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Aimlessly wandering all through my life, First an infant, a child, a mother, and eventually a wife. Lost in this world, striving for perfection. Longing for love, receiving none from any direction. Going through the motions, I was shipwrecked at sea, Not knowing how to survive, or how the next night would be. While being a single mother, with everything resting upon me. Burned by life, somehow I rose from the ashes, Sometimes making strides, some days only dashes. Yet from that shipwreck, I finally made it to shore, With each passing moment, my faith grew a little bit more. Now driven with purpose, forever through Christ, Because I’m walking with the Lord, for He is the Head of my life…

This piece was authored by Michelle Williams, a Marian alum in the Women's College Partnership program. Appreciation for your life in a story, Catapulting my mind through your sense of time Lines vivid and dripping with truth Images of pain coupled with ode to a friend A desperate search through darkness for peace Constantly tormented by hate’s verbal knife. The serrated edges of your oyster knife Illuminate the ugly facets of this world’s story Focused on self, unable to restore peace Ignorance so bliss, await another time When the one you thought was a friend Makes racist comments revealing their truth. Like fake news, lies our new truth Smiling faces, digging deep, blades of knife Feigning concern much like a friend Collecting data to use in their next big story Violating sanctity of your vulnerable time While you beg for just a little bit of peace. Destructed world copping pleas for peace Lay down your gauntlet, start with truth Division caused by hatred over time Racism, Sexism, Classism, violent as a butcher knife Only selfless, unconditional love can change this story Open embrace like you do a friend. Invite your neighbor, call him friend Forgive all wrongs, agree to peace Remove hatred from beginning story Restore desire for real truth Put in sheath the vicious knife Start over with love this time. Beauty found in fragments of time Laughing, tears streaming, cheeks with closest friend Love penetrating deeper than knife Moments linger with blissful peace Certain of one infallible truth Always chance to re-write story. To you and your friend who seek peace, It’s time, dull knife, speak truth Be the new story!

Hi, my name is Ashley Durnil, and I am a Biology Pre-Med major. In my free time, I dance for the Marian Knights Dance team and spend time with friends. In my future, I would like to be a Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine! I wrote this short story because I wanted to be able to connect to you as a reader about someone who left a special mark on your heart and in your life. Everyone leaves something beautiful behind, and everyone has a story, and I wanted to bring that to life. October 10th 1950 I grasped Grandma's soft frail hand. She smelled of sweet lavender and menthol rub. Her face, full of wrinkles, each holding a different story. Every step was cherished as if it were her last. “Grandma! Grandma!” I said. “Ready to go?” Grandma stroked my face with her timely hands. “Yes darling.” Me and Grandma walked just around the block to a nearby beach. The air smelled dewy from the salty waves. There was a slight breeze that tickled my skin. We stepped onto the soft sand as it wiggled through my toes. Grandma browsed the area and picked up a seashell where she could find one. My frail knees ached as I crouched down in search of some as well. “Darling, come, come I have found the perfect one.” I scurried over to grandma to find a rusty, cracked old, and scuffed up, dirty brown shell lying in the center of her palm. I was confused as to why she would hold such a shell and think it possessed so much beauty. “Isn't it beautiful,” Grandma said. “But grandma, it's scratched up and dirty. That's not beautiful.” “My darling grandson… that's what makes it beautiful. Each speck of dirt, each scuff mark, and each crack, is a story, and none the less a beautiful one.” She breathed, “Everything has a story, and should be cherished as such, even if it's a little rough around the edges.” August 3rd 1951 “Grandma!” I called from the other room. “Grandma?” Silence. I walked over to her room feeling shaky. The door was cracked open. I heard a wheezing noise, similar to the sound of a suffering animal; it was almost as if she wasn't breathing well . I quickly got my mom to help. Not even an hour later and I was balled up in the corner, tears staining my face like blood on a pillow. The beach was my safe space, the place I would go to remember my grandmother, the place I would flee to during hard times. In my attempts to hide the fact that I was grieving, I would head to the beach to mourn. I collected seashells, but not the pretty ones. I collected the shells with character– the shells with a story. Since her death I made sure to collect a new shell every day and add them to a jar labeled, The Circle of Life. July 5th 1995 It’s been too long since I've written, but no better time to start up again than now. Life has been so busy the last couple of years, but honestly, they were some of the best years of my life. It is an especially wonderful day today because my beautiful daughter had a baby. My soft frail hands delicately brushed her baby skin. She smelled of roses and sunshine. Her eyes, as blue as the ocean. Her hair, as soft as silk. My beautiful granddaughter Elise, born on July fifth nineteen ninety five. February 6th 2000 It's been a couple years, and I have been busy helping my daughter with Elise. Elise, my sweet loving granddaughter, is now old enough to walk to the beach with me. Luckily, I'm not too frail and weak quite yet so I can get around. My grandmother was a constant on my mind as I made it a tradition for me and Elise to venture to the beach every Sunday. Elise loves the beach; she loves the breezy air and the crisp smell of the ocean winds as they blew in her face. I watched as my beautiful grandchild ran around in the white sand until she was too tired to stand. She reminded me of her mother with the way she was so wild and free. Her strawberry blonde hair blew around in the breeze as she waddled her way over to me perched under a protruding rock. “Grandpa!” Elise yelled. “Look at this beautiful seashell I just found.” “Oh, how Wonderful!” I replied witfully. I picked up a shell sitting just underneath the sand. It happened to be one wise shell, for it had so many scars. August 15th 2005 I am ill. I haven't been able to write much because of it, and I don't have much time before my story comes to an end. Elise is of perfect age to take over the jar., I just know she will continue the Circle of Life. The cane I held had become moist from my sweaty hands. It held me up through each weight bearing step as I made my way over to Elise’s room. The door was sleek white, and the handle was a little gold knob that showed a small reflection of yourself inside. I knocked. “Elise…Elise!” I called. The door creaked open. “Oh, hi Grandpa,” Elise said with a smile. “Let's sit you down. You shouldn't be standing for too long.” My sweet Elise was so caring for me., I could not have been given a more loving granddaughter. She led me to the old creaky oak wood stools surrounding the kitchen table. “Grandpa, was there something you wanted to talk about?” Elise asked. “Yes darling," I said, my voice croaking with age. “As you know, I am not well and I don't have much time left.” Elise grabbed my hand and held it close; she squeezed it ever-so subtly. “I must give you something my grandmother once gave me.” I pulled the jar from the center of the table. “Here darling, this is the jar where I have collected all my seashells and yours. I want you to continue this with another loved one in your life.” Elise’s eyes turned glassy and a tear dripped down her cheek like a dew drop running off of a morning plant. Elise gently grabbed the jar from in front of her. “Of course, Grandpa. I will find someone and continue in your footsteps.” I gently squeezed her hand and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. August 16th 2005 I laid in my bed motionless. Life felt so slow today, yet I felt at peace. My eyes flickered. I looked out the window and saw the glassy waters of the ocean, much like Elise’s eyes. The soft sand blew around in the wind as I took a deep breath. My eyes slowly faded shut. September 8th 2015 Hi, I'm Elise, I was rummaging through grandpa's old stuff as I could not bear to go through it any earlier. I stumbled upon this journal, and I thought to myself… I must continue in grandpa's footsteps. I must keep writing this journal. As of right now my face is damp. I have had a really hard time going through grandpa's old stuff, but it must be done. I'm unsure of what most of his stuff was for, he had so many random knick knacks just hidden in his room. Suddenly I stumbled upon the jar. I forgot that I was to continue this with a loved one. Luckily, I had not met someone who has made a dent in my heart quite yet. I decided that I'm going to go down to the beach and collect shells just as grandpa taught me, I am going to continue the circle of life. September 9th 2015 Today I am headed to the beach. I grabbed my old brown cloth sack and wrapped it around the jar of shells. I carried it on my shoulder as I walked just around the block to the nearby beach. I stepped into the warm sand, the sun biting at my skin. The waves were smooth, and the rocks were blurry in the distance. I set down the jar under the same rock that grandpa always used to sit under. The breeze was subtle, but noticeable, it’s as though grandpa was here with me. As I sat under the rock, I watched as a young, random little boy with short brown hair and green swim trunks ran back and forth. He was so cute, young, and free, no care in his mind. Suddenly he stopped. I watched as he gazed at the sway of the ocean waves. He began to walk closer and closer only to crouch down and pick up a shell. I noticed the shell wasn't all that beautiful on the outside but instead had “character” as grandpa would put it. The shell seemed to be covered in cracks and brown streaks. The boy walked the shell over to a small pile that he had been stacking, one dirty shell on top of the other. I unwrapped the jar of shells and brushed off the sand that got inside the brown bag. I picked up the jar and began walking toward the young boy. “Hi.” I said, “I'm Elise, I noticed that you were keeping a pile of shells.” “Yes, I love seashells!” the boy said excitedly. “I noticed that you picked up all the worn shells and not the pretty ones.” “Yes, my grandma always said that each speck of dirt, each scuff mark and each crack is a story and how they are all beautiful ones. She said that everything has a story, and should be cherished, even if it's a little rough around the edges.” I began to tear up, waves of love and remembrance filled my heart. He was the one, the one to continue the journey. “Here, I want you to have this, it's a jar of old shells that I collected with my grandpa when I was young, and I want you to put yours in here.” The little boy smiled widely as I gingerly opened the jar. He took each shell and one by one set them inside. He was so gentle and treated the shells as if they were as delicate as a feather. I carefully shut the jar and handed it to the young boy. “Thank you, Elise,” the boy said as he took the jar of shells and scurried off to find another. My eyes filled up with tears and my heart grew full as I knew that the Circle of Life was in good hands.

Chess. Checkerboard. Nothing like it - it’s as old as “Your majesty” who reaches just For the timer for “check” - I check my defense. Remembering David, I attack the Goliath ahead of me Knowing that the sling I have has no stone. The “L” is gone The rook in the corner. It’s like a mouse about to be Snatched by a cat. Soldiers crowd and smother my queen As the joust takes out the king mercilessly and with a kick. But where did it come from? Chess. Checkerboard gone. I reach for his hand. But he does not receive it. Too proper. From times prehistoric the war has been - still I can’t conquer the ancient beast. Remembering, The ancient goliath smelled funny, but I can’t speak Because the sling hit my eyes. I should’ve looked. He calls it a watchtower - keep a wary lookout for pawns on the move. But I, a rookie, Think it should be liking to a flow - Why watch or have a plan? Goliath mutters something about Chess being like a clock: The second hand moves Before the minute hand And the hour hand is Always there. Chess. Checkerboard. This object called “game” Clutches me in its lithe hands and shakes. Get a hold of yourself. I ask for a rematch. That’s the spirit. How can I refuse?

Ignore the alley behind the mart, For in it lies a man to blame. To see himself he cannot start, His body broken, figure lame. Old footprints dusted by the snow, The man lies down beneath the tarp, His home a refuge from the foe, A winter’s bitter freeze so sharp. His beard unkempt and shoes worn through, With nothing but his faith to hold, The lonely man forgets his name As fractals fall from dreaded cold. While white stars gather from afar, The man has nothing left to give But wait and watch the passing car And hold his cross and hope to live. His tattered form still longs for light Amidst the friendless gloom so black. The frigid snow puts up a fight. His humble heart begins to crack. Forget the alley behind the store For in it lies a man to scorn. His hands betwixt his groin and sore To keep them safe from frost forlorn. The man outlives his benefits But still the cross he keeps it near. The alleyway in which he sits Looms still the same in fright and fear. The cross upon the snow it falls From whence it came to kiss the ice. The man has not the strength and stalls But angels summon him to rise. The man, with sudden force bestowed Defies his fame from hideous rest And rises up to lift his load That from within it did infest. The lonely man now follows friend And from the heart indeed he cries! ‘Tis morning after peaceful end When spirits sing and sorrow dies.

i am fighting everything in me that wants to call you, send you a text ask you questions my body is shaking i can't stop thinking of you which hurts the most i know how happy my heart would be if i could go back but my mind says not you cant put yourself in that situation anymore. i broke my own heart when i believed that your love was solid, real and pure. i broke my heart when i thought that you always treated me good i broke my heart every chance i gave you, every time i thought it would get better, every time you gave me your word and failed, every time i look at you with love in my eyes. i break my heart when you were yelling at me. . . i lost everything, every crack in my heart became bits and pieces . . . . everything shattered. there was nothing left- but yet i still hurt, there is more pain. its almost as if i have an endless supply. but through everything you put me through, every hurtful word and action. i still love you. i still want you. i still want to be with you. i still want to be loved by you. i still want to be held in your arms. i still want to be caressed by you. but i can never feel your touch again.

Bethanie Majewski is a Biology major graduating in December of 2024. Her inspiration was sparked for the photograph while in Times Square of New York City, New York on New Years Eve. Bethanie noted how, “The energy was vibrant and it was a surreal experience that I felt compelled to share through pictures.”

Bethanie is Biology major graduating in December of 2024. She got the inspiration for the photograph while completing bird research over the summer in Asheville, North Carolina. Bethanie explained that, “The mountains were always so beautiful in the morning and I wanted to capture those moments through a photo. It also reminded me of some scenes from the movie Twilight, so to me that was an added bonus!”

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 59 by the 2000-2001 Fioretti students. Too much green There is so much to name Too much green My room is full of green Comforter, curtains and my rugs Too much green I think I am on a roll Pickles, spinach and cucumbers Too much green Still moving along Christmas trees and wreaths Shamrocks on St. Patrick's Day Too much green Still more to name The green of Astroturf that football players play on Including the Green Bay Packers Too much green Let's keep the ball rolling Trees, grass, leaves and bushes Are all seen at best in the summer Too much green Looks like it will never end "Green Eggs and Ham" Greenday and "Greensleeves" Even that gross song about "Great Green Globs of Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts" And let us not forget the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes" Too much green Let's not try to go overboard Skittles, M&M's and jelly beans too But not the green Jelly Belly jelly beans For those are the ones I despise most Too much green Let's not forget money Which most college students can only dream of Too much green I think we get the idea That there is just Too much green In this world we live in

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 59 by the Fioretti students of the 2000-2001 school year. Rainbow, shooting stars and small dreams Make you think there is more to reality than what it seems A white unicorn or a four leave clover to pick Make the days go by faster with each "tick" A wishing well full of happy prayers Helps you take the next set of stairs A happy child full of make belief can be more wise than a wise man, a teacher, and me

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 56 by the Fioretti students of Spring 1998. By indifference and a little preparedness, you too, could begin again. Stealing your place, from the bigger animals. Baring your teeth, and pushing others, out of your way. Maybe if your fur, didn't shine too much, you could eat alone. And put as much sugar, in your coffee, as you want.

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 50, Number 2 by the 1991-1992 Fioretti students. In an opposition of some kind. That's where poetry can happen. Between slime and sublimity, between a howl and a hosanna. A poem may be two armies met upon a bridge. Competing for anothr breath, one side is marked for death. Or two dancers waltzing round a ballroom floor. His mightier muscles and her finer feet cooperate. I'm trying, Reader, to survive your liveliest artillery. You try remembering one leads and one must follow.

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 45, Number 1 by the 1986-1987 Fioretti students. Once so near And now so far How much time has lapsed Since the partings of the hearts? Sometimes icy-cold Sometimes fiery-hot Is this what our love Is all about? Truth and lies... How do you tell the difference When no one will open up? Why does feat do this to us? Hot and cold, Near and far, Honesty and games, Is there any compromise? You are the one that holds The answer

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 36 (no number) by the 1977-1978 Fioretti students. This particular picture was taken from the handwritten and handbound rough copy. A                               L O                               N                               E inacrowdedroom room full of people, persons, objects, things Everyone talking Everyone talking Everyone talking at once yet no one talking to me Not a foreign language, do they speak? But it well might be I am here who would ever know?

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 32, Number 2 by the 1971-1972 Fioretti students. i needed those words for awhile for nothing more than a rested mind but now even words seem corrupt you don't have to SAY i love you the mind and body can relay the message with true understanding not a voice for false reassurance once i was going to write a book called "how to blow your mind without loosing it" but for some reason i didn't do it i don't suppose it would have sold anyway

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 29, Number 1 by the 1970-1971 Fioretti students.

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in 2018 in the second series of The Fioretti's publications. Michael— No, no... Tears cascade Falling, Falling Moistens the ground drowning, drowning Untitled, nameless This poem is Untitled, nameless This child is Untitled, nameless This child is... is The mother lies in pain silence Her child lies covered silence A moment of joy is silence The lush grass is dotted with stone The stone, grey & cold is dotted with rain A brother, a body, a corpse is Untitled...

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 51, Number 1 by the 1992-1993 Fioretti students. 'Tis a bleak night for my soul. I fear that my heart pumps pitch and bile. While any wholesome though becomes Inexorably lost in the labyrinth of my head. I am lost without my father like a five summers lad in the woods. Yet it seems that the beastliness of the forest has found sanctuary in these hallowed halls and sleeps with the hunter's wife. Zooks! Why do I have to be whole? If a heart did not fill my chest, Hamlet's passing would here and gone, and the shrouds could rid the land of this murderous king and adulterous wife, and fear not the wrath of God. Alas, the news is worse than before. The guards have noticed a ghost on the walls, not speaking but asking all the same. Some say that it has the likeness of the King. I go to see and bring my strength in youth, If it be my father, I'll get the truth.

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in Volume 31, which was put forward by the 1972 - 1973 Fioretti students. here am I alone the solitude of a single companion sharing my solitude warms me is the only shield I need in battling the world is the filter through which I see the goodness of the world makes me smile

This piece was taken from the archives of the Mother Theresa Hackelmeier Library on Marian University's main campus. It was originally published in 2018 in the second series of The Fioretti's publications.