Spring 2011 Northland Mosaic

Spring 2011 Northland’s Literary and Visual Arts Magazine

Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, anddown in parking lots birds bed morning. at his back, Doug The sweetWith glowthe ofsunrise early rising slender ankles, the delicate curve happened between Mom and me.

He probably upboard and swayed The Nutcracker.

During rehearsals, under lamplight glow, wn to the Wisconsin river—David’s favorite morning ofsides, theirwatchribcages. I started hiding in rast would haveBut brought it we up, but couldand to West.

Ihis spoke would keep totell thethat awake alone, unruffled, sh. He soon got boat into theheairy water Our lungs synchronized in light sighs, warm-ups, wearing shorts over my The sun came over thethe bluffs andwe’d brightith ancient breath ded tothe talk about it.to up Itake told words ing the feet of the dancraise gray eyes and fly. ound river just ithim all in.

The air company Time hangs in limbo before the mourning leos andmemothick leg-warmers. Riet ned thetines mauve sky. Itand was a wishing somber spring morning nd the headed ers, were ours, anged kitchen soon found myself flashI watch, bent-kneed in the wind.

Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, and sh andin thethestillness of the water hadSwan athey certain Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, and When bodies part and lips once yelled at me during rehearsal southwest Wisconsin.

Doug sat on the steps to his orth with the birds. rizing their paths andI used nuances. ack thebut pretend lessons I watch, bent-kneed in the wind.

The Nutcracker.

During rehearsals, ess totoit.kindergarten He couldn’tand help sense that DaThe Nutcracker.

During rehearsals,

utter goodbyes.

Swan Swan Swan Lake, Lake, Lake, Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, Rodeo, Rodeo, Rodeo, and and and because I had too many layers on. rother’s home and laced Meanwhile, up his boots.weHe noticed ake a sip ofschool that brine were cast nduct after for Shehefevers hated being left in we would keep totosmall the sides, watchatching over him.

He Jamie. smiled as thought we would keep the sides, watchTangled limbs, tousled hair, skin warm The The The Nutcracker.

Nutcracker.

Nutcracker.

During During During rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals, I stripped down to my leo, tights, e wetness ofpleasantries. the morning dew as he walked over to nd drop the roles.

I remember feeling so young: ing the feet of the company dancgreat times he and his brother had shared on ndAwhile I got toafter learnthe how to read, and I used to ing the feet of the company danccalm beauty dusk’s chaos we we would we would would keep keep keep to to the to the the sides, sides, sides, watchwatchwatchand pointe shoes, feeling naked and s truck.

As heerell started upeo, theand old Chevy he couldn’t a, Rod We’re on, aCind new direction.

Lake forThe the hot burn ofthey stage an ers, wishing were memothe importance of succeeding beingready her instructor. ers, wishing they wereours, ours, memoLike a fallen tree nights storm ing ing ing the the the feet feet feet of of the of the the company company company dancdancdancchildish. elp thinking about David.

He would have loved this ld wou we ls, arsa rehe ng Duri ker. crac lights, the dull pound of adrenaline. rizing their paths and nuances. vid had passed just two nights earlier.

His rizing their paths and nuances.

When he cut theWith engine the apartment gaThe dreams of two lovers ain hazy gloss. ers, ers, ers, wishing wishing they they they were were were ours, ours, ours, memomemomemo- come Doug Some realizations eautiful morning. sunrise atwishing his back, of feet hingitthe s, watc side to the pcalm Smile, smile BIG—right leg out, Meanwhile, we were cast in small and David faced with acceptance.

Meanwhile, we were cast in small my mind awoke.

I pretended to continue sleepInterrupting lightWisconsin strolls across rizing rizing rizing their their their paths paths paths and and and nuances. nuances. nuances. on slow, much like foot pain. As rove down to the river—David’s favorite were they ing wish ers, danc companyhad brought David plie,home beat back, rond de jambe— roles.

I remember feeling so young: bulance hours roles.

I inside remember feeling so young: nd let him carry me up

the the bed back stairs and Meanwhile, Meanwhile, Meanwhile, we we were we were were cast cast cast in in small in small small theand firsttime twinges begin, is easy to to fish. He soonpath gotthunk, into the water ces.swish. nuan andboat shis ng their orizi mem s,ace thunk, Every Iofofstage andit the shadow ready for the hot burn death, he had asked one favor—to slow ready for the hot burn stage Spell is broken once eyelashes are reached esarled couch.

The weight of a quilt came over me, roles. roles. roles.

I I remember remember I remember feeling feeling feeling so so young: so young: young: I in.brushing mistake them for muscle .all around the river to lltake itstage, The air past roles sma inentered cast just were wethe hile, anw the the of ancramps assaultor mirage. lights, the dull pound ofofadrenaline. le crossing Wisconsin River just so hethe lights, thethe dull pound adrenaline.

In uncoiling our forms the bond is dead ready ready ready for for for the hot hot hot burn burn burn of of stage of stage stage oon I was dreaming about a man in a sweater. completely mental, subconscious as so fresh and the stillness of the water had a certain the for y read g: youn so ng feeli velvet curtains, I took a BIG—right deep, eager leg mem Smile, smile wMysteries heber was there, the place hebeen felt at lights, home.

Smile, smile BIG—right legout, out, oftopassion have lights, lights, the thethe dull dull dull pound pound pound of ofadrenaline. of adrenaline. adrenaline. eburn houses crumpled under his flapping wings. My wish to end rehearsal early. of eacefulness it.

He couldn’t help but sense that Dad poun dull the s, light e stag ofloved and had spent breath.

The ISIEither creates the Taliban. plie, beat back, rond de jambe— that he so many mornplie, beat back, rond de jambe—

breached.

Smile, Smile, Smile, smile smile smile BIG—right BIG—right BIG—right leg leg leg out, out, out, way, they are easily dismissed. ested d was on watching the warm over back him. of someone He smiled I knew as he and thought leg ght —ri BIG e smil le, Smi ine.was enjoying at this moment. enal Butthunk, in class, my reflection Taliban funded by the Saudis. thunk, swish.

Every time II s Doug thunk, thunk, swish.

Every time glances reminders of nights before plie, plie, plie, beat beat beat back, back, back, rond rond rond dedeis jambe— de jambe— jambe— , Swelling a bit harder to ignore f,Glazed all the great times he and his brother had shared on hunk e—t d.

I hugged her tighter.

“Girls,” the bird said, jamb de rond , back beat plie, didn’t share such enthusiasm.

I Warlords funded by poppies. entered the stage, brushing past the eSwift serene nature and hiswalk thoughts onthunk, death entered the stage, brushing past cold goodbyes out the expectant door… thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, swish. swish. swish.

Every Every Every time time time I I Ithe and more frustrating—pointe shoes enk, river. the red ente I ng his neck back towards us.

“Don’t look down.” time y Ever h. swisof his sister. Shehadn’t grown anafter inch in two years, Both were getting weapons from the US. velvet curtains, IItook aadeep, eager g think believed that velvet curtains, took deep, eager entered entered entered the therethe stage, stage, stage, brushing brushing brushing past past past the the theeven too are made to fit tight and I David had passed just two nights earlier.

His ins, curta et velv the past “I’ll call more, I swear.”

My voice was hing brusdied, he came back ge,had though I gained weight on my hips breath. nd as a velvet humming breath. velvet velvet curtains, curtains, curtains, I Itook took Isodium took a adeep, deep, a deep, eager day much oneager aeager single eath was David faced with th. like brea rwhisper, eageand ,calm dk in a musical the ittrill of acceptance. a songbird. a deep and thighs, out.

At themy Hussein thought, “the US won’t mind rounding But ininclass, reflection

But class, my reflection breath. breath. breath. causes numb toes the next. The s the ambulance had brought David home hours ’t didn ction refle my , class in time, I failed to that I go ofBut Jamie and lifted my arms to see if recognize I share had didn’t such enthusiasm.

IifI I gobble up Kuwait.” didn’t share such enthusiasm.

But But But in in class, in class, class, my my my reflection reflection reflection rior to his death, he asked onea and favor—to slow n anI person; grow ’tstill I hadn sm.had usia enth such was petit I an felt fat. in Iintwo are Everyone’s starting to worry about dominos s. She slipped silently downward watched hadn’t grown inch years, hadn’t grown an inch two didn’t didn’t didn’t share share share such such such enthusiasm. enthusiasm. enthusiasm.

I I years, I ht own while crossing the Wisconsin River just so he weig ed gain I gh thou s, year two wisps of clouds. watched company dancers, their not ch all in through She the was stretched though IIgained weight on my hips though gained weight on my hipsthe pizza chain. hadn’t hadn’t hadn’t grown grown grown ananinch an inch inch inintwo in two two years, years, years, ould know he was there, the place he felt at home.

At out. ding roun s, thigh and myahips slender ankles, the delicate curveout. and rounding At the ke skydiver, as if she had a parachute could andIthighs, thighs, rounding out. the though though though Ithat gained gained I gained weight weight weight onon my on myAt my hips hips hips he place that he loved and had spent so many mornwas I that e gniz reco to d faile I time, of their ribcages.

I started hiding in eher. time, I failed to recognize that IYitzak Rabin was shot to death time, I failed to recognize that and and and thighs, thighs, thighs, rounding rounding rounding out. out. out.

AtAtthe At thetheI the gs just as Doug was enjoying at this moment. hed watc I fat. felt I on; pers warm-ups, was wearing over myIIfelt ll a petit ironically at a peace rally. still ashorts person; fat.

I was still atopetit petit person; felt time, time, time, Ithe Ifailed failed I on failed to recognize to recognize recognize that that that I I fat.

I I The serene nature and his thoughts death es, ankl der slen their ers, danc leos and thick leg-warmers.

Riet dancers, mpany watched the company their watched company dancers, was was was still still still a apetit petit athe petit person; person; person; I Ifelt felt I felt fat. fat.fat.

I I their I ade Doug think of his sister.

She believed that after ed start I ges. ribca their of e once yelledslender at me during rehearsal licate curv Arafat, guy with a beard and a potbelly ankles, the delicate curve slender ankles, the delicate curve watched watched the thethe company company company dancers, dancers, dancers, their their their er husband had died, hering came back as atoo humming over tswatched shor , wea -ups in warm because I had many layers on. hiding ding running on a treadmill in a silk jumpsuit ofoftheir ribcages.

IIstarted in their ribcages. started hiding slender slender slender ankles, ankles, ankles, the thethe delicate delicate delicate curve curve curve in rd once Riet rs. arme leg-w thick I stripped down to mywearing leo, tights, y leos and can’t warm-ups, shorts over my stop the suicide bombings warm-ups, wearing shorts over ofof their of their their ribcages. ribcages. ribcages.

I Istarted started I started hiding hiding hiding ininmy in had I use beca l arsa rehe ng duri me and pointe leos shoes, feeling naked and Riet because it’s Hamas. elled at and thick leg-warmers. leos and thick leg-warmers.

Riet warm-ups, warm-ups, wearing wearing shorts shorts shorts over over over my mymy to my wearing n warm-ups, ped dow o many layers on. I stripchildish. once yelled atatme during rehearsal once yelled me during rehearsal leos leos leos and and and thick thick leg-warmers. leg-warmers. leg-warmers.

Riet Riet Riet dthick nake ng s, feeliSome realizations come o, tights, and pointe shoe Ok, because IIhad too many layers on. because had too many layers on.we hate you, once once once yelled yelled yelled atatme at meme during during during rehearsal rehearsal rehearsal ish. on slow, much like foot pain. but we can’t stop you. nd child IIstripped down totoAs my leo, tights, stripped down my leo, tights, because because because I Ihad had I had too tootoo many many many layers layers layers on. on.on. , slow on e com ns zatio reali e Som the first twinges begin,shoes, it is easy to naked and pointe feeling and and pointe shoes, naked I Istripped stripped Iges stripped down down down totomy to myfeeling my leo, leo, leo, tights, tights, tights,and twin first the As . pain foot mistake them for muscle cramps or much like childish. childish. and and and pointe pointe pointe shoes, shoes, feeling feeling feeling naked naked naked and and and cleshoes, mus for them ake mist to easy is a completely subconscious egin, it mental, Some realizations come Some realizations come childish. childish. childish. ontal,tosubc wish endon rehearsal early.

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The and ,,The Rodeo Swan Lake, Swan Lake, Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, Rodeo, Rodeo, and Rodeo, The and rella, Cinde Lake, Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, and The Swan The The , and and Rodeo Rodeo Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, and The Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, and Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, and The rella, rella, Cinde Cinde Lake, Lake, Swan Swan Swan Swan Swan Swan Swan Lake, Swan Lake, Lake, Lake, Lake, Cinderella, Lake, Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, Rodeo, Rodeo, Rodeo, Rodeo, Rodeo, Rodeo, and and and and The and The The and The The The would sals, Letter From the Editors Nutcracker.

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During During rehearsals, During rehearsals, rehearsals, we would we would we rehear cker.

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Nutcra Nutcra Nutcracker.

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During During During During During During rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals, wewe we would wewe would would would wewould would Welcome to Northland’s Spring 2011 Mosaic! Not only is this publication twice as massive as the previous Quartiles, it also includes color prints so dazzlingly brilliant they’ll make your eyes sizzle a little. Continuing with tradition, the Mosaic also features the winners of the 2011 Barbara Bretting Awards. These awards cover creative fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and photography. The winning pieces are scattered throughout the magazine; keep an eye out for them. They’re certainly keeping their eyes out for you.

Loon eggs are hatching. After four years of learning, teaching, and committing acts of shenaniganery here in Chequamegon Bay, another group of seniors will also hit the trail; some will never come back. Several of these students have had pieces featured in many of the Mosaics they have been around for; it’s a sad thing that their fingerprints won’t mark the pages of future Mosaics. It’s heartening, however, to see new fingerprints painting new voices across these pages. Creativity is life. A space is vacated; something immediately springs in to fill it. Those who are leaving bring their creative spirit with them, much like the oft-used ‘seed’ metaphor: one senior is a fiddlehead, and will be the first to unfurl after long chills where they chose to land; another is a durian, and their strange fruit will surely attract a dedicated audience. Meanwhile, bloodroot and kumquat have moved in.

This year has been a jungle, a reef, a swamp of a creative ecosystem. We editors have had great fun adventuring through all the submissions and we’re confident that you all will continue to throw your stuff out there to be found by more fortunate passers-by. And if you’re lucky you’ll be seen by a professional adventurer and be put on professional display. You never know who might be touched by your voice!

Always and for the last time, very proudly yours, Emily Betzler and Ross Bye 2010-2011 Mosaic Editors

Swan Lake, Swan Lake, Cinderella, Cinderella, Rodeo, Rodeo, and The and Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, andand The Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, TheThe Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, and Swan Swan Swan Swan Swan Lake, Lake, Lake, Lake, Lake, Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, Rodeo, Rodeo, Rodeo, Rodeo, Rodeo, and and and and The and The The The The Nutcracker.

Nutcracker.

During During rehearsals, rehearsals, we would we would Nutcracker.

During rehearsals, wewe would Contents Nutcracker.

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Nutcracker.

Nutcracker.

Nutcracker.

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During During During During During rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals, wewe we would wewe would would would would Front Cover Eye Lauren Grevich 6. A Dancer’s Heart Alison Mills 7. Mirrored Darker Mae Stoutenburg 11. Do No Evil Peter Weber Chime LockJessica Brown 12. Skull Debra Douglas 13. The American Frontier Amber Mullen 14. Directions Rebekah Vrabel 15. A Tryst of Fate Caitlin Krengel 16. Untitled Korrin Korbel 17. If I Ever Made a Promise Alison Erikson 21. Untitled Korrin Korbel 23. Untitled Korrin Korbel 24. Professional Commentary on Middle Eastern History Elizabeth Leighton 26. Defeat Matt Stanford 27. Can You See Debra Douglas 28. Not Just Icicles Lauren Grevich 30. Brick Laid Birch Peter Weber 31. Logophilia Adam Engel 32. Chase Me Mary Schaubschlager 33. Catch Me Mary Schaubschlager 34. Morning of Serenity and Spirt Katy Zart 42. Only Once Lauren Grevich 35. A Fish Peter Weber 43. The Road Rebekah Vrabel 36. Forging a Side of Toast Heaven Cook 44. Tea Pot-trait Victoria Dawes 37. Rosie Chara Bouma-Prediger Anatomical Hallmark Heart Peter Weber Untitled Ashley Beier 45.

For the Dice Maker Jessica Brown 38. Gerald Dayl Carlson 46.

Ray of Peacock Korrin Korbel 39. Untitled Hiedi Schraufnagel 47.

Cultivation of Dust Katherine Boyk 40. I Came Upon a Love Bruce Goetz 48.

Momento Mori Louis Figuero 41. Overcoming the Trails of Generation Jason Terry 49. You Can Point at It Louis Figuero 53. Untitled Matthew Knickelbine 54. Octopus Sky Allie Polzin 55. Light Snow Turning into Rain Timothy Doyle 56. Heart Juice Emily Betzler 57. Untitled Elizabeth Downy 58. Venus Flytrap Amber Mullen 59. Untitled Korrin Korbel 60. Nuclear Family 1951 Amber Mullen 61. Dreaming Dayl Carlson 62. Untitled Ashley Beier 63. Striations Jessica Brown 64. Elegantly Embraced Debra Douglas 65. Taped Up Debra Douglas 66. The Nook Miguel Alvelo 67. The Man on the Bus Odetta King 71. Harvest Allie Polzin 72. Fat O’ the Lan’ Louis Figeuro Road Haiku Timothy Doyle 74. Face Down Debra Douglas Alok’s Cabinet of Curiosities Elizabeth Betzler 79. Never Free Rebekah Vrabel 80. Quandary Timothy Doyle 81. Myself Peter Weber 82. Ponzio in Dark Jared Ursin From the Buffeted Pier Jessica Brown

Barbara Bretting Photography Award

Mirrored Darker Mae Stoutenburg A Dancer’s Heart Allison Mills

Barbara Bretting Writing Non-Fiction Award - First Place

Line is everything in ballet, but I am all curves.

Despite this, as a little girl, I lived to be en pointe. Pointe shoes, those beautiful satin icons of a real ballet dancer, would make my life complete. I remember being trussed up in one of those stubby tulle tutus, hiding behind the thick velvet curtains during performances. Sev6 Mosaic

eral of us would huddle together, our eager eyes lined with mascara, cheeks coated in pink blush, lipstick-stained mouths hanging slack as we watched the dancers onstage. Cloaked in backstage darkness, we stood hypnotized by the smooth slide and quick, dull taps of pink satin on black marley as the older girls danced. Thunkthunk, swish, thunk-thunk, swish.

My heart ached to feel the rough

canvas underneath, to have others watch my feet, to know they saw the grace and rhythm that pounded through my blood, pushing against my toes, lifting up and away.

Defying the horizontal nature of the body’s feet, pointe shoes could bring a dancer beyond her human limits, a foot closer to perfection. I wanted perfection; I wanted to feel that flawless glide, to match it with the music and feel that soul-tin-

Mosiac 7

gling rhythm. Thunk-thunk, swish, thunk-thunk, swish.

Years later, as a high school freshman and apprentice in the Continental Ballet Company, I stood with my arms outstretched, stomach sucked in, trying not to breathe as the seamstress needled pins and clips into the worn, pale pink satin bodice of a Flower Waltz tutu. The costume did not fit well and the seams needed to be taken out. From the stage, the distance to the audience eliminated the sight of the yellow-brown sweat stains down the back and under the arm pits, but up close the costume looked peed upon. Eyeing the marred spots, I thought about what Riet, the ballet company director, had said in class that morning.

Though Riet was a birdy woman in her sixties, she boomed like a timpani in my mental orchestra.

Her shouts reverberated through the studio. I had been prepping for a grande allegro combination, the big jumps that are supposed to defy gravity, and before I could swoop into my first developee, she yelled out, “Your WRISTS, Allison! Liftup!”

Her pinched lips—my poor correction. I would have run six miles for an encouraging smile or at least an eyebrow lift, but Riet wanted something I couldn’t fix.

After training for three years in Riet’s upper level ballet classes, I began believing that comments about my body—stocky, muscular, curvy, filling out—all meant fat.

And fat meant no ballet. The curve of a ballet dancer’s calf muscle en pointe or the slight arch of her 8 Mosaic

index finger must be more noticeable than the curves of her hips or bosom or bunions. A ballet dancer must keep herself in line.

The studio resided in the Bloomington Center for the Arts in the Twin Cities suburbs; it was large, with gray marley strips on the floors that looked like wet cement and felt like thin rubber. Two of the four walls had barre attachments, two parallel wooden rods mounted so close to the mirrored wall they looked like a long-limbed, wooden Narcissus.

Between the self-infatuated mirrors and wall-length windows, we seemed to be dancing in a fishbowl.

There was nothing comfortable about the room: it was made for space, an austere background for the stretching bodies within it—a simple frame for physical grace.

Unlike the studio, I was not very large. In fact, when I was dancing as an apprentice, I was barely five feet tall and just shy of 105 pounds. My torso and neck were proportionally long, but I lamented the stubby shortness of my bulging calves, square feet, little fingers, and sturdy but stunted femurs. But worst of all, I had inherited the hips, thighs, and butt my mother embraced as part of our Portuguese heritage. I remember how fondly she laughed the day I asked her what the funny blue, squiggly lines were on my hips. I had just put on my swimsuit as the family was getting ready to go to a Fourth of July party. I think I was in the fifth or sixth grade, a time when boys still had cooties and “butt” was just another amusing

word. I pulled down my jean shorts over the side of my hip to show her and my father, afraid that I had popped a vein or contracted some deadly disease.

They burst out laughing.

“Sweetheart,” they managed, “those are just stretch marks!”

Their chuckles turned to coos of comfort when I wouldn’t stop crying. With a quivering lower lip, I protested the unfairness— only pregnant women got stretch marks! Even today, though the too-stretched blue has faded to pale scar tissue, the sight still catches me, especially the new ones on the back of my calves. Who thought you could get stretch marks there? I was grateful that leotards and tights hid the discolored, cursive skin.

Finally, at the age of twelve, I earned my own pointe shoes.

Pointe work always occurred at the end of class, 15 minutes for beginners to start building strength.

Over time, my feet became ugly: with thick, ovate calluses that peeled on the heel; juicy blisters that stained tights and shoes; short, often bruised, smashed, or cracked toenails that discolored like the scum in public bathrooms; and a bad, podiatrist-cringing tendency to roll towards the big toe.

But I hardly recall the burn of blisters or near-itch of ingrown toenails. Once I had pointe shoes, I craved being onstage. At age fourteen, I was named a company apprentice. With the other apprentices, I understudied every piece possible, visually reciting Coppelia,

Swan Lake, Cinderella, Rodeo, and The Nutcracker. During rehearsals, we would keep to the sides, watching the feet of the company dancers, wishing they were ours, memorizing their paths and nuances.

Meanwhile, we were cast in small roles. I remember feeling so young: ready for the hot burn of stage lights, the dull pound of adrenaline.

Smile, smile BIG—right leg out, plie, beat back, rond de jambe— thunk, thunk, swish. Every time I entered the stage, brushing past the velvet curtains, I took a deep, eager breath.

But in class, my reflection didn’t share such enthusiasm. I hadn’t grown an inch in two years, though I gained weight on my hips and thighs, rounding out. At the time, I failed to recognize that I was still a petit person; I felt fat. I watched the company dancers, their slender ankles, the delicate curve of their ribcages. I started hiding in warm-ups, wearing shorts over my leos and thick leg-warmers. Riet once yelled at me during rehearsal because I had too many layers on.

I stripped down to my leo, tights, and pointe shoes, feeling naked and childish.

Some realizations come on slow, much like foot pain. As the first twinges begin, it is easy to mistake them for muscle cramps or a completely mental, subconscious wish to end rehearsal early. Either way, they are easily dismissed.

Swelling is a bit harder to ignore and more frustrating—pointe shoes are made to fit tight and even too much sodium on a single day causes numb toes the next. The

compacting of a foot arch’s original curve is difficult to observe over time and can take months, even years of abuse before changing with remarkable swiftness. With such slow speed, mine flattened, though maybe it was inevitable.

Perhaps it was unjust to start with squat, square feet held up by low-lying, balletically-undesirable arches. Regardless, once my plantar fasciitis could no longer defy gravity and please Riet, less and less joy came from making my feet execute rapid degages, finish off the exclamation mark of a poised arabesque, or slice through the demanding beats of quatres. Several of my friends had left, Riet sought to fill her company with adults, my arches and mirrored reflection swelled.

I didn’t start trying to throw up until after the Nutcracker season during my freshman year of high school. It seemed simple: up with lunch and down with gravity.

Though toilet bowls are round, they help maintain the ideal of a balletic, linear body. I sat on the white tiles in the public bathroom stall, while water dampened my nyloned knees, hoping a strange convulsion would inspire my stomach or that my finger would get the nerve to go down my throat. It never did; I never puked. I only sat there wishing I would, believing it was the only way I could be a dancer, the only way I could convince Riet that I was dedicated enough. But only some violently hacked spittle and tears reached the water.

Ballet classes became a military march, a campaign from

week to week. And prep, a 5, 6, 7, 8—lift up, stomach in, don’t breathe, pirouette. I failed to grow taller and older at an acceptable rate, and hate for my body flourished with squeezing into a holey pair of graying tights or cinching the pointe shoe ribbons around my ankles, making the skin push through the cracks like a muffintop over ill-fitting jeans. It seemed odd to me that as my melancholy and self-dislike festered, my dance skills actually improved. One Saturday morning class, as the light streamed in, I performed a perfect series triple picques. I could hear people whispering about it on the other side of the room, weighing eyes flickering approvingly. Even Riet gave a slight nod. And I didn’t care. I simply didn’t care. I made sure to only do doubles on the next set. I didn’t want to care.

The May recital came; I missed one of my pieces and fell on-stage during another. The lights hurt my eyes and the applause was merely polite. There was no little girl hiding in the wings, admiring my grace, wishing she could be me.

Once backstage, I threw one of my pointe shoes against the dressing room mirrors, heard it clatter to the floor, almost disappointed that it hadn’t shattered my reflection. My feet may have ached, but the pain was muted by the fire in my heart.

The tears were hot, too, feverishly sweaty. I curled into a ball in the hallway, crouching over my feet, letting my liquid-eyeliner run in crenulated coal seams, crosscutting the sweet pink blush on my cheeks.

A friend rubbed my shoulder with Mosiac 9

cold hands while I mussed and dirtied my warm-up sweater. Looping thoughts circled one that wouldn’t go away: QUIT. To quit: to stop, to fail, to regret, to let go, to be free, to heal.

After the recital, I went back to the studio only once. I had my dad drive me; he waited outside as I went in. Riet’s office was down the hall from the studio, square with a desk, chairs, and lots of paper. An old show poster was pinned above the computer; as a young student, someone told me the female dancer was Riet, back when she danced for the Royal Dutch Ballet. In that black and white photograph, she is beautiful, one leg back in an arabesque, the other foot poised en pointe, wrists out straight, head slightly tilted— all long, slender lines stretching towards infinite grace. I should have felt guilty with all that unachieved perfection. I remember being nervous, with clammy palms, and that Riet was wearing a pastel sweater.

I think she smiled, telling me it was all for the best. Otherwise, I don’t really remember quitting.

I am now in college; married, pursuing a geology degree, and teaching dance through the local community college in Ashland, Wisconsin. I still dance, though not as often. On the days when my housemates are gone and the dogs are asleep, I rearrange the living room, clearing space for my own studio. There are no mirrors, yet I can see my shadow in the east window during the afternoon. The floor space is small, but it’s smooth 10 Mosaic

hardwood. I do not have a piano accompanist, only the gulls and the street traffic. No one is watching, though I like to imagine what the neighbors might think. I usually start with a simple core workout; my body has gotten soft—a comfortable change like trading jeans for sweatpants. Some spots, like the grinding knot in my left hip flexor, are tight and my right foot has permanent metatarsal damage. Taking care, I slowly stretch, flowing through Vinyasa yoga poses. But soon I abandon the self-discipline; I can no longer do a full barre routine or even dream of attempting the laborious extensions of an adagio. All I need to do is move. I stretch out, pushing my hands far from my body, feeling the tense pull of muscles beneath my shoulder blades. My head tilts to one side as sunshine, sweet but not hot like stage lights, warms my face. Inspired, I might spin into a drag turn before spiraling down to the floor. Leg swing, body roll, hip circle, back arch, star pose, side curl. I lay on the floor—a rhythm pulses through my feet, my back, my hands.

Still on my side, I look down at the grains of wood in the floor planks. They curl around each other, darkening at the knots.

They have faded over the years; marks and depressions worn by so many feet. I feel like those graying floorboards. People try to straighten themselves, be useful, become planks, wall studs, floors. But our lives, the grain of our existence, curves and falls short. At times, I hate myself for quitting ballet.

The bitter tang of failure and regret stings, pinches like my old pointe shoe ribbons when I try them on.

But I keep dancing—why?

Why? I roll onto my back, my heart drumming against the floorboards. Its beat beckons, its pounding notes vibrate along my bones. The syncopation isn’t perfect, but it is powerful; it keeps me alive. My heart’s rhythm is reason enough to dance.

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Chime Lock Jessica Brown

Do No Evil Peter Webber

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Skull Debra Douglas

The American Frontier Amber Mullen

Thirsty men homestead in the pristine sublime upon an acre of uncertainty, refusing common sense.

Summon the virgin to lay her upon a map, a topographic binding contract.

He will suck the soil dry, parched it no longer satisfies.

Monogamy- he believes – is ink on a page, to desire the steadfast field is no longer pleasing.

He must move forward, westward to keep consuming.

Cross-eyed with infatuation, the prairie a fresh lover’s bed.

Geometric images woven in flecks of dust, He is suspended in luxury, a paradise of lust.

Her ears like a cobra’s collar capture the midnight whisper of cautious hands upon a knob of gnarled brass.

Burlap sheets wrapped around her callused feet, woven strong like her vertebrae, refusing to crack.

She fills her lungs and just restrains.

Fighting the urge and withholding her pain.

Puckered lips seal the route like a waxen stamp.

He blows and the bending light pisses upon a sullen eye.

She cannot escape the battered hands of fate; this ring, this home, these children all a selfish lie.

Mosiac 13

Directions Rebekah Vrabel I stuck my hands in the snow – now turning the key is near impossible.

I could say I just want to stay the night until the sun reveals we’re both hiding from ourselves and the cutlery.

The fork hung from the cupboard and swayed East to West. But I spoke with ancient breath and the tines headed North with the birds.

Take a sip of that brine and drop the pleasantries.

We’re on a new direction.

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Tryst of Fate Caitlin Krengel The sweet glow of early rising morning Our lungs synchronized in light airy sighs, Time hangs in limbo before the mourning When bodies part and lips utter goodbyes.

Tangled limbs, tousled hair, skin fevers warm A calm beauty after the dusk’s chaos Like a fallen tree succeeding nights storm The dreams of two lovers a hazy gloss.

Interrupting light strolls across the bed Spell is broken once eyelashes are reached In uncoiling our forms the bond is dead Mysteries of passion have been breached.

Glazed glances reminders of nights before Swift cold goodbyes walk out the expectant door‌

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Opposite Page Untitled Korrin Korbel If I Ever made A Promise Alison Erickson

Jamie told Mom about her boyfriend after they finished dessert, ostensibly tired of holding back the news. When Mom asked if he would like to come for dinner, Jamie laughed and said, “You feed him every night.” She took Mom upstairs to her bedroom and pointed to the low futon mattress.

“Is there supposed to be a grown man sitting there?”

“God, Mom, don’t be so condescending.

He’s eighteen.” Jamie grinned and added, “Like me.” Pretending to misinterpret the question was one of her practiced tactics.

“Okay. So there is a boy sitting there?”

Mom looked at her youngest daughter’s delicate face hoping its roundness would crack with amusement. Jamie had inherited the soft but serious face of her father with the same tendency to collapse after a good prank and radiate contagious laughter.

Instead of admitting a joke, Jamie lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “You didn’t notice that I’d been setting a fourth place at the table?”

“I thought you just missed your sister.”

“Why would I pretend that she’s with us at dinner? God, I’m not a little kid.” She shooed Mom back into the hallway and

followed, shutting the door quietly behind them.

“Henry’s reading.” She tipped her head back and stretched her long legs ladder-like out from the wall, to show that life couldn’t get any better. “It makes sense you didn’t notice him,” she said. “ Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been so chill about him spending the night in my room.”

Mom called me, because Jamie never would.

Since I’d left for Carlton in September, I’d only talked to my sister the few times that Mom held out the receiver and lied to Jamie that I had asked for her.

“Hey,” I would say. “How’s school?” She would tell me that Matt was hitting on her so hard he was bruising her ego. I would say that didn’t make sense.

“You know what I mean.” Then I would ask if I could talk to Mom.

When I saw an incoming call from home, I picked up homework, thinking I could multi-task and get some reading done. “Hey, Mom.” It was never Dad, even if he did happen to be home.

“Honey, what are you doing?”

“Writing a paper. What’s up?”

“I have a really big favor.” She asked me to come home, because they hadn’t seen me in two months and Jamie was missing her older sister.

“I don’t have a ride, Mom,” I said. So she Mosiac 17

told me about Jamie’s boyfriend. “That’s crazy,” I said, “I mean Jamie’s fragile, but she’s not, you know, out there. She’s probably just playing. Let me know if you really need me to come home.”

She was quiet.

“I guess I could ask Vince if I could borrow his car.”

“Oh would he do that? Oh he should come too. We haven’t met him yet. It might be good for Jamie.”

Mom came outside, wrapping me in a hug, and insisted on carrying my bag. I had forgotten how tiny her arms were. It seemed magical that she was able to lift the thing. She loved Vince, instantly—I could tell by her wide smiles, which usually came and went as capriciously as the sun on a cloudy day.

“Where’s Jamie?”

“Go say hi. She’s probably in her room.”

She was lying on the floor with her feet up against the wall, reading from a dime store novel.

The shady avenue was the same as I’d left it, When she came over to hug me, I caught a glint of the except that this time the trees were on the verge of gold embossed title, something with the word “heat” blushing bright autumnal colors. Driving up to the in it. house was like waking up from general anesthesia. It

“Amy, this is Vince.” felt like no time had passed, but I knew in my gut that “It’s nice to meet you.” She took a second to it had. appraise him. “You look like you could be a lawyer,”

“I’m surprised how secluded you’ve managed she said. to remain. This is exactly the spot that suburbs usually He laughed. “Thank you.” take root.” Vince was a bright guy, and I was pleased

“It’s definitely a compliment. I bet you finto have snagged him from the clutches of some unish all your homework in time to get dressed for the appreciative lushes, who had been ogling him at party.”

Brandi’s house party. He had the typical clean haircut Vince laughed again, harder this time, and and sharp jaw of a Carlton boy but also a smile that looked at me as if to wonder why I had never menseemed to hover, ready to pop out when its appearance tioned how entertaining my little sister was. was earned.

“We got lucky with dad’s job.”

Mom called us downstairs to get some help

“He’s a minister right? Your dad.” preparing for dinner. Jamie followed Vince and me to

“That’s why he’s always gone. But the church the kitchen but leaned against the counter and never gives us this house, and my mom would never give it offered a hand. She watched Vince chop carrots and up now. She’s like the productive version of a Miss asked if he had a passion for the culinary arts. “You Havisham.” Vince remained silent and I quietly pandon’t have to answer her,” I told him, but he ignored icked, wondering if I’d misused the reference. “Pull me. Jamie moved to Vince’s elbow to peer at his work in here.” as if he was experimenting with alchemy and hoped to

Our house was not large, though it resembled absorb his wisdom. a mansion by its pieced together look. Window seats

“Jamie, if you’re not going to help, please get and faceted semi-circle turrets offered a multitude of out of the kitchen. It’s tiny and you’re only in the hiding places, and the front garden still managed to way,” Mom said, shifting us around as if she couldn’t hold some blossoms, despite the chilly October weath- get into the fridge. The room was spacious enough, er. I watched Vince nod, as he admired my home, and but she was used to having it to herself. was reminded of the way professors respond when

“Can Vince come?” Jamie asked. I hurled her they’re pleased with a comment. a look, and she ignored it.

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“Of course. Vince, honey, you shouldn’t be doing work. Have Jamie show you the garden.”

Vince set down the knife, wiping his hands on a towel, and nodded at me to show that he liked my mother. I watched him through the window as he followed Jamie off the porch and toward the start of the woods. Instead of hitting up the garden, Jamie plopped down under the large oak tree. Vince stood awkwardly looking down at her for a moment, then glanced around and followed suit.

The first thing Jamie said when they were alone, Vince told me later, was “Have you got a cigarette?”

“I don’t,” he said. “I don’t smoke.”

Jamie stretched her long legs out and slid them back and forth through the grass, as if reveling in the pricking sensation. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Don’t know why I asked. So how long have you two been going at it?”

Vince smiled, but while his lips parted, the rest of his features stayed fixed. Jamie noted the minimal response of emotion—it was nice to talk to someone and not have to worry that the listener was going to worry.

The sun worked a line dance with the clouds, spotting their faces with shadows, as Jamie chatted about her high school, before and after I had graduated. “Amy has a skewed perspective of being a teenager because she’s maintained the appearance of a graceful willow reed.” She had been rehearsing that line in her head—it was nice to have an audience for it. “Look at me though. I bet you’d never guess we were even related. Matt Peterson will never slip me a note between the gills of my locker.”

“The gills of your locker?”

“You know, the vents. So my books and shit can breathe.”

Vince paused. A breeze came along and shook the old oak, its arthritic branches cracking. “You’ve got quite the mind,” he said. The pause that followed was short but noticed.

Vince cleared his throat. “So Henry?” he asked.

“My boyfriend.”

Vince hesitated. His voice rose in pitch, as he changed his original course of words. “Why are you even dating? You’re young.”

“I’m a senior,” she said. “And I’m going to die young. I am, for real. And I don’t want to miss out.

Especially not on sex.”

“Are you sick?” Vince asked.

“You mean like retarded?”

“No. No. I mean.” Vince groped for words, suddenly uncomfortable in her personal territory, as if he were trespassing. Jamie watched him with an anxious smile, like the spectator of a street fight, eager to see how the victim would wriggle free. “Cancer?” he finally said.

“I’m not stricken with some terminal illness,” she said, smirking.

“So you’re just being prophetic?” Vince asked.

There was a pause, and he realized she didn’t know what he was asking. “You only think that you’ll die young. But you’re a healthy, young woman. You really have no idea.”

“Oh I know I’m not going to live long. People think natural selection has been stifled by humans, but it still exists. It’s just that now it’s not about physical ability. It’s about your mental stability.” Jamie weighed her hands out, as if judging good versus bad, and looked over at Vince. He was staring up into the dancing branches. Gray shadows flitted about them in an eerie way, as if the canopy was uncomfortable with all the attention from the wind and was trying to signal its distress. “I know I’m weird,” she said. “It’s okay if you don’t like me.”

Vince twitched. “Of course I like you, Jamie.

You’re a fascinating girl.”

“Sure,” she said, tracing the veins in her palm with a blade of grass. “I wish I were more like Amy.”

“Where’s dad?” I asked. Mom was bouncing around the kitchen, lifting lids on the stove and Mosiac 19

retrieving dishes. She was frazzled, but it felt comforting. The whirlwind of my frantic mother felt more like home than our house or property. At school I had found it difficult to picture her in any mood besides stressed. Jamie and I were more than happy with pizza for dinner, but we all knew that she would roast steak in the pressure cooker or fry risotto with lemon chicken.

“He’s staying with some family in the cities.

They’re building a house with Habitat. Vince is just a cutie. You really hit the jackpot.”

“Thanks, Mom. How’s Jamie? Is she still struggling with friends?”

“Honestly, it’s hard to tell. She talks about friends from school all the time, but she never invites them over, and now—after this boyfriend thing—I’m starting to wonder. She could really use you around as a role model.” She looked at me, and I felt my body tense, the way it does when an argument is about to break loose. She lifted some wine glasses from the cabinet. “You could at least call her more often.”

“She never calls me either,” I said. The onions I was chopping were small enough, but switching tasks meant that I would have to re-focus my attention, and I feared the shift might unleash something nasty from within me.

“You should be the one with the initiative to call,” she said.

“Why?”

“Amy.” Her voice was rising.

“Why do I hold that responsibility?”

“Amy, look at yourself. You’re beautiful, and now you have a gorgeous boyfriend.”

“Jamie’s beautiful,” I said. “And what does that have anything to do with it?”

“Of course, she is. Honey, life is just harder for Jamie.”

“Whatever.” The onions were getting too small. “I’m done chopping. Give me something else to do.” She set me in front of the rice, which offered nothing to detain my swelling anger. “High school is 20 Mosaic

Untitled Korrin Korbel

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I managed to stay for supper, but Vince carried the bags back out to the car as soon as the dishes were clean and drying in the rack.

“What did mom say?” Jamie asked as we stood awkwardly in the driveway. Vince sat in the driver’s seat. He and Mom had said a short good-bye.

“Oh basically that I need to be a better sister to 22 Mosaic

you and that if I weren’t so pretty I’d be on meds.”

Jamie made herself smile because we were sisters and because we should be a team against our mother. “She did not say that.”

“No, but I think it’s true.”

Jamie grinned and snorted. “Yeah. It probably is.”

“Wow. Thanks, James, I was only kidding.”

“Well, if you weren’t so good looking, you might know how hard life really is.”

A few miles in on the highway Vince asked what happened between Mom and me. He probably never would have brought it up, but he could tell that I needed to talk about it. I told him the words we’d exchanged in the kitchen and soon found myself flashing back to kindergarten and the pretend lessons I used to conduct after school for Jamie. She hated being left behind while I got to learn how to read, and I used to love the importance of being her instructor.

When he cut the engine in the apartment garage, my mind awoke. I pretended to continue sleeping and let him carry me up the back stairs and inside to the couch. The weight of a quilt came over me, and soon I was dreaming about a man in a sweater.

White houses crumpled under his flapping wings. My ear rested on the warm back of someone I knew and loved. I hugged her tighter. “Girls,” the bird said, craning his neck back towards us. “Don’t look down.”

“I’ll call more, I swear.” My voice was released in a musical whisper, like the trill of a songbird.

I let go of Jamie and lifted my arms to see if I had wings. She slipped silently downward and I watched her fall through wisps of clouds. She was stretched out like a skydiver, as if she had a parachute that could save her.

Untitled Korrin Korbel

rough. On everyone. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Really?”

“Fuck, Mom. I could have cut and you wouldn’t even have noticed.”

She held a pot of boiling water in suspension and stared at me with the most placid expression I had ever seen her wear. She looked the way I had imagined she would if the police had ever knocked on the screen and told her she was down one daughter. It occurred to me that maybe she was feeling something similar, as if she really had lost a child. Deliberately hurting myself, had I ever done so, would mean game over—utter failure—for my mother, whose recurring error was only to care too much.

I waved my unblemished wrists—although rather flippantly; I may have been externally stung with remorse, but the resentment I could never pinpoint ran from a deep reservoir. “Well I never did,” I said.

Mom’s face was wetting just as Jamie and Vince strode through the door. “That’s bullshit, Mom. Don’t listen to her. She can’t even pluck her eyebrows,” Jamie said, squirming her feet free of the boots I had worn home. “She could never draw blood from her own wrists.”

Mom told Jamie to take Vince upstairs. When I was younger, I imagined I resembled something similar to a wall, hoping her critiques of my behavior might bounce off me and back into her mind. Then maybe she could hear the absurdity of it all. As I grew older, I found it harder to keep silent. I would hold out until I broke and yelled back a defense of myself, which only passed her the hand of power. It was a child’s game. I had been better at it as a child.

Mosiac 23

Professional Commentary on Middle Eastern History Elizabeth Leighton Pontius Pilate was Draconian badass who liked to crucify people.

Pharisees handed Jesus over saying he thought he was King of Palestine.

The Arabian Peninsula was an uncivilized pile of sand.

Mohammed the seal of the prophets like the wax seal.

Byzantines are nice, not a bad run for an empire, yaks and things like that, like something from ESPN- BUYID! “Please send Crusaders so I can eat their brains”.

Into the middle of this the European Crusaders wandered.

“Ooh, the Muslims have Jerusalem, you want to go over there…” being good Christians they slaughtered every man, woman and child.

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Chingiz Khan was so annoyed, he decided to conquer the world.

Don’t laugh, he’ll kill you.

Biggest empire ever.

The Mongols evaporated.

Well that was nice, but let’s get back to business.

Sack, rape, loot and take everything not nailed down.

Hey, if you light this, it’s really cool, it goes BANG! And someone said, “If I build one big enough, I could kill someone.”

Hm, we got crushed by the Ottomans with guns.

How do we fix this?

Let’s get guns.

The European visitors mistook the imperial councilors for the furniture they were sitting on.

The King of France decides to attack the Bay of Algiers because he whacked his ambassador with a fan.

No, you’re going to leave them alone, go back with your military and don’t come out and no dinner until I say.

You snooze, you lose, we give away your country.

Looking for an unemployed Arab king.

Tank drivers hate cities because you can’t drive your tank anywhere.

They didn’t do that because they had a sudden urge for couscous.

What did we do to you? Nothing, the Belgians will explain it all.

No, that is not Ringo Starr those are splattered Egyptian planes

and the shadow of an assault mirage.

The ISI creates the Taliban.

Taliban funded by the Saudis.

Warlords funded by poppies.

Both were getting weapons from the US. Hussein thought, “the US won’t mind if I gobble up Kuwait.”

Everyone’s starting to worry about dominos not the pizza chain.

Yitzak Rabin was shot to death ironically at a peace rally.

Arafat, guy with a beard and a potbelly running on a treadmill in a silk jumpsuit can’t stop the suicide bombings because it’s Hamas.

Ok, we hate you, but we can’t stop you.

Mosiac 25

Defeat Matt Stanford

The solitary man known simply as Jack to certain unsavory people brooded over the wedding ring resting on the bar. He was a hard man and worked for even harder people, organizations few dared to cross.

The backstreets and alleyways were a world connected to but set apart from the one most people saw, where the law was sneered at and honest men walked in fear. That was Jack’s world- most of the time. He was well-connected there and few would dare to mess with him.

But she had done more to hurt him with a single sentence than all the petty thugs of Chicago had been able to do in fifteen years. The more he drank, the more he realized what needed to be done, who was to blame for Cheryl leaving him. Jack had always known Mikey wanted her. When she was around Mikey would stare too hard, laugh too long, and took every opportunity to be close to her. But this- to betray his best friend, his partner was something Jack had never thought possible. She had been perfectly happy not knowing what he did, where the money came from. What Mikey expected to gain from telling her Jack could not understand; after all he was in the same business, she must despise him just as much. In their line of work, having a partner to watch your back was the difference between getting paid and going for a midnight swim wearing concrete 26 Mosaic

shoes. Nobody would work with Mikey after this.

After screwing one partner for a woman, he wouldn’t be trusted by anybody with half a brain. He was going to wind up in the gutter with a chest full of lead, and after a few more drinks Jack decided he was going to be the one to put him there.

He dropped the ring back into his coat pocket, paid his bill, walked past the floozy and her customer and stumbled out the door. The night was crisp, the slight breeze silent in the dark, empty streets. Jack wove a meandering path through the city, stopping occasionally to lean against a wall for no reason a sober person could fathom, staring into an empty sky, the stars obscured by the few streetlights. Stopping at a liquor store to buy a bottle of cheap booze, he realized he had forgotten his gun. Unable to recall the route home from this neighborhood, he decided to continue on to Mikey’s place. The empty bottle would work just as well.

After taking several wrong turns on a single block, a very confused and belligerent Jack found himself in front of his old partner’s apartment building. He stood there for several minutes, gazing at the old brick building, dark windows staring down upon him like empty eye sockets. All but one was black.

Light shone out of Mikey’s apartment. Jack took the handful of steps leading to the front door one at a time,

Can You See Debra Douglas keeping a hand on the railing. He rattled the door handle and was pleasantly surprised to find it unlocked. It took him several minutes to find the stairs, which he climbed the same as before; one slow step at a time, occasionally losing his balance and once having to sit down to wait for a wave of dizziness to pass.

Eventually his tired, bloodshot eyes focused on a door in front of him, the numbers 316 tacked to it. Jack reached out and after several failed attempts got his fingers on the six and pivoted it upward, so the numbers properly lined up read 319. He pulled his fingers back, letting the brass figure swing back down with a faint squeak. He was tired and suspected he was drunk, and wasn’t sure what he was doing in this dark hallway. All he wanted was to sleep, to close his eyes and make the pounding in his head go away for a while. Turning away, he shoved his hands into his pockets and felt the cold ring. Then he remembered.

Jack clenched the ring in his fist, turned back to the door, raised the empty bottle above his head and hammered on the old stained wood.

After several moments the door opened a few inches, a security chain visible. A familiar blue eye peeked out at him, opening wide in surprise. Jack wedged his foot in the doorway preventing it from being slammed in his face. With one furious shove he broke the cheap chain and threw the eye’s owner

behind it back into the room. Jack stormed in, murder written on his face. He stopped a few feet in, too drunk and uncertain of what to do next. There stood Cheryl wearing nothing but a flimsy pink bathrobe, blond hair still dripping and fear in her eyes. Mikey had just entered the room, also clearly having just exited the shower. They all froze, waiting for one of the others to do something. Slowly Jack slumped down, lowering the bottle he had been holding above his head. The anger seemed to drain from his body, leaving nothing but a broken man in its place. His fist unclenched, dropping the ring next to his scuffed old shoes. In a quiet voice he asked, “Why?”

After a silent moment Cheryl murmured “Mikey’s gonna quite, get an honest job... for me. We want to start a family. I always wanted children, Jack, but you wouldn’t allow it.”

“But you were happy...”

“No Jack, you were happy. I thought that meant I was happy too, but I wasn’t. I never was.”

Mikey stepped forward to put his arm around her, the light of victory shining in his eyes. Without another word Jack turned and left the room, made his way down the stairs and out into the empty streets.

Turning towards Phillies Jack decided he needed another drink.

Mosiac 27

Not Just Icicles Lauren Grevich

Barbara Bretting Photography Award

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Mosiac 29

30 Mosaic

Logophilia Adam Engel I found the package wrapped in twine worn and frayed by dust and time mantled deep in cobweb lines cavort, carom, contrive Inside the folded papers lay words forgot until that day fallen from the common way bastion, broach, belay They danced and twisted everywhere gladly freed into the air winding whither-whence they’d dare ensemble, err, ensnare

Opposite Page Brick Laid Birch Peter Weber Hand Applied Emulsion, Brick

But words are not inclined to roam as they are not of flesh or bone so gladly I gave them a home and now share them with you Defenestration, heresiarch, lugubrious, regale, confusticate, contrariwise, potentate, grimoire, adultate, admonishment, insipidity, wrest, infinitude

Mosiac 31

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Chase Me Mary Schaubschlager Monoprint

Catch Me Mary Schaubschlager Monoprint

Mosiac 33

Morning of Serenity and Spirit Katy Zart

The sun came up over the bluffs and brightened the mauve sky. It was a somber spring morning in southwest Wisconsin. Doug sat on the steps to his brother’s home and laced up his boots. He noticed the wetness of the morning dew as he walked over to his truck. As he started up the old Chevy he couldn’t help thinking about David. He would have loved this beautiful morning. With the sunrise at his back, Doug drove down to the Wisconsin river—David’s favorite place to fish. He soon got his boat into the water and marled around the river just to take it all in. The air was so fresh and the stillness of the water had a certain peacefulness to it. He couldn’t help but sense that David was watching over him. He smiled as he thought of all the great times he and his brother had shared on the river.

David had passed just two nights earlier. His death was calm and David faced it with acceptance.

As the ambulance had brought David home hours prior to his death, he had asked one favor—to slow down while crossing the Wisconsin River just so he could know he was there, the place he felt at home.

The place that he loved and had spent so many mornings just as Doug was enjoying at this moment.

The serene nature and his thoughts on death made Doug think of his sister. She believed that after her husband had died, he came back as a humming-

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bird. She claimed that at any family event, no matter where she was, a hummingbird would pay her a visit.

Apparently a hummingbird even visited her while on vacation in Florida. As crazy as it seemed, he wondered if David might be reincarnated as something in nature.

To keep his mind off mourning David, he began to fish. He fished and fished for hours with no luck. It was an odd morning on the river. From what he could tell, there were no other fishermen there.

The morning was so peaceful that he decided to relax and just enjoy the stillness that surrounded him. He felt at one with nature and for once in the last month he was at ease. His spirit seemed rejuvenated from this visit to the river and he felt that he was a step in the right direction from the hardship of losing his brother.

A gentle breeze cooled his body as he sat there, deep in his thoughts. Just then, in the near distance he heard a rustling in the spruces. A cardinal appeared and gracefully flew near. Doug watched in awe of its beauty as it landed on the left side of his boat. It perched there for a moment and gazed at Doug, and then it simply flew off over the hillside. His heart was happy once again with a feeling of David’s presence, for he knew deep in his soul that David was there.

A Fish Peter Weber Intaglio with chine collie

Mosiac 35

Forging a Side of Toast Heaven Cook

So here I stand, in the middle of it all with polished saucers of porridge and steamy tentacles that probe the air flying by my head.

Wham! Bam! Fwick!

A shell of bowl explodes, scattering porcelain shrapnel and gooey lumps of molten cereal.

Watch carefully and you’ll see them hiccup on the tiles.

My paper hat crumples as I’m hit.

Wham! Bam! Fwick!

A way is cleared for the mop and the broom and then converged upon like flies on a corpse by a machine of newspapers, sweater vests, and chirping cell phones.

I replace my hat and scratch the belly of their hunger to submission.

Wham! Bam! Fwick!

As the cash register slows, I stand triumphant.

I am king of the morning rush.

36 Mosaic

Mosiac 37

Untitled Ashley Beier

Rosie Chara Bouma-Prediger

Gerald Dayl Carlson Ink and Watercolor

38 Mosaic

Untitled Heidi Schraufnagel

Mosiac 39

I Came Upon a Love Bruce Goetz I came upon a love.

It was bleeding, lying against a garden wall.

From afar I noticed it Appearing like a withered flower without water.

Its petals still holding its beauty, Its leaves desperately reaching for life-giving sun.

It appeared abandoned, forgotten.

Time stopped, I watched it carefully, Hoping that it would revive and spring to life.

But its petals fell gently, one-by-one.

It seemed to cry out to me, Yet, I hesitated, not knowing why.

Slowly and carefully I approached, Captured by its beauty and its determination.

I knelt beside it, gazing, Filled with questions and wonder.

How can this be?

Why is this unattended in the garden?

Should I leave it, too?

I was smitten by its lingering fragrance.

Reaching out, I hesitated, But could not resist its pull.

Touching it gently, it drew me closer, Becoming less withered as I caressed its petals.

I will come often and tend to this flower Against the garden wall, Walking gently in the garden’s foliage.

Soft whispers of kindness, With honey kisses and gentle touches, I will ebb the flow of this love’s bleeding.

40 Mosaic

Overcoming the Trails of Generation Jason Terry Relief and Lithography Mosiac 41

42 Mosaic

Only Once Lauren Grevich The Road Rebekah Vrabel I ran my finger down your arm, tracking the brown and red plaid to the pink of your breast and tasted folds of flannel.

You rustled the edges of my papers and kissed the tip of my pen.

You wound your fingers into my hair, waiting for the breeze to tousle you I stood by the gravel road as dust and scent scratched my throat; A prayer for the gritty words to exfoliate the truth.

Mosiac 43

44 Mosaic

Anatomical Hallmark Heart Peter Weber Glazed stoneware

Tea-potrait Victoria Dawes Glazed stoneware

For The Dice Maker Jessica Brown

Barbara Bretting Creative Writing Poetry Award - Second Place

It’s not me typing that glint into your eyes as you lean back in your chair behind the desk, as we settle into this making of dice.

Dainty wires twirl the cube one click at a time, White faces wait for the imprint of dots, receive their new names in the touch of a typewriter, the smooth clatter of keys.

Just when I think we’ve reached the end of the page, no more words to unfurl, the tap tap ding! of some joyful thing gives me another line to fill like the woodpecker, good-natured as he batters his box, inexhaustible, and I wonder if you’d ever tell me that it’s time to just give it a rest.

I have this theory that I’ve made it all up, that I’ve devised your last looks, the goodbye that rests on my lips as you leave.

Maybe I should learn from the woodpecker, keep tapping, stop telling myself things I don’t believe.

You’re still here at your desk with chance in your eyes, an ivory sheen in your dice-casting gaze.

Mosiac 45

Ray of Peacock Korrin Korbel Relief 46 Mosaic

The Cultivation of Dust Katherine Boyk

Dust spewed up from the dirt road and settled in Frank’s lungs as he shuffled toward Main Street. He let out a bleak, cobwebby cough. Past the old bank, an empty store that used to be a bookshop. If you squinted at the glass window, you could find the outline of letters that had once spelled out the name of the store.

But Frank’s eyes weren’t very good, and he couldn’t remember the bookshop’s name anymore.

He reached the post office, the only building that showed any sign of prosperity. Perhaps the only business in town was sending things away and getting things from other, livelier places. Frank stepped up to the counter, as he had every day for the last three years, and asked if there was any mail for box 182.

And like every day for the last three years, the answer was “No, sir.”

Frank returned to the haze on Main Street, where the mid-morning sun gave an orange glow to the empty road. The first warm, sunny March day—it used to be an exciting time for Frank, the promise of a new year, a new crop. But now, in his old age, in this old Kansas town, it meant nothing. There was nothing to do, nothing to be done.

Frank walked to the diner down the block, where the black and white checkerboard floor and the red vinyl booths gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

At least this place wasn’t dusty—but the excessive cleanliness seemed to say that nobody ever sat in the booths and the waitress had nothing better to do than scrub the floor. Frank took a seat at a table.

The waitress jotted down his order before Frank even asked: “Eggs and a muffin, coffee with milk.”

Mosiac 47

Momento Mori Louis Figuero

“Maybe just the muffin and coffee,” Frank said. Eggs seemed too sunny-side-up today.

Frank ate and walked back up the dusty street.

He felt as much a part of this town as the crumbling wooden buildings, like the few barren trees still standing after a fire came through. These buildings and Frank had both seen better days. Perhaps it was time for Frank to let out a final, dusty breath and join all his old friends who now resided in the graveyard behind the elementary school.

office.

The next morning, Frank walked to the post “Box 182?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Frank turned to leave.

“Sir?” the woman behind the counter called

48 Mosaic

hesitantly. She had skin the color of rich soil, short hair in tight dreadlocks. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve been seeing you every day, and I don’t even know your name.”

“Frank,” he said. “Frank McHarris.”

“Nice to meet you, Frank. I’m Deborah.”

Frank nodded a greeting. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nope,” Deborah said. “Came here a few weeks ago.”

“Huh,” said Frank. He left, had his muffin and his coffee, walked home.

Back to the post office the next morning. “May I ask you, Frank, are you expecting a letter?” Deborah asked.

“Well, no, not expecting anything, no,” Frank said. “But I wish something would come.”

You Can Point at It Louis Figuero

Deborah nodded.

“From my daughter,” Frank added. Deborah continued nodding, her neat dreadlocks bouncing against her brown cheek. “And may I ask you,” Frank continued, “why a young, pretty girl like yourself would come to a town like this?”

“Well, I guess I don’t know,” Deborah said. “I just left home, started traveling. The post office here was hiring, so I stopped.”

“Huh,” Frank said.

He left, went to the diner. On the way home, he walked by the graveyard next to the school. How odd to have a graveyard beside an elementary school, to put the new and hopeful next to the tired and worn out.

It might be deep symbolism, or it might be bad zoning.

The next day was Sunday, so Frank went to

church instead of the post office. There was a statue on either side of the church entrance—on the left, Jesus on the cross; on the right, a rusty antique plow. Perhaps the people of this town had been crucified on a plow.

After the service, Frank noticed that Deborah was sitting in one of the back rows. He acknowledged her with a nod.

“No mail for box 182 today, I’m afraid,” Deborah said with a smile.

Frank chuckled.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee at the diner?” Deborah asked.

“Sure,” Frank said.

They walked up the dusty road to the diner, sat at a booth with squeaky bench cushions.

“Tell me about your daughter,” Deborah said after they ordered coffee.

Mosiac 49

“Hm?” Frank said. “Oh, my daughter. Yes, she’s about your age, maybe a little older. Lives in Chicago. She has two young sons. They might not be so young anymore.”

“Do you see her much?”

“No.” Frank shook his head. “It’s been...years.

I keep thinking she’ll call, write, see how her father and his farm are doing.”

“You have a farm?”

“Well, I had a farm. I haven’t grown much for the past few years. I’m getting too old to handle it by myself.”

“Huh,” Deborah said. “Farming.”

“And how about you, young lady? Where are you from?”

“Well, I grew up in Kentucky. A large-ish town, but not very interesting.” Deborah said. “After high school I hung around, worked a couple jobs, but it got boring. So I decided to leave, head west. I guess I was aiming for California, but haven’t made it there yet. I just stop wherever there’s a job, work a few months as a waitress, a desk clerk, whatever.”

“Hm,” said Frank.

The waitress brought the coffee, mugs steaming like a gentle breeze through golden wheat on an August day.

“I’ll have the biscuits and gravy,” Deobrah said. “I’ll always be a Kentucky girl at heart.”

“Muffin for me,” said Frank. “And eggs.”

By the second week of March, Frank’s instincts were telling him to get out and turn the soil.

But he knew there would be no soil-turning this year.

He didn’t have it in him. It would be rainy soon, but that didn’t matter if there were no seeds in the ground.

At least the rain would settle the dust.

Frank continued his daily pilgrimage to the post office, but now he went more to chat with Deborah than to check his mail. Sometimes they’d go to the diner on Deborah’s lunch break. Frank would talk about his life on the farm, Deborah would talk about her childhood in Kentucky, wonder about her future.

“Thing I miss most about Kentucky is my mama’s garden. I used to love playing in the dirt. She’d grow everything. Strawberries in June, cucumbers in 50 Mosaic

July, tomatoes in August. Never had a tomato as good as my mama’s.”

“My wife used to have a garden,” said Frank.

“Before she got sick.”

“If I ever make it to California, I’ll have a garden.”

Frank arrived at the post office the next morning just as it opened. “No mail for you today,” Deborah said with a shrug.

“That’s okay,” Frank said. “I’ve got something for you.” He handed Deborah a package wrapped in a plastic grocery bag, the handles tied into a bow like a present.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.” Frank’s eyes sparkled like a summer berry.

Deborah unknotted the plastic handles and looked in the bag. A flimsy black plastic pot, filled with rich brown soil.

“It’s a tomato plant. Well, it will be,” Frank said. “The seeds are a couple years old. My wife never got around to planting them. Thought you might like it.”

“I will cherish it. It’ll be the happiest tomato plant in Kansas. Thank you, Frank.”

Frank smiled. He realized his face muscles were no longer used to moving this way. “Would you care to accompany me home? I’d like to show you my farm. I think you’d enjoy it.”

“I’d be delighted,” Deborah said, returning his smile.

When Deborah’s shift ended, the two walked up the dirt road to Frank’s farm. It was a damp day, but with the dreariness of spring that held the promise of rejuvenation.

Deborah paused a minute on the porch, admiring the remains of the vegetable garden. A short picket fence enclosed the plot where the skeletons of last year’s flowers remained—a few of the sunflowers Frank’s wife had planted went to seed and came back each year. The last bursts of yellow energy left on the farm.

“What happened with your family?” Deborah

asked tentatively. “You said your wife got sick? And your daughter never writes?”

“That’s a long story,” Frank sighed. “Why don’t you come inside for some iced tea?”

They settled down in the living room, overlooking Frank’s fields.

“Let’s see,” Frank said. “Eleanor, my wife, got sick— oh, six years ago, now. My daughter, Anne, had just finished graduate school at Berkeley, but she came home to help out. Annie was nice to do it, but I knew she didn’t want to be back home on the farm.

She’d had enough of small town Kansas, wanted to get out, live in the real world. That’s what she always talked about, when she was younger. Kinda like you in a way, couldn’t stand staying at home.”

Deborah frowned.

“Any way, she took care of my wife and helped me with the farm work. Less than a year later Eleanor passed away. Anne made sure her father and his farm were well-situated, then she flew to Chicago.

She got a job, started a family, and hasn’t been back to Kansas since. I send cards for birthdays and Christmases, but she doesn’t want any of this life back.”

“Why not? Why doesn’t she at least give you a call once in a while?” Deborah asked.

“Well, when was the last time you called home?”

“I...” Deborah shook her head. “It’s been a while.”

“You should call your folks. Bet they’ve been missing their daughter, too.”

Deborah nodded her head slowly, staring off into the distance. “You know, I’ve been thinking, Frank,” she said after a short time. “When I left home, I was aiming for California, but I don’t really know why. What’s in California? White sand beaches and pink bikinis? That’s not for me. I think I just wanted to get away, and California sounded pretty far away. But Kansas is far enough. I kind of like it here. It feels... real, you know?”

Frank nodded his head, but he wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

Deborah’s face suddenly filled with the glow of the summer sun. “Will you show me around the farm?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The two trekked out to the fields, where the March rain had turned the dusty dirt thick and gloppy.

Frank bent down and picked up a handful of the mud.

“See that?” he said, squeezing the loam in his palm.

“Good dirt.” He placed it in Deborah’s hand so she could experience the soil.

There wasn’t much to see in the fields, nothing planted and nothing growing. Still, they stood under the gray sky for over an hour as Frank told stories about his years of caring for the land and loving the soil. The year he planted winter wheat in the spring by accident and couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t maturing in July; the summer it rained for a week straight and Frank pulled young Anne through the fields on an inner tube.

“So what’s going to happen to the farm this year?” Deborah asked.

“I don’t know,” Frank said. “It’s a real shame to let such good land lie fallow for another year, but I just don’t have what it takes to manage a whole farm anymore.”

“What are you going to do with the farm? Sell it?”

Frank sighed. “I don’t know. Some big commercial operation would love to get their hands on my land. They’d pay well for it. I could go visit my daughter in Chicago, then move some place warm...

“But I just can’t stand the idea of that happening to my farm. Owned by some corporation, the land would be worked by machines, not people. They would tear up the soil in a few passes, drop seeds in perfect rows. Come back a few weeks later to spray, and ignore it until it’s time to cut everything down in the fall. This land is my life’s work. I can’t let that happen to it.”

“Oh,” Deborah sighed.

When Frank entered the post office the next morning, he was greeted by an excited shriek: “There’s something in box 182!”

Deborah pulled out a fat manila envelope and handed it to Frank. There was no return address and no postage, the envelope simply marked “Frank”.

Mosiac 51

He opened it and pulled out a thick stack of paper.

“What’s this?”

“I did some research,” Deborah said, “about farming. I think organic is the way to go. Cover crops, compost, the whole deal. And what’s with you Kansas farmers and wheat? Mix it up, grow some green beans and some okra!”

“My,” Frank said, shuffling through the pages of how-to guides, research papers, and government data. “You’ve certainly done your research.”

“Sure have. I figure I’ll start small, eight, ten acres. Have my own farm stand, grow my customer base, maybe start a CSA in Topeka or Atchison. In a couple years, I’ll hire some help, increase production, maybe sell produce to the schools.”

“You’ve got this all figured out,” Frank said.

“But you forgot the most important part.”

“What’s that?”

“You need land.”

“Yes.” Deborah sighed.

“Land is expensive, and it’s hard to come by.

You don’t want just any old land either. Too many farmers treat their soil like dirt. You want land with good soil.”

“Yes.” Deborah nodded, chewing absently on her lip. “And equipment, a tractor at the least. It won’t be cheap, and I really don’t have anything saved up.”

“Hm,” said Frank. “And you just can’t learn farming from a book. It takes years of experience, and even then you mess up a lot.”

“Yes, I would imagine. And I really don’t know anything about business, either.”

“Well,” said Frank with a shrug, “then I guess there’s only one solution.”

Deborah raised her eyebrows.

“You’ll start farming my land, using my equipment. I’ll help you with whatever you need until you feel comfortable with farming. When you get your business established in a couple years, you can start buying the land from me.”

Deborah was speechless for a moment. “Would you really do that for me?”

“Of course. I’d much rather the land goes to a promising young farmer like yourself than some corporation. Someone who will care for the crops and 52 Mosaic

love the soil. Provide good, organic food for the community. That’s what this world needs.”

“Wow,” said Deborah. She stood speechless for a minute. “You mean I could start farming...right now?”

“Well, sure! You’re going to want to get the soil prepared as soon as possible.” Frank paused and examined Deborah’s face. “You look scared. This is a lot very fast, I’m sorry. You can wait, think it over.

You don’t have to plant until next year if you’re not ready.”

“It’s not that. Well, I guess it is pretty scary, to just jump right in to farming. But that’s not what I was thinking about.” Deborah hesitated. “Your daughter, she left all of this to go live in a big city. And I left my family in a big city to come to a farm in Kansas.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it just seems strange. But I guess that’s how the world is these days.”

Frank thought for a minute. “I suppose so. But if you can do what you want on the farm here, and Anne can live the life she wants in Chicago, and I can be happy that my land is in good hands, then I guess it all works out in the end.”

“Hm,” Deborah said. “I guess.”

“Well, come on then,” Frank exclaimed after a minute. “You’ve got some planting to do. Spring doesn’t just wait around for the farmer, you know!”

Mosiac 53

Untitled Matthew Knickelbine

54 Mosaic

Oppositie Page Octopus Sky Allie Polzin

Light Snow Turning to Rain Timothy Doyle The garden rocks this morning wore white wigs and pretended to be upper court magistrates.

Then they laughed ‘til they wet themselves and had to act like rocks again in order to regain composure.

I removed the screen from a window, the better to keep an eye on them; and now they stand, stock-still, waiting for me to be drawn to some small task – the dishes, stoking the stove, brushing my teeth.

Then, just around the corner of my eye, they’ll be up to their shenanigans again, I know.

Mosiac 55

Heart Juice Emily Betzler

Barbara Bretting Creative Writing Poetry Award - First Place I can’t do this dreamy starry stuff anymore

my hands won’t close around white whisps of thought

they want to grab up a ruby the size of my heart squeeze the color out of it, stain my palms crimson smear them across your faces; glowing, primal war paint Underground tunnels reeking of wet soil, cold bodies

hot hoards of absurd beings crowding the earthen cavern

pearly claws flashing from the shine of our ruby faces topaz teeth grinning, marble eyes and slinky tails

Hello, hello, hello! Join in!

We would discover the planet’s best-kept secrets

pound the stone with our feet shake foundations with wild dances We would plough into a swamp, up to our scalps

taste the decay of time, methane, the crawl of succession

weeds in our hair, scum in our noses

How long can you stay under

suspended in the vile and incredible?

A minute? Forever?

A lake, green sunfish slipping between vegetation like frightened, shadowy darts

our violent entrance exploding the crystalline water into shards of light

lily pads sticking squid-like to our bare skin The mud we’d kick up!

How the water would cloud!

The ocean, swim as ruby fish to a living reef and press our faces to the pale sand

eye-to-eye with the quivering shrimp

feel the rough scales of the grouper the mirror mirth of the brain coral Reach for air, dazzled with bare sunlight on salty seas or struck by a ceiling of soft, dark grey that breathes a breath of release and whips us into a spinning, crashing, careening tempest!

A time so packed with wild life that we have no need to beg for meaning

while our senses search for the boomerang of our thoughts

winging back from the world in elaborate disguise

An open, honest, dense existence –

unfiltered, unprocessed, harmonic and whole –

that flows and pulses with the juice of flesh and stone 56 Mosaic

Mosiac 57

Untitled EliZabeth Downy

Venus Flytrap Amber Mullen Her mere presence intoxicates a cloud of bubbling bar flies with a saccharine scent veiling the stench of ale, vomit, and sweat.

She dances, prudently, in a shadowy corner, considering each deliberate sway of her limbs.

A sizzling pop and drop liberates a swarm of pheromones.

She attracts the fragile -for obvious reasonsinept while dodging a dismal fate.

A single fly accepts the bait, buzzing breathlessly from the swarm.

Her hexing eyes seal the deal with a waxen stamp.

The syrup of desire drips from her spiked lips; he envisioned eternal satisfaction.

58 Mosaic

Opposite Page Untitled Korrin Korbel

She secretly ships his exoskeleton down her seductive stem.

Finished and the bar has run dry.

Mosiac 59

Nuclear Family 1951 Amber Mullen A young family in submission observes the Civil Defense broadcast.

Remember, children, there are two types of explosions: one with warning and one without warning.

When you see a big flash—no matter where you are— simply follow Bert the Turtle.

Duck and Cover!

The Smiths are hoping to be photographed in the flash of an atomic attack.

Four people crammed in a plywood box.

Father, recently returned from the war knows his wife and two boys are entitled to the bought life.

The Smiths are prepared for the big flash.

They’ve lathered their translucent skin with ultraviolet protection and boarded up their windows so they are not engraved by shrapnel.

A portrait photographer struts into the pop-up community with a label: Levittown.

Smile a moment, here it comes.

Fallout.

60 Mosaic

Dreams Dayl Carlson Ink Mosiac 61

62 Mosaic

Striations Jessica Brown

Once I composed a self-portrait, my hand holding pen tip to paper, I wrote a spiral-shell fossil bound in black rock, unwilling to take itself back, a water bead clouded as quartz.

This is where questions swirl like lovers mingling— the surface tension of you and your shining eyes as you slip by.

If I’d stayed in that portrait, laid bare by those words now rough in my palm— nautiloid cephalopod, a sigh left on the wind but never wasted on you— that museum case might have polished us perfect, but I’d never know there are only so many ways to say Orthoceras shell, Morocco, sixty-thousand years old.

Untitled Ashley Beier

By now you should know that I don’t skip stones, that I love the weight of them in my hand too much.

Mosiac 63

Elegantly Embraced Debra Douglas

64 Mosaic

All Taped Up Debra Douglas

Mosiac 65

66 Mosaic

The Nook Miguel Alvelo

The Man on the Bus Odetta King

Barbara Bretting Creative Wrtiting Fiction Award - Second Place

The Arab looked terrified.

He couldn’t be too physically comfortable, Carl admitted to himself. It was a wonder the unfortunate man could even breathe, squashed as he was between two large black women dressed for church. One of them was wearing a cheerfully yellow Sunday hat that took up at least a seat and a half. Seated as he was directly across from the Arab, Carl had a close-up view of the beads of sweat trickling down the man’s thin face.

The air conditioner on the bus was doing its dwindling best in the afternoon heat, but it was fighting a losing battle. Wash-

ington, D.C. in August is the worst time of year to visit, the yearly hordes of tourists notwithstanding. The unrelenting sun is magnified in the reflections from hundreds of glasspaned windows. Makeup melts off and hair frizzes and clumps as soon as a person steps into the eighty percentplus humidity. The heat stagnates and gathers strength as the day wears on, so that the nights can sometimes be even hotter than the days.

If they can get away with it, citizens move from house to car to work without spending more than a few

minutes at a time out in the open, but Carl knew firsthand that acclimation can only go so far. He had been through many recordbreaking summers in DC, but the transition from the cool, dim safety of his plant-filled office on the twelfth floor to the glaring and dust-clogged urban sauna outside always hit him with the force of a body blow.

The bus hummed as it picked up speed and left the main street to enter the traffic-clogged tunnel below Dupont Circle. Carl glanced up as several tall office buildings flashed by. He caught a quick glimpse of a lobby, queued men in suits taking off their jackets Mosiac 67

for a metal detector, before the bus was swallowed up into the ground and he could see only smooth walls and hear only the roar of the tunnel.

He had always hated the feeling of being closed in, trapped within circumstance. It was why he never took the metro to and from work, even though it would have cut a good ten minutes off of his commute. A rumbling shudder shook the bus, and Carl tore his gaze from the window, focusing on the people with whom he temporarily shared air and space.

The two churchgoers were complaining loudly about the heat over the Arab’s head, one of them gesticulating wildly and almost knocking her companion’s hat off. To his left, where the seats began facing forward again, an elderly Latina was staring serenely at the floor, a lack sack of groceries occupying the seat next to her. Holding onto the ceiling handhold and glaring fixedly at the offending groceries, a thin white man with glasses swayed gently back and forth with the motion of the bus. On his other side, a teenage girl was listening to headphones while viciously chewing her lower lip, occasionally bobbing her head up and down to the beat.

The rest of the passengers were blocked from his view by the sheer volume of people that were cramming up the rear of the bus.

They had clearly taken the driver’s directive to “move to the back!” extremely seriously.

Carl was glad he’d been able to snag a seat. He was worn out from a day of overseeing 68 Mosaic

an endless blur of cover sheets, memos, and convoluted project proposals. In some ways, it had been easier at the beginning, when he’d first moved to DC as a cocky young intern. They’d all been like that before 9/11. Secure in their invincibility, calmly treading the carpeted halls of their office buildings, relaxing behind ornate mahogany desks. Now, nowhere was safe, and every move was monitored and recorded.

Ignorance was no longer an excuse for negligence, and neither was exhaustion. Carl rubbed his aching eyes and shifted restlessly, facing forward again. As he did his mind suddenly registered the incongruity of the Arab’s attire. The foreigner was completely swaddled in oversized black pants and a thick long-sleeved shirt. What on Earth was he thinking? Considering the large number of old people and children who died every year from heatstroke, the man’s choice of clothing seemed downright suicidal.

To top it all off, he’d added a dotted black and white head covering. It covered his entire neck and clung damply to his skull, framing a long face with thick lips and a soaked black beard. Carl felt an uncomfortable pang of recognition as he realized what the man was wearing. He remembered well the occasion when he’d learned the meaning behind the simple looking scarf. He’d been strolling past the old Georgetown ice cream parlor last fall with Judy (a co-worker who, through mutual convenience, had morphed into a lover) when

she had stiffened in outrage.

“I’ll be that silly girl has no idea what she’s supporting by wearing that crap,” she’d hissed, directing his attention towards a young woman sporting the same distinctive black and white scarf, this one jauntily knotted around her neck. Carl had shrugged indifferently, assuming the scarf was out of season, or some other fashion faux pas nonsense, but Judy had become uncharacteristically strident.

“Wearing a kafia is nothing short of proclaiming your support for Palestine!” When Carl had remained silent, not wanting to contradict her, she’d wrenched her hand free of his and come to a halt on the sidewalk. “Palestinians are suicide bombers, Carl. Haven’t you been paying attention? Suicide bombers are terrorists! That girl is as anti-American as you can get, and I’m not going to tolerate that shit!” And she’d proceeded to chase the poor girl down and give her hell, which Carl didn’t hear because he was busy impersonating a deaf window shopper.

Not that she didn’t have a point, he thought now as he glanced at the man across from him. Instead of ignoring him, the Arab rolled his eyes upward in immediate response. The large dark orbs seemed to sear through Carl’s contact lenses, and his pulse jolted into high gear.

He quickly looked away, reminded of the feeling he sometimes got at the airport, when the person in front of him was selected for a ‘random screening’. It was usually a man, with dark skin or a beard,

and he always seemed to catch Carl’s eye as he was led away, his expression both supplicating and accusing. Carl considered himself a fairly liberal guy, not prone to jumping to conclusions, but he had always felt vaguely relieved that airport security was so onthe-ball. He couldn’t deny that the possibility of attack existed; it was the US, after all, who had funded Palestine’s arch enemy, Israel, for years. They were indirectly responsible for every bulldozed home and murdered relative, and though Carl knew that not all Palestinians were bomb-wielding terrorists, he also knew that they had an excellent motive for revenge.

The whine of a siren blasted into his troubled musings, and he looked out the window again, watching the traffic part for a line of flashing police cars. The bus had periodically lurched to a halt while gradually making its way to the Georgetown Clinic, but it had finally eaten up a significant amount of ground.

More people were disembarking than boarding; only Carl and the Arab were left at the front of the bus, and the crowd in the back had thinned considerably.

In the silence after the sirens had faded, Carl became aware of the unnatural harshness of the man’s breathing. The sound seemed to increase in volume and tempo the closer they got to the hospital. Why was he so nervous? His eyes had begun darting back and forth with feverish zeal, reflecting the trapped look of a cornered ferret. He was balancing a small black duffel bag

on his lap, a detail Carl had previously failed to notice. His fingers were clutching its sides as if he expected it to fly out of his grasp at any moment.

Carl jerked as the man’s breathing was drowned out by a loud crackle. A prerecorded message came over the speaker, one Carl had heard over and over again in the past few years:

“May I have your attention, please. The current security threat level, as established by the Department of Homeland Security, is orange. Travelers are advised to keep their belongings close at hand and to report any suspicious behavior to the proper authorities. Thank you.”

Carl glanced at his watch, trying to appear casual as his heart pounded heavily. He tried to gauge the Arab’s reaction to the announcement without looking directly at him. The sweating face across the aisle was tense and resolute. The man’s foot tapped out an erratic rhythm against the bumpy surface of the bus floor.

Carl moved his head slowly, pretending to stretch as he feverishly attempted to discern the reactions of the remaining passengers to the announcement. Had anyone else realized that the man in the front of the bus was exhibiting class-A suspicious behavior?

The teenage girl was obliviously snapping a piece of gum, thumping out the beat on the back of her neighbor’s seat. The man with the glasses had finally usurped the position of the grocery bags, and was now settled into his seat with his eyes closed. A few other stragglers

stared blankly at the floor, sweat crawling lazily down their pallid faces.

It was up to him, then, if it came down to the wire. But what to do? As a youth he had often mentally staged dramatic rescue scenes while waiting in line at the post office or grocery store. He would picture himself saving a beautiful woman from an attack in a dark alley, always elaborately photoshopping his own image to fit the fantasy. He considered his imaginings to be practice rounds for the real thing, and when peering down at the mall food court from three stories up, saw a controlled leap from floor to floor, ending on top of the smoothie stand tent roof, as perfectly conceivable, if one simply planned it out well enough.

This situation, then, was his first test in the real world. He had to proceed with caution; he couldn’t after all convict the man based solely on his suspicions. He decided to engage the Arab in a dialogue and decide on a course of action from there.

Carl leaned forward slightly, grabbing the sticky metal pole next to him for support, and attempted to once again make eye contact with the man across the aisle. Now that he wanted to meet them, the Arab’s eyes kept shifting away, as if he couldn’t believe that Carl meant to ignore the tacit avoidance of conversation that is de rigueur on public transportation in the city. Carl cleared his throat loudly, deciding to plunge in recklessly.

“Hot today, isn’t it?”

Mosiac 69

The Arab tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“Makes you wonder if this is what Hell is like, doesn’t it? You believe in Hell? Or Heaven?”

The man’s eyes widened and a look of deep hurt spread over his face.

“No one can know what truly awaits us on the other side,” he said in a soft, even cadence, the formal words sounding natural on his tongue. “Some people are taken before their time, yet we must accept this and not condemn the taker. There is always a reason behind every action.” He fell silent abruptly and stared at the floor, seeming bitterly resigned, tensing as if for a blow.

This was all that Carl needed to hear. This was no fantasy, and they were all in terrible danger. Everything added up: the fearful anxiety, the suspicious package…the philosophical rationalization of murder. He tore his gaze from the would-be terrorist and forced himself to look out the window again. He caught a glimpse of a street sign and realized that his stop was coming up next. He raised a finger to his mouth and tore at the skin around the nail with his teeth. He was running out of time. He could take the coward’s way out and leave these people to their questionable fate, or he could take a risk, for once, and see this thing through. The bus rumbled over cobblestones and wheezed to a stop, the open doors inhaling a mouthful of fetid air. Carl stayed where he was.

The next five minutes were given over to waiting, for what 70 Mosaic

Carl had no idea, but he was ready for anything. He fidgeted and fretted, keeping an eagle-eye on his opponent and trying to predict his next move. The Arab also seemed to be waiting, his body arched forward in tense suspension, hands clenching the blue plastic seats.

They were en route to the hospital when the Arab’s pocket began a shrill ringing. It was as effective as an electric shock on both of them.

The man eagerly snatched a small cell phone to his ear, listening with palpable anxiety. His whole body then seemed to sag like a deflating balloon.

“Ah, then it is done. No, we both knew it might end like this. We were told there would most likely be complications.” He lifted a trembling hand to his face, smoothing his beard with exaggerated care. “She would have wanted it this way, I know. It was decided long ago as to who would be chosen when the time came. I have fulfilled the promise that I made and must now suffer the consequences. Go with God, my friend.”

He slapped the phone closed and stood up, wavering dangerously in the aisle and then shakily recovering his balance.

They were seconds away from the hospital entrance. Carl knew he couldn’t let the man reach his target, not now. In a lightningfast move, the man turned and began to unzip the duffel bag, his posture full of dark intent.

There was no time to think.

Carl felt like a jungle cat poised to spring upon its unsuspecting prey.

His whole life had been leading up

to this, the endless mediocrity forever washed away in this one moment of glory. He didn’t fear death; in fact, he almost craved it, for his courageous demise would forever immortalize him among the country’s greatest heroes. His chest felt tight with pride in his self-sacrifice, and he struggled to draw a breath in the clotted atmosphere. Clenching his fists in resolve, he leaped upon the back of the soft-spoken threat to national security, screaming for everyone to “get down! He’s got a bomb!”

They struggled wildly in the middle of the aisle, the middleaged pudgy white man and the thin but wiry Arab. The grooves on the plywood floor dug brutally into Carl’s back. His struggle for air was now desperate. His whole body had become a mass of pain, centralized in the middle of his chest. He felt as if the bomb had already gone off inside of his body.

Some part of him realized that he was having a heart attack, but it was a small part. The larger part of him was focused on the open duffel bag. It had been kicked under the seat and was now resting beside his head. He could hear the angry shouts of his fellow passengers in the background, but they were slowly becoming more distant, like the fading hum of a retreating swarm of bees. The only clear reality in his world was the open duffel, and the objects that rested within it: a breast pump, a box of chocolates, and a pair of bubble-gum cigars, one pink, one blue.

Harvest Allie Polzin Overleaf Fat O’ the Lan’ Louis Figuero Mosiac 71

Road Haiku Timothy Doyle 1) Road, fields, sky, and woods all muffled in shades of grey.

Headlights slice the dawn.

2) Red, yellow, and grey, a wet leaf slaps my windshield; October morning.

3) Road, fields, sky, and woods all muffled in shades of grey.

Headlights slice the dawn.

5) On the cusp of Spring; mud smell and reddening buds in lingering light

4) Construction paper, punctuated by scarecrows; what landscape is this?

Face Down Debra Douglas Alok’s Cabinet of Curiosities Emily Betzler

Barbara Bretting Creative Writing Fiction Award - First Place

Julie knew it would pay off in no time. A new ergonomic kneeling chair, coverings of real leather over memory foam, and a Russian Olive frame. Moving to the area had been stressful enough; getting a job right off the bat had been a pleasant surprise, but it brought with it its own set of stressors. Stressors, she knew, could cause digestive problems, among other things, and she was willing to do battle with even the most daunting of obstacles if it meant protecting her health. This chair was her first step. Anyways, it was about time she did something nice for herself.

She walked into her cubicle one morning, and her chair was gone. Her mind froze in mid-thought, and she spent a moment staring at the empty space.

74 Mosaic

The white vinyl flooring seemed much more expansive now. Her eyes shifted to the right, and then the left. No chair. She stepped back and looked around.

It wasn’t in the hallway. Her eyebrows scrunched and she tried to remember. Yes, she’d left it here yesterday. She poked her nose around the corner into Jay’s cubicle. Julie didn’t know him very well yet, but he had long hair and seemed a bit shifty. He often tried to make artistic comments about the fruit bowl paintings that populated this floor.

“Jay?”

“Oh, hey, Julie. Happy Tuesday,” he said, swiveling around on the seat of his roller.

“Have you seen my chair?”

“Your chair? That new one?”

“Yeah.” His eyebrows were raised. Feigned surprise?

“Maybe ask Al. The janitor.”

“Ah. Thanks.” She ducked back into her own cubicle. Al the janitor. She didn’t know these things yet. She’d only been working here for two weeks.

“New color today?” came Jay’s voice, floating over the wall between them.

“What?” she asked, hoping the top half of his head wasn’t about to creep above the wall and stare at her. It did. A dark tentacle of hair started to slither down her side of the wall.

“Did you dye your hair?” he asked.

her desk, eat goldfish crackers and bananas that she brought in plastic banana-shaped guards, drink oily coffee, and think of ways to irritate her employees.

Julie hadn’t confirmed this with the rest of her team, but it had to be true.

Grete was one of those people that you couldn’t show your weaknesses to, and Julie knew she had weaknesses. She knew she looked a bit frail, and her eyes seemed to google around a bit, which made her look kind of ditzy sometimes. She had a trace of airheadedness that she inherited from her father, and now she mentally purged herself of it. Grete may be my boss, she told herself, but… she couldn’t put the exact thought into words, so instead she shook her

“Did I… no, of course not. I don’t dye. Natural blonde. Where’s my goddamn chair?” Trying to look as distracted as she could, she bent down to search under the desk. The chair was collapsible, after all. But she hadn’t stowed it away. She stood back up, straightening her black skirt, and Jay was still there, a floating head, eyes staring. He made her feel like she was in a Muppet Show act.

“I’ll find it,” she reassured him, wishing he’d disappear behind the wall and forget about her.

“You going to ask Al about it?”

“Yes, I’ll ask. Where can I find him?”

“Don’t know. Ask Grete. When you see Al will you ask him if he’s seen my paper weight around? It’s

mental fist in a threatening manner.

She came to Grete’s office; the door was open, and she knocked timidly before stepping over the threshold. Today, Grete’s skeletal form was huddled inside a sleeveless crimson sweater, which matched her lipstick. The redness of her getup made her pale skin look deathly. She flicked tiny orange crumbs from her fingers, and then wrapped them around her purple plastic banana guard, as if Julie was here to steal her last banana. Her desk was immaculately empty.

“Yes?”

“Um, where’s Al the janitor?”

“Let’s see, it’s 8:50… He won’t be through here for another two hours. He should be down on

been gone for a while. I hope I didn’t throw it in the recycling again. My friend bought it for me when he was in Cancún.”

“Yeah, sure.” He may have said ‘good luck’, but she couldn’t hear him over the click of her heels on the polished floor. Al sure knew how to polish a floor.

She strode with a purpose, fueled by irritation.

Jay was irritating, the paintings of fuchsias and fruit bowls were irritating, and Julie didn’t think much of her boss, Grete, after having first met her over some oily coffee. All the woman ever did was sit in

Level 2 now. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just my chair’s gone.”

Grete’s eyes widened with pity. Her eyelashes, weighted down with mascara, spread like stretching spiders.

“Was it a special chair?”

“Yeah, actually. Have you seen it?”

“No. But find Al; if it’s been moved, he’ll know where it’s been put.” Her eyelids halfway collapsed as she said it, and the corner of her shining mouth twitched toward her spider eyes. It might have been an attempt at a reassuring smile. Then Grete released her hold on the purple banana guard, reached Mosiac 75

under her desk and brought out a bag of goldfish. Julie knew when she was being dismissed.

Two levels down the elevator, and Julie thought Level 2 had to be the blandest office space she’d ever set eyes on. She should have snagged some goldfish to leave herself a trail. At first she thought she would be able to remember where she had been by keeping track of the pale paintings that punctuated the halls on even intervals, but the paintings down here were even more boring than the paintings upstairs.

They were nondescript abstract compositions of inoffensive color.

Evidently, people on this floor kept to themselves. The first person she asked said he had no idea where Al might be, and the second person confessed he didn’t know who Al even was. Nobody knew where his closet was hidden. Heaving a sigh, she supposed that as long as she went about her search in a businesslike way, it was okay for her to be spending her time looking for her chair. That’s what people did in businesses, after all. They were business-like.

After a few minutes, she found the closet, jammed down a badly-lit hallway. Al the janitor was not near his closet. The door was slightly ajar, and a mop bucket stood against the hallway wall, fresh soap bubbles crackling quietly. He must be near. Glancing at her watch, she gauged how much time she had to stand around waiting. She did have work to do.

Maybe he was in his closet, she thought, and pulled the door open.

Nope.

Although… she stopped herself from backing out immediately. This wasn’t entirely what she might expect from a janitor’s closet. It was the most decorated place on this level that she’d seen so far. There were photos tacked into the wall, some of children and some of men and women in their wedding regalia. She wondered how many of the kids were Al’s, and how many were nieces and nephews. She wondered which of the grooms was Al. 76 Mosaic

Farther back in the little closet there were posters taped onto the walls. Assuring herself that this space was public access and she wasn’t, in fact, invading anyone’s privacy, she flipped on the light. The posters were dusty, some were faded or rain-stained, ink dried in washed-out rivers. One of the posters looked to be an old movie advertisement, Wasp Woman scrawled loudly across the paper above a graphic comic cutout of a giant wasp with a Shirley Temple head. Another was a poster advertisement for the local high school play, “Little Shop of Horrors”. Maybe he had a kid in high school. Though, she noticed, squinting, the play had been fourteen years ago. The more posters she studied, the quicker she came to the conclusion that Al must be one of those weird eclectic types. Maybe he was one of those people that they hired out of pity.

In fact, he’d probably be quite offended if he found her snooping around through all his stuff. Even if the closet was community space.

As she turned, she read the words cabinet of curiosities scribbled across a wrinkled sheet of printer testing paper. It was hand-written in highlighter, and she paused for a moment to read it.

Alok’s Cabinet of Curiosities!

Collected locally Display on Level Five, where the oddist of the odd accumalate natraully…

See! Wonders of mecanical world

See! Majikal crystals

See! Blades of obscure purpose

See! Exotic non-chair See! See!

“Well I never,” she huffed. It was one thing to have a heart and employ someone who otherwise might not have a chance. It was entirely another to hire on a thief. Exotic non-chair. Her ergonomic kneeling

chair did not belong in a curiosity shop. She flipped off the light and shut the door and there was a man leaning down to grab the mop bucket. She jumped.

“Pardon, miss,” he said, looking a bit shocked himself to see her.

“Jesus, you scared me.” His brass tag labeled him as Allen Gartner. Her resolve weakened a bit as she looked him over; his glasses were slipping off the bridge of his short nose. He was pear-shaped. “I was just looking for you. My chair is missing.”

“Oh. I guess I can get another one for you.

Someone probably took it for the seminar yesterday.”

Either he was being sneaky, or he had no idea that she wasn’t talking about just any old office chair.

“No, this one was special. It was ergonomic,” she said, enunciating the last word and scouring his face for a reaction. His eyebrows rose a little, as if he didn’t quite understand what ‘ergonomic’ meant, but was willing to look impressed anyways.

“I think I’ve seen that kind before, yeah. I’ll keep my eyes open for it. Haven’t gone up to level 4 in the past day or so, can’t say I know about it.” He flopped his hand helplessly at his side as he spoke.

Surely he was trying to get himself in the clear. She wasn’t going to let him off so easy. She felt her eyes start to bug out at him, and she tried to rein them in.

She’d look more threatening if she were squinting.

“Are you quite sure you haven’t seen it?” As Julie spoke she took a step closer, watching for beads of sweat to start popping out of his pores. “People kept telling me that you’d know where it is. They sounded awfully sure of themselves.”

“Oh, well that’s probably because I have the keys to the camera room.” He brightened, and began searching his pockets, presumably for the key. “Would you like to check over the tapes? We can watch the one from last night, or this morning, or even watch it live!”

“No, no,” she said, wondering how much time Al spent watching people in their cubicles. If he had

taken her chair, and she was sure that he had, he must have removed the taped evidence already. “I’ll look somewhere else. Thanks, though.” She backed away a few steps, then decided to go for sympathy; maybe guilt could do it. “Let me know if you see anything.

That chair was for my digestive health.” To that he smiled meekly. She turned and clicked away down the hall, the sound of a mop bucket being rolled around echoing after her.

Why should she have confronted him about it? She’d just march up to this so-called Cabinet of Curiosities and get her chair herself. The way to get things done was to do it yourself. Who did he think he was, pinching people’s stuff? Didn’t anyone else ever notice?

Once Julie found the elevator, it was a relief to see the doors close before her, cutting her off from the washed-out Level 2. Her fingers faltered, searching for the right button.

There was no Level 5 on the button pad. That’s right; she lived on the highest floor.

She pressed Level 4 instead, and thought.

Maybe Level 5 was maintenance. Maybe that’s where they stored all their maintenance and extra janitorial stuff. There must be a stairway that would bring her up to the next floor.

Back on her own turf, she breezed down the hallway and headed straight for the fire stairway. Passing Grete’s office, and then Grete’s boss’s office, the floor became carpeted, muffling the fall of her heels.

She pushed open the heavy door and waited for the automatic lights to flicker on.

No stairway up.

Briskly, she stalked back to her desk. The rolling office chair offered itself up as a pathetic replacement for her new one. It made her spine feel old and creaky. Shifting about, she tried to assess the situation.

On the one hand, she could just about already feel her stomach and intestines protesting all the stress that was now not being relieved by kneeling in her special Mosiac 77

chair. On the other hand, she had a stack of reports to work on that she suspected wasn’t going to disappear.

“Find your chair?” asked Jay, whose head once again poked up from beyond their wall.

“No.”

“Did you find Al?” “Yeah.”

“But he didn’t know?” Her eyes bugged out a little in irritation, and she pretended to be absorbed in a data folder.

“No, he had no idea.”

“No paper weight either, then?”

“Nope.”

“Bummer.”

She didn’t reply, and after an awkward silence Julie heard him lower himself back down into his own chair, which squeaked a little under his weight. She spent the next few hours despondently putting numbers into a computer, regretting her lack of ergonomic support and pondering the existence of Al’s cabinet.

She had little doubt that he’d taken her chair but she didn’t know what her next move could be. He seemed to have all the bases covered. It didn’t make sense that Al had taken her chair, anyways, if his rounds on this level were at 11 in the morning.

At noon she finished her first report, and walked it over to Grete’s office.

“Here’s the trend report.”

“Thank you, you can put it into my sorter. How did the report go?” Grete’s eyes wandered across the top of her desk, clearly not caring how the report had gone. Her fingers twitched restlessly.

“It went fine.”

“Good, good. Thanks…”

“Say Grete, is there a fifth floor in this building?” Her boss looked up at her briefly, as if assessing whether Julie had been serious.

“No. I don’t think so. I’ve never tried to get there if there is one.” Grete’s eyes fell again, and she said no more. The purple banana guard was no longer 78 Mosaic

on her desk, Julie noticed absently, which made Grete seem considerably less intimidating. Julie returned to her cubicle and took a seat. It was almost two o’ clock and she still had six reports to look over.

Opening the first one, she told herself she’d keep her eyes and ears open for any mention of an ergonomic kneeling chair, Al, or a fifth floor. Her guts told her they wanted an ergonomic chair now, so she placed her fingers over the keyboard to type in the company’s name and maybe order a new one. Before she got any letters out Julie was suddenly quite conscious of the back of her head; how her hair looked, the angle of her ears as she faced her computer screen.

She turned, glanced behind her. A bowl of fruit stared back.

Never Free Rebekah Vrabel I wrote a letter and tore it up, but the words still haunt me.

I burned it and now it is ash – yet the stench reminds me.

I blew the embers over the garden.

Now the flowers lend singed tears.

So I ripped them from their roots.

White blood covers my hands.

The dirt is calm and dark keeping my hand cool and moist – freedom from your memory can only be found in Earth.

Mosiac 79

Quandary Timothy Doyle Schroedinger’s cat, they say, is both alive and dead, Waiting only upon us to make the determination.

We vacillate, caught up in our own confusions; Wanting to believe, to place this god-awful responsibility In the hands of another, in the hands of fate, In the hands of God. Some minor random event, they say, has led to this; As if we were mere placeholders, Caught up in algorithms beyond our grasp.

What finally forces our hand?

What drives us to try that lid, When we know that whatever we do will Mean the death of certain possible futures?

80 Mosaic

Opposite Page Myself Peter Weber

Some minor random event has put us In this position, in which we must act, In which we cry out for a clue, for a sign, for a reason; In which, finally, we hear only the echoes of our own cries.

Mosiac 81

I watch in twilight, listening to seagulls’ shrieks as lapping seas close in.

Fears suspended in beach sands concentrate toward land, barricade the doors.

Last night I stayed in scared, locked out the looming sky even though I know birds bed down in parking lots under lamplight glow, awake alone, unruffled, raise gray eyes and fly.

I watch, bent-kneed in the wind.

I watch, bent-kneed in the wind.

82 Mosaic

Ponzio In Dark Jared Ursin

From The Buffeted Pier Jessica Brown

Northland College has a burgeoning artistic population and the Mosaic provides a platform for the dissemination of students’, employees’, and professors’ literary and visual arts. Published once during the school year, the Mosaic allows the population at Northland College to be exposed to some of the campus’s best work free of charge. The magazine is designed and edited by two dedicated student editors. At the end of each academic year, the current editors interview and select two qualified students to be next year’s editors. In this way, the Mosaic is an exciting and constantly evolving publication, reflecting the contemporary tastes of the student body.

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ng2011 ThisisNorthlandsspring2011Mosaic