Brushfire Issue #64 V.1 by UNR Brushfire

Brushfire would like to thank ASUN, Amy Koeckes, Katie O’Neill, and our editorial board for all of their help, advice, and support. Editorial Board: Angela Spires, Geoffery McFarland, Amy Koeckes, Estefania Cervantes, Katie O’Neill, Caitlin Thomas, Ryan DeLaureal, Shay Taylor, Jonathan Cartagena Published by the Associated Students of the University of Nevada, Reno Copyright 2011 Brushfire and the individual contributors. All rights reserved by the respective authors and artists. Original work is used with expressed permission of the artists. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. The opinions expressed in this publication and its associated website are not necessarily those of the University of Nevada, Reno or the student body.

Front cover design by Kelly Peyton, “Beneath the Surface” Acryllic Paint Inside cover design by Geoff Roseborough Book Layout by Hannah Behmaram Printed by Allegra Print & Imaging Editor: Hannah Behmaram Assistand Art Editor: Jonathan Cartagena Design Manager: Geoff Roseborough Webmaster: Andrew Warren Intern: Shay Taylor Volunteer: Ryan DeLaureal

Table of Contents Literature 9 12 20 30 39 48 55 59 60 71 82 86

Alexander Steffanus Angela Spires Ryan DeLaureal Nikki Raffail Madison Jackson Thomas Buqo Victoria Horseman Lea Moser Caitlin Thomas Will Richeson Mary Nork Megan Padilla

The Lone Tree Flight Plan Essay #09486203463 Fiending Adrift 70 East Seventh Street, Apt 491 Nightengale A Prayer for the Wild Tallulah, Part 2 Dead Ends On the Way to Market Things You Think About on Prozac

Poetry 10 Geoffery McFarland 23 Jeff Opfer 24 Emilee Guido 28 Carolyn LaBuda 33 Aaron Benedetti 36 Renelle Piero 42 Michael Blane 44 Geoffery McFarland 47 Geoffery McFarland 52 Eleni Sexton 56 Renelle Piero 64 Rachelanne Williams 68 S.M. McLean 75 Michael Williams 80 Geoffery McFarland 85 Emilee Guido 93 Katja Lektorich

An Apology for those Rhymes Grandpa’s Kung-fu My Thighs Must Always Be Touching Dear Love, Love, Me Alejandra’s Visit, July 1996 The Architect A Flute Player, a Harp Player Muse I Was Sixteen When My First Calf Died Outside His Office Hours Jars of Change January Locket Spring Addendum From the Unholy Masses What Burns Away, What Stays Rich, Sweet Smoke These Things Fell in a Single Afternoon

57 66-7 74 81 84 88-9 90-1 92

Renelle Spansail Brian Kreuger Kaitlin Bryson Jason Ricketts Brian Kreuger Christopher Stehman Pan Kaitlin Bryson

Silver and Cod Make Time for Tom 3 Il Futuro Hunter Stitched Face Bloop Series See Phyllis and her Peas Series Twoofus

Photography 4-5 Michaeal Gjurich 8 Devan Underwood 11 Jonathan Cartegena 17 Kristen Cupp 18-9 Sebastian Diaz 29 Kristen Cupp 32 Caitlin Cosens 34-5 Kristen Cupp 37 Devan Underwood 43 Kristen Cupp 44-5 David Tilley 46 Erin Parsons 51 Jonathan Cartegena 53 Devan Undrewood 54 Kristen Cupp 58 Garrett Rotner 61 Lea Moser 62 Michael Gjurich Karlee Kost 63 Garrett Rottner Shay Taylor 67 Caitlin Cosens 68 Estefania Cervantes 76-7 Geoff Roseborough 78-9 Geoff Roseborough

Icycle VI Touch the Sky Dreading Life Stray Alone Liberation Halcyon Joy Ride Burning Bridges Illumination Autumn Sky Bovine The Tree of Shoes Lightsaber Strung Bristlecone Pine, Owens Valley Petroglyphs Rainbow in Reno Conversations The Boy Who Couldn’t Be One Zack Miethe Wall Ride Caution Child at Play New Beginnings On Burningman Temple 2011-1 Bruningman Temple 2011-2

Visiual Art 4-5 22 27 38

Kelly Peyton Jenessa Warren Jenessa Warren Kelly Peyton

Orgasm Saugus Cafe Giraffe Studies Chaos in My Head Theory

Orgasm by Kelly Peyton, Painting

Icycle VI by Michael Gjurich, digital photograph

Editor’s Note: It’s Summer 2010, Freshman orientation, and Im having the most mundane of times when I’m escorted into an ASUN conference room. I sit dejectedly in one of the swivel chairs, feeling entirely out of place, when I look down and there it is: Brushfire. I tenderly leaf through its pages, divulging in its poetry and surveying its photography wide-eyed, and realize that suddenly I’ve become excited to be part of not only this campus, but this beautiful and intriguing publication. I never would have believed in that moment that I would be lucky enough to be involved in, let alone the editor of, this journal I love so dearly in just a year’s time. I firmly believe that Brushfire is a significant medium between the academic and artistic values of our University, and it exists as a kind of safe haven for those who seek recognition for their sometimes unusual but always impressive pieces of selfexpression. Despite the hours of hair pulling, swearing, and overall frustration, this edition now holds a part of me, and I hope you find the same sense of home in it as I do. Enjoy!

-Hannah Behmaram

The Lone Tree By Alexander Steffanus In a field of browning grass, a lone tree springs forth, standing in the likeness of a bolt of lightning. The curious tree looms over the only spot of shade in these lands, deserted as they are. The whole land is watched over by this tree, for if size is the first determining factor in dominance then surely the tree has the advantage. True enough, this tree sees everything. Its whole world is the neighboring grass, the small bushes here and there, and an occasional tribe of prairie dogs and gophers. In a flat land, the tree stands tallest and mightiest. It lives the longest, and it bends to no higher power than that of its mother, Nature. So there the tree stands, tall and graceful, in the middle of an unchanging landscape. It bothers no one, and it seems to serve no purpose greater than providing shade for even less purposeful rodents and lizards. In a world where everything happens for a reason, this organism has no place. This product of cause and effect over time will no longer ripple through the events of a constantly shifting reality. In short, the tree seems useless. Pointless. So many creatures of reason have justified their existence by contentedly believing that they will make a difference in the world. Other, less considerate beings need no justification because the concepts of fun and thrill are enough to satisfy their existence. The hedonists, existentialists, and the idealists have found a place in the world. Where does that leave the tree? It has no aspirations, it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have good wood for construction, and it bears no fruit. There are no fellow trees to provide it with company. Yet the tree has made a ripple. On a small drive through the desert, a man looked out of the side window of his car in passing. He was simply taking a glance at the scenery. For the smallest of moments, the man saw this tree. He admired it, and began to write. He was inspired by the beauty of it, and felt compelled to ornament the tree with words. The tree would never know, for such news would never reach its flat kingdom. It would never know how moved the man was who briefly caught sight of the lone tree.

Touch the Sky by Devan Underwood, photograph

An Apology for Those Rhymes By Geoffery McFarland

Life b

y Jonathan Cartagena, photograph

ng eadi Dr

What I wanted— was words to lock, Lincoln logs, Lego Pieces let lines find their niches. I wanted scaffolding to hold things—back nothing slack. I wanted to dovetail words, strut rails that I heard. I wanted angles to those sounds. I wanted— rectangles to sound round.

Flight Plan By Angela Spires

As he lifted up the sliding plastic window shade on the airplane window to let the light of the gray sky bleed into the seats, Jared shivered. He knew exactly what Janette would be thinking when she heard the news of the crash, and later, of his death. She would not be worried at first, because his gift provided him an unfair vantage in life—which he rarely misused, or could misuse. She would not think about that fact—only that, surely, he would be safe. The water below had formed ice caps on top of the rivers or ponds, and specks of brown plants, trying to cling to the icy life they were given, were interspersed between them. He wrapped his wool coat tighter around himself, as if he could feel the cold and that tiny movement could keep him warm and safe. The plane was in descent. It had had a stopover in Salt Lake before heading to Baltimore, and he had thought about de-boarding. Janette would assume he would have; she would later wonder why he didn’t, even so far as to wonder if it was her fault. That was the one thing for which he felt the most guilt for. But this decision had nothing to do with her. He had had a second vision. He had never had two visions of the same event before. He inhaled deeply and sat back down in his seat. The plane cut sharply to the left, and the icy water below became more apparent. Larger, swallowing up the entire view from the small window. In his head, Jared remembered the flight attendants spiel about what to do in the event of an emergency water landing. He wished it was as simple as they had made it sound. But it never was. * * * Jared recalled, as a boy, seeing his golden retriever Trevor run out into the road after a ball and be hit by a large red truck with a blue Cowboys flag in the back window. Trevor lay in the road bleeding and unmoving. But when Jared moved toward the road, the dog was right beside him in his yard, with a ball in his mouth. Jared held tight to Trevor, but would not throw the ball even though Trevor kept dropping it at his feet. Then the large red truck barreled down the road, with the same Cowboys flag in the window. Jared knew then, though he thought it impossible. He knew then. Jared pulled tighter on his seat belt and clinched his fist to the arm rests. The plane hit a burst of turbulence, but nothing to worry the other passengers. He stared across the aisle at the little girl adjacent to him. She was maybe a year old, standing on her mother’s lap, grinning her slobbery grin. Her hair was pinned back with a purple butterfly clip that was now twisted sideways in her tiny blond strands of hair. She looked over at him and smiled. He smiled too.

Janette was going to be furious, but eventually she would understand. He had seen their first date in his mind the second he met her, and in it she was laughing and looked so happy. They were at an Italian restaurant, eating spaghetti and ravioli and sipping red wine. He told a joke; she laughed and gently touched his hand across the table. That was the only thing that had given him courage to ask her out. She was the only one who knew of his gift. He saw his father’s first heart attack and made his father start an aspirin regimen, but it didn’t stop the second one, in which Jared was helpless to do anything as the EMT operators tried to resuscitate his father. Jared had been a worthless bystander in something he did not know how to prevent. A clank of metal echoed through the plane. Jared had already heard this sound once in his head. He was listening for it, waiting for it. It was followed by a jarring shift in the plane’s direction. The flight attendants rushed to their seats or to radio the cockpit. Then came the announcement. His gift had not come in handy with his mother, either. Though he stopped her from being in a car accident which had saved her life that day, she was diagnosed with cancer a year later. Maybe the car crash would have been more merciful. Jared often wondered whether his was even a gift at all. He usually only saw death—the deaths of those close to him, in relation, or proximity. He would see visions of death of people he had never met, not even know where they were or how he could help them. On the rare occasion he could help, it never worked out. The images haunted him most nights, and had caused his move to the country—a tiny town called Unionville, which Janette hated, but understood. Maybe now she could move back to the Charlotte, the city she loved. Maybe even find someone new. Though that saddened Jared more than he wanted to admit, because he truly wanted her to be happy, but to be with her as well. But that decision had already been made. The aircraft was close to water and patches of land, but the rapid descent made water the primary target. Jared could feel the plane slowing down, though he had no idea how planes slowed down. He only knew that soon it would crash into to icy water below. Everyone buckled up, tucked tightly into their seats. The little girl was now gripped in her mother’s arms, but was still smiling and happy and wanting her freedom from the constraints around her. Her mother pushed her further into the floor, holding her as tight as she could, creating a human shield around her. What Jared did know from his vision was that the plane would make a safe water landing, and that the plane would actually float for a small amount of time. However, chaos was never that patient. The landing caused several overhead bins to pop open and luggage came flying out at random aisles, hitting people mostly in the back and head. Jared was on the watch for these items as they slammed around from seat to passenger to floor. Since he was in the window seat, he avoided any major collisions, but passengers were already bleeding, screaming, and even

crying from fear. When the plane finally stopped, a moment engulfed the passengers so serene that the entire incident almost felt like a dream. People were motionless, like they were in awe that they were still alive, stunned into silence over the pain of the injuries. Then the quiet broke. The flight attendants started emergency procedures, instructing everyone about the life vests under their seats before the doors equipped with life rafts were to be opened. They try to manage orderly fashion as people slammed their heads against one another, frantically grabbing for the life vests under the seat, which were bulkier than Jared had imagined when he saw them in his mind. Jared had not once won a game of roulette. Not even once. The odds of that were against him. Everyone wins on occasion. He had never won the lottery or keno, or foreseen anything that would improve his financial status. He led a marketing team, mostly via video conference, keeping him in the country as often as possible. Though he did have to drive into the city for occasional meetings, and attend seminars such as the ones he was traveling to now. He had never prevented a death of a stranger because he had trouble finding them or knowing what to do. Some days were quiet and it seemed to Jared that those were his happiest. He could never win at a game of chance or money, but he could have a city day free of death, full of people just living, not realizing how wonderful that was. The visionless days were worth more to him than winning all the money in the world. Janette was in both of the visions he had seen that didn’t have to do with death. That is why he loved her immediately. That first vision of her laugh. The simple touch of her hand on his. That was why he never treated her wrong. That was why he tried to give her the things he knew she wanted in life, and why he felt bad about moving to the country. He let her manage all his money. He bought her gifts. He listened when she talked, and she told him how she loved how much he listened to her and really understood her. Then when he told her his secret, she told him that she understood that he was special, and why it perplexed him so. And she loved him back and kept his secret close to her heart. The flight attendants were working on opening the exit doors to get to the rafts deployed. The airplane did not appear to be sinking, but because of damage to the lower compartment, Jared knew it would soon. People were screaming, throwing on life vests and deploying them, making movement hard and people more smashed in like paperclips in a metal tray. Attendants were yelling at the passengers to not deploy until after they exited the plane, but many did not listen. Passengers wanted to take their belongings, though they were told to leave them behind. Jared’s briefcase was still pushed under the seat in front of him. He did not bother to touch it. He put on his life jacket, but did not inflate it. Regardless of the efforts of the flight attendants and the co-pilot, who had left the cockpit, there was a rush of people to the front of the

plane. The rafts were ready on the icy waters, the flight attendants calling to the passengers. Help was on the way. The woman with the child was dazed with a head wound. Blood that had been pouring down her face was almost dried. She was partially obscured by other passengers who were shoving their way toward the exit. The little girl had slipped from her grasp and slid up under the seat in front of her, cutting her back, crying and trying to get back to her mother. Jared pushed through the passengers to the small child. He pulled the little girl up off of the floor. He patted her head and told her that her mommy would be okay. He secured his vest on the small child first, and pulled the other vest from under the seat and placed it on her mother, who thanked him, swaying as she tried to stand up and retake hold of her child. He reassured her that it was going to be fine, and told her to be patient and let the chaos settle. A few minutes later, most of the passengers were off board and on the rafts. He helped the woman and child down the aisle, letting the flight attendant know he had no jacket. She frantically searched, but extra vests were not easy to get to and the tail of the plane had begun to sink. He told her he would be fine without one. Luggage, purses, computers, and electronics that were forced to be left behind littered the seats in first class. A woman sat in the first row of the airplane clutched to her bag, refusing to give it up. Inside was a small dog. The attendants refused to let her take the bag onto the raft, because it could potentially puncture it. The woman—Rose, a flight attendant had called her—protested profusely and refused to leave the aircraft without her dog. The attendants told her they would make her leave by force if necessary, but they had to empty the plan and get as far away from it as possibly before it sank. Jared leaned down and whispered into Rose’s ear to unzip the bag so the dog could get out—they were good swimmers—and then to exit the plane. At least the animal would have a chance. Rose, tears running down her face, discretely unzipped the bag and set it in the floor before being helped onto the raft. Jared, the woman, and her child were helped onto the life raft, and the raft was now full, the plane emptied. They pushed off from the plane, moving away as it sank deeper, waiting for emergency rescue to arrive. Jared watched the exit door as a small Pomeranian walked up to it and timidly looked out over the water. The plan sunk lower and lower, until the dog jumped and began swimming toward the life raft. Rose cried out and the passengers turned to watch the efforts of this little dog trying to make it in the ice-cold water. Pieces of brown weeds growing out of what seemed to be nowhere, surrounded the raft. They had ice clinging to them, sparkling in the water, as the waves pushed them up and down. Jared was pretty sure this was the Patapsco River or possibly the Chesapeake Bay. The winter had been harsh, and the frozen pieces in the middle of the lake or river were more proof that the water would be colder than usual. The plane began sinking further and faster into the water. The rest of the passengers curled into their coats for warmth, huddling together, teeth already chattering. At the back of the raft one passenger yelled at another to stop touching his wife and sounds of annoyance of his attitude in their situation. The attendants tried to diffuse it. But the

man stood up and shoved the other man despite the attempts to subdue the situation. Rose was at the other end reaching for her puppy that had almost made it to the raft, while another flight attendant was telling her that there was no way that the dog was allowed onboard, followed by an uproar of passengers at the front of the raft to let the dog on. Jared could not worry about the dog. He was trying to keep close to the woman who was still woozy, and her child. He tried to block them from the commotion on the raft. But the raft hit a wave and the little girl went overboard. This was not exactly as he had seen. Jared removed his wool coat. The woman was reaching for her child in the water, but unable to get to her. She started to jump in but Jared pushed her back down in her seat. “Trust me,” he told her, and handed her his wool coat. “You’re going to need this.” Then he jumped. Jared was a decent swimmer, but the cold water shocked him to the core. But this was his chance. He ignored the cold as best as he could and thought about the girl. She motivated him to move faster. He reached the girl and helped push her back into the raft. Her mother removed the life vest and wrapped her shivering daughter in the wool coat, clutching the girl to her chest. Before the crew could pull Jared back into the raft, another wave sent him farther from the boat. He could no longer feel his fingers or toes, or even his legs. But he could still float in the icy water, even without the vest. He bobbed along, hoping that this part of his vision would not come true. But as the numbness took over, he gave up on that hope. Hypothermia wasn’t even on his list of ways he didn’t want to die. As morbid as that was, he had a list of his top five: burned, stabbed, eaten by animals, drowned, strangled. He had never even considered this one, or ever had a vision of this kind of death before. Before the numbness took over his mind, he saw Janette. She walked into the living room wearing a red lace teddy—it was Valentine’s Days and he had given her a diamond tennis bracelet he had known she wanted. She had lit candles and turned on some slow jazz. As he closed his eyes and kissed her, he saw Janette with a tiny lump in her abdomen, rubbing it slowly with one hand, holding his hand with her other. They had never talked about having children, and always used protection. She looked so happy as she rubbed that small lump, but something seemed off to Jared. What if a child inherited his gift? What kind of life would that be? What if the vision meant she would lose the baby? He couldn’t take those risks. When he removed his lips from hers, he feigned a horrible headache, and even though disappointed, Janette brought him a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. As he was hoisted out of the water, without any feeling left in his body, his slowing heart beat in time with Janette as she rubbed that small lump that had never come to be, that she would never know he had foreseen.

Stray by Kristen Cupp, photograph

Alone by Sebastian Diaz, photograph

Essay #09486203463 By Ryan DeLaureal This is the beginning of my introductory paragraph. It is within this introductory paragraph that I will state the thesis of the paper I am currently writing, of which this is the introductory paragraph (i.e. the introductory paragraph of this paper). I will be doing this in order to further clarification on the enumeration of certain key points that I will soon find myself in the act of enumerating during the course of my writing of this paper. The language I will be employing for the current act of writing this paper will be of a nature so academic that it necessarily will prove how smart I am as I enumerate many of the points that I will soon find myself in the process of enumerating. Now that we are reaching the end of my introductory paragraph, it will soon follow that there will be stated a thesis to which I am the principle author and enumerator. It is within this sentence that I will be stating my thesis; that is, the sentence that the reader will presently find himself in the act of reading, and whose final words are to be written by my very hand to conclude with a final blot of ink that will form the end of my introductory paragraph, the paragraph which is, namely, this paragraph. It may have come to the attention of many of those who currently find themselves in the act of reading my paper, of which this is the beginning of the first paragraph (a paragraph which also may be referred to as paragraph number one), that what should be referred to as the introductory paragraph of said paper (i.e., this paper) might be considered by some to be of a nature that may stand in somewhat stark contrast to what is generally considered to be the acceptable nature of what may be referred to as the introductory paragraph. In defense of said paragraph for my own sake and for the sake of the paragraph itself, this is only due to certain observable factors which influenced the eventual outcome of the paragraph in question; namely, an abundance of words leading ultimately to a length which is somewhat beyond accepted academic guidelines as to what is considered the appropriate length of what may be referred to for the sake of this discussion as the introductory paragraph. It should readily be observed that this fact, that is, the lengthliness of the introductory paragraph in question, may be attributed to the abundance of enumerations of which it was necessary to employ for reasons which will become more readily discernible in proceeding passages of this essay, namely, the essay that is currently being written.

ily express my deepest sympathy to you, the reader, seeing as it was never really my intention to do you any physical harm but only to successfully enumerate all those enumerations which were burning in the very bottom of my soul. It will be of great benefit to you to consider carefully all the enumerations which I have successfully enumerated for the sake of this paper, for upon your entry to the great purgatory known as the corporate bureaucracy you will find that a great percentage of your job will consist of the enumeration of various papers and memoranda in the fashion which I have successfully highlighted in the writing of this paper. I hope you will discover the corporate bureaucracy to your liking, for the man and/or woman who successfully navigates the corporate bureaucracy may one day find him or herself in the position of CEO, where he or she will be able to feign the appearance of action and importance while playing solitaire on his/her computer and fondling his/her secretaryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tits. You may be surprised by now that I am still writing my paper, having successfully concluded all the enumerations which it was the purpose of this essay to highlight, and I must say that I would like to take this time to thoroughly congratulate myself on this effort which, by all standards both rigorous and academic, was a great toil undergone in the name of knowledge and justice and piety and virtue. Amen.

As it is about the time which may be referred to as the time when one reaches the end of this essay, a fact caused by beginning of this current paragraph, which is the third in a series of paragraphs which form the body of this essay, and which contain all enumerations therein, it may be necessary to further investigate the nature of those enumerations of which it is the purpose of this essay to enumerate. If by this time you still find yourself occupied by the act of reading my paper then I must necessar-

Grandpa’s Kung-fu By Jeff Opfer “Where ya want it? In the face or in the balls?” he asked me from a drunken crouch, one hand dropped low, the other held high, like two kung-fu claws. His eyes blazed with maniacal fire, Loki peering out from inside the skull-house of my Grandfather, his smirk-sneer drooping on one side-the fleshy reminder of a stroke and a lifetime of alcoholic bouts. He told no one when tumors infiltrated his body. He told no one when they bred and spread through his lungs and brain, carried on rivers of blood. He told no one. Then there was no need to. My kids can’t know him, so they just laugh when I menace them now, crouching low and growling through hidden tears, “Where ya want it? In the face or in the balls?”

Saugus Cafe by Jenessa Warren, digital

My Thighs Must Always Be Touching By Emilee Guido My thighs are best friends. So close, in fact, that they must be touching at all times. Ever since infancy, they have been nearly inseparable. Back then, of course, I had an excuse: then, I had thick rings of baby fat. They became fast friends, bonding over nonna’s chocolate mint cookies, Auntie JoAnnie’s beef tenderloin and garlic potatoes, Aunt Sally’s lime jello pie, the buttercream frosting on the birthday cakes that Aunt Pat would make for me, the homemade three cheese raviolis that are my Aunt May’s specialty, the honey and wheat pancakes I would eat every Sunday morning with my dad. They were mildly concerned

during my pubescent growth spurt – would sheer length create a space in between? Their worries proved to be unnecessary. There have been times in recent history that I have threatened to separate them. “That’s it! Enough chafing!” and I would proceed to torture them with a jog around the neighborhood or a salad for dinner instead of dad’s rigatoni with ground chicken in a basil marinara sauce from scratch complete with homemade garlic bread. “Oh, yeah?” They’d challenge, jiggling in protest as I wheezed and groaned up the StairMaster. “Try it. We’ll merely marshal fat from your ass, which, as you know, is a perpetuating source of cellulite.” I tried to ignore them as I tried on size 5 jeans –

to no avail. “You can’t stop our love!” They’d cry, springing back together when the jeans came off, snuggling in close. We have our differences of opinion, our fights, our compromises. They’ve agreed not to jiggle so much, but they’re refused to surrender so much as a centimeter. I understand, in a way. And, truth be told, daddy’s pasta is worth it. But that doesn’t stop me from sneaking onto the elliptical when they least expect it.

Giraffe Studies by Jenessa Warren, painting

Dear Love, Love, Me By Carolyn LaBuda The window bakes the sun in a celedon glaze Of dust and dried rain over old glass. The hills are horses—Tang Dynasty. They wear saddles of long grass, and they Let white manes of buildings fall across the landscape. Sometimes I wish you were here with me, But something tells me you wouldn’t see The horses under the porcelain sun. Alone, I can whisper, “The air is so thick here; “It trickles like feathers from the sky!” You might grin, or maybe kiss me on the forehead, But you’re not here, so no one hears me. The sunset shines through the glaze of feathery air. I can wander through the streets until the mountains Dip their hooves in the water. The sea Is the yolk of a Faberge egg; It catches the sun like Russian gems. The shell has crumbled and turned to sand. Sometimes I wish you were here with me, But something tells me you wouldn’t see A brilliant egg yolk in the water. I can hum a silky song without any words; No one will ask me, “What song is it?” And no one will tease, bully, tickle, or love me When I answer, “I’m singing the sky.” My voice bakes the sun in a glaze of green-gray notes. Trees are just suns, put in the kiln before they’re dry. The green glaze bursts, exposing the clay. Their limbs reach to the feathery air, Asking it to lift them up into the heavens. Sometimes I wish you were here with me, But something tells me you wouldn’t see The smaller suns that didn’t make it in the trees. I stand with my forehead against the dirty glass, Letting my eyes ride up the mountains. The downy air drips into my mouth, And I taste the salty yolk of a jeweled egg. The window bakes the sunset in a Celedon glaze of my cloudy breath. Sometimes I wish you were here, but you wouldn’t see Me.

Liberation by Kristen Cupp, photograph

Fiending By Nikki Raffail fiend·ing [feend-ing] v. to really crave something, to do something: I’m fiending for her touch.¹ Fiending. (I’m sitting here unusually attracted to the painted stucco on my wall when) I realize that’s all that college really is. If not fiending for marijuana—seriously considering if “maybe it’s not such a bad choice to smoke the stems” would actually be accepted in the society of your neurons—but also fiending for other things. (And maybe I realized this when my sober roommate was scraping resin for me or maybe) I still haven’t even realized how desperate we all are. It’s all want and gain in these years, isn’t it? (And rightfully so.) Because we all wouldn’t even be here if we didn’t want gain. But speaking on a smaller population, I’m talking about gain for other things. And you know what those other things are: food, money, sex, love, education, knowledge. The tripartite system, perhaps, as expressed by Socrates (cue my thank-youspeech for Philosophy 101), in which we all desire the appetitive, the spirited, and the reason. The reason, if you will, being that which governs above everything else. But let’s not drift away too far here (and let’s try not to get distracted by the current unusually high temperature of my feet), and let us thoroughly describe the three above desires in college jargon. • Appetitive: We are starving students, naturally. It is written in our name. Embedded in our moral code. And it is virtually impossible to be starving without an appetite (psychologically, physiologically, psychophysiologically, what have you). Therefore, we’re all so starving. Starving for food, because you’re fresh out of 18¢ Ramen packets; starving for money, because you’re slowly beginning to realize that money is the feeble, filthy, fucked up ground for everything; starving for approval, because you can’t venture into this forest alone. We are starving students. • Spirited: Spirited, spiritual, what have you. Anything that’s beyond our reach, because you can’t touch love or orgasms or God. We fiend for that which we have no perceptual tangibility of, because it makes us feel safe. You wanna know why? Because even though we can’t see or touch the perfections of these things, we also can’t see when these perfections crumble. We can’t touch the rubble that scattered amongst our feet, so we pretend it never did. • Reason: “Knowledge and knowing.” Stop scoffing and guffawing because you’re still young enough to think that you can live a completely fulfilling life without being intelligible in at least two of the four following subjects: literature, mathematics, science, and arts & aesthetics. And I’m not talking completely school-based graded knowledge, either. I’m talking about the complete act of knowing; because that is surely, completely, only the one thing we want and need in life. It governs above the two lower levels; it is the gain that guides all other endeavors to gains. Because we want the knowledge of knowing we’re full (from a delicious bowl of Ramen), we want the knowl-

edge of knowing we can live in this college-side apartment without getting evicted (we want to know we’re financially stable), we want the knowledge of knowing how many people we’ve slept with this semester (and being damn proud of it), we want the knowledge of knowing there’s another hit in the bowl, we want the knowledge of knowing there’s a higher being governing all (or maybe not), and—arguably the most important—we want the knowledge of knowing we’re loved. We want to know people, bands, cool professors, who’s in Coffin & Keys, who fucked who, best beers, what day the rival game is on, which drug dealer has a “crush” on you, what your roommates are thinking, what that perfect human who just sat next to you in class is thinking, what it’s like to hook up with the same gender, whether she or he is single or not, whether he or she is DTF or not, whether the test will be cumulative, how to write in APA style, what the results of the test(s) are, when the next Bassnectar concert is, when your final paper is due, how many calories are in these seven beers, how many parties you can fit into one Halloween weekend, which way would be the best way to get fired, etc., etc. But most of all, I (thoroughly) believe, we just want to get high. High on the green you salvaged, high on his breath in your ear, high on love, high on happiness, high on GPA, “high on life.” So the next time you’re fiending, don’t feel so bad. Don’t feel so pathetic and desperate. And even if you do, grab those feelings, laugh in their faces, (take a shot with them, make out with them,) and then toss them away. Because I can guarantee you that every single person you know has fiended today too. ¹ kashmoney. “Fiending.” Urban Dictionary. 14 Oct. 2005. Web. 30 Sept. 2011. <http://www.urbandictionary.com/define. php?term=fiending>.

Alejandraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Visit, July 1996 By Aaron Benedetti You drank wine, the stuff Vince aged in the barn on his property, wine he served in chipped jam jars. My grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;your great-uncleâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;calls it poco loco vino. Now, I am old enough to drink it. I forget that evening, the corn maze and paella. But I remember your accent, and my grandmother, when she told me your name: Alejandra, me dijo, con acento: Alejandra.

Halcyon by Caitlin Cosens, photograph

Joy Ride by Kristen Cupp, photograph

The Architect By Renelle Piero I found you in the spoken word, with life unknown and stories unheard. Until the generosity subsides atop the waves of the waning tide. I think, I cry, begin to utter, the sound of my heart without a hesitant shudder. Unblinking eyes Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve chosen my diction and call upon the chords with unquestioned conviction. Know if I fail, if I move forward, I swear never to leave my sky castle bordered.

Burning Bridges by Devan Underwood, photograph

Adrift By Madison Jackson

Chaos in My Head Theory by Kelly Peyton, painting

Dear Diary: My house seems to be floating in the ocean. I am not sure how, or why. But it is very odd. Rather than the familiar backyard oak trees, there’s an endless blanket of blue. I can smell salt in the air and taste it on the breeze. Very refreshing. But strange, don’t you think? All I could do at first was scream when I saw the ocean, but now I just wonder why the house and I are here. The house just groans, as it always has. Its a rather old house, and its temperament can’t be improved by being out here in the ocean. Do you suppose it wanted to be out here, though? Maybe it grew legs? I believe I will go explore the house, and see what the damage is. I will update you as soon as I return, diary, granted that I don’t fall into the water. * * * Dear Diary: You know, the house seems to be doing pretty well. We’ve lost all the potted ferns on the porch, and anything else sitting by an open window. The furniture has been rearranged and paintings have fallen off the walls, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. Oh, and the basement is flooded. Not a lot was down there, except old antiques that we didn’t have any room for and a few weight sets that my papa promised himself he would use, and never did. Mother would probably be more upset about the antiques. Or about the house floating in the middle of an unknown ocean. But they’re in the middle of the ocean too, on a cruise in the Caribbean somewhere. I wonder if the house and I are close to the Caribbean. Do you think we’ll run into each other? I can only imagine the look on mother’s face. She’s upset when there’s a trace of dirt anywhere in the house, but just think of what she’d do if she saw it floating in the ocean! She’d faint! It’s a funny thought. This is the first time my parents have trusted me to be alone for so long, you know. They finally decided that I’m old enough to take care of myself and don’t need their supervision. A two week cruise for them, and not even two days into it, the house and I end up in the ocean. I can’t say I’m too pleased with the house, honestly. It must want to go somewhere, but where? In any case, diary, I must find some food. We have some leftover stew and roast beef that should last me for a while. Cans of soup, beans, and veggies. Of course, the canned food will soon run out. Luckily, all of papa’s fishing equipment is in the hallway closet. He always loved to fish. I really wish I’d paid attention when he tried to teach me. * * *

Dear Diary: The house and I just keep floating. There’s nothing but the ocean around us, for miles and miles. There aren’t any other floating houses around us, no debris from the neighborhood. Just the two of us. Were we the only ones uprooted? Fitting, I suppose. The house and I have always been rather alone, but the ocean seems a terrible place to choose to be alone. Maybe it just wanted to see the ocean, though. I can’t say I blame it, if that’s the case. The sky out here is breathtaking at night. I’ve never seen so many stars. Their silver light reflects on the water, and it’s as though I’m afloat in the sky itself. To further admire the sky, I believe I will climb to the roof of the house and stay there for a few hours. I don’t think the house will mind. It seems to be enjoying the serenity. * * * Dear Diary: I’ve set up an old telescope on the roof, and sometimes I spend hours up there, looking through it and sweeping it across the ocean. It makes me feel like a pirate. I like to pretend I’m a pirate. You’re never too old to pretend you’re a pirate, right? Searching for land, or golden treasure. My parents wouldn’t approve, but since they’re not here, I can pretend to be whatever I like. So far, no sight of land or anything else. I’ll keep looking. * * * Dear Diary: Starting to wonder about the house’s mood. It creaks and groans often, as if its joints are aching. Well, house, why would you choose to come to the ocean if you knew you weren’t going to like it? Tried fishing today, but no luck. What will I do when I run out of food? What do I use as bait? * * * Dear Diary: Caught a fish today! A big fish, too! My skinny arms had some trouble wrenching it out of the water, but I can claim victory. Tonight I’m going to use our old firewood and cook it up and eat it! * * * Dear Diary: The fish didn’t taste too terribly great. Thank goodness I had salt. I wish I had more to write, diary. There’s nothing out here but water and sky. There’s no one to talk to but you and the house. I’ve already read all the books we have, and I’ll probably run out of drawing paper soon. What will I draw with, then? What will I do when boredom becomes unbearable? I wish the house would tell me where it was going. I wish it’d swept up another house with it, so I would at least have someone else to speak to. One friend, at least. * * *

Dear Diary: I saw a whale today! I saw it through the window first, the tip of a gray tail. I nearly tripped and fell into the ocean when I hurried to climb onto the roof, to see the whales better. I scoured the ocean with the telescope until I saw the whale again. I saw the side of its massive body, a dark, grayish blue. One large flipper rose out of the water, as if to wave to me, and then disappeared again. Eventually, more whales showed, glimpses of tails and flippers and large, blue bodies. I sat and watched them through the telescope, until they finally dispersed and danced for me no longer. It was breathtaking, diary, watching the whales dance and splash. How I wish I could see them every day. Perhaps this is why the house chose to come out here, to be a witness to miracles. * * * Dear Diary: There’s gray clouds everywhere, like looming beasts. I wish I knew where we were going. * * * Dear Diary: It still hasn’t rained yet, but the house has gone quiet. Do you suppose its mad at me? Why should it be? We’re out here because of it. Or were we swept up? Where are we? Where am I? We’re lost. I’ve always enjoyed my own company, diary, but now I wish I had more conversations to remember. More memories than drawing by myself in the library. Why did * * * Dear Diary: I’m so lucky I managed to find you. The storm finally struck, and I didn’t have time to grab you, to finish writing. I just hid under all my old dresses in the closet, tossed about like a rag doll while the sea grabbed the house and shook it. I expected the house to crumble, to be left with nothing but a plank of wood to cling to. Somehow, though, the house survived. The porch is gone, everything inside is soaked, and we’ve lost a lot of furniture, but we’re alive. Beaten and battered, but alive. I realize now that I can’t be a passive participant in the house. I have to help it figure out where we’re going, what we’re doing. Maybe with a little direction, it will know where to go. I’ll know where to go. Maybe we’ll even find another house to keep us company. I must go to the roof and hunt for land, diary. In the meantime, since I have little else to do, I may pretend I’m a pirate. I’ll let you know what treasures I find.

A Flute Player, a Harp Player By Michael Blane Form from the function. The flute player chases travel, Sentimental, socially sound. The harp player expands inward, Ever excelling, executing. Their shared virtue, determination. Even hope Though neither dares admit its presence. Flute in fingers, the flutist comes And goes. Internally invited. Harp in home, the harpist expands And contracts. Owes obligation. Function from the form.

Illumination by Kristen Cupp, photograph

Autumn Sky by David Tilley, photograph

Muse By Geoffery McFarland They say she’s sweet she’s not she’s shrill the sharp, incessant whine descends Olympus with a vengeance —the bitch sweetly breaks my spine

I Was Sixteen When My First Calf Died By Geoffery McFarland She was my favorite, because she was mine, big-eyed and the only one that year they started spraying the range. The heifers bellowed, refused their charges and the frogs all came out strange. In four more months she’d have outweighed me but with my father I could lift her from our knees, like carrying a couch. She was loose inside her skin like her lacings had pulled out. In the bed of the truck we covered her with burlap weighed down with brick. He didn’t tell me why. He didn’t tell me the crows would come to take away her eyes.

Bovine by Erin Parsons, photograph

70 East Seventh Street, Apt 491 By Thomas Buqo

This wasn’t where I wanted to be.

The elevator was heading up, metal box whirling and crunching, when everything ground to a halt with a screech. I lurched forward leaning into a wall as the floor fell beneath us by about a foot, before caught by the cables and held back up. I glanced at the light above the elevator: floor three. The woman travelling upward was headed to the same floor as me, floor four.

“Fuck,” I said quietly. “What the hell was that?”

“I dunno.” The other woman adjusted her reading glasses, lowering her novel from its seemingly permanent place above her face. “Call button?” “Yeah, I think so.” I pressed the button and said, “Hey, the elevator stopped.” A voice came over the intercom, the crackle of a fast-food drive-thru heavy in the sound. “Yeah, we already have someone coming to look.” Pulling my phone out, I glanced at the time: 6:57. I pressed the button a second time. “About how long do you think it will be?” “You don’t have to push the button every time,” she said. “It rings a bell on our ends, and it’s irritating. Anyways, we’re not really sure, so you should probably get cozy.” “Wonderful.” I stretched out my legs as I slid down to the floor, back against the wall. The woman in the elevator went to do the same, but her belt caught for a moment against the metal rail. Her glasses fell from her face as she tried to make it to the floor gracefully. A bookmark, dark blue plastic with a hand-woven beige tassel slipped to the floor. I pointed to it, saying, “Hey... where did you get that?” “This?” she asked, holding up the bookmark. She took a moment to move her lightly streaked brown hair out of her eyes. “A friend of mine makes them. She knows I read a lot.” The icy hammer of coincidence struck me, a chill moving down through my body making hairs stand on end. “Is her name Elise, by chance? Elise Peterson?”

“Yeah, it is. How the hell did you know that?”

“I’m on my way to visit her, actually. I need to pick up some stuff from her apartment.”

“Small world. I’m headed there, too. How do you know her?”

I cringed, eyes moving downward. “Ex-girlfriend. Long story. Very long story.” “Oh?” One eyebrow raised, a curious smirk moving across her lips. “Would you be Matthew, then? The Matthew?” A sigh escaped my lips as I looked back up at her. “Yeah, I’m Matthew... and most likely the Matthew, as you put it. And you are?”

“Annette. I’ve heard a lot about you, you know?”

“I don’t doubt it.” I looked up at the ceiling again, trying to avoid eye contact. A sense of foreboding lingered above, an ominous silence spread between us, built up slowly like a brick wall. I decided to talk around it. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard good things.” “No,” she said with honesty obvious in her heavy tone. I could almost hear her expression softening. “Not a lot of detail, though. Just knew things weren’t going well. I take it you two broke up, then?” “Yeah. Last night, phone call around six. Not really unexpected, though. Just gonna try to get my stuff and cut my losses.” I looked down, just as she shrugged. Her light blue eyes pierced through the wall, inquisitive and sympathetic all at once. As the seconds passed, her lips formed slow and steady into a sad smile overflowing with pity. “What happened?” “Same shit. People change, life moves on. Sometimes, it moves faster than we do. Mistakes tend to pile up. Forgiveness tends to run out on both ends. Not really anyone’s fault.” She moved her hair out from the front of her glasses again. Pulling out my phone, I glanced at the screen: 7:07. We’d already been here ten minutes. She said softly, voice almost a whisper, “So it goes.” With a clunk, the elevator sprang back to life, moving upward until a short ring resounded, the light behind the number four turning off. We pulled both of ourselves to our feet. I extended a hand to Annette. “It was nice to meet you, Annette. I’m sorry the circumstances aren’t better.”

“Of course,” she said. A pause. “Do you know what her room number is?”

“It’s apartment 491. Do you want to follow me there?”

“No, I think I’ll wait.” We stepped out of the elevator, pausing close in front of the slowly closing metal doors. “I don’t think I want to be there when the two of you talk.” “Probably not. Don’t worry I’ll try to be out in 21 or 22 minutes. Eighteen if I’m lucky.” She titled her head to the side. “That’s oddly specific, Matthew” “Yeah, these things usually are.”

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Outside His Office Hours

By Eleni Sexton

You slid toward me, in confidence, a skinny volume filled with your poems – just published – in a hand-written message you called me “friend” on the cover page. Oh Professor, then you know how I felt the bright hollow between the root of my hips and immortality light up, and how I wanted your lonely scent and masculine beauty to swallow me whole…Instead, for nights after I slept with moss under my pillow – as the old wives’ have suggested – and woke, and walked. Only to find, four years later, that lizard-green warship called desire catch me when I see your message heat the screen: “You out there? I’m looking for you.”

Strung by Kristen Cupp, photograph Nightengale By Victoria Horseman

I have no more songs to give.

Once, when I was a musician, fresh and naïve, I held all the songs in the world. They jingled in my pockets, shiny like fresh stars. Every morning, it seemed, there was a new one waiting for me on my nightstand. For years, this satisfied me, and I treasured the melodies as if they were my very soul- and maybe they were. But those songs grew heavy (like rocks, they were), and I soon tired of guarding them like the dragons of old from a jealous world. The offers had always been there, but I started contemplating them, wondering how much harm could possibly come from selling one measly song. One became two, until finally I had none left. The allure of coins was so tempting, you see, and it offered a stability my songs never had (magic can only get you so far in a world of machinery and money). I still hear them, snippets wafting in the breeze, just barely audible over the latest ad. Buy this pair of shoes, they bellow over those perfect notes. You know you need them. And all the while my music, my music beguiles them into believing the media’s lies. I still glance at my nightstand every so often, in case one has appeared. I tell myself that this time I’d cherish it, keep it close to my chest, if only it’d show up. The songs are gone, sold long ago to soulless corporations (not nearly as soulless as me, a modern Victor Frankenstein).

All I have left is the memory of them.

In time, even that will disappear. I have no more songs to give.

Jars of Change By Renelle Piero She stands rearranged with her jars of change and canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t turn the page though the novel is slain. She attacks the conclusion with entitled intrusion thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s distantly kept as an island illusion. Many inquire- curious, intrigued She grasps herself steady fighting battle fatigue. Now lightly past tension, no chase but progression patient and hoping; enlightenment in session. So long she saved and alone yet she paved the road to the riches, to the people she waved. Did not drop a dime but lost her sublimeamounted to much! But still could not buy time...

Silver and Cold by Renelle Span l, pa ai inting

Garrett Rotner, Photography.

A Prayer for the Wild By Lea Moser

do you remember me?

My name is Oman Chowski. I had the pleasure of meeting you when I was just an undergrad. You spoke to our class about social justice and I let my leg hurt while you spoke because I didn’t want to make a big production of my leg hurting. It’s not gentleman like to make big productions of normal, human things. That I wanted to hear every word you said. I wanted to look you in the eyes.

You probably don’t remember me.

I was a young kid. 20. A pale leftover of European immigration. I didn’t stand out.

Bristlecone Pine

The night before you came to my class, I had been driving around aimlessly with an upset lover, upset with our distribution of affections. The way we talk, the way we don’t. We were at the border of the opposite of love. We drove to the desert, to the side of a road where the lights couldn’t reach. Only the moon as our altar and I could still see the mountain. I have to admit that my girlfriend is no longer sad, because she said, I had this look in my eye. She said, prostrate. We made love on a jacket in the plain of a purple night’s sky. We fell asleep on my notes from your speech that threaded to the opening of my jacket pocket like cob webs. Two AM was when we felt the cold, or saw the lights through our eyelids like jellyfish. They told us to get up and I lied and said we were just leaving. I had hurt my leg clumsily over a sagebrush bush, rushing to grab my girlfriend and my clothes and my clarity. The police officers gave me a statement about my fly, son. And my jacket, son. One cleared his throat, heavy like a dumb horse and scared me. I fell and hit my head and I still had to give them my license and registration and as I reached for those two documents, my notes fell to the sand. They blew away before I could reach down to the grit. I imagined the thin pieces burning like an ember in the sunlight the next day.

What was that, asked the police officer.

It was my notes from a speech I went to today. A Nevada lawyer. An Indian. It was good. Owens Valley Petroglyphs

Probably all bullshit, anyway, the police officer said.

Tallulah, Part 2 By Caitlin Thomas I’ve got hate mail on my eyes. There are no love-letters in October, except in the songs I listen to, I champion. I’m your little flower-girl. Your lover you don’t love. I walked into your bar the other night. You winked. You always fucking wink, like you’ve got something in your eye. Like you know all my secrets, but then again, everyone does. Everyone happens to be wrong. I could be your fire escape. I sat outside, smoking a cigarette on the side of your apartment building and thinking about your exgirlfriends. I waited. I tried. I took all those French classes, and acted interested. Your little flower was blossoming into a woman. Goodbye, nostalgia. All it took was a few words and I was on your bed. You shook me, like you were trying to shake something out of me. “You can’t shake out the past, honey.” I could be your fire escape. But you locked your door and stayed in to have dinner with the flames. You read the scorch like the Sunday Times. I felt burned. But darling, most of all, I felt safe.

Rainbow in Reno by Lea Moser, photograph

Conversations by Michael Gjurich, photograph

The Boy Who Couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Be One by Karlee Kost, photograph

Zack Miethe Wall Ride by Garrett Rottner, photograph

Caution Child at Play by Shay Taylor photograph

JANUARY LOCKET By Rachelanne Williams It began in that golden sun peeking at you whitely, The disappearing burn in the air like cold lung cotton candy, And the slight sea sickness from the waves of words that You read on the bus like a determined idiot. Somehow outside it feels like summer, Like freedom and happy loneliness; So you go inside and crawl into your bed at noon Because that’s just how summer once was. You are half asleep. You realize that it feels like fall. No not like school and responsibility, Instead feel those northern California rains That always drenched you in the pure warmth. But you would not ever care about soaked clothes-Shrinking the child sizes, but they were loose already-Not caring because you knew rain would be here the next day. Raining, the one pleasant unpleasantness that you could count on But then they signed papers and made laws like, “You-haul your ass out!” They didn’t even fight over you, a drenched kid who was grinning up in the tree, But then, neither did the rains. And you always regret moving in the summer because You wish you wish you wish you wish you could have had one last long stand in the fall rain, Cold inside, knowing this is the last but at least taking in all the details you always left for granted-Like noting more than the floral baby powder Great-Grandma smell when you sit by her deathbed; Like kissing more than a boy’s face when you know you have a limited number of last kisses; Like crying more than just for sad things, when you realize tears taste like all emotion; Like playing more of her old songs when you realize you won’t always be in tune; Like laughing more because you value knowing the temporary funny friends; Like singing more than you did before the real singer held her silence; Like remembering more, because that is where you’d rather be; Like remembering more, because that’s all you have of value; Like remembering more, because the clock was slower; Because now it is clear you need to put it in reverse, To slow the internal ticking engine down, down. Because somehow lying in bed, noon, Friday, sunny day in January, a meteorological abomination, Reminds you of coming inside After being pleasantly drenched By the falling fall rain; It is a feeling forgotten, So hold it, close to chest, never letting go, to remember that good memories are not single use, They are not disposable, They are not biodegradable, They are not single serving ,

They are not travel size, But all of this, all of that, all of this, all of that, all of this, Is. So hold that memory close to you, in a locket; Peek at it whenever you need to know, Peek whenever you forget knowing it, That you once enjoyed the feeling of being rained on. Maybe you still do, through it all. But in the present it seems a shame, That you fell asleep in that bed, feeling like fall, Curled in the comforter like it was actually comforting you. Trust that we all forget our dreamsForget to remember the sleep stories.

Make Time for Tom 3 by Brian Kreuger, pen on paper

Spring Addendum By S.M. McLean Dotted streaks blaze down the window chaining charm bracelets of the bursting drops

New

Begin nings

by C

aitlin C

osens, p hotograp h

blooming across the glass in an quiet orchestra of hushed crescendos and whispered laughs whelmed in the brilliant color of their magnified worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gray deepened hues ecstatic as two-day-old eyes soaking up the blossoms and baby green blades of grass never before seen so clear as through Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s prescription lens.

On by Estefania Cervantes, photograph

Dead Ends By Will Richeson

Jared hates it when people tell him they “know how he feels.” They don’t work at the same dead end job. They don’t smoke the same pack and a half a day. They don’t go to sleep cold, after a cold dinner, in a cold one-bedroom apartment. They don’t “know how it feels,” at all. When Jared knew it was over he started to buy. When you’re going to a place where your bankrolls and debt mean nothing, you tend to indulge. But the dark black satin three-piece suit looked old and dead to him. You can’t put a shiny bow on a train wreck, and expect it to look like anything more than exactly what it is. Jared also knew his brand new four-door banana yellow 2005 Jeep Wrangler would just break down and fall apart, like everything else. At least it will get torn up and used for something new and memorable when it expires. He wrote letters with no intention of sending them. Letters addressed to old girlfriends, teachers, landlords, and family members. He even wrote letters to people he didn’t know. The man in the blue convertible who always pulled out of the parking lot at the same time each morning, the noisy couple that lived above him, Stan Lee, and the president of the RJ Reynolds Tobacco Company were among the intended recipients. He put the letters in an old shoebox in his closet. He wondered if they would be discovered, or if they would just be thrown away like the rest of his belongings. But this was all years ago. Jared didn’t know what stopped him from killing himself. He had made all the preparations. Working in a pharmacy definitely has its perks when it comes to suicide. He knew that if he took over 1000 milligrams of zolpidem he could stop his heart. He knew he could speed the process up with an opiate like buprenorphine. He knew that if he took Diazepam before, he wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally inducing a coma, or puking up his second batch of pills. But Jared didn’t kill himself. The letters stayed in the closet, and he slowly started to pay off his debt. He wasn’t any happier, he hadn’t discovered some truth in God, he just kept on living. Jared is twenty-eight years old. He has been working at a Chili’s Grill & Bar ever since he moved to Reno. And every day of the week Jared found himself waiting tables for the slobbering masses. He moved to Reno four years ago, in a desperate attempt to start over. He thought a new town would help. After the break-up he couldn’t go anywhere in Oklahoma without seeing her, hearing her. She followed him everywhere. Jared wanted to go to a place where no one knew his name. But Reno didn’t help. Whatever baggage he had in Oklahoma he brought with him. Acquaintances replaced friends, and late night television and Jim Beam replaced her. Some of the most pointless conversations occur during

smoke breaks. People feel predisposed to make small talk with other smokers, despite the fact that they generally want nothing to do with each other. It was during one of these conversations that Jared agreed to get married. Her name was Divina. She was a twenty-nine year old woman from the Philippines, and cousin of Jared’s fellow employee. Though he was vague on the details, the coworker stressed that she desperately needed to attain citizenship in the states. Jared didn’t know why he agreed to the marriage. He knew he wouldn’t get anything out of it. He would only see her once to sign the marriage papers, and then she was moving to Los Angeles. After six years of unintentional celibacy, Jared had given up on women. Something he thought Reno would have changed too. Divina and Jared didn’t communicate much before their meeting. A few emails were sent in exceedingly broken English. There was even a time where Jared was almost positive that she had called, but had been too nervous to talk. On the eve of Divina’s arrival, Jared cleaned his apartment. This was no simple task. The floors were a sea of taco bell wrappers and empty cigarette cartons. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. Jared hadn’t really had company since he moved to Reno. Divina, his new wife, would be the first. In some places in Europe it’s customary to cover mirrors after a family member has died. It’s thought that if the ghost were to see itself, it could come back to the world of the living. Jared hadn’t seen a mirror in years. He had glanced occasionally at the stranger across the sink in the Chili’s bathroom, but he hadn’t truly looked at himself in years. Jared dusted off his old black satin suit. It was the nicest item of clothing he owned. In the mirror Jared saw who he had become. The suit fit him loosely, belt cinched tight to prevent it from falling off his nonexistent butt. Wrinkles ran deeper than he remembered, running across his face like dried up tributaries. His eyes were pale blue, they looked dull and bleak in the glow of the single 24-watt light bulb. The plan was to meet by baggage claim. Jared nervously scanned the list of arrivals every few minutes. He didn’t want to look awkward just standing around, but his uncomfortable display of OCD made him stand out more than he thought. He figured it would be easy to find her. She would be the only one in the airport who looked more inept than him. Then he noticed the girl in the corner. A young looking Filipino woman stood about five feet tall. She had long thin black hair that hung over her shoulders. She was wearing a black cotton dress that reached down to her calves. The woman was looking around inquisitively with a Mickey Mouse backpack slung over one shoulder. It had to be Divina. Jared cautiously approached her. He felt his muscles freeze as he suddenly realized that this was going to be the most awkward moment of his life. Jared panicked when he realized he hadn’t even planned what he was going to say, but it was too late. “umm Hello...Divina? I’m Jared.”

First impressions can make or break any relationship. This even applies to relationships formed solely for legal purposes. But Divina wasn’t scared away by Jared’s uneasy introduction. She simply smiled, and nodded, and somehow this made Jared calm. They didn’t talk much on the ride back to Jared’s apartment. He mentioned that her cousin was working the night shift and would pick her up when he was done. He attempted to ask her how the traveling was, but the language barrier between them caused most conversation to devolve into nervous laughter. It was late when they arrived at Jared’s apartment. Divina set her pack down by the door and gravitated towards the couch. Jared offered her some food and she accepted. Jared wasn’t much of a cook, but in preparation for Divina he had purchased several ready to eat meals. When he returned from the kitchen, he found Divina asleep on the couch. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had something else. There was something Jared had never seen before. He put a heavy wool blanket over her. Though deep in slumber, he could see her eyes twitching beneath her make-up stained eyelids. He thought of his retreat to Reno—his hopeless attempt to turn his life around. He thought of the desperate letters he wrote, collecting dust in his closet. He thought of his Jeep, and his pills, and the life he left behind in Oklahoma. Jared picked up the marriage papers from the end table and looked them over one last time. There were two spots at the bottom reserved for their signatures, one filled with the name he scrawled earlier. He set the sheet on the coffee table in front of Divina, with a pen placed so that it was pointing to where she needed to sign. Jared turned off the light and went to his bedroom. The moonlight was spilling in through the window, illuminating his few belongings. He turned around and looked behind him and saw his shadow on the ground, and when Jared slept that night, he was warm.

From the Unholy Mass by Michael Williams From the unholy mass of perfect order formed fissures from which the light shown through Those photons and frequencies begat more cracks and holes (and from which comes our word holy) From those massive imperfections came tiny imperfections: the planets and the stars and imperfections more tiny still the thinking feeling creatures with nearly infinite fractures through which the light shines still

Il Futuro by Kaitlin Bryson, painting

Burningman Temple 2011 by Geoffery Roseborough, photograph

What Burns Away, What Stays By Geoffery McFarland The evening after I taught them fallow and epiphany three Indian boys, ripped at the knee show me how to smoke on the res. Indian cigarettes burn twice as quick like Indian checks, Indian wives, Indian lives. No trees left on the badlands to block that breeze. Look— you hold it backwards, so your hand’s a cup and your palm keeps the flame while the wind’s coming up so that your wrist can twist when that wind changes his mind tries to sneak up and blow you out from behind.

Hunter by Jason Ricketts, charcoal

When the wind takes half of all we smoke why should we lay out tobacco like our grandfathers do? That, he said is redundant. I taught them that word today too.

On the Way to Market By Mary Nork

Some people swear the house is haunted. They want it that way. They want to look at this clapboard bungalow and think never my house. Never my life. No ghosts for me. No porch rails jutting like fractured femurs. No warted siding; no filmed and lifeless windows. No dead branches beating against the eaves. No dread so palpable it thickens night shadows. The infant was perfect, almost. Alert, robust, demanding. Her fists flailed the air with outrage. Had all her fingers and toes I used to say back in those days. I remember. And there was a boy at that first appointment, around three. A brother I suppose—I remember that, too—with handsome, doting parents. A typical 70s family, like I planned for myself. I can still see them them standing around the examining table laughing as the baby held a stubborn grip on my stethoscope. Most of all, though, I remember the strange big toes—each a tiny, jointless nub beside the other four, hardly significant considering the vagaries of human development. We’ll get her lots of pretty shoes, the father had said. But I suspected even then that when those little piggies set out, the journey would be horrific. Did I flinch? Did I shudder? I don’t think so. Young as I was, I was well-trained, and not yet experienced enough to be daunted by reality. That came later. And maybe, just maybe, I was mistaken, though I’d never entertained that possibility before. So they made a routine appointment and I went home earlier than usual to find that one journal among the ones I studied so religiously. I sat in this same living room, and read again what I had dreaded. The article was from February, 1974, just three months after the birth of my little patient and the death of one Harry Eastlack. It was informative, dispassionate, in a style I related to. The man had suffered from a rare, incurable mutation in which the bone-generating process of his body had essentially gone mad. The fibrous tissue—muscles, tendons and ligaments—had, over the years, become ossified, turned to bone. At the time of his death at 39, he was encased in a prison of his body’s making that left him with the ability to move his lips, his lips alone. Ironically, until the age of ten, he had been relatively normal, except for the deformed great toes that are characteristic of the disease. What sounds, I still wonder, came from those lips? Were they like the atonal moans of this aging house? What thoughts circulated in a brain aware, even altruistic enough to designate his shell of a body to medical science? What spot did he choose to stare at? Were

his dreams like mine? Could he hear? Was music a comfort or a taunt? I was never a man of faith, but I began to pray. Let the child die, I thought, before she is infected with knowledge. Let me forget. Of course, I couldn’t forget. I burned the journal. It didn’t help. Each time I saw the child I looked for the first spur, the first rigid joint that would force me to tell what I knew. But she was thriving, and the family was protected in a shell of its own. I could not unknow their future. That disease became an aura blinding me to other humans, to the rest of my world. A year later I gave up my family practice to work in prison clinics around the state. I burned the rest of the journals and the books even before my wife left. I’ve never heard anything further about the girl. Perhaps she passed early. Perhaps she suffered only minor symptoms, nothing more. I wonder how her life played out, and how my life could have been different. But mostly, I care for the prisoners and come back to this house tired at the end of the week. Maybe when I rest up, I’ll do some repairs. Not now. I’m weary. All I want to do is sit here and listen to the sounds around me.

Rich, Sweet Smoke By Emilee Guido If I ever choose to smoke it will not be out of some cheap hookah, in a peer pressured flash of obedience or because my lover was particularly excellent. It will be after I roll all my self-truths into a strip of paper, lit by the fire of strength â&#x20AC;&#x201C; only then will I inhale. Long and deep, without coughing or sputtering, inhaling the rich, sweet smoke and swallowing it into my lungs where it will set fire to my heart. So keep your cigarette, your roach, your primetime, your bong, your piece, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still waiting.

Stitched Face by Brian Kreuger, polaroid of collage

Things You Think About on Prozac By Megan Padilla Your mother is on suicide patrol. You know this because she’s left a strange message on your phone, as well as matching e mails in both your work and home accounts. “Did you call me at work this morning?” she asks; her voice is missing its usual lyrical inflections and she hangs up without a goodbye. Her written inquiries are similarly sparse, and she’s written be instead of me. Did you call be at work this morning? She’s never left you messages like this before, so you call her to tell her, no, you didn’t call her, all the while wondering why she thought you had, and more importantly, why the thought warranted three separate messages. It had only been a few month since your last visit home—the morning of the messages. A few times each year you desert your husband, your dogs, and the Sierra Mountains for the repeating adobe strip malls and perpetual freeway construction of Las Vegas, Nevada. These visits had the capacity to be both relaxing and unnerving as you tried to balance sleep and your many daughterly obligations which involved being chauffeured around and subjected to one-sided conversations. The most recent visit had been on par. “It’s just so selfish,” your mother says gripping the Hummer’s bulky steering wheel. “She didn’t even think about how it would devastate her family.” “I don’t think she was worried about what her family would think—it’s suicide, that’s the point, Mom,” you reply; in your window a blur of and sage-brush and Joshua trees flicker past your reflection. She doesn’t speak for a moment, so you continue. “I mean, she was obviously miserable enough to want to end it all, so why should she worry about that? And why should she have to? Doesn’t a person have the right to end their own life if they want to?” As soon as you say it, you freeze inside and wait for your mother’s response. But you’re right. It is ludicrous to be angry at a suicide victim: to wonder how they could dare deny their family the privilege of their presence. How dare they cause so much pain? Your mother presses her lips into a thin line. “You know it would devastate me—your whole family—if you did that.” She doesn’t pull her eyes away from the interstate. “I know Mom.” You know you should stop talking, but your tongue continues to push the words past your lips, and with a hesitant voice belonging to a 10-year-old, you add, “but isn’t it my choice?” You give her a few seconds of silence to consider your argument. “I just think that it is a very selfish act.” The discussion has reached its ending point. You come to find out that your mother did, in fact, receive a call this morning. A female voice had said to her, “hey Mom,” but she hastily put

the voice on hold and returned to find it gone. At first she must have dismissed the steady hum of the dial tone as a simple wrong number, but as she replayed the incident she began to speculate that the voice had, perhaps, sounded distressed in the hurried seconds before she pressed the hold button. The longer she thought about the mysterious call, the more she thought of you, your voice, and the conversation you had had that day in her Hummer. That’s when she called you, left a message on your phone, and sent out matching e-mails to your separate accounts. What would have happened if she’d gotten the whole truth? Would she book a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar last-minute flight to Reno? Check your wrists and your medicine cabinet, call your psychologist? “She’s worried about you,” your husband says. “She should be,” you reply. “Sometimes I’m worried about me too.” You are making pupusas in your kitchen when you relay to him the particulars of your mother’s messages. He listens quietly and says what you think a good husband should say. You knead a bowl of wet masa, smashing it in and out of your fingers like a child playing with sand, when you ask him: “How would you do it? You know, if you were going to do it.” You stare at the grainy yellow mud as you wet it with warm water and pat it into round snowballs. “A gun,” he replies. He pulls apart flakes of Mexican cheese and spreads it out on a cutting board. You hand him a ball of masa and he flattens it between his palms then lays it on the cast iron griddle. “A gun? We don’t even have a gun.” “I have a shot gun.” “That’s not possible, it’s too long—how would you even?” You stretch your arm in front of you and mimic reaching for a trigger while steadying an imaginary barrel under your chin. “It’s possible,” he says. He arranges the cheese on the sizzling dough. “What about you?” “Pills.” You don’t have to think about it either. “See, now that’s not definite enough.” “Sure it is,” You say, handing him another ball of masa. He pats this one flat and uses it to form the top half of the pupusa. “What if someone found you? Took you to the hospital and pumped your stomach?” “Who’s going to find me?” You scrape the side of the bowl and taste a stray pinch of crumbling dough, rolling the gritty cornmeal around in your mouth. “There’s no one here to check on me, and you’re already dead; you shot yourself with a shotgun, remember.”

Bloop Series by Christopher Stehman, painting

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See Phyllis and her Peas Read-Aloud Series by Pan, pen & ink

These Things fell in a Single Afternoon Katja Lektorich The trees bore witness to those felled as the man worked to bring them down, dismember and toss their pieces into piles where his little girl curled the rounds into her arms, carried them to make neat stacks, two cords fit onto “old yeller,” his 48’ flatbed Ford, fashioned with plywood sideboards to contain the load. His saw grew shrill with each cut made into sap-filled flesh, then sighed relief as the trunks cracked under gravity’s force and integrity lost them to the ground. The girl paused to bathe in the air, a cool perfume of sweet pine and violence, shifted focus from limbless bodies of Ponderosa to those that still held crowns to the sun, anxious about their fate, their home. Then remembered her own too late to turn things around. His madness aimed for her, the log struck from behind her reverie. In that moment of connection before the fall, she learned the limits of strength and the endurance hard love.

Twoofus by Kaitlin Bryson

Hannah Behmaram, Editor

Word Hoarder, Cat Lover, Fort Builder Extraordinaire. I enjoy making paper cranes, reading, writing, and singing in my free time.

Jonathan Cartagena, Assistant Art Editor Hello peers. My name Is Jonathan Cartagena and I am a sophomore majoring in Hydrology. I joined The Brushfire because I love photography and arts. This is my first year on staff and I hope to bring a lot of energy and creativity. “Don’t get in the middle of a dog and a hydrant”-John Peers

Geoff Roseborough, Design Manager Geoff is in his 4th out of 1,745 years in college. He has a passion for photography, design, and visual communication. He’s pretty awesome.

Andrew Warren, Webmaster This will sadly be my last semester on staff; I have worked for the Brushfire for 3 years now with 3 different editors. Even though I am a graduating senior with a passion for science and engineering, I will all ways love art. I am also a traveler, artist, musician, poet, geek, and gamer. I am excited to see the great legacy of the Brushfire re-imagined and reinvented by the future staff. Thank you for reading and submitting!

Shay Taylor, Intern I try to surround myself with art every second of every day, and in as many mediums possible. I have music streaming through my ears every possible second. I enjoy painting, drawing, and creating random crafty things in any spare time I may have. I play piano and guitar, while attempting to sing along, pretending that I’m the next celebrity. I have an unhealthy addiction to British T.V. shows and Audrey Hepburn. I take far too many pictures, especially of my countless long walks on the beach. I don’t know where life will take me, but it will be an adventure nonetheless!

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Ryan DeLaureal, Volunteer When I’m not writing songs on the guitar, I spend most of my time reading works of literature and writing stories and poems. Some of my favorite writers are Hemingway, Kerouac, Ginsberg.... and the list goes on. I am a lover of good conversation, traveling, and being free.

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