Staff Spotlight: Nychelle Schneider

Staff Spotlight: Nychelle Schneider
What do you write?
I write popular fiction, poetry, and analog game design.

Is there an author or artist who has most pro­found­ly influ­enced your work?
Authors who elevate BIPOC voices, such as Pam Pun­za­lan, a ttrpg game devel­op­er and author.

Why did you choose Stonecoast for your MFA?
Stonecoast helps me hone my skills in the writing spaces I find myself.

What is your favorite Stonecoast memory?
Monthly zoom calls with my cohorts. We discuss methods, curate reading lists and resources, and laugh togeth­er as we play games.

What do you hope to accom­plish in the future?
I will con­tin­ue to advo­cate for those with dis­abil­i­ties and BIPOC, to let our voices be heard in every field and valued as equal stake­hold­ers in endeav­ors. If I can do that with my writing? Well, here I am. 

If you could have written one book, story, or poem that already exists, which would you choose?
The story of sdukʷal­bixʷ čəɫ, my people, and our re-recog­ni­tion. Many do not know the true history of Indige­nous peoples and the strug­gles we con­tin­ue to fight daily. Our re-recog­ni­tion was a mon­u­men­tal step towards acknowl­edg­ment and reconciliation.

 

Prayer of Silence 

By Nychelle Schneider

Pure, deaf­en­ing silence.

A journey comes to an end, no foot­prints walking forward. No hands to guide smaller hands as they explore—to hold during the soft and tough times.

A voice. Silenced. An oral witness to history now stands within the trees. Rooted in our mem­o­ries, yet dying in time.

I will remem­ber you, the one who slum­bers with our ances­tors. As I walk among the silent trees I am shaded by your legacy–your branch­es are many. My feet are guided by your roots. Those roots which broke moun­tains into pebbles so those after you may journey easier. To make my path softer atop the rushes.

Grains of pollen chris­ten my brow as I walk beneath your shadow—like whis­pers of men­tor­ship to help carry my burdens as I walk alone. Yet, I still find tender sun­light caress­ing other saplings under your care. Though you slumber, you still protect our people through the storms of life.

The scent of you comes on the wind, like a fleet­ing memory of a moment long ago. A silent reminder pep­pered with emotion and drowned in tears. Your laugh­ter and songs lost, scat­tered over the ground in bitter sorrow of the silence that replaced them. No longer does that voice carry any­thing but silence.

Silence burdens me. Walks with me.

Many do not hear it, some choose to ignore it, yet I find that silence com­forts me. For it is heard. I can hear all of you, among the trees… for you are the forest. I hear your timbre, the wind in your branch­es, the lark nesting in your bark. You have returned to me, to nature, to watch over us as we carry on that silence you held your entire life.

The silence of those who came before us. Our ances­tors, our guides, our trees—our earth. I hear you. I will give voice to your silence so you may rest.

Our journey is renewed in those you nur­tured, For life is ever-evolv­ing and growing. Here I stand among the forest of my brethren, my family, my ancestors.

Hear our song.



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