Impressions 2006 by Dickinson State University

IMPRESSIONS 2006

IMPRESSIONS

2006

Editors: Christa Binstock

Elizabeth Raab

Kim Weismann

Chris Hammond

Tyler Schmalz

Yun Xue

Advisor: Dr. David Solheim

Front Cover: Alison Hafele Back Cover: Vicky Gullickson

Impressions is made possible by the sponsorship of Dickinson State University. It is a literary magazine created and edited by the student of Dickinson State University, including members of DSUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Literary Publications Class and the Impressions Staff. Copyright 2006 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.

Erosion Country Road Take Me Home Together Wednesday Afternoon Answer Untitled 3â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s If Only We Had Known Untitled Shadow Cat Gloves Trust Look at Me My Conceit Heroes Untitled Ignorance Will Save Us Hunt of a Lifetime Ram A Metamorphosis The Joys of Laminating Virginia Peach Untitled Snapshot City Chics New York Nights Annie Learns to Ride Time Machine Dinglefritz Foresight Days Gone By Letter Home Underpass Easy Untitled Human Form Bodies You Were. . . Jefferson & Marx Tree Faucet Cigarette Untitled Rivers A Change in Season Benchwarmer The Incredibly True Story of an Overactive Imagination My Real Feeling Retrospective Past Love A Moment in Time Untitled

Authors / Artists Page

Alicia Haich Cassandra Moos Erdenesuren Davaasuren Kristopher Smotherman Rifang Ji Keila Kuykendall Amber Nelson Ryan Bogner Megan Fisher Briett Reed Kathleen Rockeman Johanna Njos Lydia Johnson Cole Weisz Greg Kennedy Durelle Williams Tyler Schmalz Ryan Bogner Betsy Sandstrom Meghan Bartz Elizabeth Raab Carmen Maxwell Michelle Larson Kathleen Rockeman Megan Fisher Michelle Pederson Kathleen Rockeman Tony Kessel Jessica Magnuson Cole Weisz Vicky Gullickson Melissa Maenle Betsy Sandstrom Lydia Johnson Carmen Maxwell Alicia Haich Betsy Sandstrom Lydia Johnson Ryan Bogner Vicky Gullickson Kristopher Smotherman Jessica Magnuson Ty Salsbery Ryan Bogner Melissa Maenle

6-7 7 9 10-14 10 13 14 15 15 16-18 16 17 18 18 19 19 19 20-21 20 21 22 22 23 23 24 24-26 26 22 27 27-29 29 30-31 30 30 30 33-34 33 34 35-36 35 36 37 37 37 38

Cole Weisz Rifang Ji Tony Kessel Rifang Ji Melissa Maenle Alison Hafele

38-39 39 40 40-41 40 41

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Titles

Impressions

The Swimming Class The Englishman Who Go Up a Mountain and Come Down a Hill Wishing Well Untitled T&A Paris College Alliteration As I See It The Struggle: Nepal Pottery Still Life Somethingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Missing Barn America Turkey Dinner The Truest Poem Morality and Its Absence from Nature Furry and Fuzzy Rascals of ND Mama Rabbit Untitled Crossing Over Halloween Fairy Evil Cow Plots and Work Untitled Black Hole of Love Instance Crescent Love Like an Egyptian Blind Journey Untitled Swearword Twisting Ascension Best Friends Neutrality Bushido, The Ancient Religion Just Get On Up Close and Personal American Toes Man at Laundromat Mom Comes Home

Yun Xue

Sudeep Simkhada Ivan Mazala Tanya Saatzer Shaleesha Ferrari Kristopher Smotherman Ty Salsbery Misty Rilley Sudeep Simkhada Carmen Maxwell Michelle Pederson Betsy Sandstrom Kristopher Smotherman Tyler Schmalz Mitchel Smith

42-43 42 43 44-46 44 45 46 47 47 47 48 48-49 48 49

Ryan Bogner Carmen Maxwell Kristopher Smotherman Meghan Bartz Becky Herauf Jessica Magnuson Jessica Magnuson Amber Fauth Rifang Ji Kristopher Smotherman Rifang Ji Carmen Maxwell Lydia Johnson Emily Makelky Rifang Ji Jeff Grewe Kim Weismann Chris Hammond Kim Weismann Kelly Hagfeldt Kodi Gullickson Christa Binstock Christa Binstock Amber Nelson

50-52 51 52 52 53-55 54 55 55 56-83 57 58 59 59 59 60-61 60 61 61 62-63 63 63 64 64 64

Prize Winners 2006

Non-fiction:

Poetry:

Photography:

Artwork:

1st Erosion by Alicia Haich 2nd Shadow Cat by Briett Reed 3rd Wednesday Afternoon by Kristopher Smotherman Honorable Mention Time Machine by Tony Kessel 1st Foresight by Cole Weisz 2nd Jefferson & Marx by Ryan Bogner 3rd Letter Home by Melissa Maenle Honorable Mention Human Form by Alicia Haich 1st Gloves by Kathleen Rockeman 2nd Heroes by Greg Kennedy 3rd Metamorphosis by Meghan Bartz Honorable Mention Answer by Rifang Ji Annie Learns to Ride by Kathleen Rockeman

1st Days Gone By by Vicky Gullickson 2nd Trust by Johanna Njos 3rd Country Road Take Me Home by Cassandra Moos Honorable Mention Untitled by Carmen Maxwell Benchwarmer by Melissa Maenle 1st Untitled by Keila Kuykendall 2nd City Chics by Meghan Fisher 3rd Country Bodies by Betsy Sandstrom Honorable Mention Untitled by Durelle Williams

2006

Fiction:

Impressions

Erosion Alicia Haich “Cut his throat. Bleed him.” Cody’s dad called to him from behind the gate. Cody had the knife in his hand, but could only stare at the dead steer. He ordered himself to walk the few steps that were between him and the steer and cut the jugular, but his body refused to work in his favor. His mind tortured Cody by replaying the moments before his dad had shot the steer; when it had been looking trustingly through the corral at the one who had raised him. Its fur had glistened in the morning light, foggy breath coming strong out of his nose, and it had had its ears pricked forward to catch any hint of action—he had always been an alert steer. Now the steer’s fur was blowing limply in the breeze; the only motion left on its body. Its eyes were black and looking straight ahead, while its tongue protruded from its slack mouth. Blood… “Are you going to do it yet, or not?” Cody’s dad called to him again, this time, having the gun set aside, was coming through the gate. “If you don’t do it quick, we’ll never get it all out.” Lucus would have done it already. Lucas never had any problems with butchering. Cody walked towards the steer.

“Dang it, kid, we’ll never get done the way you’re carrying on.” His dad came up behind him, easily took the knife from Cody’s limp hand, and proficiently slit the steer’s throat. A surge of blood instantly began to gush forth from the wound. Cody looked away. His dad directed him as they went through the routine of tying the steer up to the tractor in order to skin it. As long as Cody had tasks to keep his mind busy, his twisted stomach abated somewhat—he put his concentration into each task. It didn’t take long to string the steer to the tractor, and once they had raised the scoop, they began to skin the hide away from the dangling body. Cody and his dad began on opposite sides. “Make sure not to cut the skin,” His dad repeated, never taking his eyes off his own skinning job. Cody glanced across the steer at his dad and felt the familiar burning hate fill his veins. Of course his dad wanted the skin. Any hole through the hide of the steer would lessen the value his dad could get for it—and his dad always wanted to get the most out of things. His dad didn’t say anything as they worked and Cody did nothing to offer a conversation. Cody noticed the blood on his hands as he sliced

the skin of the steer away from the desired muscle. There wasn’t much blood, but it stood out more because it was contrasted with the blue paint that was dyed into his hands from last night. There was blood underneath his finger nails… It was too early for this. “—the leg. Hey, get your mind back to what you’re doing!” His dad’s cutting voice heightened Cody’s attention and he realized, too late, that he had cut through the skin of the steer. Cody lowered his knife and quickly looked to his dad. His father roughly pushed him aside and took over skinning Cody’s section. “Stupid kid. You just can’t do anything right, can you?” His dad aggressively finished cutting the rest of the skin off and then stopped to look at the hide. Cody clinched his jaw, waiting. His dad said nothing. Cody saw him shake his head to himself, but he still said nothing. Why couldn’t Lucas be here today? His dad flagged him over and Cody helped him stretch the steer’s hide beneath its dangling body. He just had to go off this weekend. “Go get the saw.” His dad said, beginning to cut

Country Road Take Me Home Cassandra Moos the steer’s throat. A surge of blood instantly began to gush forth from the wound. Cody looked away. His dad directed him as they went through the routine of tying the steer up to the tractor in order to skin it. As long as Cody had tasks to keep his mind busy, his twisted stomach abated somewhat—he put his concentration into each task. It didn’t take long to string the steer to the tractor, and once they had raised the scoop, they began to skin the hide away from the dangling body. Cody and his dad began on opposite sides. “Make sure not to cut the skin,” His dad repeated,

never taking his eyes off his own skinning job. Cody glanced across the steer at his dad and felt the familiar burning hate fill his veins. Of course his dad wanted the skin. Any hole through the hide of the steer would lessen the value his dad could get for it—and his dad always wanted to get the most out of things. His dad didn’t say anything as they worked and Cody did nothing to offer a conversation. Cody noticed the blood on his hands as he sliced the skin of the steer away from the desired muscle. There wasn’t much blood, but it stood out more

2006

“Cut his throat. Bleed him.” Cody’s dad called to him from behind the gate. Cody had the knife in his hand, but could only stare at the dead steer. He ordered himself to walk the few steps that were between him and the steer and cut the jugular, but his body refused to work in his favor. His mind tortured Cody by replaying the moments before his dad had shot the steer; when it had been looking trustingly through the corral at the one who had raised him. Its fur had glistened in the morning light, foggy breath coming strong out of his nose, and it had had its ears pricked forward to catch any hint of action—he had always been an alert steer. Now the steer’s fur was blowing limply in the breeze; the only motion left on its body. Its eyes were black and looking straight ahead, while its tongue protruded from its slack mouth. Blood… “Are you going to do it yet, or not?” Cody’s dad called to him again, this time, having the gun set aside, was coming through the gate. “If you don’t do it quick, we’ll never get it all out.” Lucus would have done it already. Lucas never had any problems with butchering. Cody walked towards the steer. “Dang it, kid, we’ll never get done the way you’re carrying on.” His dad came up behind him, easily took the knife from Cody’s limp hand, and proficiently slit

Impressions

because it was contrasted with the blue paint that was dyed into his hands from last night. There was blood underneath his finger nails… It was too early for this. “—the leg. Hey, get your mind back to what you’re doing!” His dad’s cutting voice heightened Cody’s attention and he realized, too late, that he had cut through the skin of the steer. Cody lowered his knife and quickly looked to his dad. His father roughly pushed him aside and took over skinning Cody’s section. “Stupid kid. You just can’t do anything right, can you?” His dad aggressively finished cutting the rest of the skin off and then stopped to look at the hide. Cody clinched his jaw, waiting. His dad said nothing. Cody saw him shake his head to himself, but he still said nothing. Why couldn’t Lucas be here today? His dad flagged him over and Cody helped him stretch the steer’s hide beneath its dangling body. He just had to go off this weekend. “Go get the saw.” His dad said, beginning to cut down the steer’s underbelly with his knife, not looking at Cody. Cody shook his head in an effort to expel his slighted thoughts and turned to retrieve the saw. They had left it by the gate. His feet hurt from his oversized boots, so Cody walked to the gate and back. His body pleaded to

limp and ease the pressure from his legs, but he stopped himself because he didn’t want his dad to see it. His dad had bought him the boots last fall. “You’ll grow into them.” He had said at the time. “Lucas was that size when he was your age—they’ll fit.” Cody’s mother had yelled about it, but his dad had only yelled back the same thing: “He’ll grow into them.” His mother had then cried, yelled some more, and finally sulked for a week in resignation. It was easier now if they thought he had grown into them. Cody stopped a few feet from the steer and his dad. His toes were cold inside the big boots and he moved them to get some blood flowing, some warmth. His dad took the saw from Cody without a word and began to cut through the steer’s spine, splitting it in half. All but forgotten as his father worked, Cody stood close enough to be able to give any asked-for assistance, but far enough to the side so that he wasn’t in the way. He watched his father. There was blood on his dad’s jeans and on the front of his overcoat. He wore no hat—he never did—and his ears and cheeks were red-tinged because of the bite in the wind that morning. His hair, short and more gray than brown now, was disheveled and facing where the last strong breeze had set it. It was his dad’s hands, however, that captured

Cody’s attention. Although they were rapidly moving, with each motion of the saw handle, Cody watched them with keen interest. They were old. The signs of aging were obvious in them—the blood on them managing to accent the hard wrinkles and calluses they were composed of. The joints looked swelled against the contrast of hard and thinner bones in his hands, and Cody knew those swellings were the revealing signs of hard, physical labor. He loathed the pity he felt well up inside him as he watched his father vigorously saw down the steer’s spine. And even further hated himself for walking forward and asking if his dad wanted him to saw instead. “What are you kidding?” His dad asked, not pausing in his rhythmic sawing motions. “You’d be here forever. Why don’t you make yourself useful by getting the cardboard set down in the Quonset instead?” As if the question had never been raised, his dad continued to saw down the spine of the steer—already over half-way finished with it. Cody clinched his jaw and retreated from the corral. He let his heels drag on the ground as he got farther away. Idiot, Cody called himself. The Quonset wasn’t far from the corral, only a few hundred feet away, and in view of the house. Over the inward-sounds

an excessive amount of time putting it in order. A pickup truck pulled up to the Quonset as Cody was coming out. “Is your dad here?” The grizzled man inside the pickup asked, idling the engine and leaning his head only slightly out of the window. “Yeah, he’s—” His dad was coming around the corner of the

2006

of Cody berating himself, he heard someone call his name. He turned from opening the Quonset doors to see his little sister, Madeline, calling to him from one of the house’s windows. “Are you done yet?” She yelled through the open window. “No.” Cody answered simply, turning around to finish opening the doors. “Did Buddy go home now?” Cody swore under his breath, but didn’t answer her. Sure, tell her that, dad. “Cody?” “Close the window, Lyn!” Cody turned around again to look at her, calling her by her nickname. “Go back to bed.” Being that it was Saturday, Madeline would usually have been sleeping until nine o’clock—he would have normally been too. Cody went into the Quonset as Madeline amenably closed the window. It didn’t take long to get the spot ready for where the steer would be; his dad had already cleared it of debris yesterday. All of Lucas’ things, which had been strewn about before, were now neatly placed on the opposite side of the steel Quonset. It almost seemed too meticulous for a Quonset to be. All of the engine parts, from the old Chevy pickup truck that Lucas was restoring, were in designated buckets— labeled and easy to find. His dad must have spent

Together Erdenesuren Davaasuren

Impressions

Wednesday Afternoon Kristopher Smotherman “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. I know that, but why I am fascinated with them to the point of obsession, I can’t say.” “Well, tell me, have you ever imagined yourself kissing another man?” “No!” “That was a bit of an intense and rapid response. Are you sure that it was well thought out? Are you feeling defensive?” “Let me ask you this, then, smart guy; have you ever imagined kissing another man?”

“Certainly.” “What?!” Incredulity showed on James’ face. “Of course, man. It is perfectly natural to imagine it. If you can’t face the idea it must contain something of a problem, don’t you think? The idea has never turned me off. I’ve imagined it down to every detail.” “Are you trying to tell me something?” “I am. I am saying that it doesn’t bother me. I have absolutely no desire at all to kiss another man.

Answer Cloud, very thin Just show the blue sky Because love, no answer waviness in my heart so you, understand finally Love and hold are irrelevant meet in a flash at one time That’s the move of whole life Treasure Love in heart can’t be interrupted by time easily even meeting time is too short Memory Will surmount the border of years Love in heart the direction never be changed by anyone You have loved, this is answer

-Rifang Ji

However, I am not disgusted by it, just not aroused. So that is that. That is how I know that I am entirely heterosexual. But at the same time, I am able to fully appreciate the beauty of other men. Men are really such beautiful and attractive creatures. I am simply one who appreciates aesthetic beauty. I would say that any healthy person can only be the same in this respect.” The proclamation, spoken as it was, flatly, over a tilted glass of red wine, through a brief pulsation of the cigarettes cherry, through an exhale and a plume and cloud of smoke, greatly affected James. Instead of a quick retort, or a cynical burst, as was his habit, he paused and took a deep breath, deeply looking inward, into his own self conception. How did he feel? It was easy to imagine Simon’s calm indifference. He was truly an artistic soul. As was his habit, on Wednesdays James would call on Simon who would be sitting comfortably in front of a large canvas, caressing life onto its surface with long, leisurely strokes. James would usually arrive sometime after noon and the two would engage in frivolous conversation, drink good wine and play a game of chess. This they had been doing since graduation some ten years before. Simon sat back, sipped his wine and looked long and

“You didn’t mention your intentions last time we met. How long were you planning that? Wait. I get ahead of myself.” He took a long drag, rubbing his hand over a few days growth. He had the loveliest red whiskers, the color of fresh copper wire. “What was the occasion? I had no idea you two were serious.” “We’re not, that’s the thing. But I really needed to buy someone a diamond. I can’t help it. Everyday I find myself staring through the windows of jewelry shops, transfixed by the stones. I just can’t stop yearning for the diamonds. The way they sparkle, the shape, the contrast of the stone and the cut to the band, platinum, silver, gold, it’s really the most beautiful thing ever. I am fascinated by them. I especially like the wedding bands, the ones with the slim circle of platinum or gold with a single moderate sized diamond on top. I feel like buying one every time I cross a window which has them on display. The trouble is that I have no one to buy a diamond for, and I can’t really buy one for myself, can I? Certainly not a woman’s ring.” “Why don’t you get a man’s ring with diamonds in the band?” coaxed Simon, amused and flirtatious behind innocent eyes. He already knew the answer, of course. “Because I am just not attracted to the thicker band. I find it ungainly. It’s the slender femininity of the woman’s ring that I like. I like it in the same

way that I like violins, beautiful, curvaceous. By the way, did you know I just bought another violin?” “Really?” “Yeah, it’s amazing. Do you know the antique instrument shop at the top of Neruda St.? Well, I went up there the other day to find a new violin. They’ve got gorgeous models.” “You’ll have to bring it over.” “I will.” “So what about Caroline? You gave her a diamond?” “I did. And let me tell you, there is no greater aphrodisiac than giving a woman a diamond.” “I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever given my body. That’s expensive enough, as far as I’m concerned.” “You evil fucker.” “I know. Now look, you’ve got to be quick. This girl probably thinks you’re hers now. No doubt you’re all tied up already in her thoughts. Does she think you proposed or something?” “Simon, I have no control over another’s thoughts, and one thing I’ve learned about women is that they will generally think exactly the thing which I regret. So, yeah, probably.” “What do you mean, ‘probably’?” “Well, she did ask me, ‘Are you proposing?’ That was what tipped me off. I mean, it’s true that we’ve been lovers for a number of years now. And you know me; I generally can’t abide a girl after about the fifteenth toss. I get all stuffed up with the thought that she might actually

2006

unblinkingly into James’ flushed face and dark eyes. “I could paint you, James, if you’d like? You’d make an excellent subject. Your face is like a book, and candour speaks volumes on a painting. Why, you’d make me famous.” “I could never be still long enough. You know that.” “Really, James, enough. Now take off your shirt.” “Another day, perhaps. Maybe.” James flashed his boyish grin, which never failed to intoxicate the least of its beholders. Simon lazily took out a pouch of tobacco and began to roll himself another cigarette. “Would you mind rolling one for me, Simon?” “Old boy, you don’t smoke.” “I’m trying to take up new hobbies. I grow so tired with things lately.” “Hmm, well, certainly. After all, smoking does add quality to life. It’s not often that we take the time to sit back and just breathe. Smoking forces us to do that. It also allows us to enjoy each other’s company without the need for words. We can just smoke and watch our thoughts drift slowly through the room. Here you are.” “Thank you, now as I was saying, diamonds. I just can’t get enough of them. In fact, do you remember Caroline?” “Sure. Irish girl with the blue eyes, black hair and an incredible chest, right?” “That’s the one. Her voice like an angel just kills me, in a good way. Well, I bought her a diamond last week.”

Impressions

get inside me. I’ve told you about the elevator dreams? Damn elevators. Whoever invented elevators ought not to have. Just look at all the flubrous asses. It’s an epidemic.” On that note James looked off into the distant corner of nowhere in particular with a sort of dreamily exasperated expression on his face, rubbed his perfect dark eyebrow with his long tanned fingers. The veins stood out on his hand like something finely sculpted by a Master, paying intense devotion to the most minute details. His hand wandered up and back through his thick hair. “Cornelius Vanderbilt, that evil bastard!” Simon smiled as he replied, “You know damn well that it was Elisha Otis that perfected the elevator.” “True, but I like to point the finger, and what fun is there in getting it right? No, it’s much more interesting to get it all wrong.” “True. I prefer the intoxication of fallacious enterprises and discriminating invalidities. But the truth is . . . come here for a second.” Simon motioned for James to cross the room and peer at the easel, which could only be viewed from directly in front of Simon. James leaned over Simon’s fabulous white khakis, gently allowing his fingers to barely caress his bare chest. “You’re more than a little gay, aren’t you, Painter?” He teased with that same

wickedly charming smile. “James, really, you know that if I was even remotely gay, I’d have long ago ripped your clothes off and painted all over your muscular body. So, diamond lover, try not to be so disappointed when I tell you that I was never a jocular athlete forced to repress my intense attraction to the male form, and thus through repression forced myself into an unhealthy denial of my appreciation, resulting in a wellspring of homoerotic fantasies that can only be managed by breaking the heart of any woman that gets too close to me.” “Whatever dick.” “Touché. But really, since you are this close . . .” Simon reached up and pulled James’ dark hair behind his ear. “Now look, what about this painting?” In the dazzling and special blend of light that came into being from a perfect balance of outdoor sunshine, fading as the season faded into fall, from the light reflecting off of countless mirrors, through bohemian crystal vases and ashtrays, off of halffilled wine glasses and off of bronzed skin and heat, James glanced up at the painting to see the face of what could possibly be said to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her blue eyes were alive with a nocturnal fire and light. Her hair was the radiance of the arctic expanse underneath a cloudless sun, softened by a cradle of golden sand,

sprinkled ever so well. Her cheeks, her eye, her lips. . . Ah, but it was the lips that stole the very breath from James’ chest. “Now do you think I’m gay?” “More than ever, Simon. Really, more than ever. No straight man could ever paint with such incredible delicacy.” “No? da Vinci, Michelangelo?” “Simon, please. You know I graduated Harvard. You were there.” “I know. Sometimes I just like pointing the finger. And it’s really no fun being right, is it? No, it’s much more interesting to get it wrong? “Do I really sound like that?” “You do. Now do me a favor. Tell me what you think of my painting. Really. Don’t hold back.” “Simon, it’s magnificent. Really. Look at me. This is incredible. Is she real? I feel like no woman can look so fresh and alive as this woman here before me. If ever I did hold any homoerotic repressed malnourished fantasies in my breast, if ever I had any fear of woman or dullness or boredom on their account, all that is flown now in the face of this one true diamond. Ever have I adored diamonds for their cold clarity, for the way that they can capture and refract light in the most dazzling display, for their long, hard, cold perfection, and ever have I felt that even a woman, even the woman, paled under the beauty of her rock.

soft. But the soul, oh the soul, that shines out with radiance and splendour and when the soul wears the body, that James, that is a glorious distraction indeed. And here, on this surface, I paint that which should be. I paint her, but I paint her in release.” “Who is she?” “That, my friend, I can tell only for a price, and

let me warn you, she is not to be trifled with. There is not another woman who will ever take you the way this one will, for she is a diamond, and as you say, that is your obsession.” “I need to know her. Tell me her name. And what do you mean, ‘a price?’!” “O.k., I’ll tell you, but you’ve been warned. Now get up and grab me a bottle

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But today, this moment, breathless and aroused, pained, saddened, broken, wounded, enlivened, emboldened and provoked, I can tell you that if truly any woman does exist that looks like this, then she is mine, my one true and adored fascination. She is the one gem that I have ever sought. Tell me, does she exist? Is she real? Flesh and blood? Does she truly shine in this way? Can it be so, that such a one as her exists?” “James, let me tell you this; A painting is many things. It is certainly the object that is painted, but it is also the object reflected through the painters art, and it is the job, no, the purpose of a true artist to capture that intangible essence, that soul that resides within and gives beauty and life to his subject. So I can say, yes, she exists, but trouble not your heart, because she is inaccessible. She is locked away inside herself. It is possible that in the light of day, you would see the shell of this woman and be amazed, for truly she is stunning, but here on my canvass she is unbound, and only in this way can she truly captivate such a robust soul as yours. Yes, James, I do not paint what the eyes alone see, but I paint what lies beneath, and in that, and only in that will you ever truly find that diamond that you pursue. Because the flesh is the flesh and the body pulls, falls, grows old and cold, and very much unlike a diamond, is

Impressions

of wine. That one over there, in the rack, bottom left. Right. Now open it and pour me a glass. Perfect. Now stand over there. Just there, yes. Ok. Take off your clothes.” “What!?” “Just do what I say if you want to know what I know. I mean to paint you.” “Now that IS gay.” “Please, I’m serious. Strip!” With that, and a long, silent exchange, lasting many loud seconds, James began to take off his clothes. He truly was a remarkable specimen, with the bronzed and sculpted body of an athlete. Rowing for hours a day will do that to a figure, bronze it, polish it, strengthen its lines. “Now, that’s right.” Mused Simon as James stood in the golden light of the open window, fully nude and glorious. “James, if you truly adore her, as I seem to think you might, then I must prepare you. You need to meet her on an equal field, if you are to ever have any chance of taming her. She is a wild and burning soul. I’ve painted her. I’ve seen her soul bared and blazing. She is immortal now, has been ever since I began to brush her very essence into my canvass. If you wish to meet her as an equal than I will have to bestow on you that very same essence.” James bowed his head. Seeing Simon begin his furious application to the task at hand, he didn’t even bother to reply. He knew that his words would fall

upon deaf ears. Simon was already gone, fully into the world of painter, his soul retracted and extended into a different plane of existence. All James could do was stand in the sunlight and be. And in this way they passed the afternoon.—-

3’s life is short. death, brief we wear black and create a void to catch the sun and warm the January air. “it was so unexpected” and we’ll nod and pause dragging our feet through snow and ice to bury him close to home.

- Amber Nelson

If Only We Had Known My friend pulled the pickup over to the right While I tried to stay out of sight We began our search among the sea of green But no sign of deer could be seen We each walked through a single draw And were disappointed when a rabbit was all we saw My friend just shook his head and looked at me But no sign of deer could be seen We then reached the river and snuck around the bend Little did we know that our path was drawing to an end The land was like a picture; quiet and serene But no sign of deer could be seen We made one last search near a giant evergreen But no sign of deer could be seen We gave up and were depressed that we had not made a kill If only we had known two magnificent deer were watching us from the hill

2006

- Ryan Bogner

Untitled Megan Fisher

Impressions

Shadow Cat Briett Reed The other night I couldn’t find a good way to write my latest essay. It had to be something to do with the psychological perspective of death and my muse had completely abandoned me. Not to mention my hands were thoroughly sick of holding the pen. I just didn’t feel like writing. I didn’t feel like doing anything, truth be told. Finally, after hours of useless doodling, I decided to take a walk. I had no idea where I wanted to go, so I let my feet wander as my mind did the same. It was after sunset when my wandering brought me to the little corner park where I used to play when I was a child. I stopped under the street light nearby and remembered what it had been like to be child. To have no cares in the world except how high I could jump from the swing without hurting myself. I was just standing there, lost in my memories of laughter and sunshine, when I saw him crossing the street to the park. He was a big tomcat with a coat blacker than any of the shadows around him. I grew uneasy, for his movements suggested that he was on the prowl and I wasn’t in the mood to witness a mouse becoming supper. As he passed me, I guess he felt me watching

him, and turned to look at me. I felt my breath leave me as I realized that he had the brightest green eyes I had ever seen, and

they were glowing. For some strange reason, that frightened me more than before. After a moment, he dismissed me and

Gloves Good friends are like the best gloves— Deerskin, double-stitched, A bit stiff and too wide in the fingertips at first, Too narrow in the knuckles— That only after some use begin to fit. Soon sweat from within and snow from without will form them, And pruning the plums, perhaps, or stacking stove wood, Shoveling something, saddling the sullen horse, Or sorting potatoes in the cellar—a dirty, chilly job— When the brain, numb from all the small decisions, Lets the hands take over to say This pile’s for planting, this for hog fodder, These we can eat, Until bulging bags lean against separate walls and The floor between them is swept clean. One day the gloves are old and worn, And the old hands sheathed in supple leather Are perfectly articulate Around a hoe handle or the thinnest drill bit. Such gloves are not offended by casual treatment If flung from the hands on one’s way indoors, running, To answer whatever calls. When it’s time to work again in the cold or heat They allow themselves to be found and fetched, This one from the jumble of the door basket, That one from beneath the boot bench. They hold together, Softened by years of work and wear, But still strong. A perfect fit. A gift.

- Kathleen Rockeman 16

her lap and curled up as if he belonged there. The girl started in surprise, but her eyes softened as he began purring loudly and rubbing up against her chest. Slowly, one of her hands slid down the chain it had been clutching and began to stoke the cat. He butted up against it, greedily

wanting more, and the girl actually smiled. Her other hand also let go of the chain and curled around the cat as she hugged him against her. For some odd reason, I had the inexplicable urge to go over there and tear him away from her. But I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. She looked so happy.

2006

continued on his way. It was then that I realized that the park was not empty. A small, pale girl sat on one of the swings barely twenty feet from me. Her head was hanging forward as though she were a rag doll. The only thing that seemed to be holding her up was the way her hands clutched the swing chains above her head. It was so late that the other kids had probably been called home a long time ago. My mind paused at the sight of her; why was she all alone in a place like this? I started towards her, intending to ask her what was wrong, but I stopped when I saw the cat. He crept up to her as though she were a tiny bird that had fallen from its nest. Chills broke out over my body as I watched him saunter up and face her. Somehow, his face had contorted into a very human-like grin, and from the tautness of his body, I knew he was ready he was ready to pounce. But really, I told myself, a cat attacking a human? That was just silly. So I made no move towards them as I continued to watch. The girl lifted her head slightly to look at the cat and, by the light of the streetlamp above us, I saw the glistening of tears on her cheeks. She stared at the cat for a long time, with no part of her body moving an inch. Suddenly, the cat went into a crouch and I bit back a scream as he leapt at her. To my surprise, he landed softly in

Trust Johanna Njos

Impressions

“Will you take me home, my Shadow?” a tiny voice asked. I barely heard the question it was so soft. The cat responded excitedly with a meow. I felt a cold rush of dread wash over me as I heard them. Deep inside me, I heard something wanting to scream out that the girl shouldn’t take the cat home. I shook my head irritably. I was overreacting. It must just be that I knew that the girl’s parents might not have wanted the girl to be bringing home strays. Not that the cat looked like a stray. He was definitely well-fed and his coat was as glossy as it was black. He must have a home somewhere, I thought. The girl stood up with the cat in her arms and began to walk slowly away from the park. Instantly, my mind went into panic. ‘I have to stop her!’ I thought to myself. But I didn’t understand why I felt so much panic. Sure, her parents probably wouldn’t let her keep a new cat just out of the blue, but what business was that of mine? I took a step towards them and froze. Perched on the back of the girl’s shoulder, the cat was staring at me with its green, glowing eyes. I couldn’t move; I couldn’t even talk. The girl didn’t seem to notice me at all and continued slowly down the street, holding the cat like a baby on her shoulder. He laid his head on her shoulder to rest and, for a second, I was sure he winked at me mockingly.

My whole body trembled as I watched the street they were going down get darker and darker. Finally, the streetlight above me flickered out and I shook myself out of my trance. Shivering, I walked home. The next morning I woke up feeling a little bit better than I had. As I ate my breakfast, I scanned the newspaper and almost choked on my juice when I saw the girl’s picture. Quickly, I scanned the article below it. She had been missing for a few days, the caption said, and neither her parents nor the police had any idea where she was. Stunned, I collapsed onto my patio set. Just thinking about it made me feel sick. I wished that I had known that the little girl was missing. I would never have let her go. My mind spun in circles. What could I do? Calling the police wouldn’t do much good; I didn’t know where she had gone. She could be anywhere now. After a few minutes of thinking about it, I

was no closer to an answer. Frustrated, I took out my pocket notebook and a pen and began to outline the essay that was due in a few days. I needed to do something productive or I would go crazy thinking about it. Absently, I began rambling about how people who were about to die usually felt a sense of peace right before it happened. As I finished up, I felt my body relax, as if a great weight had just been lifted off my shoulders. I sighed happily, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes as all of the normal aches and pains seemed to fade. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes, ready to start on my essay. However, as I glanced down at my essay, a streak of black caught my eye. I blinked and looked again. It was unmistakable. The big, black tom cat with green eyes was sauntering towards me, staring at me just as he had stared at the girl the night before.

My Conceit I know some people, who are like my hair, Which I do enjoy, while it’s there. But when I lose it and it’s all gone, I don’t think I’ll really care. Having hair is nice, but in reality it’s worthless. Unlike the brain, it serves no purpose. Cut it short or grow it long, It you lose it all, life still goes on.

Look at Me Look at me again Just like before Up and down Making me burn inside With desire Thirst for your touch Hunger for your kiss Yours for the taking If you’ll just look at me again. -Lydia

Johnson

Heroes When you look back at your heroes past They were superheroes of comics and cartoons But then you grew up and realized A hero is not fictional or divine They’re real, right in front of you They raised you and loved you Made you who you are You may not tell them who they are But you know deep inside Your parents and grandparents Are heroes bigger than Superman They’re real, not fictional or super strong These are the heroes that celebrities of your life They push you and believe in you Told you that you could get the job done They motivated you and supported you They gave up personal pleasures and desires So you could live your life with little troubles Next time you think of heroes look deep inside And tell yourself the real heroes are at home Wondering how you are!

Ignorance Will Save Us

- Greg Kennedy

Sometimes we move so slowly fighting progress tooth and nail. We resist change. White knuckles guide our path with tight grip and tight line on an open road. Our necks have atrophied and stiffened until still. We’re comforted by our narrow view We’re power drunk but we still drive. Sober life has let us down. With blind faith and dead weight our cement shoes hold us back. Stolen sails and achors aweigh keep us in our place.

We wear loosely bound blinders and cling to our tunnel vision. Ignorance will save us.

-Tyler Schmalz

Untitled Durelle Williams

2006

They pacify and petrify through words and small rations. Compromises we’re told they make feed us just enough but we’re too weak to stand up.

Impressions

Hunt of a Lifetime Ryan Bogner The enormous antlers had finally become motionless in the brush. Trying to remain undiscovered, we maneuvered our way to the east in hopes of finding an opening. We stayed downwind, so the deer would not detect our scent. After a moment, we located a perch on the side of a nearby hill. I loaded one shell into the chamber of my gun and calmly brought the scope up to my eye. Suddenly, the buck raised his head as if he sensed danger. He had clearly become frightened, and before I could react, he sprinted out of his bed and over the hill. “There’s no way he could have heard or smelled me!” I said to my dad. “Well, there’s probably a reason this buck has been around for so long and gotten the chance to get so big,” my dad replied. “He’s smart, and it’ll be tough to get a decent shot at him.” With that in mind, I threw the gun over my shoulder and began my pursuit of the cunning deer. As the afternoon approached, the bright sun drifted into the western sky. A sparkling stream wove its

Ram Betsy Sandstrom

way through the valleys of the looming hillls, and the fresh scent of pine filled the air. A pair of bald eagles glided gracefully along the endless horizon. Hunting had always been an amazing thrill for me. I especially enjoyed the feeling I got as I walked through the trees and pastures and admired the beauty of nature. Today was no different. Another hunting season had arrived, and my dad and I were at one of our favorite spots. The only difference was that this time we were after a trophy. We had come out to this beautiful place in the early morning and not seen anything. However, by the afternoon, we were in pursuit of the buck of my dreams. After seeing the buck run out

of sight, my dad and I rushed up the hill, crept over the ridge, and walked down into the valley. At the bottom, a stream flowed through the hills, and the land was covered with blackberry bushes, wildflowers, and countless pine trees. As we walked, I noticed some mule deer tracks along the muddy bank of the stream. I followed the tracks along the bank for thirty of forty yards. Then, out of the brush, the monster sluggishly strolled down to the water about 100 yards ahead of me. He appeared oblivious to my presence as he lowered his massive head down to the water. I swiftly loaded my gun, brought it up to my right eye, and placed my finger on the trigger. Just as I prepared to fire, a squirrel dashed down from a tree directly to my right. The squirrel also brought with it two large pinecones that had broken off one of the flimsy brances. The buck, with his excellent hearing, looked in the direction of the noise. He spotted me in the brush just as he turned his head and immediately leapt across the stream and into the shaded trees. Another oppurtunity had come and

I could not pull the trigger because I understood that nature needed this brilliant creature to be complete, and I knew I should not take what rightfully belonged to it. Cautiously, the deer looked down at me. The hunter and hunted stared at each other for what seemed like hours. Both of us remained motionless. We continued to stare as if to commend one another for being the worthy opponent, and our eyes expressed a sense of respect that each of us had gained for the other. After a moment, the deer appeared to nod to me as if he understood how I felt. His large black eyes were relaxed, and he seemed completely comfortable with my presense. Then he turned, walked over the ridge, and disappeared from my sight. I knew that I would never see another buck that size the rest of my life, but that didn’t bother me. I felt thankful that I had the opportunity to witness such an amazing animal in its natural domain. He truly was a worthy opponent. Although I ended the hunt without a deer, I always believed it was a success. I would forever refer to that unforgettable experience as the hunt of a lifetime.

A Metamorphosis I am a wolf I am wild and free I run and jump and play I enjoy the winter most My family is a pack apart we are not completely whole together we enjoy every minute of our time together I learn from these elders to become a better animal listening to their knowledge Learning from their experiences to survive myself later in life. I know I am wild you cannot tame me I tried it once almost killed me (inside) I will not let you trap me in your web of lies and insecurities you are not my soul mate my soul mate has four legs. I am becoming more wild living life carpe diem and connected spiritually to the wild My back says I am free ‘freedom within’ and soon my family will be visible on the top of my skin.

-Meghan Bartz

2006

gone, and I figured that I had missed the best chance I would ever get at taking down the giant buck. The day’s end neared. The sun loomed just above the horizon in the west, and clouds rolled into the sky from the east. “We better head back to the pickup before it gets too dark,” my dad said to me as we walked out of the valley. Hesitantly I agreed, for I knew that if we left for the night, I would probably never see the buck again. It appeared my chances had run out. After about a mile of walking in the direction of the pickup, my dad and I stopped for one last rest in one of the valleys. We began to talk about the day’s events when the buck appeared on the ridge directly above us. He stood along the horizon, and a picture prefect outline of his body and antlers filled the darkening sky. The deer looked like a silhouette standing on the skyline. The air had cooled quite a bit since the sun had set, and his breath flowed out of his nose. He had no idea we were down in the valley as he stood atop the hill. Once again, I loaded my rifle and brought the scope up to my eye. I wiped the sweat from my brow, placed my finger on the trigger, and prepared to fire. Nothing happened. I slowly lowered my gun and gazed at the magnificent deer. For some reason, I could not fire a shot. The deer had eluded death the entire day, and I felt that he had earned the right to live.

Impressions

The Joys Of Laminating Elizabeth Raab My favorite pastime at work is laminating. I love laminating. It is the most fun thing to do at work or anywhere, actually. It is crazy and fun and exciting. Let me give you a taste of the joy that I feel throughout the laminating process. First, you turn the laminator on. The machine roars to life (or a quiet click may be heard) and you hang in suspense as you wait for it to warm up. Why does it torture you by taking so long? You may move on to other things while it is warming up but nothing can distract you from its little voice calling out, “It’s almost laminating time!” As soon as you see that wonderful glow of the orange light blinking and announcing its readiness you rush to it, squealing in delight and anticipation. You prepare to laminate by carefully cloaking the sacred document in the clear plastic

sheet, making sure everything is perfectly aligned. You then slip it into the folder, putting the crease into the crease otherwise it will melt all over the inside of the machine and ruin it and that would be bad because then no one would get to laminate, especially you and that would be devastating. The horror of seeing the broken laminator just sitting there next to the fax machine, all lonely and crippled is too much to bear. You cannot let that happen, so you make sure no laminating sheet is sticking out of the folder before you submit it for lamination. After everything checks out, you hit the “run” button and the laminator happily hums while you put the folder in and wait while it transforms from a caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly. It comes out the other side, warm and radiant, just waiting for you to take it out of its shell. Behold the new and glorious document,

Virginia Peach Carmen Maxwell

shiny and protected! It gleams with the beauty that only a laminator could provide. And to think, it will be like this forever! You become addicted to the power you feel from making something immortal. Not even water can destroy this magnificent document! It is here to stay. All you can do is stare at the awesomeness of this thing you’ve created. Joy sets in, and you feel unimaginable bliss as you contemplate how wonderful the whole process is in its simplicity. Who knew that the simple act of laminating, turning one thing into another version of itself, could bring such enjoyment? And yet here you are, trying to stay calm on the outside, but feeling rapture on the inside, and wanting to experience it all over again. You finally realize and appreciate the joys of laminating. It is a good thing.

Untitled Michelle Larson

Snapshot We drink, eat, laugh, lie kindly As the breeze whispers through a rough door propped open with a flat iron The walls glow dusty gold like the sun setting on rip fields. The Blessed Virgin and a carved angel look down on The guest of honor, who harbors her own guest In a rounded belly in a flowered dress Brighter than the bougainvilla that climbs the garden wall.

Or better, just remember: The ready love, the wisdom offered with full hands, the bright blossoms, The golden beam that falls exactly on the leavened belly of A woman absently brushing a brown lock from a radiant face with a delicate hand, Her silver ring, her sudden laugh, Our Lady gazing kindly down. In the mother’s dream that night the Virgin will visit, Will whistper the child’s name like a secret The woman can’t quite hear, But she’ll know it means ‘Blessed’ and ‘Long-Awaited’ In a heavenly tongue.

-Kathleen Rockeman 23

2006

There is the moment after the gifts and cake When the tinkle of dish and silver is silenced and The laughter and chatter suddenly cease--A chance For the knowing to pluck the moment that will never be back. Take it home to press between pages of a thick book

Impressions

City Chics Megan Fisher

New York Nights Michelle Pederson

Sitting in my room, I couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like if I had someone. The guy I like doesn’t even seem to notice me. Grrr, this is so frustrating. A normal day for Cappie and I is work, then to clubs, where we check out guys and then home to talk about our day. Mostly we talk about Scott, who Cappie likes; he is tall with brown hair and hazel eyes, he is also an actor, which is how she met him. We also talk extensively about

Jeremy who is tall, with brown hair, greenish blue eyes and a husky muscular build; he is good friends with Scott. He also works in the Starbucks behind the Burger King where I work at. We take out the trash at the same time each day so that neither one of us is ever alone in the alley. “Tennessee are you here?” Cappie asked as she entered the apartment. Making sure my journal was

shut I answered, “Yeah, I’m in my bedroom. What’s up?” I looked up as she walked into my room. Cappie is the coolest person I know. Her smile spans from one intense green eye to the other. She is just shy of five foot six, and a very good actress. She can play almost any part; she has a beauty that radiates into the audience when she is on stage. She is intoxifying. “You’re never going to believe what just happened to me!” she

what, I told him about you, and he said if you bring in some samples he may hire you.” “You’re kidding me right? You’ve got to be kidding because I’m a writer, Cappie, not a graphic designer or photographer. I haven’t done any of that since college. Those aren’t what I was supposed to do.” While I enjoyed doing graphic design and photography I’ve never thought of myself as an artist. Since I was in junior high I have wanted to be a writer. I just got the minors because I could, I guess. “I know, but you were good then and you’re still good now. If you do this TJ it could mean real money and maybe no more fast food!” She said hopefully. I can’t believe it, her idea might actually work. I really liked taking pictures back in college. I’m not the best artist, but if I really try maybe I can do it. I had never thought of working one of those jobs because I was stuck on the thought of being a writer. If it gets me out of fast food I would be so happy. I hate working fast food. “Okay, I will bring him my portfolio, and then maybe we both will make something of ourselves. No more fast food and no more rejection! Let’s go celebrate!” “All right!! Let’s get cute and have some fun!” It took both of us a total of one and a half hours to get ready. Well it isn’t that easy to look nice all the time. After picking out our outfits we each took showers, and then had to do our hair of course. I was trying to do something new with my hair and it was not working out the way I wanted it. Therefore it took me twice as long as it should have. “So where are we going to go tonight?” I yelled over the hairdryer. “The club over on 31st and 3rd, we haven’t been there in a while,”

she said with an odd smile on her face. “What’s going on Cappie? You have that look on your face. Wait a minute, you hate going to that club because Scott is never there,” I asked, puzzled. “No, I don’t hate that club. Did I forget to mention that Scott is the male lead in play?” she state. Then added matter-offactly, “It is a love story. I get to kiss him.” A smile crept over her face. I was really happy for Cappie, really I was, but I had this feeling she was about to have all her dreams come true, and once again I would be the tag along. I hate that it happens to me all the time. If I could only get Jeremy to notice me, then Cappie and I could double date, seeing as though Scott and Jeremy are good friends. Then we both could have all of our dreams. After we both had made ourselves cute, we got a taxi and went to the club. It was bumpin’ by the time we got there. We checked our coats at the door, and then we found a table up in the balcony with some of our friends. After a quick hello, we went out on to the dance floor. We just started dancing. Both of us in pain because once again we had chosen shoes that were cute instead of comfortable. We danced with some random guys, that while they were good looking, they looked as though they spent way too much time trying to look good. I want a guy that looks good in the Starbucks’ uniform. Kind of like the way that Jeremy looks when he takes out the trash with me. I really wish that he were here tonight, that would be so awesome. Just as I was thinking this, these two amazing looking guys came up to us to see if we wanted to dance. When I looked up my jaw about dropped. It was Jeremy!!

2006

squealed. “Let me think. . . I know! Scott asked you out!” “Yeah right, I wish. No this is way better! I got the lead in the play that I auditioned for last week! I’m going to star on Broadway TJ! Can you believe it?” she screamed as she jumped around. “Holy shit Cappie, that is amazing! At least one of us is getting what we came to New York to do. I’m so happy for you!” I said, hugging her. Cappie and I moved out to New York three years ago. She was going to be a star and I, a writer. Right now I’m barely even a fast food worker. I am having problems getting anything published. Plus, I hate working fast food, but I have to do something to help pay the rent. I don’t even get to use my minor in graphic design and photography, which I really enjoyed to do in college. Then there is the whole issue about guys. Scott, the guy that Cappie likes, is so going to ask Cappie out any day now. Jeremy, Scott’s friend that I really like, won’t even look at me! Man, maybe I should move back to North Dakota where I came from. “TJ, I know you are not thinking about moving back home again. Stop that stupid thinking,” she scolded me. Sometimes I really hate the fact that she knows me well enough to know what I’m thinking. Then again it is kinda nice, because I don’t have to say everything I am thinking, she just knows. I’m glad that I moved here with her. She is my best friend and has been for years. “Because that would be a stupid thought to have. The director was looking for new talent to take photos for the show. He also needs someone to design the play bill, and guess

Impressions

“Hello you. You look amazing tonight.” Jeremy said in my ear. Holy crap I love that voice. “Hey, I didn’t know that you were going to be here!” I said as I spun around. “Yeah, I know it was a surprise,” he said with a wicked grin on his face. “What do you mean it was a surprise?” I asked. I looked over at Cappie, as I turned back to Jeremy I said “I will be rrrright back I need to talk to my friend over there.” When I walked over to Cappie, she was in the arms of Scott. I went up to her and grabbed her arm pulling her into the bathroom, so that I could ask her what the hell was going on. “Oh, well Scott asked me out earlier and then we figured out that Jeremy likes you and I know you like him, so we decided to get you two together. You know you should be thanking me. Not yelling at me. I can’t believe that you are mad at me for this.” “Whoa, I never said that I was mad at you. It just can’t believe that you didn’t tell me that Scott asked you out! Wait a minute did you tell me that Jeremy like me also!! Oh, my gosh!!! This is so amazing! Is that why you chose this club tonight?” “Yeah, this is Jeremy’s favorite club, and I know you like it to so there is no better place for you two to get together.” “You set this all up for us. Oh, Cappie you really are my best friend.” I said hugging her.

Annie Learns To Ride She is pure determination in boots and a frilly dress. My left hand holds hers on the handlebar, My right hand grips the seat. She pedals hard down the long green lawn screaming Don’t let go don’t let go! I run alongside shouting You can do it you can do it! She tips, falls, cries; I cajole, explain. We trudge together up the slope for another tryAnd another and another. Finally we feel it: That instant when balance is born. I let go, plant my feet, And watch her race away as if she always could, Delight and laughter spooling from her, Spokes aglitter in the morning sun. The memory comes clearly back the afternoon She steps lightly onto the eastbound train, Turning to grace us with an easy wave and radiant smile, The picture of competence and equilibrium. I stand rooted, arms limp and empty, and Gasp for breath from all the effort of letting go. Sunset shimmers on the windows sliding past. -

Kathleen Rockeman

Time Machine Tony Kessel happenings in my life. You know, like how many kids I would have, who I would be married to, what job I would be working, what lives I would save heroically. But none of these things happened, I was not even there. Feeling ripped off, I

Dinglefritz Jessica Magnuson took the helmet off and exited the machine. It did not work at all. Yesterday, I decided the day before must have been a fluke. This was a time machine. I could learn so much about myself. It is so much easier to make the future happen when you know how is going to go. I could prevent some bad things from happening. Maybe I could even change some things of the past. Who knows? I just felt as if I should give the machine one more try. I would hate to rule the future out because of one fluke. That’s all yesterday was, it will be different

today.

I finished eating breakfast and threw my shoes on. It wasn’t that far away. I walked through my backyard and into the grove of trees behind my house. Sure enough after ten minutes of walking, the machine was in the same place as yesterday. I took a deep breath. Here we go again. Let’s do this right. I entered the time machine and strapped on the helmet again. In the same manner as yesterday, my vision disappeared and then reappeared. I could see the outside of the booth. Weird. The curtain to the entrance moved slightly. All of sudden, it opened up and the same guy came storming out. Muttering the same comments as yesterday, he walked past me again. He still didn’t see me. He looks so familiar. I think that I should know him. This machine is so odd. Disappointed, I exited the time machine again. Oh, this thing is stupid. Today, I am going to go back out to that machine to see if it works. I would like to know what happens in my future. I know that if I had a glimpse into the future, I could probably make it really successful in this life. I just need to be persistent. If I could get that machine to work right, I would know so much. I guess I should just keep trying. It isn’t every day that a person stumbles upon a time machine. I will just have to wait and see what happens.

2006

I found a time machine the other day. I have always wanted to find out what the future would hold in store for me. As I walked into the machine, I had to be cautious. I would hate to lose my body somewhere in time, I thought to myself. I pondered the idea for a little while longer, and then drew the conclusion that I would be ok. I will just go five years into the future. Things could not be too different at that time. Just a glimpse. If I could get a little insight on my life, I could be a little better off than every one else. OK. I will try it, it will be OK. I then strapped the helmet on. It was a lot like one of those virtual reality games. At first my vision faded to black. When I regained my sight, I saw what appeared to be the outside of the time machine. Nothing happened for the longest time. All that I could see was the entrance that I had just passed through. Then an oddity occurred. A man, who looked a lot like me, climbed out of the booth. He was muttering something to himself that was barely audible. This unusual man walked right toward me, heading the direction that I had just come from. “This machine is a joke. I don’t know why I keep coming back. It always shows the same thing,” he complained as he walked past me. He did not even seem to see me there. I did not understand what any of this was supposed to mean. It was kind of freaky. This machine is supposed to reveal the future. It is supposed to tell me the most significant

Impressions

Foresight Cole Weisz Do you know what the saddest thing in the world is? You walk into a nursing home and head down the halls. Everywhere older people are sitting alone. They wait for sons and daughters and grandchildren that have forgotten about them except on Christmas and Easter and maybe their birthdays. Sometimes you can see that they are so alone that their sanity and senses have left them as they sit wide-eyes and rocking with drool running down their chin and possibly shit in their pants. Still, every day, they manage to get out of bed and congregate near the entrance of the home, waiting in vain for their family or friends to stroll in for a talk. Beware of living too long. The first time my mom took me to a home, it was because my Great-Grandma McCarvel had just taken up residency there. I was probably about six or seven, and before the home in Mandan, Grandma McCarvel had lived in Anaconda, Montana. I had only met her a couple of times before, and being young I was kind of scared of her because she was old and yet to me she was new. We would visit her every Tuesday night at 7:00, and soon I wasn’t scared of her. Grandma had a wicked sense of humor, and I think that the only reason she never lost it was because she never really was alone. My mom’s family is huge and Grandma had company nearly every other night. I started looking forward to Tuesday to hear Grandma’s new joke, or some song she

knew, or to hear her swear when me or my little brother or mom beat her at bingo (when I was younger, I got a real kick out of hearing the elderly say “shit.” Actually, to be totally honest, I still do). Still, there was one thing I hated about visiting grandma. Sometimes we would show up early and supper wasn’t quite finished, so mom would lead us to the dining room to sit with Grandma while she finished eating. Every time, without failure, my little brother and I would be swarmed with old women and asked questions and hugged, and we became the center of attention. Looking back, I know that the people surrounding me were just lonely and trying to talk, but at that age, I was terrified. As much as I don’t like being at the center of a large group today, I absolutely hated it when I was only half the size of the people surrounding me. My mom later explained to me that they were lonely and so I was as nice as possible after that, but it still didn’t make me any more comfortable. Grandma died when I was about eleven, but my experiences in nursing homes continued. Mom had started working in another nursing home when I was nine, and sometimes she would drag my brother, Shay, and I along. It was worse than Grandma’s home because I would sit in the activity room shooting pool. But ever now and again, Shay would stay at a friend’s house and mom would have me tag along while she worked. Mom is an activities person. I suppose bringing me along was kind of like pet therapy but

without the inconvenience of going to the pet shop. So I would follow Mom from room to room, trying to make myself invisible by the door while Mom talked to the residents. I can still remember the opening questions, “How are you doing, today?” or “Hi, how are you feeling?” or “How was lunch this afternoon?” My mom does a good job of asking the same impersonal questions that everybody else asks because she sounds like she actually gives a damn. After the opening question, the resident would respond and Mom would bullshit with the resident for a short time before the resident would eventually ask about me. Every time without failure, Mom would say the exact same thing, “Oh that’s my oldest son, Cole.” I got a kick out of that because it seemed more rehearsed than the rest of her conversation. “Oh that’s my oldest. . .” it was the “Oh” that I hated. Like, “Oh, hey I didn’t realize anyone was standing there.” Then the residents (always female) would fawn over me and hug me and talk about how their grandkids don’t live in Bismarck or maybe they did live in Bismarck but they never came to visit because they were very busy. Half of me wanted to run away or scream at them to stop touching me. The other half of me wanted to cry because they were so lonely and their grandkids were horrible, and maybe someday I’ll go to a nursing home with shitty little grandchildren that make me go crazy with loneliness, and maybe I’ll be able to babble to little kids that I don’t even know about the

time Mom would say it was time to go, I’d be so tired from all the fighting inside my own head that I just wanted to go to sleep. Old people in general have got it rough, and don’t even get me started on the Alzheimer’s

patients. The next time you think your life is rough, just imagine being locked in a home by your own children. Beware of living too long.

2006

kids that don’t visit me. Being nine is harder than people think. The side that always won was the side that felt bad for the elderly. I never ran, I never screamed, I never even pushed away from the hugs, but by the

Days Gone By Vicky Gullickson

Impressions

Letter Home Melissa Maenle This is a letter very similar to conversations I have had with my parents since moving out to North Dakota from Michigan. In some ways, it was like moving to a different world, instead of a different state. If I had listened to my friends back home, I never would have moved out here. People have an interesting (and very backwards) perception of North Dakota!

less winter. I thought I was prepared for winter living near Lake Erie, but I was wrong! Did you even know the weather could get forty below? Its weird, when it’s above thirty I’m thinking,

wearing a coat, and had flip flops on without socks. I barely opened the door and thought I was frozen in place! Someone should warn a person about stuff like that! Back home,

wow, sure is warm today. I used to think thirty degrees was cold! Did you know it only takes about two seconds before it feels like your nose is frozen solid in negative forty degree weather? And that wet hair freezes even faster? Yeah, I found that out the hard way one morning. The temperature is deceiving out here. It’s bright and beautiful out, and I went to start my truck before school one morning. I still had wet hair, and wasn’t

classes would have been canceled if it was even remotely below zero, but not here… I guess they can’t, or else, we’d never have class. It’s really windy here too. I thought about getting a kite, but I’m afraid I’d fly away! I’m thinking I should have brought my old skateboard out so I could retry that experiment of using a garbage bag as a sail to get around. I could probably get a couple miles for sure… except, I’d have to hope the wind changed

Dear Mom and Dad, Moving out to North Dakota has been quite the learning experience. Things sure are a lot different out here than back home in Michigan. I’m starting to figure a lot of stuff out now though. Those crazy co-workers of mine back in Michigan were wrong! They really do have running water out there, and I didn’t have to trade my truck in for a horse and buggy. And contrary to their popular belief, population really is based on people, not the deer or pheasants! Also, I haven’t seen any telephone poles painted in different stripes to tell me how deep the snow is. I think they were just trying to scare me into staying. The seasons seem to be a little different out here than back home. I think I have them figured out though… almost winter, winter, severe winter, and

Easy It’s so easy to forget You’re just another guy When all I’m thinking about Is how my hair smells like you After I lay against your chest And remembering exactly The shape of your lips The color of your eyes The way your cheeks bend into a smile So how about this… I’ll keep staring. You take advantage. -Lydia

Johnson

2006

direction so I could get back home the same way. For the record, sand smacking you in the face at 45 miles per hour hurts quite a bit. I really could have done without finding that out in my lifetime, but I did. When I first got here, I thought they had a big problem with people stealing stop signs. Turns out, they never put any up at some corners! And you thought 4-way stops were bad! There are also these giant divots in the road in places. You can really get air-born if you drive over them fast enough. …umm… no, that’s not how I broke the ball joint in my truck… uhh…forget I mentioned that. I’ve made a lot of great friends out here. They come from Montana and else where in North Dakota mostly. They have some great ideas for fun. One of them wrote about some fun games to play in a great publication last year. She told about this great sounding game called ‘Dodge Bull’ that sounds like something my cousins and I would have loved to play when we were younger. I don’t think we would have the speed or stamina needed to play in these days. Well, I need to get back to homework, and studying. Love ya lots. PS…send money, and really warm clothes!! —me

Untitled Carmen Maxwell

Impressions

Human Form Alicia Haich I saw him as soon as I walked into the KC Hall’s kitchen. Just like every year for this breakfast, he was solely in charge of cooking the sausage patties. Intently monitoring their cooking and when to put in another tray, he didn’t notice me—but then why should he have? I was assigned my personal post of washing dishes—no dishwasher in this KC except by human hands alone. Having done this every year, I quickly fell in to my dish-routine, and proceeded to watch people with my peripheral vision—this year I watched him. Mathew Brownson [real name changed]. He looked older than he had last year and my heart lurched (I think he was somewhere in his late forties to early fifties). He had less hair on his head than I remembered seeing him with and we walked slower than he had before, more cautiously. In spite of walking slower though, Mr. Brownson did his cooking the same as he had last year—and the year before that. I’d never seen a person more intent on a duty than Mr. Brownson was on whichever task he was appointed. This is where one of his many virtues came into focus for me. Even though he was

intent on the job he had (no matter what job it was) he never ignored people. If any person came up to him and talked, he’d smile in his own particular way and then turn to give them his full attention. It didn’t matter who they were or how they knew him; he’d honestly smile and talk directly to them. That’s the kind of man he was though, and what I observed that particular morning. This was a yearly event in our town and for our church. It was a breakfast that the KC Hall held every year in an effort to raise money for our church and also for the KC. The normal array of things was: scrambled eggs, orange juice, coffee, the sausage patties, and our KC’s famous farmer’s hats (fried dough) with chokecherry jelly. Besides the farmer’s hats, the other draw to this annual event was the raffle at the end of it, which awarded some pretty good prizes. Since this was an annual benefit for our church, most members of our parish were either helping in the kitchen, pouring drinks, refilling coffees, taking tickets, or assigned the dreaded cleaning-up afterwards. My parents deemed this an all-important even and we children were forced to help at the breakfast every year since we were old enough

to be taken out of the house (toddlers were not excluded from this). So, in light of that, we didn’t care for the breakfast at all and rather dreaded it’s upcoming. The fact that I utterly loathed this breakfast, only made me more curious about the people who seemed to not only enjoy helping at it, but who actually seemed to delight in it. Mr. Brownson was my study this year. He was a devoted, but often absent member of our church, who helped at this event every year and at other church events. From the beginning of the breakfast work (around six in the morning) until after cleanup was finished (about two in the afternoon), Mr. Brownson was there. I don’t know any facts about Mr. Brownson; only things I’d heard from my parents or from other parishioners. I suppose people can’t know absolute facts about any one person, but I was devoid of any of the knowledge I longed for. I don’t particularly know why Mr. Brownson so intrigued me this particular year, but there was something about him that wrung my heart out every time I saw him. I can’t explain it—I’ll probably never be able to fully understand it either—but part of my subconscious (I’ll blame it on that) wanted to know who he was and what

Bodies

his life was like. The things I’ve heard about him aren’t to be taken as solely factual—as I’ve said before, it’s merely from other sources that I’ve heard any parts of his story. What I do know about him makes me even more sympathetic. I know he lives on a farm outside of our town [excluding the name] and that he lives there basically alone. His wife has a job in some other state, so they only see each other once a month or so. His children—I don’t even know how many there are—are

married and scattered wherever. In my lifetime of “knowing” Mr. Brownson, I’ve only seen his children once of twice and his wife less than that. As I proceeded to wash whichever dish came my way, I listened to Mr. Brownson talk to people and watched them interact. I was like a scientist observing my subjects, but I didn’t care. If I wasn’t put into some awkward situation where I had to explain my actions, I was going to study Mr. Brownson—and maybe give my curiosity something to

chew on for the next year. He was a quiet man, his voice never really raised above a hearing whisper, and he seemed to listen more than talk to the people around him. What really struck me about him though was that he seemed to actually care about what the other person was saying. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that. I’d never known—or observed—someone who was honestly interested in the person they were listening to, but Mr. Brownson was. He asked questions, he listened, and

2006

Betsy Sandstrom

Impressions

all while giving that person sole attention rights. Sure, he never forgot his task of cooking the sausages, but he never rushed. From what I gleaned of the conversations throughout that morning, I knew some more little “facts” about Mr. Brownson. Since his wife was in another state most of the time, he lived on his farm alone. In spite of that though, he continued to milk cows—not even a small amount of them, mind you—and to run the entire farm. He woke up at four in the morning everyday (if not earlier), to milk the cows and work on things. I’m not sure if he had any other job, but the farm, obviously, took up a significant amount of his time. In addition to that, he visited his mother in her nursing home—I think—everyday. I felt a mixture of pity and admiration for him— ambivalent, yes, but we humans cannot feel solely one emotion at a time (at least I can’t). I could just picture him walking slowly to his barn, in the dark of the morning, and all alone. Milking his cows alone, eating alone, always…alone. Maybe my view of him was distorted because I didn’t know all the facts, but I kept my vision of him—for ill or good. In spite of my desire to know more about Mr. Brownson, I’d never talked to him. In his polite way that morning, he asked me about school and what I was taking up at college. I answered mechanically. What else could I have

done? I’d never really known Mr. Brownson on any friendly basis. He and my father spoke on various occasions, but couldn’t really know him—I’m not sure why. Maybe I was intrigued by his nature, his gentle nature in the face of—what I thought was—a difficult life, and that intrigue drove me to try to learn from him. There was a barrier between us though— invisible, but I knew it was there. This is the barrier (I believe anyway) that people aren’t allowed to cross when it comes to knowing others. It’s as though we humans are set up to know certain individuals in our lives, and the rest are simply off limits. They go their way, we go ours, and a person never, ever, crosses that line. Although I wanted to know more about Mr. Brownson, there was no feasible way I could have; he was in the section of

people going the other way and we just happened by each other on particular occasions. Cowardly of me? Probably. When the breakfast was over and cleanup was finished, all of us parishioners began to disperse. I grabbed my coat and walked towards the exit, but looked over my should to take a mental picture of Mr. Brownson. He was talking to another parishioner, his sole attention on that person, with his old coat on and a bag of leftovers the women of the parish had forced on him. I turned and left; never crossing the barrier, but gaining a few more shreds of a figure I couldn’t understand.

You Were… You were, in my dreams last night, the way I think you could be on the inside. Your smile was bright and barely able to contain the laughter bubbling behind it. Your eyes were tunnels leading straight to the honesty you’ve practiced hiding. Your arms fit just perfectly around me, spreading the warmth and life you possess. Your kiss was soft like I thought it must be. And all of you smelled of vanilla.

-Lydia Johnson 34

Jefferson & Marx Government is a primary theme in both Thomas Jefferson’s “The Declaration of Independence” and Karl Marx’s “The Communist Manifesto.” However, the type of government that each man speaks of is drastically different from the other. Jefferson supports the creation of a purely democratic nation, whereas Marx is in favor of a communistic society. This point is quite noticeable and a major difference, but there are similarities between each man’s point of view that are worth mentioning. Jefferson and Marx each believe revolution is a necessary step when attempting to free people from an oppressive ruler. Whether it is the King of England or a higher societal class, Jefferson and Marx agree that the oppressed must revolt when all else has failed. While the major difference between “The Declaration of Independence” and “The Communist Manifesto” is obvious, I will attempt to magnify the similarities in order to compare these two seemingly unlike works. “The Declaration of Independence” was written in order to inform King George III that the 13 colonies in America were declaring themselves independent from England. In the document, Jefferson lists numerous grievances that people of the colonies have against the king. The colonies had become tired of allowing the king to abuse his power as their ruler. Jefferson says, “But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their

future security” (78-79.2). Jefferson is saying that people can tolerate abuse and neglect for only a limited amount of time. After that, something must be done to protect the people from their abuser. In this case, when Jefferson mentions throwing off the government of England, he is arguing that the colonies must revolt against

Tree Faucet Vicky Gullickson

the tyrant King George III in order to ensure their freedom. Marx holds a similar view on the necessity of a revolution in relation to Jefferson. In “The Communist Manifesto,” the bourgeois are the social class of a society just below the royalty and the nobility. They have the most money, the most possessions, and the most power compared to everyone except the royalty and the

nobility. Because of their position in society, the bourgeois are superior to and have extensive control over the proletarians, or working class people, of society. According to Marx, “Not only are they [the proletarians] the slaves of the bourgeois class and of the bourgeois state, they are daily and hourly enslaved by the machine, by the over looker, and, above all, by the individual bourgeois manufacturer himself.” (369.38). The proletarians are not literally slaves, but the power that the bourgeois are able to extend over them through government, politics, and various occupations makes the situation appear extremely one-sided, much like situations that involve slavery. The proletarians are extremely similar to the minimum wage workers in today’s society. They work harder than most people just to make ends meet, but their lives are influenced so much by people of higher stature that they have little hope of ever improving their position in society. Just as Marx encouraged the proletariat class to rebel, today’s lower class may soon realize that it would be in its best interest to fight back against the prejudices and stereotypes that it faces in society today. The proletariat class is still present today in many respects. Now, the fact that the bourgeoisie has more power than the proletariat is not necessarily wrong or unjust. It is the way in which the bourgeoisie utilize that power that is unfair to the proletariat. The bourgeoisie only act in ways that benefit their class. Since the proletariat has no power and the bourgeoisie refuses to include lower classes in decisions that affect society, the proletariat is forced to rebel. Marx

2006

Ryan Bogner

Impressions

says, “In depicting the most general phases of the development of the proletariat, we traced the more or less veiled civil wary, raging within existing society, up to the point where that war breaks out into open revolution, and where the violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie lays the foundations for the sway of the proletariat” (366.57). Marx comes to the same conclusion as Jefferson: a revolution must occur in order to establish freedom. In both cases, the oppressed population is encouraged to overthrow its current government in favor of one that better suits its needs. Another strong point made by Marx is the fact that proletarians are in the majority. According to Marx, “All previous historical movements were movements of minorities, or in the interest of minorities. The proletarian movement is the selfconscious, independent movement of the immense majority” (366.55). His point is that most revolutions are caused by a group that is the minority. The proletarians are in the majority, and yet the bourgeois are still able to control them and discriminate against them. Both of these factors are more than enough reason to rebel, so Marx is simply saying that the proletarians have no reason to allow the bourgeois to remain in power. Marx’s comment about minorities relates to Jefferson and the colonies, for they are an example of a group that revolted while they were in the minority. The fact that Jefferson and the colonies were still willing to declare their independence, even thought they were severely outnumbered by the British and had little chance of winning, shows how strongly they felt about obtaining their rights and freedom. Jefferson says, “That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute a new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and

Cigarette “Look Philly,” he said “Just put the cigarette between your teeth and bite down, like this.” I always bit too hard or broke my smoke ashin’ too much too fast as if to ash was just a nervous twitchin’ so I always chewed it wet or broke it I guess I wasn’t meant to smoke--

-Kristopher Smotherman

organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safely and Happiness” (78.2). In other words, people should be allowed to be governed how they see fit. A ruler 3,000 miles away is not suited to control a group of people, especially when that group feels it has been treated unfairly. Marx and Jefferson each feel so strongly about creating and establishing equality that they encourage people to disregard any obstacle that may prevent them from doing so. Whether those obstacles involve money or being outnumbered, both men agree that something drastic must be cone in order to ensure that equality is obtained. Thomas Jefferson’s “The Declaration of Independence” and Karl Marx’s “The Communist Manifesto” appear to describe two completely different situations involving two completely different forms of government. The relationship appears that way, but similarities can be found that relate the two works in a very sensible and realistic manner. The key is

to understand that both Jefferson and Marx feel that a group being unjustly oppressed has every right to rebel against its oppressive ruler, no matter what the circumstances. Being in the minority or having fewer possessions should have no affect on people’s actions when it comes to compromising their human rights. When people hear the words “democracy” and “communism” in the same sentence, they immediately assume that the topic involves two ideas that only contrast one another. Even though communism and democracy utilize opposing methods, people forget that the journey toward establishing these two different forms of government could have involved similar experiences and circumstances. “The Declaration of Independence” and “The Communist Manifesto” show how opposites can be derived from the pursuit of a common goal. In this case, that goal is the establishment and preservation of freedom and equality.

Untitled Jessica Magnuson

Rivers He says, “Lives are like rivers they go Where they must.” I answer, “They must pick their speed and which Fork to trust.”

-Ty Salsbery

Snow falls from the sky above and is the color of a pur dove It gently strikes the cold ground doing so without making a sound The air cools and icicles form always a sign of an oncoming storm Snow falls for a reason it is a sign of a chang in the season Animals desperately search for places to hide and most people find comfort inside Snow will change when it melts or freezes but it’s often blown around by stiff winds and cool breezes As soon as you see the first snowflake descend it would be safe to say that fall has come to and end

-Ryan Bogner

2006

A Change in Season

Benchwarmer

Impressions

Melissa Maenle

The Incredibly True Story of an Overactive Imagination Cole Weisz The other day I was sitting around my house, and was all like, “I could sure use some root beer and canned oysters right now.” So do you know what I did? I started going to the store. Now, the store isn’t very far away from my house, but this trip to the store really sucked. I had barely walked half a block from my house and all of the sudden, NASCAR racers started to try to run me over. I don’t know what their deal was, but I was all like, “Hey goddamn it! Watch where you’re driving!” and I gave them the finger really hard. They didn’t like that at all, and so they tried even harder than before to run me over. But what those crazy NASCAR

drivers didn’t count on was my kangaroo-like ability to jump really high. I jumped over three cars all at the same time in slow motion and when I landed on the ground, they all crashed and blew up behind me, like Dale Earnhardt, and it looked really awesome. I didn’t even turn around to look at all the stuff blowing up cause I’m really cool. So after that, I kept walking to the store. I went across a street, and when I was almost to the other side, I heard a whistling in the air. I paused and looked down the street, and sure enough, my cowboy hat wearing rival, Dirty Bob, was staring at me with anger. I was getting pissed. All I wanted to do

was get to the store and I kept getting held up. I stared at Dirty Bob and he stared at me. The sun was hot and Dirty Bob was sweating and he looked uncomfortable. That’s probably because Dirty Bob was morbidly obese, and I’ll bet the walk to the middle of the street exhausted him. I was sitting there, looking all cool and stuff, and not worried about anything at all. Suddenly the clock struck noon, and Dirty Bob pulled his guns out and took a shot at me. He missed like an incompetent fat bastard, and I started laughing like a big psycho and pulled out my bazooka and shot it at Dirty Bob. There was fat Dirty Bob all over the place! I feel bad for the guy who has to clean that shit up, but since it is not me,

My Real Feeling The beautiful landscape A pair of mandarin ducks are floating on lake. Ask you silently Do you like my cake? No matter how delicious the cakes are you are the one and only person in my heart I hope wherever we go we can live together forever

-Rifang Ji

beer and canned oysters. Zeus makes a face after I say that, so I now want to know what’s up. Zeus is like, “Well, I have some nectar and ambrosia I’ll share with you.” I don’t like nectar and ambrosia, and Zeus knows it, so I tell him where he can stick it cause I want some root beer and oysters. Zeus acts offended and he says that nectar and ambrosia is the food of the gods. I’ve had enough, I look Zeus dead in the eye and I say, “Well, I am a god, and you can go to hell.” Zeus didn’t like that at all. He got really big, so he was like ten feet tall and he gained about 500 pounds of big manly muscle and his skin turned all red and his eyes got all yellow and his voice dropped so low I thought maybe he went through puberty again, and he’s all like, “You dare commit blasphemy in front of Zeus?” See, if this happened to YOU, you would get all

scared like a big baby and you would shake so hard that you would poop your pants. Not me, I’m 100%, pure tough guy, I’m not some kind of 75% generic brand of tough guy, I’m the real thing. I’m so tough that people call me H.R. Tuffenstuff. So I did what any guy who is all tough would do. I socked Zeus in the jaw really hard and he went crying back to Mt. Olympus, like a baby. Then I went in the store to get my root beer and oysters. They only cost $1.54, and they were really good. Gold isn’t as good of a treasure as root beer and oysters are. The moral of the story is, I’m tough, so stay out of my way when I’m hungry. So yep, the end.

2006

I don’t feel that bad. I only had one more block to go and I would be at the store, but that’s when the sky got all cloudy and there was lightning and thunder and it was really loud and melodramatic and stuff, and I’m just sitting there just wishing I could go to the store. Of course, when it gets all cloudy and stuff gets melodramatic, YOU can do whatever you want. Not me, when I’m just hanging out and all that stuff happens, it means Zeus is coming and he’s always a pain in the ass. So Zeus just suddenly appears, and thunder cracks, and he’s all white like lightning and shit, and it hurts my eyes, so I’m really getting pissed. The thunder becomes silent and Zeus isn’t bright like lightning anymore, he just kind of shines like a 40 watt light bulb. Zeus is done showing off and now he wants to brag. He’s all like, “How did you like my entrance?” and I’m all like, “It was kind of gay,” and he’s all like, “You’re kind of gay,” and I’m all like, “Good one, Zeus, I’ll cry about that later, after you’re done.” Zeus doesn’t like it when I make fun of him, so he changed the subject. “Where are you going?” Zeus asks. I’m still trying to get to the store, so I tell him so. Zeus wants to know what I’m getting at the store. I tell him I’m going to get some root

Impressions

Retrospective

Past Love

Tony Kessel Kessel Tony

Rifang Ji

As he leafs through the blank pages of her diary, he gets a different perspective of the woman he loves. Did she run out of decent thoughts? Or did she run out of time to write them down? Life changes so much and so dramatically that sometimes, sometimes you are bitterly forced to change with it. There was a time she wrote in it daily. Nothing really interesting, just facts in time scrawled on paper in dull history. Somewhere near the end she met him. She wrote about how fantastic he was. She wrote of how, maybe one day, he would give her the time of day. Possibly he would feel for her, too. Then it happened, they were no longer thoughts on paper. They were reality and as the days passed so did the number of blank pages. He made her individual, her persona, to disappear. The two of them became one. The pages of his journal also went blank. He never stopped planning, but for the first time in his life, he let nature its course. Another grief came; it’s extremely heartrending. She can’t forget, when

she off duty, she just thought about one man. The sadness seemed to swallow her and no one responded her, when she shouted to need help. Why have they fallen in love for a long time? Or actually, why has she loved him for a long time? It’s so long time that she had a lot of memories about the happy time which they passed together. But the past happy time was bitter. He was real bad man, he cheated her at end. Every second in memory was untrue; she regretted that she lost the way when she fell in love and haven’t protected herself. Why did she love him so deeply? Why? She always did self-accusation. She always followed him and treated him as angel. She spent a lot for him, even her happiness and hope. Indeed, she always dreamed that how to treat him better after their wedding. That’s her true feelings in these years, but they were flimsy and useless. How can she trust that he has loved her before? He hurt her heart so deeply, how can she believe that he left her was unavoidable? Was it true? He can’t help doing that, it’s involuntary. She considered it’s ridiculous. She also had unbearable pressure and temptation, but she hasn’t changed. Why did she have the Attic faith? Because she believed that she should have the graceful first love. She considered that fall in love only one time was enough in her life. She felt that she found her true love, but the result

was unbelievable. She wanted to ask him that did you love her truly. Or even a little? She told herself several times, can’t forgive him and forget him. But she can’t, it’s a long time love after all. She had many nice things which can be memorized. Actually, she wanted to save this love, but it’s hopeless. Sometimes, the pain hurt her unconsciously. She wanted to forget past things and needed new life, but she can’t. She was common girl, and the problem was she has loved him deeply before. It’s self-inflicted, she thought. She was lovelorn and the pain still hurt her when she lost her hopeful love. It’s not still stop now. Don’t immerse in the pain, and dream the nice future, please. Love is a two-edged knife; it hurt her and hurt the other too. She can understand and suffered the pain, but the boy can’t. He was happy in his new love. She has already suffered more, please stopped it. It’s

A Moment in Time Melissa Maenle

already happen, she should be more and more mature. She will think about love again, and learn more from the lost first love. Good luck.

Untitled Alison Hafele

The Swimming Class Ricky decided to teach Cheryl to swim. He began to teach in his house’s swimming pool. “Come on, relax. Pretend to die and try to float in the water like a dead body!” he taught. She did what he said, faced the bottom and put her whole body in the water. She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t close her ears. She heard the sound of the water, very quiet. “Open your eyes,” he said. She opened her eyes and saw the blue water and the blue bottom of the pool. Cheryl had never tried to open her eyes in the water before, and she found it was fantastic. Ricky swam

toward her. She saw his body, the ripple as he arose and his shadow in the water. He smiled to her and his hair spread like a sea plant. Cheryl floated with the water and enjoyed the quietness of death. There was a time when she tried to think about how she died, but it didn’t matter; she had already died. She liked the quietness of death. She didn’t want to make her mind wander and break the silence. When she couldn’t hold her breath any longer, she raised her head, but she couldn’t stand on the bottom. Ricky came to help her stand

steadily. “See, swimming is not horrible! Water wouldn’t drown you. Whether you are alive or dead, struggling or not, water is still water!” he told her, smiling. He taught her how to swim, and some other things. But he didn’t know that he also taught her another very important thing—he taught her to pretend to die. From then on, every time Cheryl swims, she pretends to die for a while. And then she gets the quietness that could not be understood by her age.

2006

Yun Xue

Impressions

The Englishmen Who Go Up A Mountain And Come Down A Hill Sudeep Simkhada “It’s transcendental. Just look at the rainbow! This is quite an experience, eh Steve? Bruce was getting worked up on hashish and was rather enjoying the late afternoon sun. It had just stopped raining and a rainbow had formed in the east. I was lying on an armchair and enjoying my pipe because hashish didn’t agree with me and I was missing England. “Quite an experience indeed, Bruce,” I said. The local food had not been agreeing with me and to make matters worse, I had just lost my passport and a considerable sum of money. The confounding language was getting to my head, and the damning hot weather was driving me crazy. I was missing the good old misty, dreary, bleak England. “Let’s go on a trek up the north mountain tomorrow, eh Steve? What do you say?” Bruce was calling the shots. I was sure to follow. I find it rather tedious to argue with Bruce. You see, Bruce is one of those remarkable fellows with whom you’d rather agree when you want to disagree and disagree when you want to agree. “It would be great Steve, come on,” he said. He was charmingly unaware of my condition. You see, the local food was really not agreeing with me at all. I had grown paler, thinner and a trifle irritated at the whole situation. I had not planned to be in Katmandu when I left London for India. The mission was to travel to New Delhi, participate in the

conference and return in good time for the cricket season. Unfortunately, Bruce Dickinson caught up with me in New Delhi. That was the last place I expected to see my high school buddy. The next day I found myself, a burly gentleman from Sussex, huffing and puffing besides Bruce up a stretch of a hill that could pass for a mountain back home. As a matter of fact, the hill was higher than our old Ben. “Wow Steve! Look at the view. Phew! I never imagined such a beautiful country when they asked me to come here,” he

said. He was buoyant, almost floating. He was remarkably cheerful. Back in the days, I would have laughed to think of Bruce Dickinson as anything but a downtrodden, pessimistic, cynical, cowardly wreck of a man. Life is indeed full of surprises. But Bruce was prone to radical mood swings anyway. “Ah! Just smell the air, Steve, will you? It is so fresh, so supple!” he said. He indeed was getting worked up. He had brought some B-grade hashish for the trip. “I know,” I agreed. It was actually getting difficult to breathe; what with all the

Wishing Well You like this singing, it brings you happiness, The joy, this feeling. Be grateful, baby, for all that’s given, For all the wonders of the world. Be patient, happy, see to the meaning, All things are genial, they lead and steer, I mean you lead and steer, with all your passion, You have every right to have it now. Be happy, baby, no way to wonders, No way to worries, no way to giving up your ideals, Or set the doubts. Address me friendly and kiss me, dear. I love so much your gently touch. Be happy, baby, and live sincere, With all the confidence you take as much. Be open, baby, as all in nature, the nature’s perfect lies in that. You know you can be stronger, baby. What you define is not all you can. Do love sincere, raise with emotions, Don’t cry in vain, nor loose this touch, Be happy, baby, and shine like the sun, Yes, son, the life is so much fun.

-Ivan Mazala 42

a cynic of free goods, kept my distance. I drank from my canteen. As we trekked up the mountain, we came across a wonderful spot. From there, we could watch the horizon expand far across the land. The Katmandu valley was a bowl and we were standing on its rim. We could see mountains as far as the Langtang Range. I think I could even make out the dim outline of Everest. It was then that I realized how lucky I was to be traveling all the way to Nepal. It was a virgin land. It was a place with unparalleled natural beauty. Sure, it had its shortcomings; it was no England but it did have its own magic. Suddenly, the whole world made sense to me. Somehow I became aware that the earth is indeed round and is moving about its axis and around the sun. The view was enchanting. I grappled with the ephemeral and confronted the existential moment of choice. I think I was on my way to nirvana. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Untitled Tanya Saatzer

Bruce said, rather abruptly. He was sprightly, he was wonderful. But he just was exuding silliness; in fact, he was oozing with stupidity, foaming it all over his mouth. You see, Bruce is one of those remarkable fellows who just know how to get on people’s nerves without realizing they’re getting on somebody’s nerves. But I could do nothing but follow him. I could catch up with my nirvana later. Further up the mountain, we came across the source of the stream. It was a wide pool surrounded by a thicket. There were some rhododendrons blooming nearby. “Look at them flowers! If I were a writer like you, Steve, I would build myself a small, cozy hut right here at this spot and never leave,” the romantic poet firmly stated. The place was indeed gorgeous and the view was magnificent. “I don’t think so, Bruce,” I said. I couldn’t agree with him anymore. But that was exactly when I saw what I shouldn’t have seen. My jaws dropped and I looked at Bruce, helplessly. I felt immensely sorry for him and wished he wouldn’t notice. But he saw it too. He tightened his brows and scowled. “Stupid country with a bunch of ignorant, stupid, uncivilized, naked animals…what a stinking place to be stuck at…wait till I get hold of them and tell them what Nepal is really like,” he kept muttering under his breath on our trip back to the hotel. You see, a couple of boys were relieving themselves by a side of the pool.

2006

exercise I was getting and the thin air that accompanies altitudinal gains. “Look at the beautiful landscape,” Bruce kept on, “this is such a beautiful country. No wonder it was the Beatniks’ paradise. Shangri-La indeed!” “No doubt about it Bruce,” I said, meekly. As the day moved along, we came across a stream. It was a common thing, actually not even worthy of attention had it not been for the fact that I was sweating and the shade nearby was cool and refreshing. But Bruce was incorrigible. “The water is pure, divine, I tell you. This stream forms the holy Bagmati river, you know that, Steve? The sanctity, the cool ripple, the rich taste!” He went on. I had never known that our good old Bruce had a poet in him. I wanted to laugh but I contented myself with a sly grin. I just nodded my head, grinning from ear to ear. “Yes, Bruce. I agree, Bruce,” I said. He drank from the stream, mouthfuls at a time. I, always

Impressions

T&A Shaleesha Ferrari It’s February and my tits hurt. I am thinking how a year ago, I heard someone tell the mother of a crying baby “She needs a titty” and it shocked me. Like I’m a prude or something. A year ago, when I was living in a shelter for battered women and homeless women, “herrawnn” addicts and prostitutes, all of whom were so desperate to change their lives, they chose to live there. It was quite the place. Run by fundamentalist Christians with bleached hair and fake nails, who drove Jaguars and lived many miles away in a gated neighborhood. Not all, not really, just Miss Pam, the leader, and her husband, a preacher whose sermons lasted a good two hours and contained more references to crack and hookers than the Lord Jesus Christ. He closed each one by exhorting the homeless men, seated in the middle and on the right side of the building, and the former hookers and crazy women, seated on the left, to ask everyone they saw in the coming week for a dollar. Then they could all bring their dollars to church the next Sunday or Wednesday or Saturday night and put them in the basket. The chapel, which we had to attend regularly, or risk being thrown to the pimps, was a plain whitesided building. Inside it was carpeted in scarlet, true Baptist style, an American flag on each side of the pulpit. Oddly enough, there was no cross. I only noticed when my newest acquaintance, a distinctively quiet and sober woman with oval, wire-frame glasses, pointed to this detail on a note we were passing back and forth. I still have it somewhere,

folded this way and that, tucked away, in my Bible most likely. On it were her acronyms for ALLAH and ISLAM, her question about the flags, some flowers her daughter drew. She and her two children were temporarily out of a home. Homeless women and their children could stay there for up to a month, long enough for the Family Independence Agency to get you set up. The shelter gives you a letter, and that way, you can prove you are actually

in need and get assistance faster. Sometimes it’s easier to get evicted, go to a shelter and get a letter than it is to get assistance while you still have a roof over your head. Whatever my new note-passing friend’s situation was, she kept it to herself, which led me to believe it was something more than mere financial difficulty. Very little about that experience was funny, except for the fact I was there. I wasn’t homeless, really. I had recently

Paris I met a girl whose lips will hold a kiss for hours at a time as the red petals of a rose will hold the dew that butterflies may drink a girl whose eyes bat bashful banter in silent symphonies that steal the soul and breath in one fell swoop she stands with an out-thrust-hip grace and a smile on her face that seems both innocent and mischievous hands on her hips, she stares at me and seems to say, “You’ve been bad and now you must pay.” She smiles And walks away and as I picture this, it is in my bed I lay utterly alone and wasted and my heart is very gray. -Kristopher

Smotherman

College Alliteration Bridges built, bridges burned Life lived, lessons learned Friendships failing, family fading Constant changing, constant confusion -Ty

Salsbery

was surprisingly difficult, almost more difficult than explaining why it was so difficult. At first I could only think of elements, like water and rock and oil and ink. Then I thought of turtles, a baby iguana, batik fabrics and stained purple hands. It was a “dream” home, I reminded myself, so I imagined someplace temperate and safe, with room to breathe and dance and sing and make noise. It existed nowhere, it could exist anywhere, even on Seneca street with a few modifications. I didn’t want to limit my “dream” by erecting walls, or doors or windows, but after a while, my house had a floor, and a window I looked out of. In my mind, it was all open and airy. It was unrealistic, I began to think of warmth and beds and blankets, sort of like I have now, where I sleep with my baby under a pile of fleece, where she nurses and when she is having trouble sleeping, she paws and scratches and tugs like a kitten. And I think about what I have to write, how much I need to do, and how badly my tits hurt. But they don’t hurt at this moment, she has been asleep for a whole twenty minutes, and I’m thinking it doesn’t matter. It is painfully temporary. As long as I keep her nails trimmed we’ll be all right. Another few months she will be drinking out of sippy cups and brushing her teeth. She is so beautiful, even thought she wakes up every twenty minutes,

or fifteen, or ten, and wants to nurse equally as long. I love looking at her little round face and smoothing her hair back, or wrapping it into a curl around my finger. Holding her restless little hands, and admiring her chubby, rubber band wrists, as they are reward for sore nipples. Needless to say, I didn’t last very long at the “Grace Center of Hope” – and even though I left behind a lot, I hope I brought some grace away with me. I think of the women, my “bunkies” in the corner, and wonder what became of them. During my short stay, I shared that corner with at least fifteen women, who came and left, and some who, I like to think, stayed. Maybe they are in homes on Seneca, going to aftercare, finishing their GED’s, going to beauty school or becoming social workers, writing their stories, living their dreams. So much I’ve left out. Like the schizophrenic homeless woman who lit the shower curtain on fire in the middle of the night, and how I shot like a rocket out of that building when I heard “Fire!” then stood outside in my bare feet like a moron with two or three other girls, while the old women stayed inside and put out the fire. Like Miss Diane, who was there in the bunk across from me when I first got there and she was still there when I left. I’d tell you how she liked to clean – said it made her feel good – and the way she always

2006

moved to the area and was staying with my cousin. My best friend lived nearby and she thought it might be a good idea for me. For one, they are really into Jesus, and it was evident that I didn’t have enough of Him. They also helped with legal issues, medical care and schooling. The best part was that when you complete the program, you get this option to buy a house from the shelter. They owned a whole street of them, Seneca street, and you could get special loans from the government, came and explained how it all worked, and the women who had been there for 9 months or longer got to fill out papers to apply for their houses. A couple weeks later another man, who really was from the government, came to inform all the poor women who had filled out the papers that their identities had been stolen. You had to live at Grace Centers of Hope for three months before you got to do anything, like say, go to the library or check your email. At the time, this was something I perceived as a good thing, as I was being stalked by my psychotic husband via yahoo and webmail. I was also pregnant, and every time I checked my mail my heart about went through my chest and my hands shook, panic attack sort of stuff. This was the primary reason to try this place out, maybe I could figure out why I kept hooking up with men who liked to beat the shit out of me. I was otherwise doing well. No heroin or prostitution problems at the time. In the meantime, there were “classes” at the center, a few I actually enjoyed, like Ms. Skii’s. She was this beautiful, tiny Englishwoman with a pile of fire red hair who liked to give writing assignments. One assignment that I remember was to describe our “dream house.” It

Impressions

shared her Newports with me, I didn’t even have to ask. She would see me smoking a rollie, or generics, and next thing I’d know, she would be handing me a pack. In truth, I prefer a hand rolled cigarette to a Newport, but she wouldn’t have it. I’d tell you about the time she almost bled to death in the bathtub because an artery in her leg burst. How terrified I was, crying and tearing my nightgown to tie around her leg. How it took three of us, me and the other pregnant girl, Amber, and Dana, holding her leg as tight as we could to stop the bleeding, while we waited for the paramedics to come and load her up. The way she smiled and waved at us from the glowing inside of the ambulance as we all watched them drive her away to the hospital. She was a good woman. If I was good, maybe I’d include the address and beg for a dollar so the people who were there didn’t have to. Maybe I’d still be there, smoking Newports outside the big brick building that was once a post office, dancing in the chapel during worship, passing notes during the sermon, and complaining about my aching ass when the preaching finally stopped.

As I See It The world is a box We refuse to open our selves up Instead of opening up to see We close ourselves to anything new Our hearts our minds are always closed Freedom we have, but respect we don’t I stand with my box have open My eyes slitted My heart peaking through I don’t know what you see But I see my world falling apart We now see each other by our exterior Totally ignore the interior Yes, some of us are like houses and need renovations Insecure I am not though human I am A pretty present is what we want Something torn and old just won’t do Even though its eyes have seen more than our things of new Growth scares us, simplicity is welcome Am I welcome in your box I think not, your ideas are closed Your envelope sealed with pain and non existence You wished for perfect but you got imperfection Now you hide in your so called perfect world Is our world perfect? Since when, has anything human made been perfect Our father made things imperfect for none of us are like him He is a king and we are his princesses and knights His table is welcoming while ours is closed Invite me in would you Oh I forgot you have no room for what you don’t understand My shoes are too worn for you My mind too full of the pains of the world Look me up when your heart matures When you can accept me for who I am A rose with thorns, but beauty all the same My heart bleeds for your misfortune

-Misty Rilley

The Struggle: Nepal The wind is slashing biting thrashing across the pavement and the window that was stuck wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t open again as the house remains all in flames and yet she is still weeping slipping over the snow-clad mountains and the door that was banged shut gives in to the storm while the piquant kerosene is still spilling wringing under the mud-baked oven and the willowy bamboo trees stoop helplessly bitterly swallowing their own tears.

-Sudeep Simkhada

Somethingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Missing I miss you so much Words cannot express What you meant to me My life is so bland When you are not here I wish you could Just be here with me Then my life would be So much more fun With you by my side

Carmen Maxwell

I would laugh more I wish I could see You just one more time Life is so unfair Death is so final

-Michelle Pederson

2006

Pottery Still Life

Impressions

Barn Betsy Sandstrom

America

Turkey Dinner

It is the background of America that makes America, America It is the mid-western October sky a North Dakota November when fall breathes colours into life when the leaves are on fire and falling like dry snow to cover the crisp grass

Tear it off, flesh from bone even though itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not natural anymore Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve evolved past having the teeth for it but we still kill to be fed Poultry dishes form families in the yard before they make it to your plate It seems chickens care more about life than a hungry human

When children run around in long-sleeve windbreakers at soccer games in stocking caps, at football games, when the hands become numb with cold but warmed by hot coffee or chocolate in plastic cups,

Does life feel right between your teeth?

- Tyler Schmalz

when women start filling out for the following season rightly plumping; just a hint of wealth and well-being, a broad vivaciousness, a womanliness coming out. And the air is fresh and clean and fall,

and middle-class fathers sit in warm Sunday living rooms after mass and drink cold beers watching football games with young lively sons and lively teen-age sons who appreciate this one bond with a father falling strange with the coming years

and move on,

It is the background of American malls and movie theaters and all-you-can-eats and free-refills that make my eyes moist

and we sell ice cream by the gallon and gas

and America is young loves and big families and Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas ham and Halloween costumes and candy

and we put up billboards and laws to wear seatbelts, while taking ours off to get road-head on a dark street or an old country highway,

But America is New York, sure. And America is L.A., sure. And America is Miami Beach, sure

And we can sit and say we don’t like the government or we don’t like the president but we live like kings and queens even if we Choose to live on the streets or on well-fare and the president doesn’t make America and the government doesn’t make America but the People make America

but to me, America is small town mid-west, middle-class morning workers, midnight mass, cotton candy, cattle drives, Christmas carols, color tv’s and large family gatherings it is sipping beer on Grampa’s lap at age five, and dropping into massive leaf piles with cousins and brothers and laughing loudly and a lot in private and in public

America is dreaming and doing and dreaming and doing; and dreams are free– so we cultivate them and nurture them, and cling to them feverishly, until one day we just forget and drop them like we never knew them,

-Kristopher

Smotherman

The Truest Poem Abstractions should be avoided in poetry. Language is an abstraction. Therefore: True poetry doesn’t use language.

-Mitchel Smith

2006

America is driving drunk through long stretches of flat city blocks, because we build out and not up in most places, and no public transport

And the people are the people of the people in my heart.

Impressions

Morality and Its Absence from Nature Ryan Bogner The controversial issue of whether or not morals apply to nature and its creatures is discussed in Stephen Jay Gould’s “Nonmoral Nature.” The problem arises from the actions of the ichneumons, a family of wasps that paralyzes its victims and causes prolonged suffering and torture. Theologians are town by these creatures because they don’t understand why God would create something that appears to be evil and violate His teachings. They attempt to answer their questions by applying the idea of human values and morals to nature in hopes of finding a solution. I have read “Nonmoral Nature: and feel that I have a strong understanding of this issue. I will argue that the actions of nature’s creatures should be considered nonmoral because human values and morals have no place in nature, animals do not have the ability to reason and only act on instinct, and animals have no reason to change something that ensures their survival. The actions of nature’s creatures cannot be viewed in human terms because morals have no place in nature. Theologians tend to anthromorphophize the ichneumons’ behavior. This cannot be done because the concept of morals (good and evil) is strictly a human

idea. According to Gould, “Our failure to discern the universal good we once expected does not record our lack of insight or ingenuity but merely demonstrates that nature contains nonmoral messages framed in human terms” (608.26). His point is clear; morals are not present in nature. For years, people have searched for an explanation as to why the ichneumons behave the way they do but have failed to find an answer. The reason they have failed is because the answer they are searching for does not exist. They are looking for an answer that could be explained in terms of morality. However, since morality does not apply to nature, they have yet to find a correct solution. Gould goes on to say, Morality is a subject for philosophers, theologians, students of the humanities, indeed for all thinking people. The answers will no be read passively from nature; they do not, and cannot arise from the data of science. The factual state of the world does not teach us how we, with our powers for good and evil, should alter or preserve it in the most ethical manner. (608.26) The concept of incorporating a human idea into a natural state should not, and cannot, be done. Theologians will never

understand the actions of the ichneumons unless they disregard the moral implications and accept the fact that ichneumons do not have an understanding of morality. The natural world was not created to be governed to morals, but theologians feel differently and continue to search for answers that cannot be found. Another point as to why nature is nonmoral is the fact that animals do not have the ability to reason and only act on instinct. Animals are not capable of reasoning, so why would people think they are capable of comprehending morality and its meaning? Gould says, “As I read through the nineteenthand twentieth- century literature on ichneumons, nothing amused me more than the tension between an intellectual knowledge that wasps should not be described in human terms and a literary or emotional inability to avoid the familiar categories of epic and narrative, pain and destruction, victim and vanquisher” (602.8). Clearly, the idea of relating animals’ actions to specific emotional feelings is an unjustified leap in reasoning. People must realize that animals do not have the same capabilities as humans. Animals are unusable to understand

Carmen Maxwell what actions are moral and what actions are immoral. Theologians even go as far as to relate the actions of the ichneumons to drawing and quartering, the ancient English penalty for treason. However, this comparison is also invalid. Their goal is not to seek out more and torture their prey before they kill them, as was the case with the ancient English executioners. Animals are neither capable of reasoning nor trying to think of a way to kill another animal in the cruelest way possible. They don’t kill for pleasure or because they’re evil; they kill to live. Animal behavior is based solely on instinct and the drive to survive and reproduce in a harsh

environment. Morality does not apply to the instinctbased actions of animals, and thus, it has no place in nature. The final point relating to nonmoral nature is the fact that the ichneumons have no reason to change when their present actions ensure this survival. According to Gould, Since ichneumons are a detail, and since natural selection is a law regulation details, the answer to the ancient dilemma of why such cruelty (in our terms) exists in nature can only be that there isn’t any answer – and that the framing of the question ‘in our terms’ is thoroughly inappropriate in a natural world neither made for us nor ruled by

2006

Furry and Fuzzy Rascals of ND

us. It just plain happens. It is a strategy that works for ichneumons and that natural selection has programmed into their behavioral repertoire. (609.28). Natural selection has given the ichneumons a way to successfully survive in the world. They found something that works, and they utilize the abilities they were given. There is nothing evil with the way in which they have adapted to survive. Gould also says, “Caterpillars are not suffering to teach us something; they have simply been outmaneuvered, for now, in the evolutionary game. Perhaps they will evolve a set of adequate defenses sometime in the future, thus sealing the fate of the ichneumons” (609.28). Nature is all about survival. If thee caterpillars can adapt, they can survive. If that should happen, their actions will be based strictly on survival, not morality. The theologians’ belief that the ichneumons’ actions are evil is also disproved by the fact that there are so many kinds of asps that kill in the same brutal manner. According to Gould, “In addition, many related wasps of similar habits were often cited for the same grisly details. Thus the famous story did not merely implicate a single aberrant species (perhaps a perverse leakage from Satan’s realm), but perhaps hundreds of thousands of them – a large chuck of what could only be God’s creation” (601.4). When discussing this issue,

Impressions

there is no question that God created the world. However, that means He also created all the different kinds of wasps. It makes no sense that He would create so many animals that act in such a way that they disregard His teachings. The theologians’ argument would be stronger if only one kind of wasp was the issue, but the large numbers indicate that this is not coincidence. God would neither willingly nor knowingly create such a large number of animals that are evil. The ichneumons have simply adapted in such a way that they must prolong the death of their victims in order to ensure that their offspring survive. God had no intention of creating a nature that was based on morals. It He did, then He would have created a moral nature that never violated the human moral code. The issue presented in Stephen Jay Gould’s “Nonmoral Nature” is one that can be explained by the fact that morality is a human concept and does not belong in nature. Animals lack the ability to reason, so it is illogical to assume that they can understand the concept of morality. It is even more illogical to assume that they choose to act immorally. All animals, including the ichneumons, behave in such a way so they are able to ensure their survival and reproduce. They are driven by instinct and an innate desire to continue the survival of their species. These points prove that animals and

nature are neither aware of nor influenced by morals. Until people understand that morals are strictly a human value, the belief that animals abide by them will continue. During his life, Charles Darwin realized how strongly each side felt about this issue. He also realized that a clear resolution was unlikely, so he did his best to lay the issue to rest. Darwin says, “I fell most deeply that the whole subject is too profound for the human intellect. A dog might as well speculate on the mind of Newton. Let each man hope and believe what he can” (610.29). Darwin’s frustrations are sill evident today. Theologians continue to insist on the existence of a moral nature despite numerous explanations and evidence that show how nature is, and always will be, nonmoral. Gould, Stephen Jay. “Nonmoral Nature.” A World of Ideas. Ed. Lee A. Jacobus. Boston: Bedford/ St. Martin’s, 2006. 600-10.

Mama Rabbit Don’t play with your carrot just eat your food Don’t play with your carrot you’ll get it dirty ——said Mama Rabbit He broke his carrot in a cabbage patch and now he knew his fate forever But Mother couldn’t know No one could. He ate in silence, ignoring the pain

-Kristopher Smotherman

Untitled my spirit floats while my body walks the wind flows through my soul the smell of the winter, cold in my nose reac0hing tranquility I glace at you and smile my spirit floats while my body walks.

-Meghan Bartz

Crossing Over When I was fourteen, I was extremely excited to go on Christmas vacation. My parents told my sevenyear-old sister and me that we were going to California for vacation. We planned to spend time in Disney Land, Universal Studios, and Sea World. In addition, we were going to spend a couple of hours in Tijuana, Mexico. I grew up in a small town with a population on 19,000 people. I had never been in a city with more than two lanes of traffic going one way. I had never been to a place where it was acceptable to drive 20 miles over the speed limit just because that was the current flow of traffic. I had never been to another country. Nonetheless, I was thrilled to discover new places and speak Spanish, using the skills I had acquired in the previous year. The California adventures came and went as fast as the freeway traffic. When my mother announced that the afternoon was set aside to go to Tijuana, I was ecstatic. This was my chance to experience life outside of the United States. No more crowds that lined up for a mile to experience a oneminute adrenaline rush. No more rubber-tasting hot dogs that sold for $6.00 a piece. Tijuana was going to be relaxing.

As we walked our first 50 feet on Mexican territory, I noticed several street vendors. The combination of vendors and tourists created nonstop chatter. It sounded like a dozen Guinea hens bickering among themselves. The vendors were not selling expensive jewelry or ancient artifacts. They were selling cheap bears, like the ones given away during Mardi Gras every year. “Come see beads. Look nice with shirt, young woman. Won’t you come see my collection?” The vendor received nothing but a blank stare from me. With that cue, he moved on to the next wanderer. “Beautiful one-of-a-kind jewelry. All colors and shapes. Come and see, ma’am.” The woman behind us took the man’s invitation to view some of his jewelry. As a result, it took the woman three times longer to get through that row of vendors. The vendors figured that she was either interested in buying some beads or too polite to reject their offer. The net realization I had was terrifying to me; a cold sore had made its presence on my face. Now our mission was to search of r a Mexican pharmacy in hopes of finding a familiar medication. As we walked into the pharmacy, the man working was not as aggressive as the street

vendors. He was a thing, tall man in his 40’s, with a bushy moustache. “Good afternoon,” he greeted us. “How may I help you?” “Do you have any medicine to treat cold sores?” my father asked. The man was very knowledgeable. He pointed to a few different topical medications and asked if we would prefer one over the other. We didn’t recognize any of the medications; we blindly chose the one in the smaller tube. “Umm. . . this one would be fine,” my father said. The total price was surprisingly cheap; it cost us $3.56. A comparably sized tube of medication would have probably cost $25.00 in the United States. We happily paid the pharmacist $4.00 and expected to receiver $0.44 in change. Once again, we were surprised; we received $1.00 back in change. Even though it was obvious we were tourists, the man treated us just like he would’ve treated a local family. With a sense of satisfaction, we proceeded to explore more of Tijuana. As we trudged down the overpopulated streets of Tijuana, we saw dozens of small children begging from people. We considered ourselves lucky that the beggars had not asked us for any money or food. However, our luck quickly

2006

Becky Herauf

Impressions

ran short. One small, fragile boy with bony fingers approached us. The stench of urine, which covered the boy’s body, made me nauseous. He was wearing a thing, nearly see-through shirt, with some kind of car logo printed across it. It looked like his clothes hadn’t been washed in weeks. The dirk under his fingernails was oozing out the sides. Not ashamed of his appearance, the boy approached us with his hands extended, “Money, money, money. Sir, money? Money please.” Because most of the vendors spoke English, I was anxiously waiting to use some of my primitive Spanish. As a result, I welcomed this interaction. As instantaneous as a lightening blot strikes, adrenaline consumed my entire body. Without regard to the boy’s feelings, I turned and shouted to him, “No tenemos dinero!” In English, the phrase means, “We don’t have any money.” I was shocked that the words came out so clear and without hesitation. When I looked at my family, their expressions proved that they were equally shocked. Not one person in my family had the words to react to the episode. My parents had a trace of confusion in their eyes because they had no idea what I had just said to the needy boy. However, the person who was the most severely shocked was the small boy. They boy took one last glimpse at us and quickly retreated to a more receptive crowd. My bluntness bothered me for

a few minutes, but I chose not to dwell on it because I wanted to have fun on our vacation. My seven-year-old sister, Brandi, was clearly affected by the begging scene. A sense of fear, combined with confusion and apprehension, was displayed on her face. She nuzzled closer into the grip of my parents, walking no more than twelve inches from them. She repeated many times, “Mom, let’s go home. Let’s go home. When will we leave? Can we please go home now?” We readily agreed to cut our trip short, after spending only forty-five minutes in Tijuana. I felt uneasy when I looked around to see families with small children in ragged clothing huddled together under an awning, sharing a

small serving of french fries. I felt like I had disrespected another human being for trying to survive. I felt a lump settle in the bottom of my stomach. The bus ride over the border seemed like it took years. My mind was bombarded with questions, about myself and about the Mexican culture. For some reason, silence seemed more appropriate. I felt like I was having a manic episode; my thoughts were incoherent and disorderly. When we arrived at the hotel, I chose to sit by myself in the room, equipped with running water, electricity, and two beds with fresh linen. I needed some time to myself to ponder what had happened that day. Without a second thought,

Halloween Fairy Jessica Magnuson

my family departed to our vacation rent-a-car, with leather seats, a radio, and air conditioning, to drive to the mall. I was remarkably exhausted, both mentally and physically. I was immensely dissatisfied with myself. I could not think of an explanation to justify my actions. I felt like I was caught in a maze with no exit. As I began to sort through my thoughts, I had an overwhelming sense of anger. Why was I so exhausted? From walking and sightseeing? From spending time with my family on our vacationing, doing whatever we wanted, without a worry of how we would obtain our next

Evil Cow PLots at Work Jessica Magnuson

2006

meal? How ridiculous! How pathetic! I had no valid reason to be exhausted. The frenzy of unanswered questions took a toll on my mental status. Within fifteen minutes, I drifted off to sleep, listening to a compact disc spinning in my portable player.

Untitled Amber Fauth

Impressions

Black Hole of Love Rifang Ji I stand on the center of cosmos Seeing you floating toward unreal edge There is only chilly wind, no light and heats My heart is cut by knife; I feel I will burst…

he can love no one. He didn’t appreciate women and changed his girlfriends one by one. He has a nice life, which was envied by everyone, but he thought that’s a boring life and costing his 24 years.

Ming was a genius, no more people as clever as him. People all said that he was easy-going and a kind man, but you can’t touch his thinking deeply. Because he worked in the public department of a company, he has to communicate with various people. His ability of communication was very good, if you were talking with him, you will feel a kind of unprecedented warm feeling, and a kind of very good conviction. But only he understood that he had never communicated with others really, because the others’ ideations were not as good as his and he always felt lonely and vacuous. When all is said and done, only a few people’s intelligence levels were the same as his, it seems as if the people and everything around him were too small…. Sometimes, Ming considered that he was a god. \ He hasn’t so many friends, but he has a lot of girlfriends. Maybe, his spirit was vacuous, so he needs another way to make up it. Many girls were attracted by his handsome face and outstanding wisdom, but

Hong was owner of “Another Space” bar. Actually, the boss was her brother and did business in Italy, earning some money to help her opening this leisure bar. Hong graduated from a college of art and her major was painting. There were many paintings hanging on the walls of bar. Once, a businessman liked one of her paintings and wanted to buy it. Hong asked him, “Do you know what’s meaning of that painting?” The businessman said, “That is a whirlpool, I like the scrollwork. It also gave you a feeling of clairvoyance, as if you can’t see the end. I love it!” Hong said, “I am sorry, you’re wrong. I can’t sell!” In the spacious office, Ming sat behind the office desk with a big tobacco pipe in his mouth. He was gazing at the ceiling and contemplating. The office clerks were celebrating that a new proposal was passed. Ming was creativity general of this advertising company. It was a new company, but it’s very famous and successful because it has Ming who was the important person

in the company. Ming’s proposals were popular in the company. He was gracious, efficient, sublimity and accurate judge. That’s why he was popular in the company, but sometimes, people can’t bear his ruthless and cruel temper. They all gave a wide berth to him. Ming drank his last cup of coffee, shut down the computer, put on his windbreaker, walked out of the office and left the company in envious sight of people. He was driving to loiter about time in the city, the setting sun’s light reflected on his face. Suddenly, he focused on the street side. There was a strange leisure bar which interested him. “Another Space”, really strange! He thought, “What kind of person is the owner?” So he parked the car near the bar, got off and walked into the bar. No more people in the bar, he chose a position next to the windows. A young waiter came over to ask him what he needs to drink. Ming chose a cup of coffee. Then he took out his tobacco pipe, starting to look around. A painting of the opposite wall drew his attention immediately. The painting was very special, giving him a kind of unspeakable felling. Its center is a whirlpool and there was a gleam in the center, but as if it disappeared. The whirlpool was made up by

Time awaited you like a still moonbeam framed by desire lengthened by the soft touch of your grace the Beauty of your face the beauty of your face lingers before me like a pool, like a pond, a silhouette of those all too gentle hours the Beauty of your face— the remembrance of it devours me drowns me in a sea of phantoms and device; tossed I thought of the soft, frail kiss that stole my heart and left it waiting in the pale light of my lost moments I thought of those nights and the forgotten dreams that lay lingering edged with desire forever gone, in the heat and the fire of the passing day passed away

-Kristopher Smotherman some thin and thick rounds that seemed to connect together, and then seemed to break up. Ming was enthralled and his thought was almost driven in the whirlpool…. “Such as your age, smoking a pipe is not fit for you.” A pleasing voice jumped into his ears, he turned around, watching a elegant young lady standing beside him. She has a head of black and nice hair, the bright eyeballs and a smile

of contempt…. “Who is the great painter of this painting?” Ming asked. “It’s the work of my university period, just for fun!” The lady answered freely. “Sounds interesting! Oh, what’s the name?” “No name, if you have a good one, tell me!” The lady said with smile. “I think, it can be called the black hole!” “All right! I like the black hole!” The lady sat down in

2006

Instance

front of Ming. “Is this bar yours?” “Probably!” Be starting with this painting, Ming comminuted with the lady and knew her name Hong. He found there was a strange thing in her body, which the other women haven’t. He didn’t know and it really interested him. “Does she come from another space?” Ming said to himself. “Do you believe, my brother is the smartest one in my family, on affairs can trouble him? He has his own company when he was 21 years’ old and immigrated to Italy when he was 23 years’ old. He wanted me to immigrate too. But I love it here, so he helped to open this leisure bar.” Hong was very exciting, when she talked of her brother. Ming liked her nictation, setting on the chair quietly and listened to her story…. “Do you know, my brother have measured an IQ quiz? Can you guess how high points he got? “130?” Ming asked. “Not enough is 145. Oh, my god, you should know the common people only have IQ90-110; IQ145 is the genius….” Ming heard and smiled lightly, didn’t make a noise, because he remembered clearly, his IQ is 180. Time was already 2:00AM, the other people were all gone and the young waiter was asleep. “It’s late. I should go home.” Ming said to Hong. “I should go home too.” Hong stared him in the eyes, seemed to part with

Impressions

him reluctantly. She was not sure the feeling was to him or the wonderful discussion just now. “Where do you live? I will take you there.” Ming said. Hong’s house was not far from the bar, only two blocks. When they arrived Hong’s house, she said, “I’m sorry, I can’t ask you to my house. It’s too late.” But, Ming caught her hand quickly and gave her a hug. She felt a kind of faint unprecedented and thought herself as a very light feather, floating in the sky…. The morning of that day was rainy. After a week, Ming had business in another city and he hasn’t contacted Hong. When he came back, the first thing he did was going to the bar. Strangely, it was closed forever. Though, the door was closed, he found only the painting of the black hole left in the bar through the windows. He was in despair and took out a cigarette. Suddenly, he thought, didn’t know why he gave up the pipe. Probably, Hong had said before, “Such as your age, smoking a pipe is not fit for you.” The young waiter appeared again. “Where is Hong now?” Ming asked. “Two days ago, she went to Italy, maybe never to return. She asked me to wait for you here. Here is her letter for you.” Only a page was in the letter and several lines words. “Ming, I’m so sorry, begging your pardon I left without a word.

I think that I have already found the thing what I need. There is no place in this city that I am reluctant to leave. Perhaps, only you, but, I can’t stay. That painting, give you. If we meet again, perhaps in another space. Hong” Ming lost himself for several months. When he came back to the company, people found that he became more and more silent. His sight was not sharp again and the working efficiency was slower than before. Usually, he stayed in his office lonely and stares at the painting on the wall. Nobody understood what the painting was, someone said it’s a whirlpool; the others said it’s a galaxy. But there was no accurate answer. At the edge of this city, there was a mental hospital; one of the sickrooms belonged to a patient called Ming. When he just living in the hospital, his motion was very unsteady and always said some strange words such as the judgment day of the cosmos and big explosion. After some months, he got well by doctor’s helping. When he has gone, people found some sentences in his sickroom on the wall. “I stand on the center of cosmos Seeing you floating toward unreal edge There is only chilly wind, no lights and heats My heart is cut by knife; I feel I will burst… I will wait for you for countless years.

The temperature of my heart was cooling. I can’t endure this endless loneliness patiently. My love will become the black hole in one day. But in fact, my purpose is only for you, I will wait for you forever. No one understood these sentences meant.

Crescent Curving crescent Like a small boat I go home by boat Got across the trials of a long journey Potpourri, warm night It’s spring in my hometown now Do you sleeping I will pull in at your dream

- Rifang Ji

Untitled

Love Like an Egyptian Carmen Maxwell

-Emily Makelky

Blind Journey On a now-ended journey That seems like a mile more To express what I can’t Define the undefinable To tell you how it looks When I’m blind, too.

-Lydia

Johnson 59

2006

Alarm clock rang, boy I felt drained Nervous as could be, didn’t want to leave. Said my goodbyes that were full of cries, Jumped in my car to drive so far. Began my trip with a quivering lip. Talked on the phone so I wouldn’t be alone, When the calls stopped, reality popped Was off to school without a friend in the world. The drive took a kick when I got really sick. Called my mom and begged her to come. Decided to be brave, the trip I had to save. Ended up at UND, only for me to see That what I need, is my home indeed. The months were no fun, but now I am done. I sing a different song because I’m where I belong.

Impressions

Swearword Rifang Ji When I surfed on the Internet, I always saw that there were many people swearing online, including a lot of dirty words. Swearword is a common phenomenon in all the languages in world. In Chinese, there are some words used to swear too. There are many dialects in Chinese, so they also have different words to swear. The history of swearword is very long in China. There were some famous swearwords in the official history books or documents and some good masterworks. Actually, the swearword left a good name forever. But those swearwords were not very lousy and they didn’t involve people’s bodies or organs, parents, brothers and sisters. I think common people spoke those dirty words, they weren’t written down on books in ancient time, certainly. It means we can’t learn about the pure history of ancient swearword.

many people consider that while people are happy, they are singing. While people are very happy, they are dancing, even weeping for exultancy. As same as swearing, it’s the best way to abreact bad emotion. In all ages, no matter people abound with good or bad feeling, the first thing is swearing. After that, they will feel very cozy. It’s incredible that when a longtested army occupied a hill, they will sing and dance. The first thing they do is swearing and shouting. Though, everyone doesn’t like swearword, everyone

Why is the swearword best-known? No matter the officials or common people, they all say swearword, even some saints and giants. People will grow up in this environment filling of dirty words.

will say it unconsciously. There are several ways of swearing: blame, condemn, curse, scold and shout abuse. The advanced swearword is article. The writers use irony to swear opponents. It’s between writers and famous people or some stars. They disclose scandals with each other. Some people always blame their country at every occasion. They are bad railers. It’s not graceful. Sometimes, the railers are cute. Several boors or rough fellows eat and drink in a bar together.

Twisting Ascension Jeff Grewe

Why do people want to swear? They express their angry feelings. It’s a way of abreaction. In China,

They talk including swearwords all the time, but it does not make people sick and they avoid tired feelings. In politics and military affairs, swearword is a nice weapon. It can libel and seduce enemy to make mistakes. In ancient China, some great generals used this way to trap enemy. The most important thing about swearword in Chinese is that sometimes somebody use swearword to blame another one, it’s not real blame. It’s a encouragement and inspirit and will help others march to the success. So if we want to make success by ourselves, we can have a try with swearword.

Neutrality This poem is neutral Neither filled with angst Nor uplifting in tone Neutrality is objective This poem consists of words Is that objective enough? This poem has emotion However it does not feel strongly One way or another This poem is not pointless Just a point of view A balance between extremes

-Chris Hammond

2006

For the rest, such as swearwords between parents and kids or couples, they are all well-meaning. But back to Internet, chatting with swearword is not good. Maybe, some railers have many trouble in the real life, but if they force their bad emotions upon others by swearword, that’s unadvisable. It will become interactant. I hope Internet and our society would be clean environment. That’s beneficial and helpful for our kids growing up.

Best Friends Kim Weismann

Impressions

Bushido, The Ancient Religion Kim Weismann Bushido is an ancient Japanese religion that is still followed by individuals around the world. It is a form of religion that follows the Samurai. Some people do not think this is a religion because there is no God, but the religion follows the ruler or dictator of the country. The only problem with this religion is it is only followed by few because the Samurai were wiped out towards the turn into the mechanized age. This religion is sometimes seen as an idea rather than a religion, but it is all in the eye of the beholder. This religion is different from any that I have ever heard of before for so many different reasons. One main reason is this religion believes in suicide for certain purposes. It is also dependant on individual meditation rather than prayer. This religion also bases most of its importance on men versus women and children. This religion was not voluntary like most of ours are in today’s society. The religion was the center of most people’s lives. It was the basis of how they lived and survived. Men are also needed to fight; where in most religion we see a sense of peace rather than war. First, every soldier was to follow a code, which can be found in many books about Bushido. The old code only followed five duties, which are loyalty, obedience, bravery, honor and simplicity. The new code follows seven

duties, which are loyalty, unquestioning obedience, courage, controlled use for physical force, frugality, honor, and respect for superiors. It was important for the soldiers to follow this code otherwise they might face the ritualized suicide. Next, suicide is ritualized and sometimes required. The suicide is called seppuku. One thing about the suicide is people are able to watch and the person is actually beheaded. The suicide must be preformed with a certain weapon, which is considered to be sacred. If this weapon is not used the person is further dishonored. People lost their honor and were required to commit suicide for many reasons, some being captured in battle, disgracing the emperor, disgracing your family, losing your sacred weapon, and killing in cold blood. This religion was dependent on individual mediation rather than on prayer. The service was not just daily, but it would follow through the Samaria’s life. Most worship and meditation was done individually in the morning and chores were to follow. The people would pay graces daily to their daymio, which was the emperor, and they carried themselves with honor. Everyday in this meditation daily sacred kimono

would be worn by those meditating. The armor was also worn but was present for the Samurai and crafted by them as well. Although the only time armor was usually worn was when they were in combat or war but the kimonos were still worn throughout the day. Each Samurai had his own sacred weapons, which included a katana, a wakazahi, and a tonto. Men are required to fight and women and children usually were not involved at all. The fighting was described to me as, “It’s very aggressive. It’s like feudal knights meet Aztecs.” Bushido was still used in a form to help shape the military of Japan all of the time before World War II. The reason it stopped then is because of the defeat Japan had and it feared that more atrocities would be burned. There are a couple ways that Bushido is still honored in everyday world. One way is by the modern day sumo wrestling. In sumo they still wear traditional daggers. The reason they wear these daggers is in case they blow a call, they are forced to use the daggers on themselves. It also shows symbolism from when they would take their own lives in Bushido. It was a form of showing they still honored the religion. Another form that Bushido

Up Close and Personal Kodi Gullickson

Just Get On Blue black darkness covers all the land, Your lips begin to curl as you take my stiff, cold hand. There’s a sparkle in your eye as you turn to lead me on, Unrehearsed confessions can wait ‘til breaking dawn. Pale, wise moonbeams seem to scold my selfish act, Screaming, “Find courage,” a virtue I have lacked, “Release that poor boy’s heart you have unconsciously demised.” I now must humble my heart and unmark my worn disguise. Tears you will shed, spirits that will fall, Your eyes soon will dry, your smile says it all. You’re stronger than you know, forget about me now, Just get on, my dear, and move ahead somehow. Your eyes I cannot take as I watch their glimmer dim, The glow of your smile soon becomes a darker grim. Your eyes let go a tear – a tear that says it all, A bruised and battered heart has answered my vain call. I leave you standing there as I turn to leave, My lip begins to quiver, no thought can I conceive. I’m broken and I’m tired. You weren’t my only one. I can’t go back, Though I regret, The damage has been Done.

-Kelly Hagfeldt

2006

is honored today is by the way athletes act in Japan. In the United States of America we see athletes, coaches, and even fan members talking back to the referees. In Japan, it is of utmost respect not to talk back to someone that is higher than they are. There are even cartoons called Anime, which show a good picture of how Bushido was practiced. In these cartoons there is usually one character that is highly respected. In Anime there is an enemy that is usually showing the people that had very little respect for the code.

Impressions

American Toes Christa Binstock

Man at Laundromat Wearing

Mom Comes Home

steel toe mud and oil stained leather work boots

sturdy veins and puddles of bruises. i would think the well would be dry. but no, they add more liquid

every inch stained except the laces and worn through steel toes which shine in the light

as my mom sits at the edge of her bed still in the hospital gown

he does not read does not watch television in no hurry no place to go just still like the stains on his boots

while dad and I joke about wheel chair races

-Amber Nelson

-Christa Binstock 64