of corn casserole.  Not only is the experience of corn casserole transcendent, the idea of it is inherently Jesus-y. Historically, corn casserole is a poor man’s food. Its ingredients come from boxes and cans, and it’s mixed in the same pan it’s cooked in. It’s simple and accessible. And still, it is unequivocally delicious. Jesus preached that God’s goodness and love was in the small things. That everyone, especially the poor and the sickly, deserve that goodness in some way. Even in something as simple as corn casserole. Four years later, I am still not a very religious person. Yet, I can’t help but think of my first encounter with corn casserole as a spiritual revelation of sorts. In that moment, I had felt something holy. It could have been the two entire sticks of butter. Or maybe it was the magic of Jiffy CornBread Mix. Maybe it was comfort. Maybe it was hope.  I arrived at Pine Rest Christian Mental Health Services with the idea that there was little in the world left for me. And as terribly simple as it sounds(and almost disrespectful to my family and friends), corn casserole reminded me just how much I had to live for. I didn’t need some sort of life-changing purpose to save myself. What I really needed was something simple to keep me going until I was ready to move on to bigger things.   To this day, corn casserole remains a representation of my favorite parts of life. The things that are undoubtedly simple, like snow days, a run in with an old friend, your pet falling asleep on your lap, or for me, a bowl of homemade corn casserole after a hard day. These things may seem insignificant, but they are often the difference between choosing to leave and finding something small to stay for.

Poetry - Grapevine , Winter 24/25 Issue I would never like a girl But I can recognize her airy laugh  Amid the chaos, it grips its hand around my neck Suffocating me in its carefree attitude I would never kiss a girl But her lips glisten in the sun Freshly bitten cherry gloss Entices me mockingly  I would never date a girl But her touch steals my air, burning my lungs Commanding my thoughts As it condemns my ideology I walk away and lock my doors But in the dark, she sneaks in Trapping me under her calculated stare Her breath caressing my skin tantalizingly She is more than just a girl  She is a wildflower waltzing in the breeze Pure as her first steps Untainted by the world, untarnished by me

Prose Fiction - Winter 24/25 Issue Growing up in that small house on 7th, 2 bed 2 bath - it feels weird even to say "growing up." Did I really “grow” up? My body sure did – legs stretching, arms reaching, teeth falling out and coming back in. But did I grow? Like, really grow? Sometimes it feels like I'm stuck in this loop, making the same mistakes over and over, waiting for the time I do it right. We’re doing a project on plants. It’s a one-person-one-plant type thing, and by the time it’s my time to choose, choices are limited. All the good fruits like kiwi and strawberries are gone, and I’m not entirely sure why, but one catches my eye. Rhubarb. So I tell my teacher I want to do rhubarb. She tells me that rhubarb grows in the dark. I disregard it at first. I do all the research. I learn where it’s grown (primarily in Washington State, Oregon, and Michigan), where it’s native to (Asia), where it got its name (the Rha River in Russia, now the Volga), and three fun facts. I learn it’s not a fruit, the leaves are poisonous, and the rest of the “fun facts” listed on the website aren’t as, well, fun. I remembered what my teacher had told me, about how it grows in the dark. So I look up why it grows in the dark. The first result is, “It’s looking for the light.” Sometimes I feel like rhubarb. I feel like my body can’t stop growing and my stomach won't stop protruding for every extra calorie I eat. I grow and I grow and for what? I think it’s because I’m  looking for the light. In my mind's eye, I envision a gallant prince riding through the stormy night, his cloak billowing behind him. With each thunderous growth spurt, I longed for him to burst through the door, whisk me away from the darkness that threatened to engulf me, that I dared to grow into. But as the minutes ticked by and the rain continued to fall, I realized that no prince would come to my rescue. I was alone, a damsel in distress with no hero in sight. I’m the rhubarb. Every pamphlet that slides across the guidance counselor’s desk reminds me of how much I’ve grown physically and yet not mentally. Because a big girl would want to go to college and not be afraid of leaving everything she knows so she can just know more. Be  more. Weigh  less. But all I want is to stop growing. Stop looking for the light. Stop time.  In my mind I’m still a little girl, drinking Nesquik chocolate milk huddled under a small blanket on the black leather couch that had become so familiar to me. I’m watching Rapunzel. Where’s the light? the rhubarb asks as it grows and grows and goes to school one day to find that there were no princes. No towers to release her long hair down so the prince can climb up and save her. Someone should have saved me. From growing in the dark. Why didn’t someone tell the rhubarb that she didn’t have to grow up so fast? Nobody told her to savor the moments of her childhood because they would pass by so fast. Time can’t be stopped, time won’t be stopped, and the rhubarb won’t stop growing, even in the dark.

Prose-Poetry - Grapevine , Winter 24/25 Issue We walk parallel lines and yet such perpendicular paths. At some point the lines intersect but you’ll never know when. It’s a system of equations with a solution undefined because X won’t tell you Y. Each equation will travel to different points and when the lines intersect, it makes X reflect on Y. Reflect on the path that it has traveled, each fluctuation, up and down. Which way will the line go now?

Prose Fiction - Grapevine , Winter 24/25 Issue She is nowhere to be found. I search the ground of gold and crimson leaves for footprints, but it is useless. The sun is setting now, casting both me and Peri in a deep shadow. I hear the loons ahead of us, their deep, mournful cries reflecting across the lake. Water splashes as they float along, their wails growing louder as they call to one another, as if asking, “Where are you?” The same question echoes in my mind, over and over.  A twig snaps behind me, and I whirl around just to see Peri staring back at me. “Nothing,” I tell them.  “How could she just disappear like that?” Peri asks, fidgeting with the hem of their charcoal-gray shirt. “How could she get this lost?” “You know how distracted she gets,” I tell them, keeping my voice steady. One of us has to remain calm. “I’m sure she isn’t far. We just have to keep looking.” “I don’t know, Vy… maybe we should turn back. I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” Peri mutters. “And leave her? What if she’s wandering around in these woods somewhere?” I hiss. “I know it probably isn’t the smartest idea getting so far from camp, and we’ll make sure to heed everyone’s warnings about coming out here next time. Lesson learned. But we can’t—” Peri places a finger to my lips, stopping me mid-sentence. I turn to them, their eyes wide in fear, their fingers clutching my wrist.  It’s almost impossible to hear their near-silent whisper. “We’re not alone.” My heart stops as I freeze, listening. Waiting. The only sounds I hear are the loons in the distance and the rustling of leaves. Then, the snap of a twig. Peri’s grip around my wrist tightens so unbearably I wince, and now I really hear my heartbeat — so loud, in fact, I think everyone in the world can hear it. I try to slow my breathing, but it’s no use. So much for remaining calm — the short, quick intakes of breath give me away.  Unable to bear it any longer, I shout, “Who’s there?” Finally, someone emerges from the brush. A tall, unshaven man with messy brown hair takes a step towards us, causing us to scramble back out of his way.  “H-hello?” Peri asks, their voice quivering uncontrollably. My palms are clammy, and I tell myself to calm down. Maybe this man can show us the way back to camp.  The man doesn’t respond. “Hello?” I wave my hand at him. No response. Now that I take a closer glance at him, there is something off about the look in his eyes… they are clouded over, and he seems distant, even though he is right in front of us. My heartbeat picks up: Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Something tells me this man is not here to help us. “Sir, can you hear me?” I ask the man. He continues to walk forward, passing us and trekking through a cluster of trees. Heading straight for the lake. “W-where are you going?” Peri sputters. The man still doesn’t respond, only getting closer to the water. Slowly, I trail after him. Peri wrenches their hand from my wrist, whispering, “What are you doing? Why are you following him?” “I have to know where he’s going,” I reply. “You can stay here if you want. I’ll be back in a second.” “No, no, no,” Peri shakes their head rapidly, causing their short black hair to fly in their face. “I don’t want to end up like Nara.” Our friend’s name sends a shiver down my spine, but I don’t stop as they scramble to catch up. The man is a few feet ahead of us, his feet almost touching the water. Why is he going in? The high-pitched wails of the loons pierce my ears, and I raise my hands to cover them. Before I can do so, Peri mutters, “The loons. Where are they?” I turn back to the lake and scan the area. It’s true; there are no loons in sight. “Then…” I murmur, “what are we hearing?” My thought process is forced to an abrupt halt when I spot the man stepping into the lake. “Hey!” I yell. “What are you doing? It’s freezing!” He still doesn’t seem to hear me. He wades deeper into the water as Peri and I watch him, completely and utterly perplexed. Who would want to go swimming in this weather? It can’t be above forty-five degrees outside, which isn’t surprising for Minnesota in late October. It’s dangerous to swim now, so what in the world is he thinking? We watch as he sinks deeper, and it feels as though we are watching a man die right in front of us. He is slowly consumed by the water – first his chest, shoulders, then neck, until his head is submerged. I gasp, and Peri grips my arm so tightly it leaves white finger marks on my skin.  Everything is frozen as we wait for him to come back up. I don’t think I take a single breath. The minutes stretch on, seeming endless. He never rises. “He’s gone,” I whisper. “Where did he go?” Peri cries. “Is he dead ?” “Maybe he came up on the other side and we missed it,” I reason. “It’s hard to see now that the sun is setting. He probably—” A sharp, blood-curdling scream erupts near us, stabbing me like a knife. I feel myself pale as I look over at Peri. I know that voice. We know that voice. “Nara,” we say in sync. “Nara!” Peri calls. “Where are you? We’re coming!” The only response we get is another agonized scream. “Nara! We’re coming! You’re going to be okay!” I yell as Peri and I burst forward in a run, trying to find the source of the sound.  There’s another scream, and I feel tears prick my eyes. I can’t imagine what is happening to her to cause her to scream like that. I propel myself forward farther with every step, determination coursing through my veins. “The lake!” Peri calls over to me. “She’s in the lake!” I freeze. “What did you say?” Peri keeps running towards the water. “She’s in the lake, she’s got to be! That’s where the sound is coming from!” In just a few seconds, the realization settles in. “Peri!” I scream. I try to dash after them, but the rocky beach and darkness aren’t a good combination. I almost trip over my own feet, but that action thrusts me forward just enough that I can yank on Peri’s sleeve. “Look at me,” I demand. I turn their shoulders so I can see their eyes. Just like I thought, the once-rich brown is now clouded over, like a heavy fog taking over a bright blue sky. “Listen to me,” I order, but Peri is already trying to scramble out of my grasp. “Listen. She’s not in the lake. We can’t go in there, or else we’ll end up like that man. You were right, we need to turn back.” “Nara,” Peri mutters. “Yes, Nara,” I reply. “I’m sure she is already back at camp, waiting for us. Let’s head back, all right?” “Okay,” Peri says, nodding numbly. “Okay.” Slowly, I release my grip. That was a grave mistake. Peri immediately makes a break for it, dashing into the lake before I can stop them again. I scream as their head disappears underwater.  This has to be some sort of nightmare, right? I think. This can’t really be happening. These creatures that have corrupted my friends’ minds don’t really exist. I will wake up back in our RV with Peri and Nara sleeping soundly nearby, our parents in the other RV next to us. I won’t have to explain this insane situation to them; I won’t have to tell them how their children disappeared. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of pale color. A hand reaches out of the water, flailing about. Peri’s hand. It looks frantic, like they are trying desperately to get to the surface and return to shore. “Peri!” I yell. “I’m coming! Hold on!” I stretch my hand out, trying and failing to reach Peri’s. I realize then that the only way I can reach them is by taking a step into the lake. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts:  Is it worth it to step in? No, no, of course it is! One step won’t hurt me. And if I miss the chance to save Peri’s life, I will never forgive myself.  Once my mind is settled, I slowly take a small step into the water and reach for Peri again. After still failing to reach their pleading hand, I take another. Finally, I feel my fingers brush theirs, until they latch together. The hand pulls me forcefully underwater. I scream, sucking in buckets of water that only make me cough profusely. My lungs burn like a fire is raging inside them — I feel like I’m dying. I am dying. My heartbeat roars in my head: ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. I kick furiously with my legs and try to yank my arm free from this hand, but another joins it. Several more grab my legs, and I feel sharp claws dig into my skin. Squeezing my eyes tight, I use everything in me to try to push myself up, but it is no use. I am sinking. All around me, I hear the Sirens scream.

Fiction - Grapevine , Winter 24/25 Issue I never wanted to play the guitar. I was more of an arts and crafts kid. My father was a woodworker, and I would spend my summer afternoons in the garage watching him work. By the age of ten, I was right there next to him, making little lopsided birds and mini versions of household objects. By my junior year of high school, I was nearly an expert, navigating each piece of wood like I was an experienced sailor and my dad was the captain passing on his ship to me. And then my father retired. I quickly ran out of wood to take my creativity out on, since he refused to buy more. So my friend took me thrifting in case we found anything. I doubted we would, but I went along with it because I just needed to get out of that crowded workshop. There, I found it. That antique guitar, made of dark mahogany, the messy glue visible where the neck met the body. It infuriated me. I brought it back to the workshop to fix it up. It only took a few days. I sanded off the old glue and straightened out the neck. It was still a beautifully kept piece of wood, and I couldn’t stop admiring it. The next day, I went out again and bought another old guitar. This one didn’t have any problems, it was just ridiculously beautiful. Who would ever give this up? Over the final months of the school year, I was rarely home. I was out shopping, scouring every antique shop and thrift store in the city looking for more guitars. My parents were worried and tried to limit my spending. But I had a one track mind, hiding money under my mattress and selling my old wooden creations. The music stores got sick of me since I couldn’t afford the guitars they had but would come nearly every day to admire them. Such amazing art. Guitars decorated the walls of my room, and then the walls of my home. My parents hounded me to at least learn the instrument if I was going to buy so many. I wasn’t interested. All I wanted to do was stare at them and admire the craftsmanship. When I moved out for college, I could only take a few with me. Among those was the first one I bought. I hung it above my bed, a reminder of my old hobby I could no longer afford, a reminder of my home. I worried that my parents would get rid of the wooden wonders I spent so long collecting, but when I went back for Christmas, they were all there. College kept my mind off of the guitars, busy teaching me composition and the best materials to build an up-scale home. But I never truly forgot. And one day, when I was out getting lunch after calculus, I happened upon a boy. He was sitting on a bench, skin the familiar color of mahogany wood, long hair pulled back. Plucking at a guitar with the paint chipping off. He noticed me staring and smiled. He asked about guitars, and I, fumbling over my words, said I was a collector of antiques. His smile grew wider, more genuine, and asked how long I’d been playing. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I never even strummed a single string. He gave me a time and place on a napkin from the nearby coffee shop and said we should play together. When I got back to my dorm, I took down that guitar and sat on my bed, placing the wrinkled, yellowing book from the city’s library on my desk. It was time to finally put this art to its proper use.

Poetry - Grapevine , Winter 24/25 Issue She awakens to this strange field of wildflowers and the sky is looking  down… at her Hello, Amelia , it says to her Um, where am I?  she asks  You are in the field of memories where we will look back at your past regrets mistakes  memories  Are you… a god? How is the sky talking to me? Suddenly, a man walks over Today, we will be looking at your life the man says as he points to the blue sky, starting to fill up with clouds drawing the pictures of Amelia’s past  What’s going on? Why am I in a field of wildflowers? I don’t even like flowers! And who are you? What do you mean, “looking at my life?” The man ignores all of her questions Let’s start with this memory, January 13th, 2006 The sky fills with an image of Amelia, a young girl making snow angels with her friends on a blanket of white, icy snow Why are you showing me this? That was over fifteen years ago! And those friends…  June  Maple  Violet  They’re all moved away and we’ve lost connection  Amelia thinks as her face fills with confusion But she can’t make herself look away from the sky now drawing With a new picture of her life The man reappears in front of her Now let’s go to… May 24, 2013 The sky and clouds reshape itself to a picture  The man waved his arms closing the memory  You betrayed your closest friends didn’t even acknowledge their existence when you’ve gotten older  Violet, oh I remember that fight… It was so silly, thinking back on it.. And  June  Maple I lost all of them I betrayed them  Why are you showing me these bad memories? the woman asks, nervously picking at a stray wildflower  Wait, we’re not done the sky warns Amelia a cloud shooting up as if pointing a finger at her Let’s go to… December 25th, 2004. The man motioned to the sky, which filled up again This time, a family crowded around a dazzling Christmas tree Wait, I remember this A melia thought A toddler Amelia rips a golden wrapped present pulling out a toy set “A painting kit!” young Amelia squealed “Thank you, Daddy!” I wanted to be an artist when I was young The man waved his hands, covering the holiday scene Now we’re on our way to August 31, 2019 “What happened to you, Amelia? What has become of you?”  her dad questions in shame and sadness Stop, I don’t want to see this  Amelia cries, covering her eyes As you grew older, you got into fights, drank alcohol  You became less and less like your childhood self who wanted to become a famous artist  the sky claims You showed up on your dad’s front porch one day Beaten up and with a black eye the man says as a cloud wipes the blue slate clean Why are you showing me all of these things? All these memories making me  out to be the bad guy? Amelia uncovers her eyes and stares at the man Amelia, we want you to become a better person You’ve hurt and betrayed those you love, and you’ve grown far apart from your childhood dream, now spending your days drunk and lost.  Do you remember these? the man asks  …I do… The sky now becomes a new image of her family sitting around a dinner table  heads bowed Now, to present day  the man walks along the horizon pointing at the clouds  Your family prays at the dinner table for your health and safety To hope you can find yourself stop fighting and drinking and become the Amelia they once saw What have I become of myself? Amelia thought to herself The sky clears its throat Amelia, we have taken you back in time To show that there is still time to make amends, right those wrongs You can still have a fresh start Become a new version of yourself A new Amelia Amelia blinks and suddenly she awakens  To her messy bedroom with laundry thrown on the ground and beer bottles scattered amongst her bed That was a dream…  she thinks to herself But those memories were all real The man and the…sky god? were right I’m not the person I used to be But I’ve hurt everyone I cared for… I must make things right the woman declares getting out of bed and picking up the stray bottles I will call my parents  To make amends the woman thought the sky’s voice echoing in her mind Become a new version of myself A new Amelia

Poetry - Grapevine , Winter 24/25 Issue i am no more than a creature when i love her i want to crawl inside her skin, making it a home until her form is no different from mine i want to rip out her heart and cradle it tenderly, taking care of her most vulnerable part until it's mine i want to force myself inside the crevices of her brain, to fill it up until her thoughts are all stained by me i want to take her apart, see what makes her tick, then, in return, pray she’ll look at me i want to let her break my ribs and rummage through my organs, her touch an embrace meant only for the deepest me i want her to vivisect me and force her way inside, although all of me is now hers anyway, not mine i need her to sink her teeth into my flesh, her mouth covered in blood and filled with me and i am never going to tell her the true depth of how her very being has consumed me i can’t see this creature reflected in her eyes

Visual Art - Grapevine , 24/25 Issue

Visual Art - Grapevine , Winter 24/25 Issue