Stephanie deLusé is an un-by-the-book by the book person—she appreciates borders, but will risk them to take creativity into unexpected places. A social psychologist, her writing explores navigating the tensions between the influences that exist in and around us. She has work in literary journals such as The MacGuffin and Emrys, and in academic journals including Family Court Review, Issues in Integrative Studies , and Family Processes . On the smart but popular side, she has essays in books of this ilk: The Psychology of Survivor, The Psychology of Joss Whedon , and The Psychology of Superheroes. Her first book, Arizona State University , is forthcoming (Arcadia, 2012). By day, she professes in Barrett, the Honors College at Arizona State University. Her teaching has won her several awards, including “Last Lecture”, and her writing has earned a Pushcart Prize nomination. In life, she finds things to be over-rated, preferring time with loved ones, plants, and non-human animals.

Two Essays (July 20, 2011. Issue 29.)

Lessons in Sharing

Three children drawing in the brother's bedroom. A tumble of colored pens and pencils, sheets and scraps of papers strewn as the siblings share their quiet pursuit. Stephanie wants the pen Jeff is using—she must have that color. Jeff declines.

Stephanie stomps off to tattle to a father dreary from the pain and drugs of another surgery. Daddy pulls and pushes himself up to labor on crutches to the scene of the crime. Desperate, annoyed—he would deal with the sharing issue once and for all.

"Jeff, hold out your hands," he said as he took off his belt. Patty and Stephanie watch in stunned silence as he beats the back of Jeff's hands bloody with the buckle. "Give your sister the pencil," came the growl as he left the girls to deal with their brother's injury.

Lightning bolt lessons crash into Stephanie's brain, scarring the landscape, as three sets of tears mix with the water that washed Jeff's wounds. Blood red, flesh tone, black, blue. Any color will do. Never ask for anything. Never tell. Beware of animals in pain.

Natural Forces

Small and gentle, soft with sharp moments, meaningful mews and motorboat purrs. A seven-year-old girl, I play with my kitten in the front yard on a sun-drenched summer morning.

Playful and squirmy, beloved kitty darts far and fast in pursuit of imaginary prey.

Growling, barking, screeching, snarling. Only a moment late in chase—stopped by the neighbor's wrought iron gate, I am forced to watch.

Pawing, shredding, clamping, tearing. Two Dalmatians—black spots on white, a violent whirl of instinct and energy, dismantle and devour.

Eyes flashflood, throat tsunamis, my body avalanches—the rest of the summer the sun is dark, my soul eclipsed.