Impressions 2017 by Dickinson State University

m pre

sosin

m pre

sosin

Volume XXIX, 2017 Dickinson State University

ABOUT IMPRESSIONS Impressions is Dickinson State University’s annual literary and art magazine. Founded in 1989, the magazine has been produced by students of English 213, the Department of Language and Literature’s literary publications course, since 2005. We consider submissions of creative writing, photography, and two-dimensional artwork by DSU students, faculty, staff, alumni, and regional high school students. All work should be submitted using our online submssion form, which can be found, along with our submission guidelines, contact information, and most recent issue at dickinsonstate.edu/impressions. © 2017 by the editors of Impressions. All future rights to material published in Impressions belong to the individual authors and artists. Any reproduction or reprinting of this material requires their permission.

The staff and advisors would like to thank Dickinson State University and the Department of Language and Literature for funding the magazine. We would like to thank Short Run Printing, LTD. We would like to thank the GDES-250 Typography class, Josh Reed, Derek Huether, and Emily Maher, for their professional designs for the Impressions Call to Submit posters. We would also like to thank Salena Loveland for volunteering to help us with the final proofreading. Most of all, we would like to thank those who have submitted their work for consideration. Without your willingness to share your work, we could not achieve our mission of encouraging the practice and appreciation of literary and visual arts.

2017 IMPRESSIONS STAFF

STUDENT EDITORS MEGAN DAILEY JOSH REED

STUDENT ADVISOR JESSICA GREBNER

FACULTY ADVISORS PETER GRIMES DARLA HUESKE

EDITORS’ WELCOME What does it mean to make an impression? The artists within this edition of Impressions have found a way to leave a lasting mark on each of us who have gotten the opportunity to read and view their work. We hope that the artists will do the same for each of you who open this book filled with talent, emotion, and passion for the work that they have done. How do we make an impression last? Though most artists will say that everything has been done, every story has been written, every painting has been painted, we feel differently. Every artist is unique, as is every story, painting, or poem. It takes the vulnerability of artists to be willing to share their own vision the way that they see it, experience it, live it. We encourage those of you who open this edition to be as vulnerable as the artists and let their pieces inspire you, bring life to you, and most of all leave their lasting impressions. We would like to welcome your eyes to the twenty-ninth volume of Impressions. This is the second year that Impressions has been guided by Dr. Peter Grimes. Also, this is the second year that our magazine has been perfect bound with smaller dimensions, ensuring that the artists have their own page to share their story or their vision. This year’s magazine presents a work of Dickinson State University students, staff, faculty, and alumni, as well as high school students from the surrounding area. This has been an exciting year as this magazine has been the production of a two-part class. The student staff have been given the unique opportunity to pick from a wide variety of submissions and focus on editing in Dr. Grimes’ Literary Publications course and then work on the design and layout of the magazine in Graphic Design 343 with Darla Hueske. This year’s submissions almost tripled last year’s. We were also excited to receive a submission unlike any other that has been sent in before - a graphic narrative. We would like to thank you, the reader, for taking the opportunity to read what we have enjoyed creating. We hope that something within these pages leaves you with a lasting impression. Sincerely, Impressions Staff

2017 AWARDS DICKINSON STATE UNIVERSITY STUDENTS FICTION First Prize

Hailey Entze – The Scoop

Second Prize

Kendra Cox – Dreaming of Donuts

CREATIVE NONFICTION First Prize

Emily Suwyn – The Most Humbling Hike

Second Prize

Salena Loveland – Plain Heart

PHOTOGRAPHY First Prize

Emily Suwyn – Moment for a Monument

Second Prize

Maclyn Hauck – Tenderness Within

POETRY First Prize

Christine Hetzel – Stone-Hearted

Second Prize

Hailey Entze – Reflection

TWO-DIMENSIONAL ART First Prize

Sally Herauf – Grandma’s Chair

Second Prize

Briana Dolechek – Energetic Pup with Hay Bales

HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS CREATIVE WRITING First Prize

Abigail Petersen – Colors

Second Prize

Rose Bateman – From the Novel C.

VISUAL ART First Prize

Moriah Tonole – Rain

Second Prize

Kadan Olson – Nature’s Mirror

TABLE OF CONTENTS FICTION Kendra Cox — Dreaming of Donuts.................................................................................2 Salena Loveland — Internet of Things.............................................................................5 Hailey Entze — The Scoop............................................................................................. 10 Olivia Goguen — The Quelled...................................................................................... 14 Darian Coghlan — Edith Rose ....................................................................................... 17 Karena Verbitsky — The One Who Can See ............................................................. 18 Anthony Steele — The Expedition to Propreté ........................................................... 22 Rose Bateman — From the Novel C. ............................................................................. 24 Samantha Heen — Joy on a Tuesday........................................................................... 29 2-D ART Sally Herauf — Grandma’s Chair................................................................................. 32 Josh Reed — Big Sky........................................................................................................ 33 Kaitlyn Renner — Broken Wheels.................................................................................. 34 Maclyn Hauck — Still Life Clothes Pin .......................................................................... 35 Michaela Gorman — Mother’s Nightmare .................................................................. 36 Briana Dolechek — Energetic Pup With Hay Bales .................................................. 37 Moriah Tonole — Rain...................................................................................................... 38 Shelby Floberg — Oranges............................................................................................ 39 Coy Diede — Apple......................................................................................................... 40 Anya Baranko — Balloon ............................................................................................... 41 Justin Barker — Landscape............................................................................................. 42 Josie Wicks — Fishing...................................................................................................... 43 Karissa Damm — Gaiapatra.......................................................................................... 44 Tienna Mannin — Fading Fruit ....................................................................................... 45 Karena Verbitsky — Depression.................................................................................... 46 NONFICTION Salena Loveland — Plain Heart .................................................................................... 48 Emily Suwyn — The Most Humbling Hike ..................................................................... 51

PHOTOGRAPHY Emily Suwyn — Moment for a Monument .................................................................... 54 Stefanie Heath — Innocence........................................................................................... 55 Dale Dolechek — Petrified Paradise ............................................................................ 56 Hanna Cooper — Flowers of Spring ............................................................................ 57 Maclyn Hauck — Tenderness Within ............................................................................ 58 Rachel Timm — Chasing Cans and Chasing Dreams ................................................. 59 Austin Stockert — Overlooking Todd ........................................................................... 60 Neville Akolawala — Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining ............................................. 61 Pam Kazlauskas — Racehorse Reminiscence: Mallory Kay ..................................... 62 Sally Herauf — Serenity ................................................................................................ 63 Derek Huether — Dickinson Amendments .................................................................... 64 Ken Haught — Bald Eagle ............................................................................................. 65 Kadan Olson — Nature’s Mirror.................................................................................... 66 Mason Hutchinson — Favorite Innocence ..................................................................... 67 Rose Bateman — Soliloquy............................................................................................. 68 Shamber Cohenour — Puddles Tree Dimension ......................................................... 69 Victoria Vollmer — The Beauty of North Dakota Winters ....................................... 70 Ensley Poindexter — Country Sunset............................................................................. 71 Macy Mack — Abstract Spiral ..................................................................................... 72 Sally Herauf — Fatal Affairs (Graphic Narrative).................................................... 73 POETRY Hailey Entze — Reflection .............................................................................................. 84 Julianne Skaff — Is This Growing Up? ......................................................................... 85 Kendra Cox — Dawn ...................................................................................................... 87 Shekinah Obomighie — Flaw ........................................................................................ 88 Marcus Dietrich — Unlocked .......................................................................................... 89 Ashlee Holcomb — Gone Like the Wyoming Wind .................................................. 90 Christine Hetzel — Stone-Hearted ............................................................................... 91 Margaret Barnhart — Writing: An Epitaph ................................................................ 92 Amanda D’Aniello — If You Don’t Like It, Get Out .................................................... 93

BreAnna Kraft — On the Prairie ................................................................................... 94 Lexi Kempenich — Fall of Time .................................................................................... 95 Rachel Timm — The Cattle Rancher’s Story ................................................................. 96 Tricia Myran — Photograph Lost .................................................................................. 97 Margie Silbernagel — Smearing ................................................................................. 98 Morgan Depute — Jimmy .............................................................................................100 Willow Weekley — Sadness Is Blue ...........................................................................101 Margie Silbernagel — The Body Grows Stronger ..................................................102 Shelby Kanski — Me ......................................................................................................103 Rose Bateman — Confessions ......................................................................................104 Geneva Nodland — An Inside to Happily Ever After ............................................106 Karena Verbitsky — Tomb of the Unknown ..............................................................107 Samantha Power — The Funeral .................................................................................108 Abigail Petersen — Colors ...........................................................................................109

Fiction

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

DREAMING OF DONUTS –KENDRA COX Finishing my second set of reps, I guzzle my water and take in my surroundings. Mid-City Gym is a new addition to this neighborhood, and with it being only a block away from work I could not find an excuse not to come, but boy did I try. I would describe myself as a foodie and, without visits to the gym, I would probably have a gut bigger than Santa Claus’. The gym is an 8,000-square-foot, two-story, open concept, making it easy to observe other athletic patrons. An observer’s dream come true! The club is still new enough that the aroma of sweat and body odor has not overpowered the smells of new paint and carpet. There are two full-size basketball and tennis courts, multiple classrooms, and areas designated for cardio machines and free weights. It even has its own massage clinic. The free weight area sits beside the classrooms, where the walls are made of windows. No matter what class is taking place, a troop of boys situates itself front and center when the classes are going on, and that’s the main reason I do not attend any of those classes. Some people’s bodies may crave exercise, but I am here to crowd gaze. Taking a break in my routine, I fill my empty water bottle and dodge the personal trainer coming my way. Unlike the other trainers, this guy seems new. He keeps scanning the crowd, reminding me of a vulture stalking its prey. With his large muscles and boyish good looks, he radiates confidence and is particularly intimidating. He seems too eager, and the members here tend to avoid that quality, except Desperate Debra. She is here every day in shorts and a sports bra that leave nothing to the imagination. She is not the only lady on the prowl for a husband at the gym, but she is the only one about as subtle as a hurricane. My mother would say that I need to be more like her. She believes that, at the age of twenty-eight, I should be married and that college was a waste of six years during which I acquired only a degree and not a man. My mother drilled the importance of being the perfect mate into my sisters and me. She told us that men look for a woman who is slim, intelligent, and dependent. Well, two out of three is a success in my eyes: I am far from being dependent on anyone or anything. My sisters, on the other hand, took my mother’s advice and both are married with children. For the past few years, my career as a psychologist has shaped who I am and who I strive to be. I believe that we can learn a lot about ourselves by observing our behavior, and if we watch others we can determine how we should or shouldn’t act. I have observed my fair share of “crazy” people; I know what not to do. There is a great deal of interesting patrons at the gym every day. Jimmy “no sets” spends the majority of the time on his phone rather than actually working out. Mirror Mike sits in front of the mirror feverishly admiring himself, along with documenting his progress through gym selfies. “Shirt lifter” Sam is similar, lifting his shirt up about every two minutes. Not that I don’t enjoy the view of

his chiseled abdomen, but truth be told, there is not much one can achieve when he is infatuated with his own body. Sam reminds me of my ex-boyfriend, Greyson. Greyson was athletic and attractive. We were high school sweethearts, and he was my first love. A double whammy! Shortly after attending separate colleges, our relationship started to suffer. While I remained faithful, Greyson often dated other women. When I found out, I was devastated. He seemed sorry—a term I use lightly. He said he would do anything to gain my trust back, even went as far as transferring to my university. I gave him a second chance, but things continued to get worse. While he spent his time out on the town, I spent mine in the library. He cheated again, and I gained weight: twenty-five pounds to be exact. He finally called it quits after publically humiliating me for gaining weight. Wanting to improve myself I joined a gym and lost all the weight and more. I haven’t had a boyfriend since. Who needs a man when there is cake? Setting the desired weight for the leg press and then sitting down, I unintentionally make eye contact with the new trainer. I glance away, hoping he won’t approach me, but to no avail. He takes advantage of the opportunity and asks me if there is anything he can do to help. I respond with a hint of annoyance, “No thank you, I think I can handle it.” With a polite smile he walks away and catches the eye of Ego-Elevating Evelyn. Evelyn is indeed her real name, but she knows nothing about any machine, nor does she have any athletic ability. I feel a twinge of guilt as I revel in the uncoordinated woman’s strife. Captivating my attention, a couple walks in, kisses, and parts, but they don’t stray far from each other. The man walks over to the bench press while the female heads to the treadmill. Every day is the same situation. She will run on the treadmill while staring and waving at her partner as he lifts weights. In between sets, the man will make sure she is watching him or he will not proceed to the next task. It’s like a supernatural force that only she can remedy. On more than one occasion she has rubbed his biceps while he is curling free weights. Even Mirror Mike rolls his eyes at their display. There is only one other obnoxious couple that frequents the gym during this time; let’s call them “Burpee Couple.” Their name states it all. The only activity they partake in is burpees. They take turns cheering each other on with obscene phrases that I refuse to repeat. I must have taken an excessive amount of time on the leg press, because I begin to notice “Only Works His Legs” Larry is glaring at me. I wipe the sweat from the seat and decide to dedicate the rest of my time to cardio. Treadmill Tammy can run for hours and hours; her idea of fun is to compete in marathons. How could running ever be fun? My whole life I have been an asthmatic, making me envious of all the individuals who can run for more than five minutes at a time. Despite my ability to wheeze like a champ, I know that running is the best way for me to stay fit. An unpleasant chore. Choosing the machine next to Tammy, I set my warm-up to a brisk walk and soon I am in a full run. While there are

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

no actual judges, I find myself competing against Tammy, challenging myself to beat the beast of a woman beside me. Growing up with two older sisters, I believe competition is natural for me. One minute in and beads of sweat start to form on my forehead. Stealing a glance at Tammy, I see no hint of perspiration. That is impossible! Three minutes pass and I start to feel my chest tighten, but I press on. After only seven minutes, I am huffing and puffing, clearly unable to continue. I succumb to my defeat, slow to a walk, and barely finish my cool down. Meanwhile, Tammy is still going strong. As I walk past her, I see that she is smirking. I now know that she is just as competitive, and she knows that she is superior to us feeble mortals. I walk to the locker room on shaky legs. Gathering my things, I decide to skip the shower and walk toward the exit. Silently, I bid farewell to all the other patrons in the building, who seem oddly like family at this point. I look forward to seeing them tomorrow, since I will inevitably return on account of the donut I intend to devour at home.

KENDRA COX is a junior at Dickinson State University majoring in psychology with a minor in writing. She enjoys writing creatively in her spare time, although she is new to the creative writing process. She plans to take the new writing skills she has acquired with her to graduate school.

INTERNET OF THINGS –SALENA LOVELAND The local Cranzello game portal was especially full for a Tuesday afternoon in Tulsa. Black and somber was the overall theme of dress for the players, who sat with eyes fixated on the screen of each game station. “Oh, I passed level ninetyeight!” shouted Helen Markowitz from the middle of the room. The members of her Cranzello club rewarded her with polite applause while other players not in their club ignored the outburst. It had taken Helen a while to get the hang of playing Cranzello. Navigating the levels was confusing, so she had joined a club that provided both practice and instruction. “Well, it’s about that time, everyone,” directed Mr. Churney. The players rose from their seats and made their way outside. In twos and threes, they walked to Karr’s Funeral Home next door. A murmur filled the room. “Poor Morty, he was just starting to relax into retirement.” “I can’t believe he’s gone. My heart goes out to Miriam.” And from the back of the room, “How’d this one happen?” “A riding lawnmower accident. It took him straight through his fence and over that precipice at the end of their property.” As the mourners gathered outside, Mr. Churney offered his condolences and said he’d see them back at the Cranzello portal. Helen, however, shared that she was going home to play Cranzello with her children and grandchildren. She had moved in with her son, Tom, and his family after her husband died. It was lovely being able to play Cranzello with family. That was something she had worried about while her husband was sick. The two of them used to spend their time playing Cranzello together. She loved when they snuggled on the couch— he with his arm around her, she holding the softscreen. He was so patient in helping her figure out how to play. She liked the Cranzello portals because they gave her a sense of camaraderie, but sharing the same space with family was always better. She got in her car, which drove her past countless Cranzello portals, mortuaries, and office buildings to her destination. On the same Tuesday afternoon, another group across town attended the funeral of a thirty-two-year-old mother of two who had died when her car inexplicably turned into oncoming traffic. Her family and friends mourned her loss and placated their sorrows by playing Cranzello. “How was today’s funeral, Mom?” asked Tom. “There was a decent turn out, which I’m glad about since Morty was such a nice man. The Cranzello club won’t be the same without him.” She grabbed one of the chicken-and-avocado wraps her daughter-in-law, Judy, had made from a recipe the refrigerator gave her based on the food inside. With an iced tea in one hand, the wrap in the other, and her softscreen under her arm, Helen

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

made her way to the couch and settled in for an evening of Cranzello with her family. Between the softscreens, cybersheets, and palmwafers, they each had their own devices to play on. Helen was thankful for that. She’d heard horror stories from friends who had to fight for Cranzello time on the family central game console. A few of them ended up in the emergency room with broken wrists and bloody noses. She was definitely blessed. Before heading to bed, Tom reminded his wife that he would be attending a coworker’s funeral in the morning and reassured her that he had already programmed the address of the church into the car. Judy, in turn, confirmed that she would meet Helen at the Cranzello portal on W 5th, instead of the one on Ash Street, after she finished programming the oven for dinner, the vacuum for the upstairs, and the washer for a load of whites. Helen’s best friend had lost her grandson in an elevator accident, and Helen promised she would be at his memorial service. It was to be held at Madison’s Mortuary on W 5th, across the street from the Cranzello portal. Paul Murdock had been with the project from the beginning. Well, almost the beginning. Some problem-solving organization had been working on developing a plan. Once they settled on one, they handed it over to the agency, who then had the responsibility of implementing and maintaining the plan. The agency then contacted Murdock. He was one of the world’s top computer programmers, and they needed him. They had asked him during an interview if he had any objections to the job they wanted him to do. “No,” he replied, “the think tank has taken care of that with the randomness of it all.” As far as he was concerned, he was just a computer maintenance man making sure the program kept working as intended. “Do you have those numbers I was wondering about?” asked Murdock. “Yeah, they’re right here.” Chuck handed Murdock a cybersheet. “It looks like you were right. China’s mortality rate has dropped below the recommended levels.” Chuck Waverly was the new guy, at least that’s how Murdock still saw him. Chuck had been with the agency for a couple of years, but had been working directly under Murdock for only five months. He was one of a handful of people Murdock depended on to spot any problems or irregularities with the program. Although he’d never admit it, Murdock was impressed with how well Chuck was doing. In Cape Town, a man went to a friend’s house for a Cranzello party. He rang the doorbell and died of electrocution. They held his service at the funeral home two doors down from his favorite Cranzello portal.

The next day, back in Tulsa, Tom sat in a pew in the Episcopal church, waiting for his coworker’s funeral service to begin. His face matched the other waiting

faces as they all reflected the pale glow from their palmwafers and softscreens. “Yes!” whispered someone in the back. “Oh, shit,” this time from the front. “No, no, no . . . don’t do that.” Tom laughed sympathetically to himself. That poor bastard’s got to start all over again. His ears perked up to a conversation behind him, out-of-place in this quiet chapel. “Yeah, they found some sort of toxic chemical in the water from the fridge. Lucky he was a bachelor. Otherwise, his whole family could have died.” “I heard that happened to a family in California. Terrible, but whatcha gonna do? Smart-stuff, can’t live with it, can’t live without it.” Helen grabbed her purse in a huff and followed Judy out of the Cranzello portal. She enjoyed playing at the portals. The screens were so large, which made Cranzello even more enthralling. Moreover, although she usually didn’t know anyone there, she liked sharing in the wins and struggles of the other players. Judy told her car to head to the nearest Macy’s. The two women spoke only a few words to each other. It was mostly about how the children were doing in school. Then they each picked up their palmwafers to continue playing Cranzello where they had left off. When they entered the department store, they were immersed in a sea of black with some navy, charcoal gray, and burgundy sprinkled around. Rack after funereal rack offered what was selling. Judy had a bridal shower to attend, however, and everything she owned was too somber for the occasion. They trekked past the hangered darkness without seeing it until they reached the back of the store and some color. Upon finding something in yellow, Judy waved her palmwafer over the tag. The flick of her wrist charged the item to her credit app and added the new item to the inventory list in her house. Her errands took longer than she had expected, so on the way home, Judy pressed the “Home” button on the car’s console to access her home network. The Internet of Things was truly a lifesaver. The car signaled the home network that they would be arriving late. The house then relayed the message, and the lights turned on; the oven began preheating; the central heat rumbled on; and, via a complicated system of scanners and moving parts, the fridge relocated the dinner ingredients to the front of the shelves. Helen tripped as she walked to the front door. “Thank the Lord! Finally! That level has been kicking my butt for days!” “I thought you passed that level yesterday, before Morty’s funeral.” “Oh, that was level ninety-eight on my second Cranzello account.” “You have two accounts? That club must be doing you some good, if you can keep track of two accounts.” “Yes, it is. That way, if I’m stuck on a level, I can play on the other account. It always helps me to get away from a level for a little while.”

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

“That’s a clever idea. I should try it, because whenever I’m stuck and can’t play I just don’t know what to do with myself. So how close are you to winning the game?” “I have only one more level to go!” Helen couldn’t believe she was finally that close, after all this time. “That’s amazing! We’ll have to have a party for you!” Somewhere in Mexico City, a smart TV received a simple transmission and overloaded the home’s electrical circuits. Two people died in the fire. The family observed their deaths with a Cranzello wake. The day had finally come. All of Helen’s friends and family gathered at the neighborhood Cranzello portal to witness her final efforts. Winning wasn’t that unusual, but this was Helen’s first time. It took a few hours, but thankfully, they had hired a caterer. She was close now. Everyone was watching her screen, either directly or on large TV screens mounted around the room. Click, click, taptap, click. Then a bell sounded and “YOU WON!” flashed on the screens. Cheers filled the large room. The tension left Helen’s shoulders and air filled her lungs. She had finally done it. She felt energized, but not from winning, as she had expected. This was something rarely felt. Instead of the room being filled with strangers, today it was filled with her friends and family, and they had all been sharing in one game: hers. She thought they should do this more often. In all the excitement, no one noticed the blip that sent the winning information into cyberspace. On her way home that evening, the navigation system in an eighteen-wheeler received a message and drove the rig head-on into Helen’s car. She had a beautiful service at Karr’s Funeral Home. The mourners consoled themselves at the Cranzello portal next door. “Murdock, there’s something you should take a look at.” “What is it, Chuck?” “A winner died the same day she won. It didn’t happen immediately, so we are positive no one will notice. However, it is a little too close for comfort.” “I agree. It should never happen in the same neighborhood, let alone to a winner.” Murdock looked over all the information surrounding the incident. “Oh, I see. She was one of the players with multiple accounts. I’ve noticed more little glitches happening with those players. Well, just have Mark’s team reassess the random generators. Make sure they establish that all the vicinity calibrations are programed correctly, too.” This was a minor problem that they soon had under control. For the last decade, the program had been working almost seamlessly. They were now

starting to see definitive results. The world population looked like it would hold steady at 9.4 billion. If, for some reason, it started to climb again, they could make the game a little easier to win. Chuck and Murdock met in the breakroom for their midmorning coffee. “Hey, Murdock, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” “Yeah, what’s that?” “Do you let your wife and kids play?” “Oh, sure. How could they not?” Even if they could somehow ignore the Cranzello portals on every corner, not playing would draw unwanted attention. He might have to answer uncomfortable questions and accidentally give himself away. No, it was best just to let them think he worked at the power company. Besides, thanks to the random generators, and the vicinity calibrators, and all the other fail-safes in place, nobody knows who does what to whom. “Heck, I even play in my free time.” “You do?” “Yeah, but I make sure I never win a game. I couldn’t deal with the guilt.” Tom and Judy each got a second Cranzello account. Partly in honor of Helen, but mostly because they thought it was a great idea. The kids had to wait a few more years. Tom and Judy weren’t going to be those parents, the ones that just gave their kids anything they wanted. No, they set boundaries for their kids. In Milan, an espresso machine was adding something extra to a cappuccino.

SALENA LOVELAND is a junior at Dickinson State University, majoring in English on the creative writing track. She plans to graduate in the next couple of years and wants to use her acquired skills to work as an editor as well as create her own pieces of fiction and literary nonfiction.

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

THE SCOOP –HAILEY ENTZE Work sucks, life sucks, or maybe I just suck at life. I roll into work about thirty seconds before my shift starts, pull the apron with my name, Louisa, stitched in curly white lettering, over my messy, dirty blonde hair. After donning my white-and-pink-striped cap, I go to work at the till, where I still am when a screech comes from somewhere in the back of the shop followed by, “Oh my gosh, Louisa, have I got a story for you.” My coworker, Mindy, blasts through the swinging doors that lead to the break room and freezers, bringing with her a cloud of off-brand Chanel No. 5 and too much hairspray. Mindy really is a piece of work; she’s five-foot nothing, but her bleached-blonde hair adds a good five inches (not kidding, she bumps those locks all the way up to Jesus). Her dark-brown eyes are lined with an electricblue eyeliner today, and her lips are as pink as the bubble gum ice cream in the cooler to my left. Somehow, she also gets out of wearing the work cap. I think our manager, the spineless doofus, is too scared that she’d bite his head off if he said anything to her about it. I’d say something, but I don’t get paid enough to care about workplace fashion inequality. “Hey Mindy, what’s up?” I ask. I don’t mind her. Her personality can be hard to handle at times, but for the most part, she’s the only entertainment I get in this place. When summer started, there was a lot of entertainment. Mostly, it was just me trying to brighten up my own day by making wise cracks under my breath to a previous coworker, Cameron, until one of the customers heard us and we almost got fired. Actually, Cam did get fired, but not because of that. Turns out he had been giving free ice cream to every cute girl who came in the door. I don’t know who found out or how; I’m just sad that they did. Cam was, basically, my only friend in this place. Mindy’s loud voice brings me back to the present—it’s hard not to pay attention to her when she’s as loud as a fog horn. “So, last night I was hanging out with Justin and he keeps checking his phone, so I’m like, ‘What, I’m not good enough company? You gotta check your phone every five seconds, because that’s so much more interesting?’” Her hands are flying all over the place as she talks about her on-again, off-again boyfriend, and I fear for all the waffle cones she keeps narrowly missing with her wild gestures. Note to self: never check phone when in Mindy’s presence.

Soon people start to trickle in, a mom and daughter here, an old man and his wife there, a few high school kids after that, but that doesn’t deter Mindy. She’s finishing this story, and she doesn’t care who hears. Before long, the afternoon

rush comes, and Mindy’s story is drowned out in the screaming and the crying and the frantic parental voices and the constant ding, ding, ding, of the chime over the door. By 1:00, A La Mode is packed with patrons. They spill out of the booths with the cracked, white vinyl seats; they pile around the pastel pink, blue, green, and yellow tables. Their bright summer clothes are almost blinding in contrast with the stark-white walls of the shop. And there’s still more to come. The line is out the door and probably around the corner, but these people don’t care about the wait. A La Mode’s ice cream is worth it. After an hour and a half, my hair is sticking to my forehead even though I turned my cap backwards ages ago to get some air flow going, and my fingers are frozen from reaching into the cooler over and over to scoop ice cream into every dish, cone, and waffle bowl that is requested. It’s times like these that I wish I would have followed in all my friend’s footsteps and taken the lifeguard job at the pool. I could be getting a tan right now instead of a freezer burn. They post pictures every day of them swimming after work or eating popsicles in the office during the ten-minute break. That could have been me, but noooo, I decided I wanted to be responsible and make more money to save for college. I’m an idiot. Finally, somewhere around 3:30, the shop settles down and I think we breathe a sigh of relief. Mindy and I lean up against the cooler and stare out at the disaster zone that the tourists left in their wake. Crumbs cover the floor and balled-up napkins are scattered amongst them. The tables now look polka-dotted what with all the colorful ice cream droppings all over them. I’m considering faking sick so that I don’t have to clean this up. All of a sudden, the door dings. “You have got to be kidding me,” Mindy mutters. “I swear we have already served everyone in town and their dog today.” I beat my head against the wall, literally. “Maybe we should tell them we’re closed, or that we found out that the ice cream is poisoned, or…” Mindy cuts off her scheming. “Holy sweet mother of pearl.” I glance over my shoulder at her, my forehead still planted against the wall. She’s looking at the door like a fat kid looks at cake—all big eyes and watering mouth. I crane my neck to bring the door into view and there stands the most beautiful human being I have ever seen in my seventeen years of life. He appears to be my age, but he looks like a Greek god, all tanned skin and hair bleached a light brown from the sun. He squints to read the menu, and I swear I see his blue eyes glitter like sapphires. Mindy and I probably look like a pair of deranged idiots, but it’s hard to look away from that kind of perfection. Slowly he makes his way to the counter, and, probably noticing now that we’ve been gawking at him, smiles at us. I’m blinded (okay that’s a little dramatic, but

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

his smile is brighter than my future). It’s like in the cartoons when the person smiles and there’s that little sparkle and a ting sound—that is exactly what just happened. And his teeth. I’ve never seen straighter teeth in my life! Like, not even my dentist’s teeth are that straight. Not gonna lie, I could probably die now, and I would be perfectly okay with it. He’s closer to Mindy, so in the grand scheme of things, she should be the one to take his order. However, motor mouth herself seems to have forgotten the English language. Oh shucks, looks like I have to take one for the team and talk to this extremely cute boy. “Hi! What can I get for you?” “Could I get Rocky Road and Moose Tracks in a waffle cone, please?” I swear his voice vibrates my soul . . . it’s that deep. I cough a little, and clear my throat. Pull it together, Louisa. Don’t be a dork, I think to myself. “Sure, yes, waffle cone, right.” So much for the self-pep talk. As I’m scooping the ice cream, he starts asking about the shop like, what kind of ice cream sells the best? Do we get free ice cream for working here? What’s the worst combination of flavors we’ve ever eaten? He’s a regular old Chatty Kathy at this point. I answer all his questions (vanilla, because people are boring; only if we lick the ice cream scoops at the end of the day because the owners are stingy; and mint chip and bubble gum—negative five out of ten, would not recommend) and hand him the cone. “That’ll be $6.50.” He digs around in his pocket, the change clinking, and produces a ten-dollar bill. “You can keep the change,” he says with a wink. A little part of me melts faster than a toddler’s ice cream cone in mid-July. “So, what is there to do around here for fun?” He leans on the counter by the register and starts in on his cone. “I’m visiting my grandma for the summer, and I’ve already run out of things to do.” “Uh, there are a bunch of hiking trails, and the lake can be pretty fun.” I shrug. There really isn’t anything to do that isn’t touristy or some type of shopping. “Huh, the lake. I don’t think I know where that is. Someone would have to show me.” He gives me a pointed look. Mindy’s head flicks back and forth between us. “There’s always GPS,” I offer. Mindy squeaks. She’s looking at me like, Louisa! What is the matter with you? The guy deflates. “True. Well, I suppose I should let you get back to work.” He turns and starts for the door.

Crap. Damage control! Damage control! What have I done? I didn’t mean to turn him down! I was being sarcastic! I’m opening my mouth to say something to fix this mess, maybe just shriek to get his attention, when the door dings again and he’s gone. Mindy flies over and starts whacking me with a serving spoon. “HE WAS

BASICALLY A REALISTIC VERSION OF CHANNING TATUM AND YOU TURNED HIM DOWN! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?”

I sigh, not even attempting to stop her. It’s clear to me now that, yes, I do indeed suck at life.

HAILEY ENTZE is a freshman English major with a graphic design minor at Dickinson State University. After graduating in 2020, she plans to get a job in graphic design and write young adult novels.

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

THE QUELLED –OLIVIA GOGUEN I had no idea he was a Sandeed, the very thing that had hunted my ancestors for centuries. As I pushed myself up from his bed, ensuring that the light sheet did not fall from my bare chest, I stared at the insignia peeking from just under his shaggy hair. As I stared at that pale crimson ink, the inviting curve of his neck made me wish to forget this discovery and climb back into his arms. Surely our races could coexist together as they once had, I tried to convince myself. But I also knew I couldn’t overlook all that history had taught me. I couldn’t overlook what his kind had done to us. I slid from the warmth of his bedside and found my garments still residing where they had fallen the night before. I knew it would only be a matter of minutes before he realized my absence. That’s how it was with them; once they’ve locked onto you there was little you could do to escape. I wasn’t ready for this. I had just entered my prime and had been warned that they lurked in the crowds, trying to pass off as regular Klin. After all, we were the same species, as much as some of us hated to admit it. The only thing that differentiated their appearance from ours was that pale crimson marking hidden at the top of their spine, right where the skull began. Yet, thinking about him, I realized I hadn’t seen his mark. He seemed genuine, real, not like those monsters that we were always taught about. As I pulled the last of my clothes on, I couldn’t help but turn back to him. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, drowning out any other noise there may have been, though I knew there was none. My breath stopped as he used his arm to search the empty spot on his bed. I could feel my face turning red. Panic came over me and fear—no it wasn’t fear. Anger maybe? I felt behind me, searching for the doorknob but never allowing my eyes to leave his waking body. He was dangerous, and I knew I was not ready to take on one of his kind, not yet. There was a groan of annoyance as he realized I was not there, and then he sighed. “Kennya? Are you still fedr sa?” Jumping as he said my name, I clenched my jaw at those last words, “fedr sa.” It was a sort of colloquial language, spoken mostly by those of intimate connections. More than that, it was a perversion of my own native language. I resented those who spoke it, yet often found myself yearning for it. After a long silence, I gave in. I knew he could feel me in the room with him. There was no point in hiding that I was still there. “Yes, I’m still here,” I replied plainly, trying to hide my frustration. One advantage that Sandeed were said to have over Klin was their ability to perceive others’ emotions. Some claimed they knew what you were thinking even before you did just by analyzing what your feelings might betray.

“Good. I was beginning to believe you had left me.” That same tone of amusement underscored his words. It strangely drew me to him, though I knew now that it was probably just a form of manipulation. “Nope. I’m still here,” I repeated, this time clasping my arms around my stomach, a sure sign of unease. He lifted his head and looked at me, slight confusion coming over his face. “What’s wrong?” he prodded, smirking just slightly. “I thought we had fun last night.” It took all I had in me not to grimace. I knew he was probably picking up on this right about now, or maybe he already had and just thought it humorous that I hadn’t noticed what he was, until now. I just wished I could leave him there. I had heard many horror stories beginning this way. “I . . . ” I searched for words—anything to diffuse the situation that might be unfolding. “Sygehk muja was fun.” His eyebrows rose, showing surprise at my use of the language. “I’m glad you agree.” Throwing his feet over his side of the bed, he quickly pulled up his boxers and walked toward me. I stiffened as he approached. It wouldn’t be long before his hands were on me again, the warmth of his body pressing against mine as it had the night before. But still, I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what sort of reaction that might cause. It was safer if I just let him do what he was going to do. I couldn’t stop it. I knew this. I was not ready to deal with his kind. Not yet. Just as I had expected from him, he slid right up to me and took me in his strong arms. I could feel his chest rise up and down rhythmically and knew mine would soon follow. It wouldn’t take long before our breathing quickened again, leading to the inevitable. He slid his hands down my lower back, pulling me closer. “I’m glad you didn’t mayja.” He paused, pressing his lips to my ear. “I was afraid you would.” He was hard to resist; I longed to give in to him, forget what I had learned for a few more hours. What was the harm in some senseless pleasure every now and then? At least I knew he wouldn’t be hurting me during that time. He wouldn’t dare. Sex was too enticing for his kind. It was one of the few things they lived for. Yet, now that I did know, all I wanted to do was pull away. Run. Leave him alone in this rundown hotel room. Remembering everything, it became harder and harder for me not to do this. He moved his hands again, this time caressing my body, trying to remove the clothing I had just replaced. His lips met my neck. “Please . . . ,” I whispered, managing to move my arms up to create a bit of a barrier between us. “I don’t want to do this.”

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

He didn’t seem to be listening, continuing in his quest. I felt panic beginning to rise. I couldn’t let this happen, not again. This time it would be different. This time I would know, and that changed everything. “Don’t do this,” I protested, fighting him off more aggressively than before. “Cdub!” He smirked again, finally stopping to look at my fearful eyes. I hated him. I wished he were dead. I wished I were ready to deal with his kind, and then I would know exactly what I should do. But I wasn’t, and I’m fairly certain he knew. I wasn’t sure what would come next, but I knew it wouldn’t be good. Violence probably. Pain. He let out a calloused laugh, one which seemed to shake my entire being. This terrified me even more than I could have imagined. And, of course, he knew this. After several moments passed, he stopped to look at me again, amusement and interest apparent on his face. He reached past me and locked the door I had been inching myself toward, holding me firmly, yet gently, as he came back into view. “Oui yna seha,” he said. “You are mine.” Glossary fedr sa: with me sygehk muja: love making mayja: leave cdub: stop oui yna seha: you are mine

OLIVIA GOGUEN is a junior at Dickinson State University, majoring in environmental science. She plans to graduate in 2019 and find a job in her field before pursuing a higher degree. She has been writing for as long as she can remember and is currently in the process of finishing her first book.

EDITH ROSE –DARIAN COGHLAN I met my sister only once. It was three days after my dad rushed my mom to the hospital, leaving me with my grandma. It was down a cold, white, dismal hallway for babies who needed special care. It was a bright room with a strong smell that burned in my nose. My dad held my hand and hugged my mom close as we walked through the silent room. I was anxious to meet the baby I had dreamed about for so long. We moved silently, hearing only the hum of machines and the swishing of a nurse working quietly in the corner. We arrived at a cluster of machines surrounding a scrunched pink blanket. My dad breathed in and spoke quietly, “There she is!” I looked again, and sure enough, nestled between the blinking, beeping robots was a miniature baby. I barely recognized my tiny sister; I could hardly even see her face. She had a rubber tube in her nose and a clear mask over her head. There were wires stuck to her chest and wrapped around her wrinkly arms, barely larger than my finger. I rested my forehead against the warm glass box that held my sister. I could see through her delicate skin, right to the purplish veins. I watched her tiny ribcage rise ever so slightly. Her eyes, blue like mine, fluttered open for a second. I think she saw me. I think she knew we would be best friends. I hope she saw how much I loved her. But soon her fragile eyes closed again, and soon visiting hours were over. Soon I got back in my grandma’s old tan car, and we drove away from the hospital. I strained against my seatbelt, pretending I could still catch a glimpse of her through the window of the nursery. That was the last time I ever saw my sister.

DARIAN COGHLAN is a sophomore at St. Mary’s Central High School in Bismarck, ND. She enjoys reading and writing in her free time.

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

THE ONE WHO CAN SEE –KARENA VERBITSKY It travels through the night sky. It creeps into the cracks and spaces of your slightly open window and circles your sleeping body. On rare occasions, a piece of its long black cloak brushes by your head and leaves behind the traces of terrifying thoughts. These thoughts may linger for a while, but by the time you wake up, it has already returned to its weary path. It goes by the name of Fear, and I’ve seen it many times. I do not believe that I have a gift because I am able to see Fear, but rather that I am enlightened, allowed by someone or something to see a layer of this world invisible to others. I knew from a young age that I would not be famous or recognized for the things I could see, and I realized that no one would ever understand when I tried to explain it to them. So I became a silent admirer, a note taker of Fear and its daily routines. Throughout my life, Fear has been present at major events. It was there for my first day of kindergarten when I ran excitedly onto a yellow school bus and when I enlisted in the army. In both cases, the people around me were afraid of the unknown. The vague visions of the future were too much for them to handle. I remember the frightened faces of those who sat next to me. Some of those faces would never be seen again. Whenever I encounter Fear, I simply tip my hat and continue on my way. I do not know why it never bothers me, but I’d rather not argue. It can look quite unsettling when it walks past, dressed in its black cloak, creating a dark void where a face should be. Fear sees more people each day than I could see in a lifetime, but none of them will ever notice its existence. They will notice nothing but what it leaves behind: scary thoughts and chilling memories. Personally, I think these thoughts are a gift from Fear—a gift wrapped with scratchy, torn-up paper, but sent with good intentions. These memories are its way of making people remember it when it returns, and Fear always returns. Sometimes, it seems as though Fear is simply lonely, searching for something but never finding what it’s looking for. I have lived in various towns and cities around the world, and traveling has always been a passion of mine. When I retired, I moved to New York City, and within a few weeks had settled into a daily routine. Every morning, I’d take a walk around a nearby park and sit on an old bench on the outskirts. From there, I could listen to the soft sounds of nature, and I could watch the commotion that Fear caused the people in the park.

I remember once I was sitting on my usual bench, writing in my journal, when I saw Fear going about its business amongst the people walking in the park. It did something that seemed a little off to me, though. It was not trying to scare people at all, and, if anything, it was simply trying to accompany them. However, every time Fear tried to interact with the people, their faces drooped

and their moods shifted. Soon after this happened, Fear would move along slowly to the next person in hope of a different reaction, but the situation remained the same. Another day, as I was watching a group of bluebirds chirping in the trees, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A dark figure sat next to me. This time, though, when I tipped my hat, it did not drift away. This time, it stayed. I didn’t say anything, but I was flooded with memories and thoughts. Some of them were frightening, and others were simply strange, but somehow, I knew they were not there to scare me. A realization came to me: the thoughts were its way of speaking to people. That day, on the sidewalk, Fear was showing me the things it thought were beautiful. In a way, they were, and I felt a smile spread across my face. When I looked back to my side, Fear was gone. The next day, Fear came and sat beside me on the bench again. This time, it showed me a memory I did not want to remember. What it entailed was this: I was crouched behind a tan military truck next to a young man who, at the time, was my closest friend. In the distance, I could hear gunshots and feel the vibrations of explosives. The sounds were getting louder, our options for escape slim. My friend grabbed my arm and looked me straight in the eye. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said and immediately ran out from behind the truck before I could utter a reply. Knowing what he had done, I ran out from behind the truck and narrowly dodged an array of bullets that had been intended for me. I made my way into a thick patch of brush across the road and ran away toward our camp. His actions had given me enough cover to escape, but I knew the results of his escapade when there was no longer a man following me. As I looked back over my shoulder, I could see a dark figure walking away from the scene. Fear had been present that sad day. As I wiped the tears from my face and looked back solemnly at the people in the park, I could not help but wonder why Fear would remember such a day or why it would show me things I had tried so hard to forget. When I looked to my side at the dark figure, I couldn’t help but feel that Fear had experienced the same grief, the same sense of loneliness and loss. It just didn’t know how else to tell me. I realized that day that Fear was simply a lonely artist wishing for someone to share its work with. Just as I was curious about Fear, Fear was curious about me. We were both scientists looking to discover new horizons. Fear and I never said a single word to each other, but we became silent companions. Each day the things it showed me were entirely different. Each memory brought a new emotion, a new experience. Sometimes the memories were mine, other times they were Fear’s. Fear has seen much more than I will ever see, but I have experienced something that it is unable to experience: Love. Because it yearned to feel the power of love, there was a day when Fear came and brought me back to my happiest memory. In my memory, I was standing in front of a crowd of family and friends, nervously swaying back and forth. The smell of cologne that filled my nose made me light-headed, and I could hear

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

soft disapproving mutters coming from the individuals sitting in front of me. I waited uneasily for what seemed like an hour until regal piano music played and the keys introduced a figure dressed in a long white gown. The crowd fell silent, and in that moment my heart stopped. I will never forget the happiness I felt, and the love that I had for the woman walking toward me. Still, there were those in that church who were concerned about our future, and those who had doubts or fears. Weddings can, after all, be quite scary. I remember looking back at the people I had known my entire life, and standing by the door behind them was Fear, my honorary best man. The thoughts of us all had drawn him there. Fear was present that day, but he couldn’t experience the love I felt until we shared the memory from my perspective. Those were the memories I wished would never leave, but soon enough, Fear left me to the reality that I was now simply an old man on a park bench in the middle of New York City. I went through the next few days sitting on my bench alone. Fear did not come my way, and it did not show me any more memories. It was acting oddly, almost as though it was avoiding me. I was left alone to watch the people go by and listen to the trees sway in the wind. The next week, I had a doctor’s appointment in which I was being tested due to minor symptoms I had been experiencing in the weeks prior. At the appointment, I heard the news that made Fear’s actions seem a little less strange. A man in a white coat explained, “I’m sorry to inform you that you have been diagnosed with terminal cancer.” The words were surprising, but not unexpected. I knew that I needed to go back to the park. I spent my remaining days walking to my park bench as usual until I could no longer hold my weight. Eventually, I had a young man come once a day to roll my newly acquired wheelchair to my park bench and help me sit down. I struggled through that cycle every day for the next month, but I began to feel that the inevitable was near. Fear showed me memories that warned me that my time was coming to a close. Two Days Later: I come to you today to write, for this will be the final entry in this journal. As I sit on my park bench, fully aware that this is the last time, I watch as Fear goes from person to person in the way it always has. It begins to drift toward me, as if it feels me staring, not stopping until it is standing in front of the bench. I stare at it for a moment, then tip my hat—a silent hello that has been our only form of communication for the last eighty-two years. It turns around swiftly, so that it is facing the park, and sits down next to me. I continue to gaze out at the people in the park, and I see the same sight I have seen every day before. In the distance, there is the young man who rides his

little red bike, and the group of young girls rollerblading and giggling about middle-school gossip. Suddenly, something out of the ordinary interrupts the normal scene, something that sends a small shiver down my spine. A high-pitched voice yells, “Mama, look at the funny man with the black coat on!” I search the area to find that a small boy walking a few yards away is looking in my direction, but he is not looking at me. I am not wearing a black coat today. As the boy’s mother ushers him away, brushing off what has just been said, the boy turns around one last time to look at the figure sitting next to me. Knowing what has happened, Fear simply nods his head, as if tipping his hat to the boy, and lets him walk away. That small boy was me. The memory that Fear had just shown me was from the day I saw Fear for the first time. I saw the dark figure sitting alone on this bench, and I knew that I had found something special. My five-year-old self got a glimpse of Fear and knew that he would see it again someday. I knew that somewhere, under that black cloak, there was beauty unlike any other. Maybe that is why I now smile while everyone else runs. Maybe I am a friend to Fear. As the memory of the boy disappears and I return back to reality, I glance around and take a deep breath. It will be the last before I have to leave this place forever. I take one last look around at the trees and the birds that I will never see again. As my eyes begin to close, I see a different cloaked figure coming my way. It is my time to drift away alongside it to the place it came from. When I look back on my life, I realize that I may have been the only one who was not afraid of Fear. This could be because I knew what it truly was, but maybe not. Maybe I just knew that there was nothing to fear except for Fear itself. For when you are not afraid, you are feeling nothing but safety, and that is what Fear really is. Fear is the calm before the storm, or the silence before destruction. Fear is there to comfort you before the worst occurs and to prepare you for things yet to come. Fear is amongst us not to frighten us, but to show us its form of art and to prepare us for something greater. So next time you are scared, know that it is simply an old friend, a beautiful nightmare, to greet you once again. Move forward and do not allow Fear to be an obstacle. Do not let it hold you back. Instead, continue on knowing that neither Fear nor your thoughts will ever hurt you. Maybe then, when you are no longer afraid, you will see Fear, too.

KARENA VERBITSKY is a junior at South Prairie High School in Minot, ND. She has been writing since she was young, and she continues to love creating work today. She is currently writing a book and is hoping to pursue engineering or pre-law after she graduates.

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

THE EXPEDITION TO PROPRETÉ –ANTHONY STEELE Seven more days, the captain thought as he regarded the horizon beyond the bow of his ship. The grand ship and its crew of seventy had left the port of La Rochelle nine days earlier to resupply the budding colony of New Orleans. Captain Pierre la Rouge was one of the few captains desperate enough to risk his ship in the heart of the storm season. La Rouge had no choice, because he needed to repay lost bets or he would lose his beloved ship. Everything looked promising with over half of the journey completed, but that same afternoon, la Rouge noticed the early signs of an oncoming storm. He decided to keep his inexperienced crew ignorant to the nature of his observations to prevent a mutiny. The next morning, the sun rose in a foreboding shade of red, or so it appeared to Captain la Rouge. He knew the storm would be upon them by that evening. As the day wore on, the crew became fearful, for on the horizon ahead of them, a dark line of sinister clouds loomed. Robert le Lâche scrambled down from the tight confines of the crow’s nest, where he had been placed because he was the smallest and weakest of the crew. He also happened to be the one who possessed the greatest fear of heights. He scurried into the captain’s cabin. Still shaking from the precarious climb, le Lâche blurted, “Captain, we’re headed into a storm. We have to turn back!” “It’s too late, Robert. There is no turning back,” said la Rouge with the voice of a man resigned to his fate. “Return to your post, prepare yourself, and say nothing to the rest of the men; the last thing I need is a bunch of nervous fools.” Le Lâche didn’t hear the captain’s orders. La Rouge could see that the boy’s pale face had become the visage of the terror that swelled within himself. He pushed past the boy and left the cabin to take his position at the helm. “Stow the mains and top sails,” he bellowed at the worried crew. The great whirling tempest was soon upon them. Waves surged like colossal towers all around. When they brought their might against the immense hull, the ship’s very spirit seemed to shudder. Not a soul could see more than thirty yards beyond the bow as the torrential rain came down in great sheets. Few aboard noticed, however, as they were focused on the task of keeping the ship from capsizing. As the storm intensified, men were thrown overboard by the reeling waves. Panic set in. Men abandoned their posts. Captain la Rouge could see the sopping wet silhouette of Robert clinging to the main mast. A few jeers and insults from la Rouge got some of the braver men back to their positions. Almost immediately, the storm surged forth with new ferocity. Captain la Rouge’s hat was snatched from his head by the terrible gusts of wind. Suddenly,

all aboard heard a thunderous crunch as the main mast was severed, taking with it le Lâche and those of the crew who desperately clung to it. The foremast was soon to follow, again dragging with it the unfortunate souls who still held on. Those who remained jumped overboard, for they believed that the ship itself was going to crumble. La Rouge now looked to his right and witnessed the largest wave ever conceived by the rage of the sea. Standing alone upon the deck of his precious ship, he experienced a moment of serenity, reflecting on his past. As the wave approached, he apologized sincerely to his lost crew, murmured his last words, and braced himself for the impact. As it struck— “Pierre!” his mother called from downstairs. “It’s time to get out of the bath!” Pierre la Rouge sighed, set his toy ship on the floor beside the tub, and climbed out.

ANTHONY STEELE is a junior attending Mandan High School. He enjoys creating memorable and epic stories about daily events that don’t seem very exciting. He has a passion for history and adventure. He is on track to graduate in spring 2018.

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

FROM THE NOVEL C. –ROSE BATEMAN Chapter 12: In which we jump in puddles. I slunk down the hallway, hoping to surprise Mr. Truman. I still needed to get back at him for sneaking up on me at the symphony concert. Even with my cello on my back, I was a ninja. The carpet floor was my friend, absorbing any sound my feet could have made. I was about to get him good. As I neared the doorway, I realized that he was talking to someone. Okay, I shouldn’t try to jump him just yet—that could be embarrassing for us both. So I waited, like I always did. I could hear his whispers echoing through the large room, but the more I listened, I discovered that there was no other voice; he was talking to himself. I took one step toward the door and then stopped. “What can I do to fix this, Lord?” He was praying. I suddenly felt like the worst sleaze to walk these Christian halls. I wasn’t sure what to do. Leave? Cover my ears? “How can I be forgiven?” he whispered with a sob. I gasped. “Destiny?” he called. I stepped through the doorway, guilt written on my face. “Hi.” “You’re earl—no, you’re right on time. Never mind.” He pulled his cello out of its case. I did the same, then settled into the chair to endure what would most likely be the most awkward lesson of my life. This time, when the lesson was over, Mr. Truman walked with me to the door. He didn’t need to hold my arm; I had gotten so used to walking this hallway blind that it was easy. Our footsteps echoed on the walls and if I spoke, I could tell if I was near one. We waited just inside the door so that he could see when my mom pulled up. Even in the foyer I could hear the pitter-patter of rain outside. It had been drizzling when I came in for the lesson; now the storm was intensifying. Rain hit the ground like spears, and the sound comforted me. “What does it look like?” I asked. “The rain?” “I guess so,” I said, shrugging. Mr. Truman sucked in his breath. “Umm . . . it’s dark, and gray. Everything’s soaked.” I waited in silence. Mr. Truman didn’t speak for several minutes.

“There’s, uh, puddles on the sidewalk. And the parking lot. Storm drains are filling up. The clouds . . . are actually kind of pretty.”

“Do you like rain?” I asked. “Actually, I love rain.” I smiled. “Me too.” Mr. Truman chuckled, then grabbed my hand. “Come on.” The sound erupted when he opened the door. I couldn’t remember a rainstorm ever being so loud. We stood underneath the overhang and he lifted my hand up to feel the rain. It hit my palm with force; I tried to feel it, but it melted away too quickly. “It’s weird. I can’t decide whether to be happy or sad. I can feel it, but I can’t see it. It slips away too quickly.” Fabric shifted, and I could hear the rain pounding on Mr. Truman’s hand. Then I felt him take a couple of steps, and there was a splash. Water droplets hit the bottom of my jeans. There was another splash, a couple feet to the side. Mr. Truman chuckled. Splash, splash. “Are you jumping in puddles?” I asked skeptically. “Yes!” He exclaimed, laughing. I couldn’t remember him ever laughing like that. “Aren’t you wearing nice shoes?” “Oh,” he said disappointedly. Then he laughed again. “I don’t care!” Splash, splash. “You are crazy!” “You’re the one standing there not having fun!” “Pneumonia doesn’t sound fun to me.” “Come on,” he teased, grabbing my arm and taking me out into the rain. “There’s a puddle right in front of you.” I tried to give him my best this-is-silly-you-are-an-adult-what-are-you-doing? look. Then I sighed and jumped. Mr. Truman laughed and led me to another puddle. I jumped again. Soon we were both laughing and running everywhere to jump in puddles. The thought occurred to me only a couple times how strange it was that I was running around with my cello teacher, playing in the rain. I could hear a kind of lightness in his voice that had never been there before. His laugh grew louder, sometimes heavy and low, sometimes light and high. Only too soon did Mom’s car pull up, causing an end to our fun. Mr. Truman quickly placed my cello in the trunk and guided me to the door. “See you next week,” I called cheekily. “What were you two doing?” Mom asked as soon as I had buckled in. “Just having some fun,” I said. Mom sighed. “Pneumonia doesn’t sound fun to me.” I laughed.

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

*** “Destiny?” I called. She peeked through the door, her face cherry red. How long had she been standing there? Why hadn’t I noticed? “Hi,” she said. “You’re early,” I stated, surprised, but the clock above her head told me that she was, in fact, on time. “Never mind, then,” I mumbled. Forgetting myself again, I stared. It seemed that her face changed every time I saw it. I preferred not to look sometimes. When I pulled my cello out of its case, the fact that it, at least, never changed hit me with an inexplicable weight. It never went through grief; it never felt happiness. It was just finely crafted wood with no soul, no matter how much it seemed that it did have one. I stumbled through another one of our unconventional lessons. Since the accident, I had focused more on technique than teaching pieces. Destiny had always had a talent for playing by ear, but who knew if she could learn the difficult and often confusing pieces that dominate any good cellist’s repertoire? Classical music’s foundation has always been on written sheet music, something that was now useless to Destiny. While the progress she made and the talent she displayed gave me great hope for her future, I was still filled with concern over her disability. This time after the lesson, I walked with her to the foyer to wait for her mom. She walked independently, no longer clutching my sleeve. It was amazing the ease with which she navigated the school. She had adapted so quickly since the accident that she didn’t even use the cane folded up in her hand. It had been raining all day. “What does it look like?” Destiny asked. “The rain?” “I guess so.” She shrugged her tiny shoulders. I looked out into the rain. It was rain, nothing special. “Umm . . . it’s dark, and gray. Everything’s soaked.” We stood in silence. Exactly what was I supposed to say about rain? Yet a small voice whispered in my mind that she hadn’t seen rain in almost a year. Maybe she didn’t even remember. “There’s, uh, puddles on the sidewalk. And the parking lot. Storm drains are filling up. The clouds are kind of pretty.” “Do you like rain?” “Actually, I love rain.” I smiled. She attempted a smile. “Me too.” I chuckled. If we loved rain, shouldn’t we enjoy it? I grabbed her hand. “Come on.” There was a mist in the air, with the smell of wet earth. We stood underneath

the overhang where we wouldn’t get drenched. I lifted up Destiny’s hand so she could feel the rain. She cringed. “It’s weird. I can’t decide whether to be happy or sad. I can feel it, but I can’t see it. It slips away too quickly.” Oh, the things that slip away too quickly! I thought. Just like the rain, it seemed youth slipped away. I lifted my hand to feel it as well. It pounded my hand, little droplets springing back up again. Then I looked at Destiny. She had grown ten years in a day. I just wished she could be a kid again. Then have fun, whispered a voice in my mind. Go play. I took a few steps toward a puddle. I hadn’t done this in such a long time. Memories of warm rainy days in my youth came back to me. It seemed pointless now, jumping in puddles. I couldn’t imagine why it used to be so fun. But maybe if I just tried . . . Splash. I jumped in a puddle for the first time in twelve years. I still didn’t understand the appeal, but just to try again, I stepped over to another puddle and jumped. I laughed at the absurdity of what I was doing, but at this point it seemed silly to stop. I stepped to another puddle and jumped. Splash. There was another one right there. Splash. “Are you jumping in puddles?” Destiny asked sassily. “Yes!” I shouted, laughing. This was actually becoming fun. “Aren’t you wearing nice shoes?” “Oh,” I said, looking down at my brand-new leather shoes, which I had paid way too much for. Oh, well, I could just throw them in the dryer, right? “I don’t care!” I laughed. Splash, splash. “You are crazy!” “You’re the one just standing there! Have some fun!” I shot back. She was standing underneath the ledge with her hands on her hips. She reminded me of my mother. I could almost hear her saying, “Come inside right now. You’re going to get pneumonia!” “Then get pneumonia,” my father would say, sneaking through the doorway past mom, “and call it a blessing for enjoying God’s creation!” Dad would then jump in puddles with me. “Pneumonia doesn’t sound fun to me,” Destiny said, fulfilling my daydream. “Come on.” I placed my hand on my hip, just like her. Then I remembered she couldn’t see it, so I grabbed her arm and pulled her out into the rain. “There’s a puddle right in front of you.” She looked at me with a puzzled face. Then, giving up, she sighed and jumped. I laughed and placed her in front of another puddle. She jumped, and this time she grinned. Puddle after puddle, till my legs were tired from running around in my now very heavy, soaked clothes. Destiny’s jacket clung to her skinny frame, dripping and dripping. At times I forgot who I was. Instead I was my dad,

Impressions 2017 || Fiction

running and jumping and playing in the rain. And it didn’t matter that he was gone, because I was him, and she was me, and we didn’t care about sadness or propriety or even pneumonia. All of that was washed away in the rain. It was not long before Destiny’s mom pulled up in her car. I grabbed her cello from the foyer and rushed to place it in their trunk. She was already wrapped in a blanket from the back seat. “See you next week,” she said, smiling. They drove away, and I returned to my classroom, where I’d left some spare clothes in my desk. My father’s picture smiled at me.

ROSE BATEMAN is a junior as South Prairie High School in Minot, ND. Rose has written several novels as well as short stories, poetry, and music. Rose’s first passion, music, is her main inspiration for writing. She has been a student director for the Western Plains Children’s Choir and is one of the youngest members of the Minot Symphony Orchestra.

JOY ON A TUESDAY –SAMANTHA HEEN “Play us a song, Rosie!” the eager patients said. I smiled, pressed my fingers to the smooth keys, and played. I could feel the joyful energy in the large front lobby of St. Alexius Hospital; that was what kept me going. After I finished, the room was silent. Then patients, doctors, and visitors alike all started clapping. I rose and bowed, grinning from ear to ear. As many began requesting the songs they wanted to hear, I caught a glimpse of a still figure sitting in a chair close to the window. I noticed that she was neither speaking to anyone nor smiling. I shrugged it off, thinking that she’d probably just had a bad day. I continued playing, and everyone kept clapping for me. After each piece, I would glance over at her to see if her expression had changed, but it never had. As each Tuesday came and went, I kept on playing, and every time I would play, she was there, listening. On one particularly brisk afternoon, I decided to play “Prelude in C Major,” which I had played for my grandma a week before. It was her favorite, so I thought it might cheer everyone up. It started slowly and quietly, grew and grew to a forte, and then calmed back down. The notes and rhythms soothed me, and I hoped and prayed that it would do the same for everyone who was listening. As I finished, I turned and found proof of everything I had learned about the effects of music. That still figure seated by the window was smiling. I could see the look of pure joy and calmness on her face. I had accomplished what I had been longing to do. I had brought joy to a weary soul.

SAMANTHA HEEN is a sophomore at St. Mary’s Central High School in Bismarck, ND. She plans to graduate in the spring of 2019 and attend college at the University of Mary in Bismarck for nursing.

2D-Art

Impressions 2017 || 2-D Art

GRANDMA’S CHAIR -SALLY HERAUF

2016 || OIL ON CANVAS || 22” x 18”

SALLY HERAUF, of Dickinson, is a senior at Dickinson State University currently working toward an art entrepreneurship degree. Oil painting has become one of her favorite mediums to work with. She enjoys still life paintings because they have even more depth to their meanings as they usually contain objects of personal significance to the artist.

BIG SKY -JOSH REED

2017 || OIL & INK ON CANVAS || 48â&#x20AC;? X 36â&#x20AC;?

JOSH REED is a landscape artist from Glendive, MT, graduating from Dickinson State University with a BS in art entrepreneurship and minor a in graphic design in May of 2017. As an artist, Josh combines monotype prints with oil paintings to encompass the true beauty that lies within the eastern Montana badlands of Makoshika State Park. In addition to being an artist, Josh is also an athlete. For four years, he competed in track and field for Dickinson State University and was a 2016 national qualifier in the indoor 600m sprint. His days are spent either creating, exercising, or enjoying the outdoors.

Impressions 2017 || 2-D Art

BROKEN WHEELS -KAITLYN RENNER

2016 || WATERCOLOR || 15.5” X 22.5”

KAITLYN RENNER is a business administration major with minors in accounting and art. She will be graduating in the fall of 2017. Her artistic pursuits are focused mainly in drawing, but she also enjoys the brightness of watercolors, using them in combination with abstract forms.

STILL LIFE CLOTHES PIN -MACLYN HAUCK

2017 || GRAPHITE ON PAPER || 24” X 18”

MACLYN HAUCK is a junior who just transferred to Dickinson State University. She is majoring in art entrepreneurship and plans to graduate in 2019. Maclyn has always enjoyed creating art with mixed media.

Impressions 2017 || 2-D Art

MOTHER’S NIGHTMARE -MICHAELA GORMAN

2016 || COLORED PENCIL & INK || 14” X 11”

MICHAELA GORMAN is from a small community called Tolani Lake, AZ, located on the Navajo Indian Reservation. She is a psychology major with an art minor. Michaela likes to bring her culture into all that she does and expose the world to the cultural beauty of the indigenous Navajo people.

ENERGETIC PUP WITH HAY BALES -BRIANA DOLECHEK

2017 || OIL ON CANVAS|| 24” X 18”

BRIANA DOLECHEK is a junior art education major and psychology minor from Dickinson, ND. Art has been an essential part of her life for as long as she can remember. Lately, she has been painting landscapes of her family’s farm in an expressive, impressionistic style. Following graduation, Briana will seek an art teaching position at the secondary level in her home state.

Impressions 2017 || 2-D Art

RAIN -MORIAH TONOLE

2017 || ACRYLIC || 18” X 11”

MORIAH TONOLE is a sophomore at Richardton-Taylor High School. Her goal is to attend college at the California Institute of Technology. She hopes to become a scientist specializing in astrophysics. As a child, she painted landscapes in her backyard.

ORANGES -SHELBY FLOBERG

2017 || ACRYLIC || 18” X 11”

SHELBY FLOBERG is a junior at Richardton-Taylor High School. She plans to graduate in 2018. She enjoys painting and participating in all of her extracurricular activities. Her hobbies include volleyball and drinking coffee.

Impressions 2017 || 2-D Art

APPLE -COY DIEDE

2017 || ACRYLIC || 11” X 18”

COY DIEDE is a junior at Richardton-Taylor High School. He loves to ranch and ride his horses. After high school, he plans to attend college to study agriculture.

BALLOON -ANYA BARANKO

2017 || ACRYLIC || 11” X 18”

ANYA BARANKO is a junior at Richardton-Taylor High School. She plans to graduate in 2018. She enjoys playing volleyball, painting, and playing piano.

Impressions 2017 || 2-D Art

LANDSCAPE -JUSTIN BARKER

2017 || ACRYLIC || 18” X 11”

JUSTIN BARKER is a junior at Richardton-Taylor High School. He enjoys painting and will graduate in 2018.

FISHING -JOSIE WICKS

2017 || ACRYLIC || 18” X 11”

JOSIE WICKS is a junior at Richardton-Taylor High School. Her favorite subjects are art and math. Josie’s hobbies include riding her horses, playing volleyball, doodling, and hanging out with her friends.

Impressions 2017 || 2-D Art

GAIAPATRA -KARISSA DAMM

2017||Digital Art of Gaiapatra

KARISSA DAMM is a freshman at Culbertson High School. She has been making art from a young age and has always been passionate about it. For this piece, Damm digitally rendered a photo of Gaiapatra, a traveling makeup artist whose work can be found on her Instagram page, @gaiapatra. She plans to graduate in 2020 and wants to pursue a scholarship as an art major.

FADING FRUIT -TIENNA MANNIN

2017 || CONTÉ || 19” X 15”

TIENNA MANNIN is a sophomore at Dawson County High School in Glendive, MT. She has been drawing since she was very young, winning her first art contest at age six. She aspires to be a Disney animator.

Impressions 2017 || 2-D Art

DEPRESSION -KARENA VERBITSKY

2016 || PENCIL || 11” X 8.5”

KARENA VERBITSKY is a junior at South Prairie High School in Minot, ND. She had her first encounter with drawing in a freshman art class and has loved experimenting with art ever since. She uses a combination of traditional mediums like pencil or charcoal and mixes them with digital technology to create an innovative style of art. Along with art, she is hoping to pursue engineering or pre-law after she graduates.

Nonfiction

Impressions 2017 || Nonfiction

PLAIN HEART

–SALENA LOVELAND

It’s the middle of December in southwestern North Dakota. I can’t tell from my apartment window if the air is powdery white because it’s snowing or because the clouds have decided to sit on the ground for a while. The new, seven-and-a-half-foot Christmas tree stands in the front window—a blank, green canvas waiting patiently for me to adorn it in holiday brilliance. Christmas songs play on the TV, and the electric fireplace adds a warmth that is both imitative and real. This past weekend, I spotted a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses. They weren’t difficult for me to identify. I grew up in the religion, and I know what to look for. We were at one of their frequent habitats—a coffee shop at 10:30 on a Saturday morning. This is where they take their breaks when going door-todoor. They were five adults—two young adult males, two young adult females, and an elderly female. The interactions between them confirmed they were not family, because they were polite, friendly, but not too familiar. Their dress was business casual—slacks for the men and skirts for the women. I chuckled to myself when I noted that the men were wearing ivy caps. Since both were wearing the unusual hat, I knew it was the latest fad in this part of the country among Witness men. When the group left, they all piled into a small, economical sedan—a staple for any responsible Jehovah’s Witness because it’s big enough to carry a group of people for service (voluntary Bible-education work) while remaining affordable. This brush with my past life, contrasted with the growing holiday spirit in my home, gives me a feeling of freedom. Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t celebrate holidays. I’ve been free and celebrating holidays for almost twelve years now. Seeing those Witnesses and then decorating for Christmas reminds me of the life I left. When I was little, my mom would say, “Christmas lights, yucky,” or some other similar phrase. I heard her words, but as we drove past houses on our way to yet another meeting, I stared out my car window. I took in all the lights like a toddler gobbling up Cheerios. My favorite ones were the white lights mixed with the light blue and pink bulbs. There was a softness to the colors. I liked the houses with the tree in a front window. They must be especially nice homes to be in, I thought. Another memory emerges. I remember standing with my mom in an otherwise empty classroom. I was about to start Kindergarten, and we had gone in early to meet my new teacher. “I want to let you know,” Mom told the teacher, “that we are Jehovah’s Witnesses and that Salena won’t be participating in any holiday activities.”

“Thank you for coming to talk to me, and don’t worry. We’ll find something else for her to do when it comes to holiday activities.” My new teacher smiled.

She had kind eyes. In the years that followed, I would talk to my teachers and give them each a copy of my religion’s brochure School and Jehovah’s Witnesses, which explained our reasons for not participating in various activities, including holidays. Instead of coloring a Santa Claus, I would color a snowman. Instead of making a construction-paper valentine, I made a plain heart. When the class had a holiday party, I would go home early. One year, I think I was in first grade, my class spent several music classes preparing for a Christmas concert. “Salena.” “Yes, Mr. Lungren.” “Instead of learning the Christmas songs, you will be playing music games on the computer.” “Okay.” I went to the Apple II computer in the back corner of the room, and, after Mr. Lungren showed me what to do, I put on padded headphones and played. As the Christmas concert drew closer, the class began practicing on the stage in our lunchroom. Mr. Lungren couldn’t leave me alone in the classroom, so I went with them. He gave me a special, and I thought very important, job. “Salena, I need you to go to the very back of the room and tell me if you can hear them. I need to know if they are singing loud enough.” I learned several Christmas songs doing that special job. To this day, when I hear “Silver Bells” or “Winter Wonderland,” I think of my classmates standing on the steps to the stage in my elementary lunchroom. Every year I was the little girl who refused the birthday cupcake, did a different activity, or left instead of attend a party. I was always telling the kids, “I don’t celebrate . . .” One recess, when I was about eight or nine years old, a girl in my class came up to me and asked, “You don’t celebrate Christmas? Doesn’t that make you sad?” “No, it doesn’t. We don’t need one special day a year to give gifts. We can get gifts anytime!” I ran off to play in the bright white snow. Of course, we didn’t get gifts all through the year, but it was a nice thought. A part of me felt proud that I didn’t celebrate any holidays or birthdays, because I was doing what I had been taught was right and good. Jehovah God would be pleased with me. A few years later, in sixth grade, I sat one morning at my desk, waiting for the social studies class to start. We were back after two weeks of Christmas vacation, and there was an energy of rejuvenated kids in the air. I quietly listened. “Where did you go over the break?” “You went to Hawaii? I’m so jealous!”

Impressions 2017 || Nonfiction

“Get anything good?” A boy showed off his new high-top tennis shoes. “Cool, I got this shirt and a bunch of other stuff.” I hoped they wouldn’t ask me because I didn’t want to explain, for the hundredth time, that I didn’t celebrate Christmas. I had nothing new to share, and by this time, I was wishing I did. I celebrated vicariously, though. I enjoyed the Christmas songs playing in the department store. I loved the occasional valentine I got from the boy who didn’t know better. I looked for kids trick-or-treating on Halloween and wondered what I would dress up as. Twelve years ago, my husband made it his mission to give me all the joy I had missed in my childhood. For Halloween, we’ve been Vikings, a flapper and gangster, and a count and Marie Antoinette. He never misses my birthday and always makes me cake—cherry-chip with cherry frosting. Christmas, too, is always special, whether we spend it with relatives or just the two of us. The tree in my own front window is wondering if I forgot about it. The decorations are outside, and it’s dark now. I’ll adorn it tomorrow. Even if I don’t, the tree is up and stands for the freedom I now have to celebrate any holiday I choose. I love the spirit of family, of giving, and love that fills this time of year. Instead of pretending to ignore it while secretly longing for it, I embrace it. Don’t worry, tree, you are not forgotten.

THE MOST HUMBLING HIKE

–EMILY SUWYN

We pass a tragedy to get there. Oso, where a mountain of mud and debris wiped an intricate city clear off the map on March 22, 2014. People were caught off guard in such a way that they didn’t have time to acknowledge their own impending deaths. The force of nature isn’t to be reckoned with. Forty-three ghosts watch us drive by. The trees speed on and the concrete curves. We are on our way to one of the most beautiful hikes in the world, an unknown hike with an unknown name. The drive is lengthy but well worth it. Getting out and geared, I’ll admit I am nervous. I have been told that it might be a huge challenge for me. Little does my cousin know of my perseverance. We officially begin the journey in a forest setting made up of winding, hilly trails. The mysterious destination has us full of adrenaline. The soil that marks the path is a rich brown and red, littered in bark. Our clothes are dry, but the sky above us tells us we might not be dry for long. We come across a meadow covered in huckleberries, blueberries, and glowing, light-green grass. Signs of wildlife are everywhere: trails, burrows, and scat. The pines, hemlocks, alders, and maples tower above us as we continue farther into the depths. Stepping over fallen, rotten logs as high as our waists and taking turns crossing a daunting land bridge with cliffs on either side, we come to a clearing. It is the timberline. At approximately 7,000 feet above sea level, we are in awe of this northeast side of Whitechuck Mountain in the Northern Cascade region of Washington state. Ahead of us lies a difficult combination of rocks, hills, and distance. Gray granite, spotted in a light coat of rain, shifts beneath our feet as we descend toward our unknown destination. A fog of varying densities both blocks the view and creates it. Still, life seems so much clearer up here. We trudge back up more solid yet shifting stone of countless shapes and infinite sizes. The rain starts to drain us as it soaks into our slick North Face jackets and fancy hiking boots. Nature will never show mercy. Over another groggy hill harboring scattered trees, our unknown destination reveals itself. The small tarn is a special place, making us feel as though we have left the earth. Clear glacier water gathers at the destination—so adored. Just past the tarn is a cliff that plummets down hundreds of feet. We throw sticks and stones, and I hear that perfect pang sound for the first time in my life. Up the cliff, random, dark-green trees grow from sideways trunks, reaching toward the sky, their strength and beauty never taken for granted. On a flat rock under an alder, our cold, numb group perches, eating Jack Link’s cheese and beef jerky. I walk around photographing God’s glory: unique rocks, pine needles submerged in crystal waters, and perfect horizons of mysterious views. We are in heaven. In the distance, I hear a humbling story. Our local

Impressions 2017 || Nonfiction

guide describes what the Oso landslide did to his life. The perfect silence of the tarn presses into our hearts as we take a moment to honor the lives lost. On the way back, our every inch aches as we press on, over the obstacles we have already defeated. As our soggy toes reach the timberline once again, we turn around to note the accomplishment. Only in my dreams and deepest thoughts will I return for years to come, but one day, one day I will.

EMILY SUWYN is a freshman at Dickinson State University. She is majoring in elementary education and may end up as an art minor, too. She plans to graduate in 2020, with the intent of home-schooling her daughter.

Photography

Impressions 2017 || Photography

MOMENT FOR A MONUMENT -EMILY SUWYN

EMILY SUWYN is a freshman at Dickinson State University. She is majoring in elementary education, with the possibility of becoming an art minor. Her interest in photography inspired a road trip around America in 2015, when this photograph was taken.

INNOCENCE -STEFANIE HEATH

STEFANIE HEATH is a third-year Dickinson State University student working on a major in history secondary education. She plans to graduate in 2019 and continue her education to obtain a masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s or Ph.D. in history. She started taking photos when she was five with her familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s camera and purchased her own camera, a Kodiak 35, at a yard sale when she was eight.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

PETRIFIED PARADISE -DALE DOLECHEK

DALE DOLECHECK, who graduated from Dickinson State University in 1981, is Custodial Team Leader for the Office of Facility Operations at the university. After working thirty-three years in retail grocery management, Dale was hired at DSU three years ago as a custodian in Scott and Wienbergen gyms.

FLOWERS OF SPRING -HANNA COOPER

HANNA COOPER is a Dickinson State University online student from New York and is studying equine management. She has always had a love for photography and nature. Her mom is a professional photographer.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

TENDERNESS WITHIN -MACLYN HAUCK

CHASING CANS AND CHASING DREAMS -RACHEL TIMM

RACHEL TIMM is a senior agriculture studies major with an option in natural resource management and minors in soils and equine. She is from Rhame, ND, and plans to graduate from Dickinson State University in the fall of 2017. In her photography, she loves to take action shots, especially involving domestic animals and wildlife.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

OVERLOOKING TODD -AUSTIN STOCKERT

AUSTIN STOCKERT is a freshman computer technology management major from Dickinson. He has been involved in photography since high school and is now an artist at Celebrations ‘n’ Crafts in downtown Dickinson.

EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING -NEVILLE AKOLAWALA

NEVILLE AKOLAWALA is a senior at Dickinson State University. He is a qualified airline pilot by profession. In 2011, he was a contract pilot for DHL Express, flying to various U.S. bases in Afghanistan and Iraq. Last summer, he worked as a cloud seeding-pilot serving multiple counties around North Dakota. He plans to graduate in May 2017. During the school year, he works as a campus security officer for DSU.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

RACEHORSE REMINISCENCE: MALLORY KAY -PAM KAZLAUSKAS

PAM KAZLAUSKAS, of Torrington, CT, is an agricultural sales and service major at Dickinson State University. Her interests include photography and her two horses. She plans to graduate in the spring.

SERENITY -SALLY HERAUF

SALLY HERAUF, of Dickinson, is a senior currently working toward an art entrepreneurship degree. Black-and-white photography is a recently introduced medium to her. While it does present its challenges, such as lighting or composition, there is excitement in getting to the desired piece.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

DICKINSON AMENDMENTS -DEREK HUETHER

A neighborhood built around a pump to satisfy the high demand for housing a few years ago.

The oil rigs used for fracking around the state.

Commercial building on 15th Street West.

DEREK HUETHER is a senior at Dickinson State University majoring in art entrepreneurship with a graphic design minor. He was born and raised in Dickinson, ND, and plans to graduate in the spring of 2018. These photographs were inspired by the townâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s changes, which show the impact that one industry can have.

BALD EAGLE -KEN HAUGHT

KEN HAUGHT began teaching communication and theatre at Dickinson State University in 1993. Since 2011, he has served DSU as an administrator, first as the Dean of Arts and Sciences and then in his current position. An amateur photographer for years, he keeps a camera nearby to take snapshots of wildlife while driving through the rural Dakotas.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

NATUREâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S MIRROR -KADAN OLSON

KADAN OLSON is a senior at Ray Public High School in Ray, ND. After high school Kadan plans to attend the Dakota College at Bottineau to pursue a degree in photography. Kadan hopes to, someday, turn his hobby into a career.

FAVORITE INNOCENCE -MASON HUTCHINSON

MASON HUTCHINSON is a senior at Dawson County High School in Glendive, MT. He has been a photographer for 10 months, and is planning on continuing his efforts at the University of Montana in the fall.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

SOLILOQUY -ROSE BATEMAN

ROSE BATEMAN is a junior at South Prairie High School in Minot, ND. She, along with two of her brothers, loves photography. Rose also enjoys writing and has a passion for music. She has student-directed the Western Plains Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Choir for three years and is one of the youngest members of the Minot Symphony Orchestra.

PUDDLES TREE DIMENSION -SHAMBER COHENOUR

SHAMBER COHENOUR is a junior at Sidney High School in Sidney, MT. She is going to graduate in 2018. After high school, she plans to work and save up money, while improving her art and photography abilities. This is her first contest, and sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s excited to do more in the future.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

THE BEAUTY OF NORTH DAKOTA WINTERS -VICTORIA VOLLMER

VICTORIA VOLLMER is a senior at Midkota High School in Glenfield, ND. She will graduate this May and plans to attend North Dakota State University to pursue a major in interior design this fall. She fell in love with photography at age ten when she got her first camera. Since then she has been passionately capturing beautiful moments like this one.

COUNTRY SUNSET -ENSLEY POINDEXTER

ENSLEY POINDEXTER is a junior at South Prairie High School in Minot, ND. She has been interested in photography since she got her first camera for her thirteenth birthday. Since then she has improved her skills by working hard at her photography each day. She plans to attend Minot State University and obtain her degree in education. She also would love to start a side business within the next year to continue improving on her skills.

Impressions 2017 || Photography

ABSTRACT SPIRAL -MACY MACK

MACY MACK is a senior at Dickinson High School in Dickinson, ND. She is an active member in her school and community through various activities, including Future Business Leaders of America, student council, national honor society, and varsity track. She plans to pursue a degree in marketing/advertising, communications, and visual arts. Her ultimate goal is to become an art therapist, finding purpose while working with people for people.

FATAL AFFAIRS - GRAPHIC NARRATIVE -SALLY HERAUF

Impressions 2017 || Photography

SALLY HERAUF, of Dickinson, is a senior at Dickinson State University currently working towards an art entrepreneurship degree. She has a passion for art and loves to create anything from painting to graphic design.

Poetry

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

REFLECTION –HAILEY ENTZE The houses on the street below, Illuminate with humanly glow. For a house without the ones inside, Is like a human heart, deprived. A house reflects the human beings, That trust its walls for safe keepings. They show their differences galore, “Just take a look,” they all implore. One may be red with a picket fence, One may have grass, thick and dense. Another has a swimming pool, (The one next door thinks he’s a fool). Still, some houses may deceive, They may not always be what they seem. For not everyone can afford, To show their colors through cement and boards. In the tiny one with the junky yard, Lives a sweet old man, he’s quite a card. The mansion with parties night after night, Is the emptiest of all, despite its plight. So with just one look, just one drive-by, One might tell who lives inside. Or maybe not, one never knows. It’s hit or miss, that’s how it goes.

IS THIS GROWING UP? –JULIANNE SKAFF Is it coming home to a dark house, where the little dolls are all asleep in their wooden beds? Is it eating cold food with cold silverware, sitting in a cold chair alone? Is it crying over the smallest things, such as a change in the air? Is it having no one to talk to yet having someone there? Is it realizing that you can’t ignore responsibilities and just receive a slap on the wrist? Is it dealing with the change of weather and layering just for protection? Is this growing up? Is it sitting on your old bike that makes you see how much you’ve grown? Is it accepting that the only things that fit underneath you are the front seat of your mom’s VW and college chairs? Is it understanding that you are alone in this sea of people? Is it always feeling this constant pressure of wanting and needing? And is it understanding the difference between what you want and what you need? Is this growing up? Is it tip toeing around so you don’t wake old skeletons? Is it running into old ghosts and hiding beneath a thin veil? Is it missing your mom tucking you in and your dad calling you princess? Is it always this exhausting with seldom breaks? Is it wanting to be a kid so you can play hide and seek one more time?

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

Is your new blanket now a jacket you hide behind? Is it finding safety and comfort from the pages of books? Is it struggling to try to make it through the day without self-pep talks? Is this growing up? Is it strange that through all of that I want more? Is it also strange that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so terrified that I cry every day? Is this growing up?

DAWN

â&#x20AC;&#x201C;KENDRA COX

Inching over the horizon, Sky painted with rose and carrot dyes, The biggest star is released from its prison, Lovers of the dark abyss cry. Say goodbye to the stars, Goodbye to the moon. As they sit behind bars, Till seven hours after noon. Streetlights still aglow, The moon sinks back to solitary confinement. Light emerges from the world below, Its beauty enough to make you silent.

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

FLAW

Like Zeus, my flaw is the hunger for power And, like Poseidon, I am insanely loyal. I’ll hold a grudge to the grave like Hades While falling into depression like Demeter. Steaming with Hera’s jealousy, I am consumed With the pride of Apollo and Artemis’ hate. Infused with the red rage of Ares and The purple vanity flame of Aphrodite, I am Cursed to be inferior to others like Hephaestus (The one made ugly by his mother). Hence, I am pushed to solidarity like Hestia (So timid and shy, she gave up her throne). I’ll soon be overcome by the curiosity of Hermes And killed by the drunkenness of Dionysus. I am them, and they are me. The complexity called, Man.

–SHEKINAH OBOMIGHIE

UNLOCKED

–MARCUS DIETRICH

The key to his closet had been in his pocket the whole time, its firm outline a constant reminder, but realization and acceptance are two different things. A shot of burning bravery coursing through his veins, a façade of strength, he unlocked the door for his mother first. The knowledge of her boy dating a boy changed her aura from mother to stranger. Disappointment and disgust— flame on skin. His father next, what lay ahead? The boy unlocked the door. “I thought I knew.” A hug closed a lifelong gap. The door had been unlocked and opened now for anyone, the key thrown away because realization and acceptance are two different things.

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

GONE LIKE THE WYOMING WIND

Easter Sunday was finally here, The elderly man had nothing to fear, He was here one day and gone the next. A wife, three sons, nine grandchildren, His loved ones left with their hearts a wreck. Papa’s body is no longer here, But while the Wyoming wind still roars, We know his soul will always be near.

–ASHLEE HOLCOMB

STONE-HEARTED

â&#x20AC;&#x201C;CHRISTINE HETZEL

My soul is like an orphaned bird Whose hungry crying splits the night. My soul is like a willow tree Whose tendrils hide dark depths from sight. My soul is like a broken shell That lies half-buried in ocean spray. My soul is more forlorn than these Because my love sent me away. Tear down the curtains of gold and red; Repaint the walls in sterile white. Rip up the boldly patterned carpets; Toss out anything colorful or bright. Let nothing remind me of you; Let my heart be cold and gray. Each passing day I strive to be stone Because my love sent me away.

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

WRITING: AN EPITAPH

–MARGARET BARNHART

Let us grieve for the sentences crafted with grace And descriptions that show more than tell; Now they’re buried by language both artless and base. It’s a wordsmith’s perception of hell! Let us mourn now the loss of the best-chosen words That have died from the choices of text-speaking herds. Who can say what the future of writing will be? IDK: BTN? OMG! DBD!

IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT, GET OUT

–AMANDA D’ANIELLO

Yes, Soft Eyes, there are people like you. But, Softness, they’re also like me, and them. Everything you’re afraid of. Worst case scenario: we die. Withering away under your boring desk job, your overbearing wife. You forgot the masks so we’ll paint ourselves black, easier to pretend closet sex is actually good, that we actually know where we’re going. Sipping sweet green tea, you are brought back from your Chinese daydream to your anti-septic-green mouthwash reality. I’ll hope for you.

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

ON THE PRAIRIE

The wind blows an echoing tune, moving the crops in a synchronized sway. Crops are spread for miles, the only sight to see, the lone tree. She stands in the crowd. Chatter is all around, her thoughts will not fade. There is nothing she wants more than to get away. She feels so alone, like she is the only one, unfree.

–BREANNA KRAFT

FALL OF TIME

–LEXI KEMPENICH

Sitting on a park bench looking out into the world I watch the leaves falling. They fall One By One By one To the ground. It is like time that slips away from us, As the leaves have slipped away from the branch. Before we realize it, the tree is empty.

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

THE CATTLE RANCHER’S STORY

–RACHEL TIMM

Kneeling down in the straw, desperately trying to revive the calf to return him to his ma. But the pull was too hard, his body was just too weak. We don’t always get the outcome we seek. The rancher lays the baby calf back down on the straw, his eyes teary from the loss he just saw. It was the fifty-third birth with 200 more to go, and oh my… it is beginning to snow. Twenty below and the wind’s picking up speed, looks like it’s time to saddle up the steed. Frozen babies either dead or alive lie out in the snow, the frostbitten rancher could go home, but no. He slings the frozen calves up over his saddle, mind filled with worry for the fate of his cattle. Calves lie in front of every furnace in the house, no more room for even a mouse. Desperation sets in as some are saved and some don’t make it, with no choice but for him to take it. Vet bills, milk replacer, ear tags, and other supplies rise in price along with everything else that he buys. The cattle market has taken another hit, and he’s consumed with the fear of losing his ranch because this could be it. Working twelve or more hours a day, seven days a week, while struggling to pay the bills, too tired to even speak. Producing your food is what they do, a thankless job but they need to put food on the table, too. This livelihood may not be filled with riches and glory, but this is the cattle rancher’s life story.

PHOTOGRAPH LOST

–TRICIA MYRAN

Tommy, three years old in ‘96, and his dad squat in front of a ramshackle garage we had uprooted from our family’s foreclosed farm and planted on a clean pad of cement. The rear bumper of a dusty rose ‘78 T-Bird juts into the right side of the photograph. On the day it was purchased, I had exclaimed, “You bought a Mary Kay car?” Young skin bathes in light and warmth from the summer sun. Tommy’s dewy cheeks are plumped by an open-mouthed, little-boy smile. His arms, growing too fast from a surprisingly white t-shirt, overflow with toy cars while his dad’s gold wedding-ringed hand curves protectively around his tummy. His dad wears his usual plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up for work on a hot day. His Kenworth hat hides a head of thick blond hair. A wry smile graces his gaunt face. The apple tree and the apple, in Wranglers and tennis shoes. I, the camerawoman, capture them with 35 mm film. Our daughter awaits conception; our family is incomplete on that day in paradise. Unseen is my in-laws’ house, a reminder of a ‘90s sitcom. Now photo, gold wedding band, in-laws and dad, gone.

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

SMEARING

–MARGIE SILBERNAGEL

I made a list of ten things I wonder. Well, actually, I made thirteen, but that doesn’t matter. I guess I don’t wonder if I’m an overachiever. I wonder why I’m so awkward. I wonder what’s for breakfast. I wonder who I’ll become. I wonder if I’ll ever love someone. Or is it if I’ll ever lose someone? I write in pen and it smears and I can’t tell if it’s an S or a V. It’s hard not to smear when you’re left handed. I guess I do wonder. Will I ever find someone I can’t breathe without? Will I have to live without someone who I didn’t think could die without me? And I don’t really know which one scares me more. And that scares me. I wonder why I have it so good And why others don’t. Because what in the world did I ever do To deserve so many blessings That half of the time I just let fall out of my hands Without even letting them Leave ink marks behind? I wonder if I will ever change someone. I have this annoying little habit Of pouring my heart into everyone I meet. Even if they don’t know it. And if only you knew how much sleep I lose. I am so insanely scared for everyone around me. Because I wonder what will happen to them. So maybe it’s not so much that I can’t live without them. But will they live without me? Can I save them?

I want to save you but you keep pushing me away, thinking I want to change you because maybe I smeared the word. Or maybe that’s what I said in the first place. Change? Save? Even I don’t know anymore. I wonder if bad things will come. These premonitions I keep having. I’m not scared of dying. I know that. But I am scared of pain. I’m scared of being hurt so badly that I can’t bleed. Or is it breathe? I think I smeared the word again. I wonder about the future. I don’t really wonder about now or how things work. Maybe that’s why I don’t like science. Now that I think of what I said, I wonder if I meant wonder. Or if I meant worry. Because I worry a lot. And you can’t worry about what’s already happening. I look at the side of my pinky finger and try to make out The ink mixed into wrinkles and stories And see if I can determine what the letters were supposed to be. If wonder turned into worry. Or if that’s what it was in the first place. So I take my thumbs and rub them against the words As if I can rub away the worry or wonder or wishing or whatever it is. Maybe if I keep smearing I can quit feeling. Or is it keep feeling? I made a list of ten—I mean thirteen—things I wonder. And I know I only told you nine, But the rest are now smeared beyond reading So I guess you’ll just have to wonder.

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

JIMMY

Go. What did I just say? Go! There we go. Use exclamation points. Listen to me. Ah ha! Use exclamation points. Listen to me! Are you listening? I’m telling you now; You’d better listen. Open your heart. That’s how you hear. Throw away all that shit. Throw away your life, If only for a moment; Live in a new life. You will now go by Jimmy. And Jimmy listens to me. Now, Jimmy boy, Take my hand. We’re going to form your mind. By this time tomorrow, When I take you “home,” You’ll wish you were Jimmy. Go, Jimmy! Listen, then go! You are Jimmy. Let me help you. Use exclamation points. You are Jimmy!

100

–MORGAN DEPUTE

SADNESS IS BLUE

–WILLOW WEEKLEY

It’s a storm raging inside. It’s falling asleep against a wet pillow. Sadness is empty. It’s feeling alone and cut off from the world. It’s a sickness that seeps deep down in your bones. Sadness is a forced smile. It’s the dead of winter. It’s when sleep is the only relief. Sadness is needed. It has to be dark before you see the stars. There has to be a little rain to see a rainbow. Without sadness, you wouldn’t know true happiness.

101

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

THE BODY GROWS STRONGER

â&#x20AC;&#x201C;MARGIE SILBERNAGEL

We gather in what is supposed to be a celebration. Holding hands as one, we call upon our God with song and dance when The strain that lies like a spiteful snake, with malice as its purpose, Begins to rear its ugly head and hiss above the surface. The story flashes brightly on the screen and dimly within our hearts. We feel the shattered pain although we cry so many miles apart. We slip on heavy sorrow and wade through steady streams of grief, Tuck our prayers in a bottle so to sail along the creek. As soon as all have shed their tears and finished with their mourning, We grasp each other once again with hope and strength now forming. Each young face that holds more faith than anywhere on the earth. Because we know that good can still be gained and love has worth. They thought they had depleted us and caused us to divide, Not only from each other but from the One up on high. But unbeknownst to those of hate we sing with greater voice. United all the more despite their fatal, violent choice.

102

–SHELBY KANSKI

I come from swaying trees and thinking possibilities. Where hopes were high so they took their time to let me be. Two strong parents grounded me in completely different memories. They molded and formed me to where I am now and I love my identity. I adapt better and welcome change, as do I think openly. So many experiences and places shaped into one little life—that’s me. I come from the white caps of the ocean and rolling sunflower prairies. I’m a mix of bright city lights and also solidarity. I long for busy streets and a different life, but never familiarity. And I’m continuing to grow, but I’m always wary. I’m not even halfway to achieving my goals, but my soul is so much more than I carry. I come from skyscrapers of imagination and masks that are hard to see. But wherever I come from, that’s what makes me—me.

103

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

CONFESSIONS

104

–ROSE BATEMAN

I remember. I remember quite clearly. As the wind blows through my hair, I feel a chill run up my spine. I remember. I square my shoulders and try to be tough, but that’s only because of the fear forming in my stomach. There are people waiting around the door, and a hundred feet away a man smokes his cigarette. I look across the street, the police station is right there. They will hear me if I call, I don’t have to be afraid. But I am. An old man holds the door for me, I smile and say thanks but inside I shiver at the way he smiles at me. I rush up the stairs, into the library that holds so many memories of my youth, a place I used to feel safe, alone. But, now I know I am not alone. A man walks down the aisle and sits himself in his chair, I watch him. He breathes in deeply and lets it go with a rasp. I hate that sound; I’ve heard it before. It’s the sound of a man who thinks he owns the world. I know. I’ve heard that sound so many times before. I shake my head; I’m not going to think about that now, not ever. But as I leave the building and hard rays of sun hit my face, I do remember. I remember all too well. And like a cold hand clutched around my heart, this memory holds me prisoner. I will never forget. No, not when I’m shopping and people watch me as I pass by. No, not when I’m walking and some pest honks his horn at me. No, certainly not when he calls as if I belong to him. Even when someone I trust shows me kindness, but they did not know to stay a step away. I will not forget at school where they make jokes about things they don’t understand. And in my quiet corner I hide because they would never know what it’s like. When my teacher places his hand on my paper.

I didn’t know he was there, why would he sneak up like that? And I watch him with the back of my head. Don’t walk behind me. Don’t stand there, No! And all the girls are wearing short-shorts, tank-tops, complaining about how they can’t show it off. It’s not a problem, they say. But I know. I know. That’s why I’m here in my blue jeans and sweatshirt, wishing I could tell you why I find it’s best to cover up. But I hide, like this, six feet under, where it’s dark, lonely, and all I hear are the voices in my head. And even though they are so loud I am the only one here, there’s no one who can tell me it’s fine. My blood goes cold and my knees are weak, I can’t take this anymore, I have to get out. But since I’m in my own world I’m with all my worst nightmares and nobody hears me SCREAM It’s okay, I’m calm now, don’t worry, I’m fine. I will always be “just fine,” but the truth is I am not alright, Because it’s things like this that you have to deal with on your own. Because even the people who know bring it up, it hurts too much, so I spend my nights crying in my bedroom and if my mom asks, I’ve just got a cold. It’s okay, I’m fine now. It was a long time ago. I’m stronger and I’m better and I know a lot more. I just wish you could understand what it is that I know, and I wish that you could see that even if you’re kind, you scare me. This is unfair, I know, but you’d give me a break if you knew what a man once did to me. You’d know. You’d remember. Now, you better not forget the confessions of a teenage sex-abuse victim.

105

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

AN INSIDE TO HAPPILY EVER AFTER

–GENEVA NODLAND

When I met you I was young and naïve. I believed in love at first sight and happily ever after. You convinced me we were meant only for each other. For months, I wore my heart on my sleeve, Exposed my inner-most thoughts and emotions. Every raging, joyful, captivating, and sorrowful thought that passed through my heart passed on through yours as well. We lived isolated within each other, cared only for days spent counting freckles across each other’s cheek. You were the Lucida in my night sky. Infatuation with each other’s bodies and minds flooded our consciousness every minute we were awake, and often slipped into our dreams as well. Soon, I came to realize that your weather would tatter my heart-covered sleeve if I left it exposed too long, and I could only make so many patterns with the dots rained across a face. I think that may have been the end of happily ever after.

106

TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN –KARENA VERBITSKY

As I walk toward the final bed of the unknown, I’m flooded with endless white-painted rows, Rows of teeth left behind in this forgotten mouth, Followed by directions of a sign pointing south. I prepare for the feelings I know will arrive, And I know my brave face may not survive. One last chance is given from a sign pointing away “Turn back now from the darkness heading your way.” Still, I walk on to the unknown place, Watching others pass by with teary faces. In the distance, three gunshots alongside old glory Sadly commence the end of a story. Each day more stories come to a close. These books are laid down, atop them a rose. As I walk through this growing library of lives, I give honor to those who were forced to pay the price. When I stop, I think about all that I’ve seen, About those who died so that I can be free. I cannot rid these thoughts from my head, And I will not forget the words that were said. Now, however, it is my time to move along though this feeling inside will forever be strong. Goodnight to the ones who remain unknown. Goodnight, goodnight to the nameless throne.

107

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

THE FUNERAL

The sun blazes hot and heavy on the June morning. It should be a beautiful day, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not. Everyone is wiping away tears, but she is not. Her face remains blank. Everyone is holding a handful of flowers, but she is not. She lightly grasps a single rose. Everyone is dressed in black, but she is not. She wears her favorite yellow dress. Everyone is mourning, but she is not. She is at peace. Everyone will live on after today, but she will not.

108

â&#x20AC;&#x201C;SAMANTHA POWER

COLORS

–ABIGAIL PETERSEN

When I was younger I loved the color red because my mom liked it and it reminded me of the sunset. As I got older, the color blue seemed to catch my eye more and more often. It was in the sky, in the water, in my brother’s baby blue eyes. However, I could not love this color because I already loved red, and I was taught you can’t love two colors. In seventh grade, I met a girl made of red lipstick and punk bands. She told me I was beautiful. We spent our days on Skype telling each other about how cold it was and why we loved the color red. Recently she turned blue and the girl with red lipstick I once smiled with now wears his favorite blue pants and goes by Alexander. I never thought I could love two colors.

109

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

I met a boy who breathed out blue smoke when he talked. I thought I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t love him because I loved red and was still hung up on the girl who wore red lipstick. Now I wear blue jeans and red lipstick and kiss the boy made of blue smoke.

110

HAILEY ENTZE is a freshman English major with a graphic design minor at Dickinson State University. She recently started writing poetry after taking a creative writing class. After graduating in 2020, she plans to get a job in graphic design and write young adult novels. JULIANNE SKAFF is a Dickinson State University freshman composite music education major originally from Jacksonville, FL. She has had a love for writing short poems and songs since she was young. She plans on graduating in five years and then continuing on to Florida State University for her master’s degree. She then plans to find a job to teach and share her love for music. KENDRA COX is a junior at Dickinson State University majoring in psychology with a minor in writing. She enjoys writing creatively in her spare time although she is new to the creative writing process. She plans to take the new writing skills she has acquired with her to graduate school. SHEKINAH OBOMIGHIE is a sophomore at Dickinson State University, majoring in biology. He plans to graduate in 2019 and attend medical school to study to become a doctor. He has been writing poems and short stories since he was in high school, entering his first competition in his first year at the university. MARCUS DIETRICH is a fourth-year collaborative student with Bismark State College and Dickinson State University, pursuing his Bachelor of Arts in English. He has a passion for all things words and someday hopes to spread his passion and voice to others. ASHLEE HOLCOMB is a sophomore at Dickinson State University majoring in English education. She was born in Anchorage, AK, but has lived in multiple states. In her free time, she enjoys writing and reading various genres of literature. She plans on graduating in May of 2019 and beginning her lifelong dream of becoming a high school English teacher. CHRISTINE HETZEL is a senior at Dickinson State University studying office administration, art, and writing. She plans to graduate in 2018. MARGARET BARNHART is a teacher, writer, actor, and public presenter. Her published works include the novel Under the Twisted Cross (2010), the memoir Home for Supper (2017) the excerpt “Ghosts” published in Leaning into the Wind (1997) and several short stories, essays, and poems in regional small presses or university literary magazines, including Impressions. Margaret was a founding co-editor of Dickinson State University’s literary magazine in 1988, which she suggested be called Impressions, the title it has held for almost thirty years.

111

Impressions 2017 || Poetry

AMANDA D’ANIELLO is a freshman at Dickinson State University, majoring in creative writing and pre-law. She plans to graduate in 2020 and attend law school. This is her second literary magazine publication. BREANNA KRAFT is a junior at Dickinson State University, majoring in elementary education. She plans to graduate in 2018 and is hopeful for a teaching position in the Dickinson area. She has a passion for writing that started in elementary school and continues to grow. LEXI KEMPENICH is a junior at Dickinson State University, majoring in elementary education along with a minor in early childhood. She is hoping to graduate in the winter of 2018 and wants to open her own preschool. RACHEL TIMM is a senior agriculture studies major with an option in natural resource management and minors in soils and equine. She is from Rhame, ND, and plans to graduate from Dickinson State in the fall of 2017. In her poetry, she likes to give some insight into what the country/ranching lifestyle is all about. TRICIA MYRAN graduated in 2013 with a bachelor’s degree in English, and is a member of a Dickinson community writers’ group called the Writers’ Xchange. She resides in Dickinson and has two grown children and one beautiful granddaughter. MARGIE SILBERNAGEL is a senior at South Heart High School. She plans to attend the University of Mary and major in English. She is a lover of writing, theater, baking, softball, and service. MORGAN DEPUTE is a senior at Mohall High School. She is not planning to attend college, and is in the process of writing and attempting to get her animated TV series picked up. She is also working on an unlimited number of novels, movie scripts, and TV shows. WILLOW WEEKLEY is a senior at Dickinson High School in Dickinson, ND. She plans to graduate this spring and attend college in the fall for a psychology degree. She found a love and knack for poetry when she took a creative writing course her junior year. SHELBY KANSKI is a junior at South Heart High School in South Heart, ND. Shelby expresses herself through her writing and enjoys writing poetry the most. She graduates high school in 2018 and plans to attend college and minor in English and/or creative writing in the future.

112

ROSE BATEMAN is a junior at South Prairie High School in Minot, ND. Rose has written several novels as well as short stories, poetry, and music. Rose’s first passion, music, is her main inspiration for writing. She has been a student director for the Western Plains Children’s Choir and is one of the youngest members of the Minot Symphony Orchestra. GENEVA NODLAND is a senior at Dickinson High School in Dickinson, ND. She plans to graduate in 2017 and wants to attend college for journalism. She has been writing for the past six years and was published in the 2016 edition of Impressions. KARENA VERBITSKY is a junior at South Prairie High School in Minot, ND. She got drawn into the world of spoken-word poetry as a sophomore, winning her regional poetry slam as a first-year participant. She is currently writing a book and plans to pursue engineering or pre-law after she graduates. SAMANTHA POWER is a senior at Mandan High School in Mandan, ND. After graduation, she will be attending Gillette College in Gillette, WY, to pursue a degree in communication sciences and disorders. Samantha has enjoyed writing since she was young, but she would credit her passion for writing to her high school English teacher, Mrs. Saur. ABIGAIL PETERSEN is a sophomore at Ashley Public School in Ashley, ND. She loves to write poetry, short stories, draw, and play with her dog. She’s always had a creative personality and loves expressing it to others.

113

Impressions 2017 Neville Akolawala Anya Baranko

Mason Hutchinson Shelby Kanski

Justin Barker

Pam Kazlauskas

Margaret Barnhart

Lexi Kempenich

Rose Bateman Darian Coghlan Shamber Cohenour Hanna Cooper Kendra Cox Karissa Damm Amanda Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Aniello Morgan Depute Coy Diede

BreAnna Kraft Salena Loveland Macy Mack Tienna Mannin Tricia Myran Geneva Nodland Shekinah Obomighie Kadan Olson Abigail Petersen

Marcus Dietrich

Ensley Poindexter

Briana Dolechek

Samantha Power

Dale Dolechek Hailey Entze

Josh Reed Kaitlyn Renner

Shelby Floberg

Margie Silbernagel

Olivia Goguen

Julianne Skaff

Michaela Gorman

Anthony Steele

Maclyn Hauck

Austin Stockert

Ken Haught

Emily Suwyn

Stefanie Heath

Rachel Timm

Samantha Heen Sally Herauf

Moriah Tonole Karena Verbitsky

Christine Hetzel

Victoria Vollmer

Ashlee Holcomb

Willow Weekley

Derek Huether

Josie Wicks