Impressions 2005

Impressions 2005

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Impressions 2004

Impressions 2005 Editors Elizabeth Raab

Stephanie Burkhardt Pramita Sen. Cassandra Moos

Ting Wang

Advisor Dr. Dave Solheim Front Cover: Searching for Love by Carmen Maxwell

Rear Cover: Heart Watercolor by Ting Wang

Impressions is made possible by the sponsorship of Dickinson State University. It is a literary magazine created and edited by the students of Dickinson State University, including members of DSU’s Literary Publications Class and the Impressions staff.

Copyright 2005 by the editors of Impressions. The individual authors wholly own all future rights to material published in this magazine, and any reproduction or reprinting, in whole or in part, may be done only with their permission. The opinions and representations contained in this magazine do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors, university administration, or faculty.

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CONTENTS LITERARY ARTS FICTION LAND OF LITERATURE EXCERPT FROM AN UNTITLED NOVEL ESCAPING FALLING TEARS PAWS CAFE NIGHTS CONFESSIONS OF A HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN

NON FICTION MUSICIAN RELATIVE EDUCATION THIRST CHILDHOOD INNOCENCE HIS LITTLE BAGEL HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS SPRING CREEK OASIS ROSES WERE MEANT TO HAVE THORNS ANGEL IN THE YELLOW TRUCK STOP LIGHTS DEATH OF MY OLDEST BROTHER

POETRY LIFE PHASES COLOR BLIND MY KNIGHT, MY ENEMY ODE TO THE SADISTIC MIND’S INCESSANT RAMBLINGS SLINKY HATE MISSING YOU

BY THESE INADEQUATE WORDS ANCIENT TIMES THE POSE NEED TO DREAM THE WIND THE SPLENDOR OF A NORTH DAKOTA SUNSET SATIRE OF A FATEFUL BELLE SPIDER’S WEB SNAPSHOTS OF GRANDMAS ‘N ME A BABBLING BROOK

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MICHELLE SICKLER(FIRST PRIZE WINNER) JENNA SANDMAN(SECOND PRIZE WINNER) RACHEL A. SCHROEDER(THIRD PRIZE WINNER) RACHEL A. SCHROEDER LES HANNOCK CASSANDRA MOOS ELIZABETH RAAB

7 10 13 15 14 16 19

ALY GLANTZ(FIRST PRIZE WINNER) BETH L. HURT(SECOND PRIZE WINNER) KRISTIN HANNA(THIRD PRIZE WINNER) JENNA SANDMAN(HONORABLE MENTION) MICHALLE SICKLER PRAMITA SEN JASSE LONG

22 23 25 27 27 28 29

STEPHANIE BURKHARDT BETH L. HURT KRISTIN HANNA SABRA LEE VEIT

31 34 35 37

ANGELA WOOD(FIRST PRIZE WINNER) LYDIA JOHNSON(SECOND PRIZE WINNER) JENNA SANDMAN(THIRD PRIZE WINNER) MALISSA NICHOLSON-FRANZEN (HONORABLE MENTION) ALLISON BETTGER(HONORABLE MENTION) KIMBERLY KNNICUM ZELWYN HEIDE MALISSA NICHOLSON-FRANZEN ALLISON BETTGER KINNERLY FINNIEUM BRIETT REED MICHELLE SICKLER MICHELLE SICKLER ALLISON BETGER ANGELA WOOD MICHELLE SICKLER

39 40 40 41 41 42 43 44 44 44 45 45 46 46 47 48

REVELATION CHANGES SALVATION THE ROSE OF LIFE ALONG BOURBON STREET LOVING YOU DO YOU REMEMBER

TONY KESSEL ANGELA SCHARNOWSKE ZELWYN HEIDE ANGELA JACOBS MALISSA NICHOLOS-FRANZEN KINBERLY FINNICUM MARGARET MOSS

48 48 49 49 49 50 51

CARMEN MAXWELL(FIRST PRIZE WINNER)

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VISUAL ARTS

2-D ART STUDY OF MY HUSBAND: NATHON MAXWELL LINGERING MELANCHOLY SPLATTER WINTER PATHWAY PEN AND INK STUDY STIPPLING SALLOR OBSESSION UNTITLES

BETSY SANDSTROM(SECOND PRIZE WINNER) JULIA TOPHOLM(HONORABLE MENTION) CHRIS HEROLD(HONORABLE MENTION) STEVEN A. STAGEL CHRIS HEROLD JULIA TOPHOLM STEPHANIE DIXON

15 26 44 46

PHOTO TOGETHER A QUIET MOMENT UNTITLED NATIVE DANCER DAKOTA SERENTY NATURE’S BEAUTY UNTITLED STRUCTURED MAGNIFICENCE SERENITY DONDERING THOUGHTS DAYS GONE BY LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT CHURCH IN THE SHADOWS

CORINA LOWE(FIRST PRIZE WINNER) LES HANCOCK(SECOND PRIZE WINNER) AMBER FAUTH(THIRD PRIZE WINNER) LES HANNOCK MICHELE R. GRAY(HONORABLE MENTION) JOHANNA NJOS(HONORABLE MENTION) JEFF GREWE JENNIFER MAKELKY JOHANNA NJOS CASSANDRA MOOS JOHANNA NJOS CASSANDRA MOOS JESSINA ALUISE

45 8 24 13 17 48 33 36 39 40 41 47 51

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Fiction

Lingering Melancholy Betsy Sandstrom

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The Land of Literature Michelle Sickler

Imagine – Free tickets to go anywhere you wish! Where would you go? Which literary figures would you take as traveling companions? Why? “Step up, step up! There’s only one ticket left now, Who will be the lucky winner, with courage to journey anywhere through literature?”

This was my chance to see any place I had ever wished – Inferno, the land of reality in the Great Divorce, the Green Knight’s castle, but most of all – Narnia. I coulsn’t pass it up. Forgetting all my former fears of never returning, I broke trough the front ranks of the suspicious, babbling crowd. “I will go,” I said in a timid voice, not a little amazed at my boldness, but it wasn’t every day that a passing pedlar gave you a free trip through literature.

The salesman took me into his wagon and after my eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, expecting to see pots, pans, and other household accessories that the pedlar had been selling, I nearly fell over in astonishment upon being confronted with a room far too large to be contained within a tiny covered wagon. There was beautiful soft music playing and along the walls – books, more books than I had ever seen. My thoughts were interrupted by a courteous voice behind me and I realized that I was by no means alone in this telescopic chamber.

As I turned to the speaker who was just bowing in the most gallant, courtly manner, I heard him say, “If you will allow me to be your humble guide through literature, I will aid you in finding suitable companions and then starting you on your journey together.”

I turned slowly to the books and then back to the knight, for so I assumed he was.

“But how? I said, a little lost and wondering. “The world I wish to visit is, of course, Narnia, a fantasy creation from an allegory

by C.S. Lewis, which for me represents joy, sunshine, beauty, love, adventures, and

Aslan. He in himself represents all these and more – goodness, protection,…all that God is, but in a lesser degree, of course.

And then there’s the talking animals – I can ask the horse what it’s like to sleep standing on three legs and the beaver if it hurts to gnaw on trees. There’s no end to the delightful things that can be done and people to see in Narnia – High King Peter and Queen Susan, not to mention Edmund and Lucy. …

Oh, but I must come back to the present issue – How am I to find companions? I could no sooner choose a star from the heavens as a companion from among so many people.”

“It may be best to take a turn about the room to become acquainted with the figures on leave from their duties on the shelf, do you not agree?” Though I thought “a turn about the room” sounded too short an exercise for what lay ahead, I nodded and my courtly guide with his winning smile led me farther into the massive chamber.

We stopped at the first large recliner. I caught a glimpse of a prematurely bald head and “bushy black eyebrows that wouldn’t lie down, but stood up bristling” before the occupant of the chair became aware of our presence and stood, looking at me with piercing eyes. My companion merely looked from the cold, appraising glance of the man who was biting his forefinger at me to my look of obvious distaste, bowed to the man now pulling a rather large, silver watch out of his pocket, apologized for the disturbance and walked on. As I followed him, I saw the man go to a private sink to wash his hands with scented soap as if our mere presence had contaminated that member of his anatomy.

The next stop was near a man, rather large, lying on his back in bed with a paintbrush in his mouth thoughtfully regarding the ceiling. As we approached, he sat up and his mouth spread in a wide, merry grin, not at all a fear-inspiring man but one who seemed to welcome visitors, as he said himself. “Good day, how are you this fine cay, sir Gawaine? I hope there have been no more misunderstandings about the lady’s visit to your chamber at the Green Knight’s

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castle by young children.” Here he broke into a hearty laugh and then turned his dancing eyes on me. he really did look a spectacle with his shirttails half untucked, hair mussed and tie askew. He seemed to inspire sober thoughts and laughter, all at the same time. “Which shelf have you escaped from, young lady? I do not recall ever having met before, perhaps you have been born only recently. It is never too late to make the acquaintance of a neighbor.”

“Actually, I am looking for suitable companions to travel to Narnia with me.

Would you like to come?”

“Ah yes, Narnia. I visited there only just recently with Lewis himself, for as you know there is not better guide through a country than the creator himself; it seems that the little beavers along the river were

having difficulties convincing the old owl that their youngest child was not meant to fly in a balloon no matter how wonderful the experience may be. So since I had been the one who put the idea in the little one’s head, I was called over to convince him otherwise.

But now I am do back on my shelf in a few minutes so I’m afraid I will hve to decline your invitation. …Perhaps if you call on your favorite novelist, he can give you advise and help you choose a companion. …I wish you all the luck in the world.” And with that we left him to his fierce contemplation of the ceiling of literature and continued on our way.

The gallant knight led me past so many strange people and scenes that I could never remember them all – Elizabeth Bennet and Darcy were leisurely walking through

A Quiet Moment Les Hancock 8

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the room; at one moment we had to hurry past a scene which would have made anyone cringe, a full battle between El Cid with his forces and the Spanish Moors; then there was a beautiful lady with a bejeweled green girdle very similar to the one around my companion’s neck, lying in a richly curtained bed; and so on, more characters and authors than I could ever count.

At this point we came even with some children playing at the foot of the tall bookshelves. One of the children was using a crutch to hobble around but it soon become apparent that his friend was of more use than the crutch. For Oliver, as the other children called him, though “a pale, thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference,” had “a good sturdy spirit” which lent him enough strength and agility beyond his physical deficiencies to help his friend out of any difficulty. With them was the lad, David Copperfield, with his mop of curly brown hair.

They were playing in front of a very sad but thoughtful individual who seemed to be the father figure to these little ones who had suffered so much – Tiny Tim joyously in poverty and handicap; Oliver Twist in being tossed from workhouse to workhouse and finally sold to a cruel coffin-maker, bereft of love from five minutes after his birth to at least eleven years of age; and David under a harsh stepfather and headmaster. The thought passed through my mind – Where could these children find joy and love? What did little boys like to do? They were playing now and should have been happy and completely carefree, but it seemed as if a shadow of worry hung about their smiles and laughing eyes. The answer came in a flash – Narnia, Aslan. Surely there these three could find enough amusement and adventure to erase all worries and cares, lift that shadow, and perhaps add an extra wonderful boost to my own adventure.

The proposition was accepted as quickly as it was made and, to my great amusement and gratification, the boys seemed pleased beyond all pleasure to come with me to Narnia and, as they were

told, guide me, “so I wouldn’t get lost.” Of course the children asked leave of Charles Dickens, their literary father who happened to be the bearded man seated in a chair nearby. He told them to go and enjoy, but reminded them to be back on the bood shelf for the 8th grade English class at the boys’ school in Canada. Thes would indeed be simple on account of the time difference in Narnia.

So, after all the farewells, Sir Gawaine led us to a doorway at the top of three steps. And as I opened the doorway leaving a knight courteously bowing and a scholarly looking college professor regarding us with a smile of blissful joy, our first sight of Narnia was dazzling sunshine.

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Excerpt from An Untitled Novel Jenna Sandman “How much did you drink tonight?” I whispered.

“Six beers,” Grady answered, “You?” “Two beers and two mixes,” I replied.

I didn’t add that each of my mixes had two shots in them because I didn’t want him to know how close I was to being drunk. We both sat against the headboard, not sure what we were supposed to do.

We sat up talking for an hour before I started yawning. Despite trying not to, I shivered and Grady immediately suggested I climb under the blankets. “Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on top,” he told me when I hesitated.

I wiggled under the sheets. But with my white Capri pants on and my red tank top I couldn’t really feel the overly expensive satin sheets. So what could a girl do?

I stripped out of my pants and tank top.

Thankfully I had put on my white lace bra and panties so I wasn’t too worried.

I looked over at Grady to realize that he had stripped out of his white shirt and undershirt. Swallowing my nervousness I let the alcohol in my body control my feelings as I threw my clothes onto the floor.

“Are you alright?”

“Yea,” I breathed. I was practically naked under satin covers with a gorgeous guy next to me. With my heart beating in my ears I reached up and grabbed his neck, pulling him down to me.

Time became incomprehensible as we lay there kissing. All I knew was Grady was an unbelievable kisser and the fact that he tasted like a hint of beer only made it better.

The once heavenly sheets became a nuisance as I longed to get closer to his body.

Grady must have read my mind because soon the covers were thrown back and the only thing that lay between us was his own clothing. I don’t know how much time had lapsed when he pulled up his head. It must have been a while because we were both heaving in quite a bit of air.

“Wow,” he breathed as he stared into my

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eyes.

“Yea,” I breathed back.

We lay there, him propped up on his elbow while he laid on his side and me on my back.

Soon, though, he stopped looking into my eyes and instead let his gaze wander. I had never been one of those females who blush easily but as Grady looked at my body, and I mean really looked at my body, I swear I went red from my toes to my hair.

I cuddled into the crook of his arm and his hand started rubbing up and down my arm. I had started drifting off to sleep just as Grady began to sing to me. First it was a quiet hum than and he opened his mouth to let sweet, rhythmic lyrics out. As he sang Don McLean’s Vincent I could not help but think: life does not get any sweeter than this.

I was thinking pretty much the same thing this morning as I starred back at Grady.

Somehow I was lucky enough to have the sweetest guy in the world like me. Doubts immediately filled my mind but it was too early in the morning to have a serious thinking session so they quickly left.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Grady suggested. I nodded and climbed out of bed. We both walked downstairs, avoiding the numerous soda and beer cans. The house wasn’t actually too messy; it was only going to take 20 hours to clean it.

I followed Grady into the kitchen where he proceeded to get us both huge glasses of water. Grady didn’t hesitate to guzzle his first and second glasses of water. I, however, slowly sipped my first glass because I was worried about being “lady like.” Than I realized that I was extremely thirsty and thought, screw it, and jugged the second glass.

It was only when Grady was finishing his second glass of water and looked over at me, did I realize that I was only in my panties and his wife-beater, which I had put over my bra during the night. My whole body went red as I put down my glass and tried to find an escape. However, Grady walked over to me before I could.

“Hey, isn’t this mine?” He asked with a smirk.

“Um, yea,” I mumbled without looking in his eyes, though this was a mistake because now I was staring at his rock hard abs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, I was wearing it, and he had on a pair of yellow sweatpants that made the rest of his body look tan. Apparently he had gotten up early and changed out of his jeans. “I got up this morning and just threw it on. I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Well, I do,” Grady replied. I looked up in shock to find a huge grin on his face, “And I would like it back immediately.”

“Immediately?” I asked, smiling back at him, realizing that he really didn’t care.

“Yes, immediately.” He came and stood in front of me, backing me up against the island in the middle of the kitchen. Grady’s eyes held mine in a smothering gaze as he slowly stripped his beater off of me. goosebumps quickly covered my body as I stared back at him.

Slowly, Grady’s hand came up to my face. I closed my eyes as he unhurriedly traced my face with his fingertips. From my cheekbones to my chin to my lips, it was all gentle. Finally, his hand came to rest under my chin. I opened my eyes when he tenderly tilted my head up. “God, you’re beautiful.”

My heart warmed and the feeling spread to the very tips of my fingers and toes. I tried to control my breathing and tried to tell my mind that I wasn’t falling in love with him, not this soon. However what my mind said and my heart felt were two completely different things.

We started kissing with much gusto. Things immediately picked up pace; while it frightened me that everything was moving so fast, I didn’t slow him down. Instead, I let him ravish my mouth, move his hands all over my body.

Right away, it felt wonderful. But soon I realized that while I did want to go out with Grady, I didn’t want things to move this fast this soon. I mean, we weren’t even going out and yet here we were, both half naked, going at it in the middle of his kitchen in broad daylight.

I figured that we would just kiss, the way we had last night. With the unclasping of

my bra, I knew it was time to put a stop to things. My heart was pounding in my ears as I tore my lips from his.

“Grady,” I gasped. It didn’t faze him; he just moved his lips to my neck to nibble.

“Grady?”

He continued to kiss my neck while his hands expertly worked my bra off of my shoulders. I was actually starting to panic because I didn’t want this to happen. Even though I had just graduated high school, I was still a virgin and proud of it. I believed in waiting for true love; I also believed that despite strong beliefs, things could get carried away.

“Grady,” I tried again as I pushed his hands away.

“What?” He mumbled as his hands moved from my bra to my butt. As he ground me up against him, I knew we weren’t thinking the same thing anymore.

Maybe we never were.

“We should stop,” I answered steadily, pulling as far away from him as I could. He froze as he looked up at me with a look of shock and confusion.

“What?” He asked. Desperately I tried to move farther back only to find the island in the way. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” I replied quietly.

He placed his arms on both sides of me, trapping me against the counter.

Grady stuck his face right in front of mine and for the first time that I could remember, I was terrified. I started to shake as he started to talk, with his lips tight and teeth ground, “Are you absolutely kidding me?

You lay in the same bed with me last night, practically naked, than this morning you come strutting down in here in nothing but your underwear and my beater. Now you tell me that you think we should stop?”

I couldn’t even budge as Grady spoke to me. His voice was petrifying. When I had told him we needed to stop, I thought that he would understand and maybe even agree with me. Now, as I watched the rage fill his eyes I knew that I was wrong. Somehow, my mind made my head nod.

“Wow,” Grady said as he backed away.

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He turned his back to me and ran his hands threw his hair as if trying to control himself.

After a couple of minutes of silence I got up the nerve to talk, “Grady? I honestly didn’t think that it would go this far.” Swiftly he turned around to glare at me. “I didn’t.

I… just… I… We… we aren’t even dating.”

“That has nothing to do with it!” Grady screamed as he came near me again. “You can’t walk down here in your bra and say that you thought all we were going to do is kiss! Come on, Val, I didn’t think you were this stupid.”

I jerked back as if he had slapped me.

I had known Grady for four years and had never seen this side of him before now. I was so scared that tears were starting to form in my eyes. “Grady…”

“Oh shut up! I guess I was the stupid one for not realizing what a tease you are!

God Valerie,” Grady said as he looked me up and down with disgust. My bra was still undone and with my arms tight around my belly, I felt helpless; on the other hand I was starting to get pissed. I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do and I shouldn’t feel guilty about it.

“Grady,” I said slowly with a little more steel in my voice, “Please quit yelling at me and let me go.”

I stared up at him from under my eyebrows, silently praying that he would suddenly become rational and let me leave.

My heart dropped to the ground when he frantically started shaking his head back and forth. “Oh Hell no, you promised me something and now you’re going to give it to me.”

My jaw dropped open, my eyes became wide and my heart froze. He was staring back at me, waiting for my next move. A little part of my mind whispered to get out of there, another part hoped he was pulling some sick joke; however, none of my mind was making my legs move. I was motionless, defenseless, helpless, and petrified.

With a growl he moved, yanking my arms away from my body and tearing my bra off me. The straps stuck at my elbows but he just pulled harder, in turn, bruising my skin. As the cold air swept over me, I

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suddenly regained use of my limps and my mind. Without thinking of the consequences, I swung my fist at him hard across his jaw line, fumbling him backwards.

I gasped with the realization that while punching my attacker might be a great idea, I had no way of getting past him. Thankfully my body also recognized the danger I was in and made a quick move to leave. The only exit was directly past him but I had no choice. Hoping he was still in shock from my forceful hit, I started to run. I almost made it.

Native Dancer Les Hancock

Escaping Rachel A. Schroeder His cheek still burned like fire as he placed a cold, wet wash cloth to it. He looked into the mirror and watched the solemn, blue eyes. He looked at his cheek and noticed another battle scar forming. He was tall for his age and smart. He only had two more years to complete high school, then he was out of this rotten joint.

He looked around the small apartment, that reeked of alcohol and had pale blue walls that had never seen the light of day. As he walked, he kicked beer cans and bottles out of the way. The apartment was quiet now, his father was gone. His father always left after an argument, complaining there was no beer in the fridge, and he didn’t want to be around his runt of a kid anyway. He walked back to his room, his sanctuary. He proceeded towards the picture on the wall, which he had drawn some time ago. He

looked at his mother, she had never abandoned him. She was gone now, only because she worked herself to death, putting food on the table, giving her son an education and giving her husband beer money to keep him happy.

He took down the pictures he had drawn, when he needed to escape. Nobody would ever believe he was an Artist, he chuckled to himself; nobody believed people lived like this. Finally, he took down the last picture, which was of his mother and started packing his clothes. He reached underneath the bed for the empty shoe box, his father thinking it was empty, would leave it alone. But that’s where he stashed his money from his paintings he sold on the street. He picked up his three bags of belongings and walked towards the entry-way. He stopped to look at the darkness he had been living in and silently said goodbye. He opened the apartment door and walked into the little light that was provided.

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Paws Les Hancock The sun was just peaking over the tree tops as Papa fox was sitting down at the breakfast table. Hunter and Grace came leaping excitedly down the hall hollering “Its today its today.” Paws came slowly down the hall, yawning and rubbing his sleepy eyes.

Hunter had keen probing eyes, Grace had the walk of a ballerina and Paws had huge clumsy feet for a fox cub.

This was the day the Papa fox was going to teach his children how to fish, so after breakfast was done and the table was cleared, Papa fox lead his children down the long path through the forest to the stream.

Several times along the path, Papa, Hunter and Grace had to turn back and go looking for Paws. Once they found him smelling freshly bloomed flowers, another time they found him following a caterpillar and lastly they found him sitting and watching a trail of ants on their journey.

Once they all made it to the stream, Papa slowly waded out into the water and began to show his children different ways to catch a fish.

There was a big fish swimming just under the surface of the water so Papa opened his mouth and shoved his face into the water. When he brought his face out of the water he had the fish in his mouth. He took the fish over and laid it on the bank so it couldn’t get back into the stream, then he slowly waded back in.

He watched as another fish came swimming by, this time he moved one of his paws and, quick as a wink, he tossed that fish onto the bank close to the other one.

Hunter and Grace could hardly wait until Papa said it was their turn to try. They splashed into the water making it muddy and difficult to see any fish. Papa fox laughed and told them that was why he slowly waded into the stream.

Hunter saw a nice fish so he opened his mouth and splashed his face into the water. He quickly came out of the water

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coughing and spitting. Papa laughed again and told Hunter to hold his breath when he tried this again.

Grace was splashing water everywhere as she slapped at everything that passed her. She slapped at fish and twigs and leaves that floated past. Once she managed to hit a fishes tail but she didn’t catch it.

Hunter and Grace were having the time of their lives splashing in the stream as they tried to learn to catch fish. Papa was laughing so had at their playful attempts and no one noticed that Paws had wandered away.

Paws had followed a beautiful butterfly on its way down stream. When the butterfly would land on a flower Paws would smell the flowers close by.

Paws was sitting with his back to the stream, his tail hanging close to the water, watching the butterfly when all of a sudden something grabbed his tail and began pulling him into the water.

He was yelping “HELP!” as loud as he could and doing his best to keep from being pulled in.

Soon Papa, Hunter and Grace were there to see what was wrong. They had never heard Paws that excited before.

When they got to Paws they found him desperately pawing the bank, trying to pull himself up.

They all grabbed onto Paws and managed to get him pulled onto the bank. Still holding the tip of Paws’ tail was the biggest fish Papa fox had ever seen.

“Well this is a new way to catch fish.”

Papa said as he freed Paws’ tail from the fishes mouth.

Paws was cold and wet and wanted to go home. Papa carried their three fish while Hunter and Grace carried Paws on their shoulders, hollering “HURRAY FOR PAWS! HE CAUGHT THE BIGGEST FISH!” They all hurried home to tell Mama fox about their adventures and dry them selves by the fire as they drank cocoa and waited for dinner.

Pen and Ink Study, Stippling Steven A. Stagl

Falling Tears Rachel A. Schroeder The rain hit the windows fiercely, then slowly ran down the windowsill, like the tear drops falling down Macy’s cheek.

She turned her head and burrowed her face into the crook of her fathers shoulder.

“It will be okay, Macy,” replied Chance, as he lightly patted Macy’s back.

He kept telling himself, everything will be okay in the end.

Macy shook her head, “how can it be, when my heart feels like it is breaking in two?”

Chance ran his fingers through his daughter’s long brown hair. He tilted her chin up and looked into the deep brown eyes that were swimming with tears. She was only six years old, too young to feel this way and to lose a part of her innocence as a child. His own heart was breaking along with hers, no life was not fair, he decided. He looked towards the hospital doors and sighed.

Macy pulled herself away from her father and quietly studied him. Her father was a tall man, but he had lost a great deal of weight over the years, his blue eyes

were sullen and his black hair was starting to see a little gray. She also turned and looked at the hospital doors.

“She won’t feel anymore pain,” Chance calmly replied as he grasped his daughter’s hand. He watched silently as a nurse came out of the hospital doors that they had been watching and approached them.

“Mr. McKnight?” Asked the nurse, who was dressed all in white and carried no smile with her, only the look of sympathy in her green eyes.

“Yes.” Chance stood and gathered his daughter close to him, preparing to shield her.

“Your wife is asking for you and your daughter,” she quietly replied.

Chance nodded his head and walked towards the hospital doors with Macy and quietly entered the room where his wife laid. He chocked back a sob as he looked at his wife, took her hand and quietly kissed her.

Karen opened her eyes and smiled.

“Hi.” “Hi,” replied Chance as he studied her. Her brown hair was pulled back, she had dark circles underneath her brown eyes and she still had the prettiest smile, he though.

“How’s my girl?” Karen turned and looked at Macy.

Macy shrugged and tried not to cry, but the tears kept falling.

“Just because it’s raining outside, it doesn’t mean it has to rain in here,” said Karen as she brushed her daughters tears away.

“Are you in any pain?” Macy asked.

“No,” Karen answered as she shook her head. She was starting to drift back into sleep, but she tried to fight it off. She took Macy’s hand, along with Chance’s and kissed them both. “Be strong for me.” She closed her eyes once, but opened them once again. “Don’t be angry, it’s my time.”

Macy watched as her mother’s eyes closed, the tears started to fall again, she

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grabbed for her fathers hand as she still held her mother’s lifeless one.

Chance leaned down and kissed his wife goodbye, he looked over at his daughter and tightened his hold on her. “She isn’t really gone,” he said as he hugged his daughter. “She’ll always be with us, in our hearts and minds.”

Macy nodded and looked at her mother one more time, before she left and fallowed her father out of the hospital room.

She took his hand again, not wanting to let go and quietly walked beside him.

Chance kept his daughter at arms length as he quietly talked to the nurse, as they were walking towards the elevators.

All of a sudden the elevator doors opened, with a man pushing his pregnant wife in a wheelchair, yelling, “woman in labor here. Help!”

Chance turned to get a glimpse of the commotion, just as Macy turned her head too. “Dad, what’s going on? Why is Mack yelling?”

Chance smiled for the first time in a long time, his best friend and brother Mack was just about to become a father. “Sara is going to have a baby.” He leaned down so he could look directly into Macy’s eyes. “Sometimes when someone special leaves you, another special someone will come along to ease your pain and cope with life.” He lifted Macy into his arms. “Your mother is gone, Macy, but I still have a special someone in my life.”

“Me, replied Macy as she hugged her Dad. Chance nodded, “and you have me.”

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Cafe Nights Cassandra Moos The sun beats intensely on the others who join me out on the tables along the street, it used to be so warm and soothing in the spring, adding color to our skin. Now it just seems to burn those not covered by an umbrella; or if you’re me, white seems to be your permanent pigment; it’s cool and lifeless. The white coffee mug before me no longer comforts me, it is cold and empty.

It used to be full of coffee all night long; my cup was never empty, always warm and sweet, keeping the tips of my fingers warm when cool winds blew through. It was always the same flavor, French Roast, reminding me of my first visit to Paris as a teenager on an art trip after my freshman year of college.

I never began drinking my first cup before five and I never drank more than six cups, because that’s all the pot could hold.

It was no more and no less, always leaving a single drop at the bottom of the white cup before adding more. The one drop was to make sure the next cup was just as good as the first. I always added one packet of pure sugar and one container of cream, never powder, to enhance the flavor. It was bad luck to start a second pot because the flavor would never be the same as the first.

I even spread out the time for when I drank each cup; only three before dinner, two during dinner, and one while eating dessert.

But dessert was only on Friday so I usually drank the last cup while watching others divulge their life stories before me.

Just a salad on Mondays and dessert only on Fridays were the only rules I lived by when ordering food. I enjoyed everything on their menu from the chicken Caesar salad that I ordered on Mondays, tuna melts I ordered Fridays, especially during Lent. My all time favorite, pasta primavera, I ordered on Tuesdays. I never ordered anything more than twice a week because I got bored when I had the same food over and over again.

So I always ordered a ham sandwich on Wednesdays and cheese lasagna on Thursdays and never the other way around be-

cause you can’t eat pasta two days in a row.

I’d always sit at the same table, always one table between me and the door, and always facing the street. I never sat next to the door because I liked to see the waiter coming and I always faced the street so I could watch those that passed by. I always sat in the same spot, same chair, same position.

I was comfortable there, it was my routine.

I was comfortable knowing my life wasn’t going to change suddenly. I could be quiet and collective.

I rarely sat inside, regardless of the weather, it was stuffy and crowded, one could never be left alone to think, and there was too much commotion. The smells were extremely inviting though. The coffee aromas overwhelmed the senses almost allowing the caffeine to instantly take over your body as it was wafted through the nose.

Baking days, the days they dedicated to baking fresh biscotti and cinnamon rolls, one could almost die from the irresistible aromas. Crisp scents of warm cinnamon and cooked raisins filled the air. How I managed not to gain ten pounds the first time I sat inside during a baking day I have no idea, but then again, desserts were only on Fridays. Just a salad on Monday and dessert only on Friday, those were the only rules despite everything being so tempting.

But coffee, coffee was the ultimate temptation and sin. I concealed my sorrows with coffee. I covered up my shyness in coffee. I indulged my life with coffee, drowning every wrong doing with the soothing, nonjudgmental, comfort of drinking coffee alone, but never more than six cups.

Coffee was a form of stimulant that altered the senses, leaving you repentless of the acts you had committed, allowing you to create a mask or disguise to hide behind.

Sitting alone with a cup of coffee gave me time to forget everything, every offense or moral wrong. It was my basic form of intoxication, but love, love was the biggest intoxicant of my life. It blinded my senses and caused me to do things I wouldn’t have done otherwise. I had transgressed my life into loving one man.

We met every evening after work at this café; I always arrived before him, always sitting at the same table, the second one from the door. We’d each order a cup of coffee and each drink a pot by the end of the night. We’d talk as he always sat to my right, so I could see the waiter coming.

Every evening we watched the light slowly switch from sunlight to street lamps, watching couples walk by holding hands. Sometimes we laughed at how silly we must have looked to those who passed by us night after night, wondering if we ever left.

His eyes sparkled every time he laughed. They were a brilliant blue and every time he smiled, laughed, held my hand, or said my name, his eyes seemed to emit beams of joy and love, almost as brilliant as summer fireworks. Deep dark wrinkles curled around the corner of his lips when

Dakota Serenity Michele R. Gray Impressions

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he was happy, a small dimple dotted his left cheek when he smiled and his hair swayed ever so slightly with the evening breeze. Believing every word he said, I listened to him, trusting him, and most of all, loving him.

My life was oblivious to everything around me except him and my coffee. My life didn’t exist without him.

Then one day, it was rainy and solemn, depressing if you had nothing to live for. A slight chill flew through the air and I gripped my coffee cup in my hand a little harder and squeezed my sweater tighter around me. Despite the misty, miserable weather I was bound and determined to allow the day to seem bright and cheery, waiting to see my lovers face as he would arrive after a week long business trip. I had missed him so, nights just weren’t the same without him, coffee outside on the café tables just wasn’t the same.

Night had drug on and the chill inside me became more and more unbearable. I was tempted to step inside, but it was tradition to meet outside no matter the temperature because in the end the warmth of each others company over powered the elements.

I had grown impatient and worried that something horrible might have happened to him. I had waited patiently debating if I needed to call anyone to make sure he was all right, but I decided to give him a few more minutes.

What seemed like hours later, the waiter came outside with a fresh pot of coffee. I declined for I still had three cups left in the first, it was bad luck to start a second pot, especially if you hadn’t finished the first, but as he left he placed a small note on my table and went back inside. I picked up my cup of coffee, took a sip and opened the note.

My cup crashed down to the cement shattering my heart and leaving cold chills up and down my spine, bringing a sharp desolate pain deep in my stomach.

Not eating, not sleeping, not leaving I waited; I just sat there and waited, not wanting another abrupt change in life. It wasn’t part of my routine to suddenly have my life

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changed without any prior notice. I waited for his return; I had hoped he would change his mind about leaving me.

As I sat there I drowned my sorrow and pain and anger with coffee and pills.

Pills my doctor had prescribed for me several years prior to control my rare swings of depression and compulsive tendencies.

I hard never used them before, but I kept popping one pill after another until one day I had had enough. The doctor had prescribed enough anti-depressants to do me in. It wasn’t worth sitting there wondering when I was going to die or when the medication was going to work; life wasn’t going to be the same. He was never coming back and no matter who filled the chair to my right, it would never be the same.

With one last cup of coffee and the last handful of pills, I committed the ultimate sin, drowning everything for the last time. My white coffee cup was empty, never to be refilled, and the sun to never add color to my face. So I sit here, alone, death being far from final. I am finally without change, still waiting for something to pardon my faults. Observing those that are alive before me, wishing I could be apart of them again, still waiting for something to fill the void I created realizing that I wasn’t enough for him, and coffee not enough for me.

Confessions Of A High School Freshman

ously thisclose to asking him to dance at the dance last night. This is so pathetic.

Elizabeth Raab

April 22nd I hate Dawn, Brooke and Faith. They are such self-centered bitches. I’m definitely not in love with Gabe. He irritates me, but on the whole I like him as a friend. I heard the nastiest thing about Sully today. He’s going to the prom with Leah. Sick. Why would anyone want to go anywhere with her?

She’s an evil gutter wench. I almost feel sorry for Sully…but I don’t. After all, he’s the one that said yes.

April 6th I have this stupid thing for Jackson, which is going to develop into a huge obsession and then it’s going to go nowhere. I’ll just obsess about him for a long time, and he won’t even know I exist. This is bad. It has moved from thing to crush, and eventually to obsession. Sad, really.

April 9th I don’t really like Jackson anymore. I still think he’s hot, but he’s kind of stupid and annoying. But aren’t all guys? I don’t know why I thought he was any different.

Yeah, well he sucks. Everyone sucks.

April 11th Why do I have such crappy friends? They are so inconsiderate. They “forget” to call me, but real friends wouldn’t do that. Claire is so self-involved that she just doesn’t deal with me at all. She has her head so far up her ass she can’t think about anyone but herself.

April 14th I talk to Gabe a lot. I hope I don’t fall in love with him again. Suzanne thinks I flirt with him, but I don’t. I pretty much hate Dawn, Brooke and Faith. They’re such sucky friends. I think I’m in love with Sully now. Sad, I know. Claire says he’s kind of depressed, though.

April 16th I’m so over Jackson. Okay, I’m not, but I’m going to be because he’s a loser. I think he might be gay. Anyway, I’m still in love with Sully. He’s such a cutie. Maybe before the end of the school year I’ll stop being such a pansy and actually talk to him.

Or not.

April 19 Yep, I’m still in love with Sully. I was serith

April 25th I guess Sully’s not going with Leah. He turned her down. Claire told me he’s going to the prom with Kirsten. An improvement, but not much. Kirsten is stupid and annoying, but at least she’s tolerable, whereas Leah is just evil. Jasmine is going to the prom with Martin. He is annoying and repulsive.

April 28th Sully asked me to sign his Student Council petition sheet today. Magic! Enchantment!

Okay, so it wasn’t anything too spectacular, but it was interaction nevertheless. I will not be discouraged by the fact that he asked everyone and their dog to sign his petition sheet and not just me specifically because he’s secretly in love with me.

May 3rd Sully high-fived me today. He had just won Vice President for Student Council and he also thanked me for voting for him. He’s totally in love with me. Heather gave me a pink shirt for my birthday. PINK! What the hell kind of a gift is that? I hate pink. She knows that. Some birthday present. I had to fight the urge to throw it on the ground and stomp on it in front of her. She’s lucky I have a high tolerance for friend stupidity.

May 7th I saw this wicked hot guy at school the other

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day. I think he’s hot, anyway. Claire practically despises him. I don’t think I can talk to her about it, though. She’d probably beat me up after she was done vomiting. I’ll have to nonchalantly pump her for information at a later date.

May 8th Claire said she thinks the hot guy slept with Whitney. Yeah, well, who hasn’t? She sleeps with everyone. That’s still pretty messed up, though.

May 13th Dance tonight. Went with Jasmine. I saw Jackson wearing a flaming orange shirt. Saw Sully. Martin was there. He was all over Jasmine the whole time. He has a lot of acne.

He is completely repulsive.

May 20th An interesting night. Went to the carnival with Alison, Marissa and Shawn. Eh. Anyway, saw Sully. He was with the possible homosexual Jackson and Madison, who looks like she’s anorexic and quite possibly could be.

May 23rd There was a dance last night. It was okay.

Sully danced with practically everyone except me. He even danced with Madison, that anorexic tramp. I danced with Alison’s cousin, Todd. He’s kind of feminine and I might be taller than him. I used him to make Sully jealous, but I don’t think he even saw, but the possible homosexual Jackson did. I saw him try to dance (emphasis on “try”). It was sad. Same with “cool” boy, Caleb. Where do these guys get their moves?

May 25th Talked to Claire. More drama. Her boyfriend, Carter, supposedly cheated on her.

Whatever. She’s so self-centered sometimes. I hung out with Marissa and Alison last night, but it wasn’t too fun. Marissa was in a pissy mood and Alison was being a raging bitch.

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May 28th Tragic news. Sully, the love of my life, the boy I’m going to marry someday, has a girlfriend. Ruby something-or-other. Does it get any worse than that? What a bunch of crap. My only consolation is that Claire said it definitely won’t last. She said Ruby will break up with Sully when she finds out that he’s crazy. I feel better.

Non Fiction

Splatter Julia Topholm

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The Musician Aly Glantz A short, medium build man in his early twenties sits lightlty strumming guitar strings with his thick fingers. His mesmerizing hazel eyes focus on written music, as delicate ears listen to every cord.

The soft, flowing music seems to soothe the soul and wash away the troubles of the world.The small room seems to be part of a dream. I sit lost in a reverie. As the music hits my ears, memories from early years flood my head. I remember every insipid thought I’ve ever had from first kisses to the copious amounts of tears that I’ve shed.

I wonder how the world will change, as the man’s music imbuess a sense of quandary.

I am intrigued. I wonder what his life is like and what he thinks about? Does the music soothe him too? When and why did he begin? Does this black haired man remember insipid things too, or are all those thoughts and memories dead? I so want to inquire about the things I’ve said, but I dare not stop the music for fear my thoughts will be misled. So here I sit undeterred, not knowing what’s ahead. The music is unorthodox, so beautiful and different.

Suddenly the music stops and I’m brought back to the cruel, harsh reality of the world.

I almost become a mendicant and ask him to start again; instead I sit and try to interpret what I think the music has said.

Study of my Husband: Nathon Maxwell Carmen Maxwell

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Relative Education Beth L. Hurt Have you ever read one of those newspaper articles where people write in asking questions about their families in order to get a response from some woman named “Annie”, or “Abby”, or “Olga” ? She usually answers all the inquiries by saying “ through my expertise, I have found that you must express yourself in order to truly find peace with your family” or some other similar answer that really doesn’t solve your problem at all.

My question is, “who, made this woman the ‘family expert’ ?” When it comes to family, you can consider me a domestic specialist. My parents had five kids, adopted two, have guardianship over two more, and have provided foster care for over sixty children.

That means that, on and off, I have had nearly seventy brothers and sisters. Include in-laws and nieces and nephews, and you’ve got yourself one interesting Thanksgiving Day meal. If that doesn’t convince you of my family expertise, let me add five grandparents, over sixty aunts and uncles, and fiftyfour first cousins. Needless to say, my family could probably take over the United States government if they wanted to.

While growing up in a family that could easily populate Rhode Island may seem unusual, it has actually taught me some very important lessons in life. Since Annie, Abby, and Olga cannot boast such knowledge, it is my obligation and honor to share this imperative insight with you.

The first lesson in family wisdom is the importance of making each person feel included in activities. This, in turn, will force creativity. For example, if there are fifteen children present you very well cannot all play Monopoly—you would simply run out of pieces. While a few more players can be added by using erasers or peanut M&M’s as game pieces, eventually you would run out of space on the board. Therefore, you must be prepared to create your own game. Let me share with you some of the amusements that have worked well with my family in the

past, in order to inspire new ideas of your own.

First, there is “Dodge Bull”. Now, this only works if you live on a ranch or have access to any type of full-grown male bovin (Simmentals or any kind of Angus work best).

Other than that, the only other necessary materials needed are a playing field (corrals work well) and a lookout (parental discovery of this activity will result in severe punishment, including barn cleaning, fence painting, and the loss of the evening meal). The rules are quite simple; the players each take turns running from one end of the corral to the other, doing their best to avoid being gored by the bull. The person who makes it across the pen in the fastest time is dubbed the winner. I myself can boast a recordbreaking Dodge Bull time of 27.6 seconds.

To this day it has not been beaten. Dodge Bull is a great game because the rush of adrenaline as you tempt fate is invigorating and makes for an exciting experience.

Another favorite amongst siblings of mine is “Sky Sledding”. This is a winter game and is quite popular. In fact, rumor has it that it is being considered as an additional event for the Winter Olympics.To play, you need a moderately high cliff overlooking a frozen creek. You will also need a sled, saucer, or inner tube, and, of course, lots of snow. The object of the game is to slide off the edge of the cliff, covering as much air distance as possible, and landing in the snow below.

Players may be given anywhere from 0 to 15 points, depending upon their style of performance, the distance their sledding apparatus files, and the amount of grace shown in the landing. Deductions may be taken from the player’s score if any other participant is taken out along the way. In the case of an injury, such as a broken bone, additional points may be granted if the player agrees to tell parents that the limb was damaged due to falling down the stairs. Any reference to “Sky-Sledding” will result in immediate disqualification.

Besides the importance of making each individual feel included, it is also important to learn how to accept one another’s differenc-

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es and also how to appreciate him or her. I know I have.

For instance, I have learned over the years to appreciate my father’s wacky sense of humor, my sister’s annoying habits, and my brother’s mind-blowingly, fantastic impression of a can of frozen orange juice. If we cannot accept each other, how in the world do we expect to live in peace and harmony?

It is crucial that we laugh when when our father hides in the garbage can, waiting to jump out and scare us and our date as we come home on a Friday night. It is crucial that we simply ignore it when our younger sister refuses to throw out the old Pheasant eggs that are under her pillow because she is certain they are going to hatch, even though the smell, and the fact that they are

nearly two years old may indicate that they will not. And, it is crucial that we merely smile and nod when our brothers sits very still, doing his best to look as though condensation is forming on the outside of his “container”. This is indeed the road to true happiness.

I hope that you have learned something today and that perhaps some of your difficulties may have been solved.

If you have any questions regarding sibling or parental issues, please write to: The Domestic Specialist PO Box 14 South Heart, ND 58655 When you’re feeling as though your family may seem unusual, just remember that some family trees bear an enormous crop of nuts.

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Impressions 2004

Thirst Kristin Hanna Frasier’s sister-in-law, Daphne Crane, once said, “You can say ‘ elevator,’ ‘apartment,’ and ‘crossing guard’ as many times as you want, but to me, it will always be ‘lift,’ ‘flat,’ and ‘lollipop man.’” We all have a special bond without childhood territory, a bond created by thousands of memoriessome good, and some bad.

I have a special place in my heart for the forests, fields, rivers, and beaches of western Washington. My brother and I spent hundreds of joy-filled hours playing in the woods that my great-grandfather planted.

I left Washiington when I was twelve, and have since lived in deserts, mountain valleys, deciduous forests, and now, prairies.

I love them all, but none more than my emotional home. Any time I find myself in evergreen forests I feel many memories and emotions come flooding back.

I recently visited the Research park in North Dakota’s prairie. I had driven past on occasion and gotten an impression of green and trees-a few small trees. How mistaken I was! I entered from the south, crossing a well-cared-for, modern road.

As I stepped into some dusty looking trees, I was immediately transported back to my youth. Among the towering trees the sharp acid scent of fir, spruce, and cedar surrounded me. A smooth bed of needles crackled beneath my feet, and I felt an immediate sense of peace. Here, with the songs of birds in my ears, and the odor of living earth, fresh green evergreen needles and years of old decaying needles in my nostrils, I was home, safe and protected.

I was transported back to a time without cares, a time when a fallen tree became a train, horse,or rocket ship, when a burnedout hollow stump was a teepee, or a secret home only I could find. I headed toward a path that meandered westward. Standing guard near the entrance was a manyarmed Hindu goddess, her bare limbs reaching out a few feet, then stretching

up towards the sunlit sky. Only the uppermost limbs reached their lofty goal, and they were swathed in emerald needles. One of the tree’s thick arms had broken from the trunk and clung by just a bit of fibrous bark. The limb had come to rest against a young tree on the other side of the path, forming a welcoming arch which beckoned me to enter.

As I passed under the arch, a sudden burst of wind swept through the trees, causing young leaves to flutter. Instead of the solid carpet of fallen needles I had just left, I saw blades of grass, weeds, and deciduous saplings, struggling to grow high enough, fast enough to survive alongside the towering spruce. I wandered slowly down the path, feeling tiny spots of sunlight that filtered through the trees to warm my hair, skin, and spirit I listened as wind whistled in one ear, while somewhere in the distance a dove hooted like a confused owl caught out in the daylight. I tried to count the different bird songs, but could not be. The low whir of traffic came through the trees to my left, as well as the back-up beep, beep, beep of large machinery. Somewhere, someone was out mowing a lawn, far enough away that the it was a soft, soothing sound.

The bits of golden light shimmering on young green plants reminded me of the sour sheep sorrel we called clovers, which grew in abundance by the small stream that wandered through my childhood forest.

We loved devouring those clovers, savoring their sharp tang and pure greenness.

My eyes followed a tree trunk up past bare brown limbs, past shining green needles, to a brilliant sky. Looking up to the blue depths, I saw infinity. As I continued slowly down the path, a flash of a different kind of blue caught my eye, Neatly hung from a low branch, about ten feet off the path, was a Walmart bag filled with carefuly gathered trash.

I felt dusty blue berries pop under my feet as I neared the end of the trail, and wondered which tree they fell from. An unseen bird called ahead, another answering from a distance. A sweet scent suddenly filled

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the air, and I looked around for the source.

The path curved, bringing the end of trees into sight. The deep brown and green of forest formed an open doorway framing a sunlist grassy hill. The glowing green beckoned to me.

I felt a sense of sadness as I stepped through the doorway, out of the trees, and back into view of the prairie, yet I was excited to see what other treasures the park held. I stood for a while, a berry-laden juniper at my back, and gazed at the brilliance of new fields. I chuckled at a grove of young trees rising up around rotting hay bales. Someone had mown the area around the grove, creating a fascinating island in an emerald sea.

As I stood in the warmth of the sun, I thought how wonderful it was to be there.

Grateful that such a beautiful place existed, I was also sad that it was necessary. Even in such a place as North Dakota, with its clean air and uncrowded feeling, the land is not wild. Man claims and uses it. The Research Park is beautiful, and wonderful creatures have made it their home, yet it is artificial.

Someone decided where to put it, and how large to make it. Someone decided what to plant, and where.

I realized later why this gave such a sense of melancholy to a beautiful experience. My great-grandfather planted a few acres of spruce, Douglas Fir, and cedar, but his plot was surrounded by wild forest-trees growing wherever a seed fell and thrived. I had to be careful not to get lost in the forest, or I could end up miles from home. It was true wilderness.

Entering an evergreen forest, for me, is a cool refreshing drink, which I gladly gulp in, but at times it serves to remind me how thirsty I am. A swath of trees planted in the prairie is wonderful, but it is only a few sweet drops.

I turned to follow the outside of the stretch of trees, and found another kind of joy in straight marching lines of black ash trees, the sweet scent of honeysuckle, and the soft hum of bees. I smiled as I discovered sunlight flowing along strands of spider’s

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silk stretching across my path, buzzing flashes of yellow darting up, down, and all around. I ventured forward to discover all the other wonders this beautiful place held. I knew I would return, to drink again the beauty, peace, and memories.

Sailor Chris Herold

Childhood Innocence Jenna Sandman My entire childhood was spent playing house or playacting anything that was “adultish.” How I would yearn to be a grown-up, to have a boyfriend, to have a job, to do homework, raise my own family.

Ironic, is it not? My entire youth was spent wanting to be an adult and now my adulthood is spent wanting to be a child.

I spent hours upon hours wishing I could go back to those carefree times; days spent playing house only to be interrupted by snack and naptime. I yearn for the shoeless summer spent running through sprinklers and the winters bundled in a thousand layers building snow castles. Instead, my days are now spent doing the once wanted homework. Hours are now put in at the office, doing dull work that does not even resemble the job I used to imagine. My boyfriend has yet to rescue me from dragons and he does not pick me up in a carriage drawn by white horses. Nothing is what I once dreamt it would be. Depressing? No, not really, instead, just disappointing.

Looking back on the days I spent imagining my adult life, I wonder if it was all in vain. Or was my time wasted in my transition into adulthood because I did not work harder to make my childish dreams an adult reality? And, is my time being wasted now, wanting to be young? When I was young I had a thousand questions that I thought would be answered once I reached my majority. Instead, the questions have multiplied and the answers have become even scarcer.

I miss my playhouse, my dolls and my imaginary lifestyles. Although, it is my childhood innocence that I miss more than anything. How wonderful would life be if I did not know the pain of heartbreaks? How joyous would each hour be without the hatred ignorance and, Lord knows, that will not get me anywhere in life.

If listen hard enough, I can still hear my friends’ childhood giggles. If I am still

enough, I can still feel water on my body as I run recklessly through a sprinkler. Sometime if I close my eyes tight enough, I can still see things from a child’s point of view: my kitchen counter being tall, the bed being large and everything being beautiful.

It makes me ill to think of how I used hate being a child given how incredible it truly was.

Perhaps somewhere a small child shakes her head, unbelieving of how I hate adulthood. She probably looks at my feelings in awe, wondering how an earth I could hate being nineteen years old when so many awesome events occur at this age. What she does not know is that with boyfriends come heartaches, with jobs come responsibility, with homework comes tests and with a family comes hardships. She does not know that with age comes reality, leaving no room for innocence. It makes me wonder if there will ever be happiness betwixt the two: girl and woman, innocence and reality.

Maybe one day there will be: in the afterlife, when innocence and reality are one, and when child and woman will yearn not for a certain time but merely for a time at all.

HIS LITTLE BAGEL Michelle Sickler When I was seven years old my Grandpa took ill and in a very short time, cancer began to have its way with his body. I would often go and visit him in the nursing home, play games with him, talk to him and simply be near him. We were very, very close. This is a scene that would take place frequently when I was young: “Come here little nurse.” Grandfather’s weak voice drifted from the mountain of pillows as I closed the door, skipped to his bed and carefully seated myself on the edge.

“How’re you, Grandpa? Better?”

“I’m always better when you’re here, bagel.” We sat there, chatting and teasing each other for some time. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he would Impressions 27

inevitably ask.

“I’m gunna enter the army to ‘fend my country from de inimies, Jest like you.”

“Are you sure that’s the right occupation for a lady like you?” I seriously set my chin in my hand, thoughtfully surveying my companion… Finally, with utmost gravity, I admitted that perhaps “soldiering’ wasn’t ‘xactly fit for young ladies” but then I agreed “to take good care of those who were suitable for this grand duty.”

I was as serious about my new vocation as I was when I told my Grandpa that I loved him as I regretfully kissed him “Good Bye” and went home for the day. A major factor in these visits that served to make me more than ever wish to do as I said I would, was seeing him suffer. When I was sitting on his bed talking to him, the muscles in his face would tighten in pain – “Is it the old wound, Grandpa? Do you need a drink of water?”

He once told me the history of “the old wound” which caused him so much pain; it was a captivating adventure especially the way in which he told it, but its long-lasting results were not so wonderful even to a child’s limited comprehension. Whenever the pain came; we would fight it together like brave soldiers. The worthy cause, as Grandpa told me, the reason why we tilled side by side, why he did not tell me to wait outside until the pain passed, was because he wanted to be the first teacher in my new career of nursing.

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Home Is Where the Heart Is Pramita Sen. “Home home sweet home”- that is the statement we relate with the dwelling, which offers us an environment of affection and security. A building can be transformed into a home only with the care that physical proximity and emotional bonding provide.

With increasing list of chores of life and insufficient time to spend, closeness in every sense is scarce. Home is where one’s root or base is, because our heart makes it possible to- make the best out of the worst. Being an international student, it was extremely difficult for me the first few months to stay away from my home. It was the first time that I had left my family and that being far away from the country made things even worse. So prevalent was the thought of being deprived from the warmth and love that my family could provide me with that I overlooked the idea of being in a new country and starting a new life all by myself.

Gradually as days passed into months, I realized how important it was to settle down. Depressed about missing my home and family, I concentrated on my life with a completely different perspective. Studies, extra-curricular activities, and friends found their appropriate positions in my life too. Soon, I was no more upset about being all by myself, in a completely new country trying to establish an identity of my own.

It is just not the people who are close to you or the family members who determine one’s home, but also the surrounding environment. I had been born and brought up in India, a supposedly conservative country with enriched cultural values. Living in such a country for eighteen consecutive years had sculptured my moral values and principles in the same fashion too.

Culture shock was the primary change, which struck me almost as lightning. Although I was mentally aware of the fact that I was treading into a country, which

has social values absolutely different from that of mine, it was definitely difficult to accept the drastic change in person. As time passed, I accommodated myself to the change of culture. Now, home to me is both my dwelling in Dickinson—as this is where I dwell and make my own arrangement, and also India—for this is where my roots, my family, friends, and childhood memories are.

Home is a word that people identify with a place they live in, spend much of their time, or feel generally comfortable with.

While a house, or apartment building is often referred to as a home, and is home to many people, the concept of “home” is broader than a physical dwelling. “A home away from home”-this cliché refers to the comfort one finds in a different place away from his/her physical dwelling. This is a place a person can relate his/her life to, and hence is emotionally closest to this particular place. Today, having already begun my journey of life to establish my career and have an identity of myself, I realize that though my family, country and friends are and will always remain important to me; it is finally myself who has to establish a home where I can survive at ease. It is evident that I have gradually prepared myself to settle down all by myself, but still the sweet memories of the time I have spent back at “home” will always be cherished throughout my life.

Spring Creek Oasis Jesse Long Western Montana is speckled with great trout waters. Most people imagine rolling freestone streams when they think of fly fishing in Montana, but I prefer to remember a mellow spring creek. This treasure erupts from deep within the earth’s crust to offer fresh cool water, the perfect habitat for trout. Although it is only three miles from town, it almost goes unnoticed to the hustling outside world, providing an eternity of solitude and peace.

Even on the coldest, windiest days trout can be found feeding in abundance.

Although small in stature, this spring fed gem offers ideal spawning grounds for the brown trout of the Beaverhead River in southwestern Montana.

Beaverhead browns are some of the largest and most coveted fish, and they congregate in a place known to the locals as “the Slough.” Starting in late November, the fish migrate up the river into the slough which twists and turns roughly twenty miles from its upwelling to the confluence with the river. By early December the fish are so thick in the slough it starts to resemble a hatchery; more fish are visible than water.

Everyday on the water, wherever it may be, is marvelous in its own way, and there was a time when I could experience these marvels hundreds of days a year. A day like this will stick in my mind forever.

After a fish spawns, it will have depleted any stored fat which may have been present. So when the fish enter their postspawn period, they eagerly indulge their caloric needs, and the larger fish which need higher caloric intakes to maintain life, feed with little regard to nature. A twentyinch brown trout has few predators in the wild, only the Blue Heron, Osprey, and people eclipse them on the food chain, and in the post-spawn period not even these predators can slow the feast they have earned during the previous months.

I had fished the slough rigorously

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during the spawn and had many productive days, but I had been out of town for Christmas and really did not know what was happening, so I drove the mere three miles out to “the Slough,” mostly just to check on the conditions and maybe chuck a streamer or two just to kill some time. As I rigged up my rod and slipped into my waders I could not help but think of what fly I would tempt the fish with first. If the weather had not been frigid, I am sure my hands would have been sweating, from excitement, but instead they felt heavy and I could tell I had already started to lose my dexterity. As I fumbled through my fly boxes, I found a robust ugly Woolly Bugger (ugly is a good thing when referring to streamers) and united it with my leader.

I quickly walked up the bank following the stream. With my head down protecting my face from the wind, I headed for a couple of nice cut banks I knew would be holding fish. As I hurried up the creek the wind blew across the water and choppy little white caps littered the surface. The conditions were ideal for streamer fishing; I thought I was in heaven. I turned a bend and the creek was shielded from the wind.

The water was boiling with feeding trout. I rapidly rubbed my hands together trying to warm them enough to change my leader and fly. After an eternity of fumbling, rubbing, and blowing, I had successfully changed rigs. I began casting my chosen weapons, a size 20 Parachute Adams with a size 22 Palomino Midge dropper, to the wild trout. I could see pockets of midges hatching and dancing on the water, but still I could not entice a trout. The tricky thing about fishing during a midge hatch is to convince a trout that your fly looks better than the thousands of naturals on the water, so a perfect presentation is necessary. Midges are unique members of the mayfly family, when they emerge from their nymph stage they suspend under the surface as an adult fly. I stepped back for a second and submerged my dropper in the creek trying to remove the floatant from the fly, so it would be carried by the

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current just under the surface of the water, giving it the same appearance as the naturals squirming to break through the surface. Now came the easy part, placing the fly in the feeding lane of a trout. As I observed a fish feeding five feet in front of me I placed a cast well in front of him, giving him ample time to inspect and inhale the fly. January dry fly fishing usually does not bring a vicious strike, and this situation was no different. A swirl formed a food behind my dry fly and I gently set the hook feeling the shaking head of the fish on the other end. I knew he had taken my drowned midge. Although this was not the only fish I caught that day, there is always something memorable about removing a size 22 hook from a twenty inch brown trout’s lip.

As the daylight began to fade and the waterfowl began to set in on the open water, I cherished the day. Few places on earth could have offered a winter day like I had just experienced. Lots of things slow down during the winter months, but today on my spring creek oasis time stood still.

Roses Were Meant to Have Thorns Stephanie Burkhardt “I wish the ring had never come to me; I wish none of this had happened.”

“So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide.

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

The preceeding quote was taken from my favorite fantasy trilogy: The Lord of the Rings. I plucked these motivational words from a conversation between two of the main characters in the film The Lord of the Rings: Frodo Baggins and Gandolf the Grey. I find it interesting that a fiction novel and film could hold such valuable advice to be applied to the world of nonfiction. “... I wish none of this had happened.” Unfortunately Frodo’s lips aren’t the only lips to have muttered such words.

This saying carries a bitter taste that is familiar to every tongue of Middle Earth and of Real Earth. Even if it is not spoken, they are thought of often and by every person who is capable of conscious thought. No one can escape the plight that brings about the conjuring of “ I wish this had never happened.” For example, Little Lindsey next door sobs them when she discovers that her puppy will never return because it didn’t really run away; it was hit by a car. The Stevenson’s murmur them as they watch their home burn into cinders. Jerry, a multi-millionaire businessman whispers them to his wife when she cries because the chemotherapy had taken the last of her luxurious auburn hair. Robert, the local homeless drunk screams them as his last cardboard box springs a leek. These words know nothing of prejudice. They like everybody, some more than others, but they visit them all at least once.

Humans have whined, “I wish this had never happen” ever since the dawn of time. Way back in the times before Jesus

Christ, Neanderthal Ug crawls out of his cave and picks up a large stone. He stares at it pondering as to what it should be called. “Rock! Rock!” He declares that this thing he holds is a rock. Rushing to tell the other cave people Ug is so excited that he drops the rock on his big hairy toe. Out of his mouth screams much incoherent and incomprehensible babble. This may be the earliest form of profanity. But later in Ug’s cave, he grunts different softer incomprehensible words as his wife Unga nurses his swollen toe. This was “I wish that had never happened” in the prenatal stages.

I am as human as the next person; therefore I am familiar with the regret that Frodo’s words bring. Regret is the emotion Frodo’s words illustrate. Regret imposes dread and fear into the hearts of all mortal beings, men, and hobbits alike. It causes more anxiety than terror, sorrow, and anger combined because it is both powerful and everlasting. People can overcome their fears, recover from sadness, and control their aggressiveness. Yet, people burden themselves with regret for all eternity. It is like a disfiguring scar across someone’s cheek. Function is not hindered, only vanity and pride are maimed and of little further use.

I hold this particular combination of words: I, wish, this, had, never, and happened in the same category as the words “should have, would have, and could have.”

Humans continuously utter these conjunctions; the words seem more important to them than the air allowing their formulation. They use them to dignify mistakes or justify actions. “Oh, I would have washed the car but...” “ I could have come earlier, but...” and “I should have called, but ...” are examples of such idiocy. People either do or do not do something. There are no would haves, should haves, or could haves. Likewise with “ I wish this had never happed.” Either something happens or it doesn’t. It does no good for people to wish a certain event didn’t happen because no matter how hard they wish they cannot change the past.

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People have no control over many of the details in their lives. They cannot choose their birthdays, their parents, the time and place where they are born or the color of their hair, skin, or eyes. Nearly every human wishes to change some aspect of his or her appearance or in his or her life. “... That is not for them to decide,” but wouldn’t it be great if we could pick and choose the details of our existence? I see it all now. All humans before they are born would live on a cloud halfway between heaven and Earth. From this cloud they will be allowed to look down upon the earth and chose which couple they would like as their parents, when they’d like to be born, and what they wished to look like.

That idea is preposterous. Everyone would be the same and the baby cloud would dissipate. The cloud fails to exist because all the humans that have yet to be born would wage war as each individual continuously tries to better the other.

Words like ugly, poor, or clumsy would not exist, but neither would beauty, wealth, or grace. The world becomes monotonous and dull, as humans being would have become numb to any distasteful stimulus.

To prevent this inevitable downfall, heaven could put certain limits and set certain laws that restrict how many humans can be beautiful, have blond hair, and born in Honolulu. Maybe the angels could hold a raffle, or make the babies draw straws.

They’d need to have at least three different lengths of straws.

The babies who are fortunate enough to draw the long straws can choose a life of luxury, fame, and wealth. Medium straw babies are rationed the aspects of their lives despite their personal preferences.

An example of a middle straw baby would be a young adult woman who loves warm weather, the ocean, green grass, and palm trees. This woman also loves coffee shops, culture, travel, intellectual stimulation and diversity, but since she is a middle straw baby she is born to a middle class family and lives in North Dakota. What a cold, cruel world! Short straw babies get what-

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ever is left over. They get scraps from the dishes of the long and medium straw babies. Short straw babies grow into battered children, greedy selfish businessmen, and homeless hitchhikers.

By drawing straws the angels determine what baby goes where and to whom. This method allows for enough controversy to keep the world in turmoil. Even the angels would bore of everlasting peace. By drawing straws they keep the distribution of goods and talents relatively equal. They treat the distribution of babies like a bell curve. Forty percent go to middle class homes. Twenty percent goes to uppermiddle class, and twenty to lower, twenty percent of babies live in Beverly Hills and twenty percent live in cardboard boxes.

This may be the method in which our fates are determined. It seems as logical as any other method. But how the place of every human is determined is not important. Just as it isn’t important why the sky is blue.

All we need to know and accept is that the sky is blue. What more is there to know?

We could try and change the color to red, purple, or green to match the grass. But would we want to? No, because all we have to decide is “what to do with the time that is given to us.”

Humans do have some influence on theirs lives. God must have known the game of straws is unfair because he implanted within each human the ability to better himself and to improve the life in which he was have been given. Humans can also fail and make their lives worse. This gift sets humans apart from all the other animals as they aspire to become more than what they are presently.

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” Gandolf’s advise sounds so simple, an automatic response, like pain receptors that jerk away-outstretched fingers as they find the thorns on a rose. But roses, are supposed to be perfect with ambrosia aroma; they are the symbol of beauty and love. Why do they deliver such a sting? Roses have thorns; they always have had thorns.

Roses were meant to have thorns.

Gandolf also tells Frodo that he was meant to find the ring. Gandolf says that is an encouraging thought. Wouldn’t it be grand if everything that occurred during every life from every stumble on the sidewalk to every lucky penny found was meant to happen? Wouldn’t people feel better about their broken hearts or failed dreams if they were meant to be?

Not every action or occurrence can be pre-

determined or meant to be. God would have to drain the Pacific Ocean and turn it into a library to hold every human’s life story. The stories would be written in detail and include every sneeze, itch, and blink. If not all actions or circumstances are meant to happen, then what ones are? Even the wisest most experienced people cannot tell. Humans should not concern themselves with what is or isn’t meant to be. They must deal with life as it happens. Nothing happens in vain. And that is an encouraging thought.

Untitled Jeff Grewe

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The Angel in the Yellow Truck Beth L. Hurt Do angels really exist? Somehow, to me, the word “angel” has always brought about a mental image of a heavenly being clothed in white with downy wings and a golden harp.

But, what if angels don’t look like that at all? What if they are all around us, cleverly concealed with the façade of regular people? I’ll bet none of you have ever imagined an angel wearing khaki shorts and driving a frozen food truck. Sound crazy? Perhaps, but the man I met one unfortunate afternoon, was an angel in my eyes.

It was another one of those days in which a person is overwhelmed with an extensive agenda. I had been up very early that morning for a meeting and by four o’clock that afternoon I was a crabby, headache-ridden individual as I made my way to my weekly violin lesson.

I pulled up to a busy intersection and flipped on my turn signal light as I waited for my turn to proceed when my car sputtered and died. I quickly put it into park and turned my key in the ignition. “Rrrrrrrr.

Rrrrrrrr.” The engine turned and turned but still, it would not start. I panicked; what do I do? I’m in the middle of a busy intersection, blocking traffic, with an entire line of cars behind me! I flippd on my hazard lights and continued my feeble attempts at starting my car. The motorists behind me began to drive around me, some of them shouting profanity and others glaring. They were definitely not pleased with the inconvenience.

I did’t know what to do. I had no cell phone with me, and I certainly couldn’t just leave my car in the middle of street to go find a payphone. Just as I felt the tears of defeat well in my eyes after being shown a certain finger by a suit-clad man in a black Chevy, a Schwaan’s frozen food truck pulled up alongside my car.

“Do you need help?” asked the man behind the wheel.

“Yes! I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but

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my car won’t start!”

He parked his truck up ahead a ways and ran over to my car. He then put it into neutral and pushed it around the corner, out of the way.

“Thank you,” I said, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“No problem, Miss. I have a cell phone if you need to call a mechanic or something.”

Just then a policeman happened upon the scene.

“Is there a problem?” he asked I explained my predicament and he told the Schwaan’s man that he could handle things from there. The man climbed into his truck and sped off. I never even got his name.

Later that evening, I started thinking about what had happened that afternoon. I realized that things like neighborliness and the act of doing good deeds had become a thing of the past and about how many people had passed me by before that man stopped to help. When had strangers become so cruel? Had that man not stopped, would the people have continued to drive around me, shouting and glaring at me for having delayed them a few, precious minutes? The thought saddened me.

Perhaps it is unlikely that the man was indeed an angel, but then again, why not?

Maybe the angels are all around us, disguised as doctors, firemen, teachers, and yes, even Schwaan’s men. I guess we’ll never know—at least not in this life. The moral of my story? The next time you see someone in a rundown car, a person chasing their tomatoes around he grocery store parking lot, or someone who is trying to balance a heavy load of books, help them out. You never know when you’ll be in their place. Oh, and be kind to Schwaan’s men.

Stop Lights Kristin Hanna It was a long light. We had plenty of time to argue as we waited for it to change from red to green. I didn’t usually argue with my Dad. We had our disagreements, but got along fairly well. Then my parents divorced.

Although they were splitting up, they promised us kids that it would be an amicable divorce. They said they would always be friends. Throughout the proceedings, they both remained civil and calm, or seemed to. They split the money from the sale of the house in Utah, as well as the land in Washington that Dad had inherited from his grandmother. Utah law required that Dad pay alimony to Mom, and he agreed that she deserved it after twenty-four years together. He said he would always take care of her, even if it wasn’t required by law.

That’s what he said, but as time passed, he shared a different view with me.

He felt that Mom had no right to his inheritance, because it came from his grandmother. I reminded him that many times she had told Mom and half of anything she left to Dad was hers. After all, it was Mom who took care of her after her leg was amputated. He complained that she had taken the baking pans, a picture she liked, and the cupboards that he had encouraged her to take. He whined because she took the tools he had given her for Christmas. He seemed to forget that she left ninety percent of all their belongings.

Dad and I moved into an apartment in Salt Lake City. Poor health prevented me from working enough to pay for a place of my own, and Dad discouraged me from finding a job in the city.

“Stay home and run the business,” he said.

He meant, “I have no wife, I need someone to keep house.”

Dad and I owned our own corporation, and trading stocks was our primary business. This was another in a long line of get-rich-quick schemes that Dad had got-

ten into over the last several years. I stayed home, as he had asked me to. I learned to track stock, and predict when one was about to go up. I kept house, very badly. Dad dated. On the occasional nights when he didn’t have a date, we went out to movies or dinner. We often got stuck at long stop lights, and had plenty of time to talk.

“I got a letter from Mom today,” I said one night.

“Oh, how is she?”

“She says she can’t afford to buy fresh fruit.”

“Oh.” “Dad, when was the last time you sent her alimony?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?” He gave me a long lecture on the unfairness of alimony. I pointed out that for twenty years he had a free nanny, chef, and chauffeur. He had someone who turned his land into a self-sufficient farm. When he didn’t earn enough to feed the family, Mom grew food in the garden and canned it. She raised goats and milked them. I suggested, perhaps not too politely, that he add up the costs of twenty-four years’ pay for a nanny, a chauffeur, a nutritionist, a chef, a gardener, a nurse for his grandmother, oh, and a hooker.

We moved a couple of blocks further in the city congestion of Salt Lake traffic, and continued our discussion. I felt torn as we went around in verbal circles. I loved both of my parents. I could see why they each felt the way they did, but I felt very strongly that when it came to alimony, my Mom had not only a legal right, but she had truly earned it. I tried to explain how I felt to my Dad, but I obviously was not getting my point across to him. He had made up his mind; he saw it all in perfectly clear black and white.

I don’t remember how it happened, but somehow we started talking about gays.

Again, Dad felt strongly that his views were the only right ones, but I did not agree. For a while I sat and listened as he went on about the evils of homosexual behavior, and

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society’s acceptance of it. Suddenly, I had had enough: enough lectures, enough selfrighteous judgment, and enough dishonesty.

The sun dropped just behind the mountains, and the smog shone in brilliant shades of fiery orange and red. At that moment, in the red glow of stop light and sunset, I realized something. My Father, the man who was supposed to be perfect, was not. The father that helped me fly through the house so I could be superwoman, who knew all the answers to all the questions I could ever ask, was not this man in the driver’s seat. I didn’t know where he had gone, or what had happened, but this man was a stranger. This man was selfish and petty, not the kind, wise patriarch he was supposed to be. This man said whatever he thought people wanted to hear, and then acted however he wanted to act.

After the night, I learned to really search, and find my own truths. I still loved him; I will always love him, but I didn’t put all my trust in him like I had as a child. I also decided that in my life I will be very

careful to act the same way I speak, and speak what I truly feel.

Structured Magnificence Jennifer Makelky 36

Impressions 2004

Death of my oldest brother Ford Sabra Lee Veit I was in the 4th grade when my oldest brother, Ford, committed suicide at age 15. I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was a sunny day on March 19, 1995.

My family and I were going to my grandparents’ house for the day, about 15 miles away. My oldest sister, Frankee, and my oldest brother, Ford, were staying in town to hang out with their friends. We stayed at our grandparents’ house for dinner and right after dinner we got a phone call saying that my parents needed to go home right away. I wanted to go because I knew something bad happened after seeing the look on my mother’s face.

Frankee and her friend Sherri were at our house when my brother committed suicide. Ford was having trouble with his girlfriend, Tony. Frankee told me that Ford was down stairs for a long time on the phone with Tony. Sherri and she finished cleaning and sat down to watch television when they heard a big bang. My sister jumped up and ran downstairs to the laundry room where she saw my brother lying on the floor. Frankee said she started to walk toward him and screamed his name to see if he would answer her. She smelled the gun powder and ran toward him to pick up his head. Frankee said she felt a warm liquid feeling on the side of his face. She looked at her hand and saw his blood, she screamed at Sherri to go get help. Frankee ran to our neighbor’s house to get help, but Sherri was already there. When my parents arrived at our house, a lot of people were standing outside and lots of police officers where there. My Mother ran down the stairs and saw officers putting Ford in a bag, so she started crying and ran to hug my father, Ford was dead.

My parents and my sister went to the hospital to do some paper work. Afterward, they went home and sent my cousin, Spencer, to get us. We didn’t know what was wrong; nobody would tell us, and everyone was quiet. We got back to our house, and I

saw a lot of people. When I walked in, everyone was crying and hugging my parents.

I looked around for everyone and didn’t see Ford. I knew then that he was gone, but I didn’t know how and why. I was 10 years old.

As I was growing up, I figured out that he committed suicide and asked many questions of different people about his death. I understood that nobody wanted to talk about his death because it shocked a lot of people. I was hurt and cried sometimes because his death left holes in my heart. My parents were hurt for a long time, and they were always crying. My parents withdrew into themselves and never went anywhere for a long time after my brother’s death. We had people come to our house to help us and talk to us. As I grew older, I understood what suicide meant and why Ford committed suicide. I deal with it now because I know how hard it had to have been for him. I try to be a strong person when I talk about his death, and I try to be a role model for my younger siblings. I want to be a good role model because I didn’t have an older sibling to look up to. My oldest sister, Frankee, had a child and dropped out of high school at age 16, my oldest brother, Ford, committed suicide at age 15, and my second oldest brother, Colt, dropped out of high school when he turned 18. I try to be there for my younger siblings when they need me and I try to achieve all my goals to show my younger siblings that anything is possible if they put their hearts into it.

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Poetry

Winter Pathway

Chris Herold

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Life Phases Her dream of princes, opens to a life of womanhood and love.

Angela Wood

With her first breath life, the cry shakes the mother’s soul.

I who never cry—weep with intertwined fear and love and vow to place my self last.

Pure skin to breast we meld to one.

I wave goodbye to my girl, my love as emotions tug stronger than the last moment of her birth into my life.

Eighteen years, and I who never cry—weep yearning tears for one more night, to talk, to laugh, to bare the soul.

Pull up, push off, my three-foot-one sprinter. Our chase quakes with life as you giggly squeal “momma’s last!”

As treasure, a Memory locked in soul.

We play, we laugh, we love— My owie kisses clot the tears she weeps.

Like a gust she slams the door, then weeps “a-friend-in-school,” I ask “which one?”

She screams the one whom others love more than her. “My life is over,” she declares upon her soul.

I hold her, knowing the loneliness won’t last.

The cry shakes both mothers’ soul.

Your hand in mine we bind with love.

Me, my daughter, then her’s, we three now one.

I hear her vow to place her self last.

I weep, she weeps as the child cries her first breath of life.

When a soul believes the last has come, that love is lone—it weeps, but then a new soul comes; again, one bares love for life.

Counting up the years, “At last!” she shouts “two more to go”-my heart weeps as a thought of loneliness creeps into my soul.

It’s Prom, she leans and whispers, “He’s the one.”

Serenity Johanna Njos Impressions

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Color Blind Lydia Johnson

Describe the color red.

That’s how I feel.

Or maybe it was blue.

I don’t remember what you said.

Describe them for me again And I’ll choose my favorite What’s your favorite color?

Can I be that one?

Tell me yes Then tell me what I am.

Describe what you see When you look at what’s me And then create my color.

The one that’s your favorite.

.

Pondering Thoughts Cassandra Moos

My Knight, My Enemy Jenna Sandman

Two different men, two different parts Two different souls each playing their part.

Once, the gentleman, O! So caring and kind A place deep in my heart he was able to find.

The second, a jerk though he did bring smiles However, my happiness only lasted a little while.

My heart lay broken, my eyes were dry I had she do many tears that no more could I cry Than along came my hero, my shiny white knight With him came smiles and my sorrow took flight There is no competition—the white knight’s the bestBut my dreams are not of him when I lay me down to rest.

The blackguard, the murderer is haunting my sleep He’s the one I dream of while counting my sheep I know he is bad, I know he is wrong But I can’t let him go so I try to stay strong I try to forget the smiles, I try to remember the tears But I can’s seem to do so and for my knight I fear I fear I will hurt him; I fear…everything I fear the unknown; I fear what the future’ll bring.

I love them both yet only one loves me It has made my choice rather easy I’ll take my knight, the jerk I leave But no matter what, for him I’ll grieve.

Two different men, two different parts One holds my future, the other my heart.

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Ode to the sadistic minds’ incessant ramblings Malissa Nicholson-Franzen

What’s this all aboot? You ask.

I’ll tell you what it’s all aboot.

Lions and tigers, and thermo-nucs (Oh my!)

That’s what.

It’s about homicidal ballerinas That will beat you to death, with a tiny goat, While dancing to the masochism tango.

It’s about explosive vegetation, Flying carrots, and renegade spaceships.

It’s about they, that are them, but occasionally those guys.

Don’t you get it yet?

It’s all just because I like eggs, With a side of luc-warm damnation.

But only on Thursday.

Slinky Allison Bettger Down Goes the li Sl in

nk kn ky ky ni

And speed gains With each Somersaulted i Sl n k k y y n i Before piling Into a neat

il

ls

ls S T A C K

Days Gone By Johanna Njos Impressions

41

Hate Missing You Kimberly Kinnicum When I last saw you, it was just yesterday but time makes it feel like it’s been years away I can’t figure how such a short time can feel like an eternity when it was just yesterday that you were here with me As soon as you said goodbye and walked out of the door I missed you, and as time passed, my feelings grew more and more I miss you, ever so much especially your soft kisses and your warm, gentle touch I love to be with you even when we are just lying on around a special feeling from you I have found Looking back at the moments we’ve shared I see all the times you let me know you cared All the time we’ve spent is time worth its while and all the memories we’ve made make me smile I can’t wait to have you in my arms again together we’ve grown and you’ve become my best friend My love for you grows each and every day that is why I hate to see you go away I wish we could spend our time just you and me so that together, we can always be No more goodbyes to you I’ll have to say because you’ll be there with me each and every day

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By These Inadequate Words Zelwyn Heide

Oh, to describe my love!

It I had ten thousand tongues When she but glances at any And a hundred thousand sweet words Who have the good fortune I could not describe even To only pass by her The smallest hair on her sweet head Heaven cannot contain her beauty If I were a man of words And in all the earth A man gifted with a tongue of silver There is no equal I still would fall far too short She brings great fortunes to shame Of perfectly describing her brow She is heaven on earth But I will try to do my best And if there ever was a way And show you my sweet angel To perfectly describe heaven In words that will never suffice To shoe who have not seen it For one would understand It would never come close That by gazing upon her To describing the beauty of my love For just a single passing moment Oh sweet angel of mine!

All my words would come to naught Heaven knows I have tried And her beauty would shine through To show the world your beauty Men say that eyes are the doors By these inadequate words Into the very soul of a person God cast a new mold just for you If this is true, then the eyes of my love And by making you he broke it Are the gateway into highest heaven May angels guard you Every moment I spend gazing in them And God protect you I find myself lost, but also found For to loose you would be to lose hope Her eyes, more precious than jewels, And to lose hope would be More valuable than all rare trinkets, To finally lost Eden for good Belong in the vaults of heaven Look upon me one last time Where only the purest and most rare And I will be happy Of all creation’s treasures are stored Until the day I pass from this world Ah! Her smile would warm the world Smile to me one last time Should the sun fail to shine And I will be ready And all those around her To die in that very instant Could find their way through the night Kiss me but only once Only by the radiance it would give And I will be able to face the fires of eternal Her hair, perfect and dark, Hell Is a treasure so precious And in that moment, A single hair could not be bought When I taste all the sweetest fruits By all the treasure of this world And the best wines of Rome A single hair could not be equaled In your sweet lips, In value compared to all I will finally understand The treasures of highest heaven What it means to finally Her face, perfect and radiant, Forever come home Makes the sun grow hot with jealousy And the moon grows envious

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Need to Dream Kimberly Finnicum

Ancient Times Malissa Nicholson-Franzen In the forgotten temples, of the forgotten religions, stone statues of the gods sleep in the warmth of the golden sunset while the banyan trees and passion fruit vines laugh downstream and the crumbling ruins try to remember why they’ve been forgotten.

The Pose

I am so tired, I just need to close my eyes But I can’t, I must fight it, I must try Just a few hours longer, till I can sleep Bot a noise will be heard, not a single peep I long for the darkness, for a minute to spare So I can close my eyes and throw away my cares If only I could close my eyelids tight I would sleep all day and I would sleep all night I would dream of untraveled places And of new people with unfamiliar faces If only I could close my eyes and give it all away Then I would dream of a life with better days.

Allison Bettger

Bright is the light under her chin…hot too.

Luminescent are my eyelashes And all beyond is black.

“Gaze into the lens. Don’t blink!”

Music glides in the background As a click signals a picture’s end, And a anew pose is sought.

“Smile now…let’s see a wink.”

Head tilted one way, gaze in another.

I am serious and I see myself reflected, Upside-down on a close-up shot.

“Sit up! You’re starting to sink!”

My face is hot; my hands are cold.

I look where I think the camera is and Blinded By the Light plays on the radio.

“Take a break. My neck is starting to kink.”

The last moment in time is captured And the lights suddenly go off.

I drop into darkness.

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Obsession Julia Topholm

The Wind Briett Reed

Have you ever felt The weight of the world Lift from your shoulders As the breeze Caresses your face?

An you lift your arms To catch the wind And feel you are able to fly With the birds.

So what happens When that same breeze Turns into a raging tornado, Tearing down Everything in its path, Including you?

And everyone You know and love are blown away By that same breeze That once Gave you peace.

What can you do When your dreams, Your fantasies And your ideas Destroy the world Around you?

The breeze was once calm; Delightful to be around.

And you thought You could lose yourself in it Never knowing You really did.

So what do you do When that breeze wants more Than just your arms To float along with it?

When it wants All of you?

Together Corina Lowe

The Splendor of a North Dakota Sunset Michelle Sickler

I now upon you call, o Muses nine, To join the choir and commence this rhyme As Phoebus’s dying splendor fades the day He shoots across the sky his tim’rous rays And throws all ‘round about his read-gold haze Which sets the world aglow in a burning blaze He uses his pallet to paint his evening hues To tip the burning buttes with brilliant blues As great Apollo rides beyond our ken He spurs his steeds and bids adieu to men.

Now Muses nine, go take a well-earned rest You’ve praised this sunset all on my behest.

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Satire of a Fateful Belle Michelle Sickler I now upon you call, O Muses nine Music, dance and tragedy sublime To join in choir and commence this song Concerning a most gorgeous paragon.

As Phoebus’ dying splendor fades the day, He shoots across the sky his tim’rous ray.

The thirteen daughters of Minerva’s beauty Led by the bud of immortality Descend unto the palace Danserons.

The hall all decked with opulent attire For to receive the belled monde with great care.

Around the corner sweeps fair Leda’s pupil, Her pure white skin and locks of curly sable, The dazzling smile shines on all around And silent awe rules and makes no sound But greatest prize of all her petite feet Peeking from beneath the folds complete Arrayed in silken slippers of a golden hue.

These shoes were special for surrounding them Sylph, Sylphid, and all of heaven came To polish, rub, and offer buoyancy.

‘Tis why, ‘tis said, she led them all; you see She never could be weary, warm or weak.

But then that night two sisters did mistake And Beatrice did wear the fairy slippers, The pride and object of her sister’s cares.

The model dancer did her sister’s wear.

O doleful day that ever sun did set!

If only gentle belle had known her fate She never would have entered there at all.

No sooner did the first chords pierce the hall Her majestic mien and doc’le dext’rity Does then forsake the rose of deity.

Her skin then to a pallid hue takes hold; “Treason” to the “vaulted roofs rebound”; She then begins her search both high and low.

Meanwhile Beatrice to the lake did go ‘companied by a most illustrious beaux.

Her gracious feet over the bridge did swing.

When she did turn, the slippers slipped with a ring The airy spirits did them try to float, But what could they do for a leaky boat?

They sank unto the depths and sisters both To go unto their beds were rather loath; For one was filled with ire, the other chill.

Nor did the one know what became her slippers Or why the lake turned into golden mirrors.

Spider’s Web Allison Betger Stand here and you may see it.

A sail spread between grass blades, Never catching the air, but Gently dancing with the wind.

It glitters; a diamond trap.

Its delicate image belies its strength.

Stand there and you pass it by.

Thin threads are invisible, Merging into the grass blades.

As a wind driven ship sways, So does the unnoticed web.

Silent and unseen is the spider’s web.

Untitles Stephanie Dixon 46

Impressions 2004

Snapshots of Grandmas ‘N Me Angela Wood Grandma H. Playing with ceramic animalssquirrels and mice in hard porcelain dresses, with pretty painted faces-my amiable playmates at the giant kitchen table.

A white, a.m. radio is singing, twanging Patsy Cline and Hank Williams Sr. She’s humming along with song, keeping time with tines, flipping My flap-jacks, every morning, she’s always giving me Karo syrup for my cakes.

Grandma G Summertime, but the sun hides as I vacation in cloudy, misty Seattle.

Three months of waiting and peering out the window, begging the breeze to blow away the rain clouds and leaves that clutter the swimming pool.

Patience. Not me, but shewas always smiling, whistling, busy-bee.

And then, I spot the sun peeking. She’s always stopping to take me swimming.

Grandma B. Elephants Walking, Bumble-Bees Flying, The Sting of the Entertainermy little feet dangling on the bench beside her, learning Every Good Boy Does Fine.

Outside, a clanging, hollowing, piping tune calling me to the warm and steaming, chlorine-smelling water.

Hearing her tickling the ivories, each time that I come up for air, lungs bursting, tummy growling, she’s always making me my favorite crunchy snacks.

Grandma M. Telling me stories of how Jesus loves me and Singing me songs of happy things.

Late night, we’re watching a funny man, who’s

letting animals on his head and his big friend’s slurring “Here’s…Johnny”, while we’re eating giant, red apples. Chewing thirty-two times, those enzee-imes making me healthy inside.

Always caring about me, I know because she’s telling me over and over how special I am, and she’s always bringing me a teeny-tiny, glass of orange juice to my bed in the morning.

My room is as blinding as the yellow sun’s flowers surrounding meNo sadness could ever be here.

Love at First Sight Cassandra Moos

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A Babbling Brook Michelle Sickler The happy brook babbles along, Over stone and ‘round a bend.

She licks the nose of a thirsty cow And prattles merrily on her way.

As she rushes by, reminding the truant Of the foolishness in wasting time, Though perhaps for a moment she has some fun Tossing a duckling from wave to wave Or mocking a bird as it hurries by, She never stops, never rests But rushes, rumbles, scurries and stumbles; Ever, ever on she runs.

So one thing’s certain ‘bout the brook She never spends a truant’s moment In silly, sluggish slothfulness But never losing sight of the star, Reflected in her water visage, She scuttles on her course to sea.

Revelation Tony Kessel something buds into nothing only to swell up, explode, and be born again dawn the change inside

Changes Angela Scharnowske Flying consonants Signal the departure of Green landscapes below

Nature’s Beauty Johanna Njos 48

Impressions 2004

Salvation Zelwyn Heide

I pass from the light of day Into the darkness of night Though not by my will Nor by my strength or might Why did she do this to me?

Push me down this endless well?

Why has she pushed me from heaven Into the fiery depth of hell?

I grope in the darkness Looking for comfort in this Thick patch of thorns In this sea I am beginning to list My end is in sight I can see death coming close I have no strength to fight This terrifying and infinite host But lo! Now comes a light To pierce the darkness that binds I can see it now I can see the image forming in my mind It is not a demon of light Nor the one who put me in this shame Nor some being that comes In order to make me eternally lame Rather, it is you The one I did not expect to rescue me I find myself in your light Finally, she will let me be My sweet and elusive angel You have pulled me out of strife I owe you my heart And will defend you with my life

The Rose of Life Angela Jacobs They met in the shade of entangled branches, Vowed before chirping birds ne’er to part.

Understanding was not the limit for Their love reached beyond all stars.

Beautiful as new buds appearing, Soft as the green grass in spring Spread as a velvet carpet in the wood, Their love so seemed to them.

Charming as the spring bluebells And Easter colored-flowers, Like the innocent daisy And glowing buttercup, That love seemed as sweet.

As spring grows in color and beauty So also did their love For soon they were joined together Ne’er to be parted.

And like a rose life was But the thorns ne’er broken them For the flower of life was too wonderful To break such love in twain so easily.

Along Bourbon Street Malissa Nicholos-Franzen

The unknown aunty Cleos of the world peddle their wares up and down the lane where the sunburnt nights are filled with the haunting sounds of jittery spirits and the blues. and the air is thick with the scent of cloves and jambalaya.

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Loving You Kimberly Finnicum I love everything about you; your ways and such Especially your soft, warm, gentle touch The way your eyelashes tickle my cheek And those sweet little kisses you sneak The way you hold me tight and near and the special secrets you whisper in my ear The way you take me to a special place And when you pretend to draw my face The way you run your fingers through my hair And all the feelings of love you share The way you make everything seem so right And the stories you share before we go to bed at night The way you carefully hold my hand And when you treat me like a princess, so grand The way you call me your sweets, or honey and the times you always take care of me.

The way you catch me off guard by surprise And when you gaze deeply into my eyes The way you say you miss me, when you are away And how you listen to every word I say I love each and everything about you, But what I love the most, Is when you tell me that you love me And the way you say it so sweetly.

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Do you remember?

Margaret Moss Do you remember being young And looking into othe night And making the wish of wishes Do you remember the first kiss you got When that star shot across the sky?

And where you were at the time And the name of the boy Do you rmeber playing tag Who was certainly someone special?

And rolling in the grass And you’re the one who ends up it Do you remember getting older Caught at the very last?

And thinking it’s all in the past And never looking back again Do you remember playing branies For a walk down that humbled path?

And getting all dolled up for ken And ending the night with giggles Do you remember all the people you’re As you fell asleep with your best friend? known And the friendships that were made Do you remember the banana seats And kept in tough throughout the years And thinking they were cool As promised way back then?

And how e tode together Making noise with cards in our spokes?

Do you remember knowing your neighbor And the old man down the way Do you remember all the chores we did And the kids that came to trick or treat And how hard we really worked Or is it just a memory that only few can see?

And how proud we made our patents Just making a quarter or two?

Church in the Shadows Jessina Aluise Impressions

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