The Motley

Spring 2018

Hello Readers,

First of all, I would like to thank you for coming to read this year's edition of The Motley. Putting this together has been quite the experience. Some technical difficulties and the impossibility of contacting anyone at Google nearly defeated my dreams this semester. Nevertheless, with a little persistence and a lot of help from Dr. Piafsky, The Motley lives on for another year.

This edition has a healthy mix of poetry and short stories. In all honesty, I'm partial to the stories (largely due to my aversion to writing poetry myself), but the poems submitted by the talented writers on this campus are some of the most enjoyable I've ever read. They cover everything from powerful statements about social justice to heartfelt odes to friendship to deep and moving spiritual pieces. The stories range even wider in genre, from tales of family to dystopian futures to outright horror. Really, this edition has something for everybody.

I think The Motley, this edition and in general, is a great representation of the variety of people we have here on the Hill. The school puts forth a fairly singular message (as they should, it's good branding), but this kind of publication allows not only us as students, but anyone that may come here to read this, that there is a lot going on here at our small school. We have people from all different backgrounds all telling different stories, which I think thwarts expectations of Spring Hill in a great way.

I would like to thank everyone that submitted their work. Truly, I was impressed by all of it. Of course, I also have to thank Dr. Piafsky for bestowing me with this opportunity, it wasn't something I expected, and I am so grateful for it.

Happy reading,

Riley Navarre

Found Dead in Utah

For Joe Hill and Joan Baez

It was Joe Hill, who never died,
Shot by firing squad for leading strikes.
A man without money, land, or claim
He led us against the Starvation Army brigade.
Songs to the tune of a hymnal prayer
About union scabs and preacher’s long hair.


When I was a fresh eight years old, I bought a leather notebook from Georgia gift shop with money I had saved from my birthday a month prior. I had bought the notebook for a few reasons. The first reason was that I had a newfound dream of becoming a writer, telling stories and writing them down in my beautiful, new notebook. The second reason was that it was the most beautiful notebook I’d ever seen.

“You want to smoke? Tonight?” asked Quinn surprisingly.

I stood there and shrugged my shoulders, “Yeah,” I said as if the answer was obvious, “Why not?”

“Isn’t there some big tournament going on tomorrow morning? Don’t you have to be here early?” she said.


She loved the night, my mother.

Just boarded.

My phone swooshed as the text went through to my sister.

Great! Can’t wait to see you! she responded.

A Mother's Child

She told me I’m a flower

Beauty overlooked by the beholder

She told me not to worry

I’ll understand when I’m much older


She told me to stay strong

The war is not over

She told me wipe my tears


O God, our God, why have You forsaken us?

Why has Your Presence gone from us?

The world lies in wait of hope;

the suffering cry in agony for deliverance;

Jace looks down at his watch. It reads 4:59 PM. Exactly one minute later, the bell tolls. He’s heard this sound so many times that it has begun to haunt his dreams. Work is over for the day. He leaves his assigned desk, uses his Community keycard to clock out, and begins his walk towards the Community eating hall. He looks down at his feet as he walks, somewhat surprised that they haven’t worn a fissure into the concrete.

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