2018
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FALL CONTEST WINNERS
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FALL CONTEST WINNERS
(PROSE) BEST IN SHOW Jack Ellmer
Saguache Crosswinds
Between-bluff winds blow my bicycle windsail atop my car. San Luis Valley knows my trajectory – pressure-bound, headache-headed – and it wants to save me. In a few miles will be County Road G, and the Saguache crosswinds will shift easterly. They’ll try to send me to the iglesia of the virgin of Guadalupe by way of La Garita and Penitente. My soul must be in need of saving.
M M M
Instead I push ahead, there is no shortage of temptation along 285. Between Del Norte and South Fork, the ever-stationary freight train whispers my name. In my years of driving by I’ve learned it never moves. But each year, my dreams of hopping aboard bubble closer to the surface. I dream of sitting in the gap between grainers and watching the grass and brush subside as summer slips away. One day I’ll hop my stationary train, and without moving, it’ll take me through the year in San Luis Valley, it’ll take me right where I need to be. As I ascend Wolf Creek my train disappears in the valley grasses. Crumbs of rocks dot the highway as if the road is walked at night by a large, hungry being that chews on the cliff-faces. Each time I pass over, the road feels wider and there are more dead trees lining it. Green to gray. Rock-crumbs, dead trees, skiruns – things I don’t see when I walk up to 10,000 feet instead of drive. The descent does not bring with it a revival of life but instead a further defiance of nature: Pagosa, the saddest springs of them all. One of the most special of human skills is capturing something natural and free that can be enjoyed by everybody and charging a fee and making it less beautiful so that fewer people can have less of a good time. Or maybe I’m just salty because I’m rounding the umpteenth curve of highway 160, there’s another Texan diving 40, and Durango is another 20 miles. Transitions can be a bitch. But watching the alpenglow on Silver Peak from my back porch, I feel more kindly about them.
CROSSWINDS
META META META HONORABLE MENTION Rachel Lee Meta Listen. I can’t think about what to write. And when I can’t think about what I should write about, I decide that it’s always a good indication I should write about writing. You get your thoughts out, let it seep out your fingers onto some clickity-clackity machine that stares blankly back at you. Personally, I like writing on paper. There’s something peaceful about not being stared at by a bright white screen but soft yellow pages of some journal your sister bought you (which while it’s not your favourite style of journal you love it nonetheless because your sister bought it, and she’s cool). There’s also some sort of anxiety with screens, I’ve noticed. Despite the impermanence of typed words, written, hand written with pen, words feel more real. I write in black ink in journals, but it still feels malleable. The black is blank, soft. The untouchable other of typed letters is too distant. I use music to drown out that clickity clackcity tone. It’s too inconstant. I pause for five minutes as I think of another word to push in and I meet this silence of a library. Not silence, a hum of fans or heaters or whatever is on in October. Just sound. But, pens are so fluid. I mean, the ink is fluid. It just goes. I can see my work on my hands when I smudge the ink on the side of my palm and accidentally stab myself with a ballpoint in the middle of Candace’s class. Blue splotches, usually accidents, say I at least did something. What do I get from typing? Anxiety and finality. Erasure. Erasing is in it too. I hit backspace, I just did. I was about to write “I can delete words” or something like that but I decided that “I hit backspace” works better. But I can scribble notes on paper, cross out and pull in ideas. But they’re still there. Backspace makes it gone. Permanence of impermanence. You can only hit undo so many times before it stops you. You forget what you put, what your gut said was right but your mind said “nah” and your fingers always obey. The fingers don’t have minds of their own. They just keep going and going and going and… Typed words simply don’t stay. They keep moving. Leaving and coming back until they’re something else.
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(VISUAL ART)
BEST IN SHOW Elizabeth Anglin Preserverance and Resolve Digital Photography
FALL CONTEST WINNERS
HONORABLE MENTION Peyton Weigel Mary Kate of Montana Digital Photography
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FALL CONTEST WINNERS
(POETRY)
mountain /’mount(ə)n/ noun
i. i am told that i look like my mother but i can’t see it. ii. her hands have cracks from working with horses in the arid heat like parched dirt kicked up under hooves. iii. her spine is straight. iv. it broke too many times to count while she held the weight of boulders; she refused to let him crush us. v. she loves the color yellow. vi. we pulled at buttered tulips when we were younger; they were wildflowers from some other land, not meant to grow here; we played “he loves me, he loves me not” with the petals and used the leaves for potions. vii. it’s hard to tell if he loves her. viii. we moved for the first time; mama got a divorce; now she works around the clock; the cracks in her hands turn to ravines. ix. i think i can see tulips sprouting in them. x.. her skin runs deep with the valleys and the mountains i’ve always known; they refuse to be torn asunder by each earthquake xi. how can the plains compare to that?
BEST IN SHOW Rachel Lee
/’mount(e)n/
You think you healed me but you did not. A gentle hand at the whip is still but a punisher. Yet gentleness is salvation compared to those who would be cruel. And we take our lashings in silence As we were taught by those who stole us. Stole us from ourselves. The mighty man the master. And not all have chained us close. Some have let us go. Most permit long leashes, Woven with their lulling love croons. For now we are not just property, But property that must beg to be bought, Or else face the vultures, Who would feast upon our flesh. And as property we shall mortgage ourselves To pay the debts of our owner, In the hopes our earth be tilled, And our ground be softened. But many find themselves bearing fruit they did not ask for. And those who asked are often left to tend the seeds themselves. But I believe in the value of my soul Despite its outward shell. And I believe there are such things as people: Not just masters and their serfs. So I solemnly swear to break these chains with which my mind's been bound, And be thine own true savior, Who lets this peace cry sound.
HONORABLE MENTION Katalene Coulter
MANIFESTO
A Person’s Manifesto
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FALL CONTEST WINNERS
OVERALL WINNER COUNTRY STORE
Katalene Coulter
“You shouldn’t do that.” “Do what?” “Pick at yourself.” “I’m not pick’n I’m itch’n.” “You’re pick’n.” “I’m itch’n.” “Well cut it out. Mom’s not going to be happy if you get blood all over your dress.” “I won’t.” “Then don’t.” “I won’t.” “So quit it.” “I won’t! Diana stop telling me what to do!” “Well mom told me to watch you, so I’m supposed to tell you what to do.” “Well they’re my scabs and I’ll itch ‘em if I want to.” Diana watched as her younger sister went back to scratching her knees. They were sitting on the front steps of a country store, waiting for their parents to be done inside. Lily, about seven, sat with her knees at chest level where she could scratch easily. Diana continued to watch her for a minute. If Lily wanted to do something, she was going to do it. The problem was it was usually Diana’s job to make sure their parents didn’t catch her doing it first. Lily was absorbed. Her face inches away from her right knee where she was delicately scratching at the bloody coagulation, then suddenly sat upright. “Sssss! Ow. Ow. Ow.” “Cut it out!” Diana pulled Lily’s hands away from her knees and said, “They’re never going to heal if you keep doing that! Now you’re bleeding. What did I just say?” “Stooop!” Lily wriggled her hands out of her older sister’s grip and placed them palm down on the porch, leaning her weight into them.
“What are you gonna to do now?” Diana asked, “I don’t have a bandage. And mom’ll know if I go inside to get something to clean it up.”. “It’s not that bad.” Lily offered. The girls watched as a droplet of blood bloomed on the surface of Lily’s knee. The older girl sighed and put her chin in her hands. Lily continued observing the little blood bouquet. It was about the size of a pea, and was a shocking red. She waited until it started to clot, turning dark, and thick. Leaning forward she blew gently, helping to dry the wound. Then, with her thumb, wiped the excess blood away. “See. It grew back.” “Whatever.” Diana said. Her little sister leaned back on her palms, observing the outside around them. She scanned the horizon, then moved onto Diana, who was daydreaming with her cheek in her palm, as she drew circles in the dirt with a stick. Lily’s gaze continued to move, until she turned it down and knocked her knees together a few times like some odd sort of butterfly. “Well I’m going inside. There’s nothing to do out here.” “Okay, well if you get sent back out for touchin’ too many things don’t blame me.” With that the little girl rolled herself around on the steps and scampered up towards the shop entrance. Inside the store was filled with rows of long tables covered in checkerboard blankets; merchandise neatly laid out on top. There was everything from books, to pots and pans, gardening seeds, canning supplies, fancy mugs, even a back wall of self-serve candy. Lily spied her parents examining a meat grinder. They hadn’t noticed her come in. Crouching low under the tables, Lily made her way towards the back. Once arrived, she paused to examine her find. The wall was an explosion of color. Rows and rows of jars filled with bright morsels, all different sizes and shapes. She saw they had assorted flavors of hardened taffy straws. She saw lemon drops, candied fruits, sugar coated gummies, mints, chocolate covered whats-its! Lily had definitely found something interesting. She walked up and down the line gazing at them. All of them. But she kept her hands folded behind her back, knowing touching was not allowed. Still, she paraded around on her tip toes staring deep into the wells of the candy jars, ogling their contents. Halfway down the line she saw the lid on the rock candies was askew, and stopped to examine it. Touching was not allowed. But surely she could fix it. After all, it was an eyesore compared to the other neatly placed lids. She took a quick peek at her
parents, who were now examining a large cast iron skillet, and reached up carefully to set the lid straight. Sink! The lid was heavy, and fit snuggly. “Elizabeth Marie Freeman!” Lily’s hands were still placed on either side of the lid as she heard her mother’s harsh voice and quick steps marching over. She took her hands away quickly, but before she could back up, felt the tight grip of her mother’s hand close around her arm, whipping the child into about face. “What have I told you about touching things that don’t belong to you!” Her mother said, jerking Lily’s arm. She could feel her mother’s nails digging into the tender flesh, deeper and deeper as her tone of voice got angrier. “You are not allowed to touch things. Do you understand me! And you are absolutely not having any candy.” “But I was-” Smack! The back of Lily’s head stung, and wisps of hair trailed around her face. “No back talk. Get outside.” Mrs. Freeman released her daughter with such suddenness that the girl stumbled forward, leaving her stunned in the center of the aisle. Her mother had gone, and was already busy tracking down the shop keeper for some ceramic home décor. She gazed over at her father who was giving her a stern look. “Lily.” His tone of voice was warning. Lily walked out of the shop with eyes down and fists balled. When she reached the steps of the porch she sat down silently, huffing as she pulled herself into a ball. She sat with her hands clasped around her ankles and her chin between her knees as she stared at nothing. After a moment, she laid her check against her left leg and began methodically scratching at the think scab adorning her right knee cap.
COUNTRY STORE