Impressions 2010

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Advisors: Dr. David Solheim David Schreindl

Editors: Ali Wang Christine Hetzel Darren Roth Heather Neumiller Kelsey Reidle Michael Huschka

Front Cover: Wheat Field, Photograph by Duma Ganbat Impressions is made possible by the sponsorship of Dickinson State University. It is a literary magazine created and edited by the students of Dickinson State University. Copyright 2010 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.


Table of Contents Contest Winners ....................................................................................................................................4 Lazy Dog, artwork by Enkbaltor Ider .................................................................................................5 Ties, fiction by Heather Neumiller ......................................................................................................6 Sky, artwork by Kodi Auch..................................................................................................................6 Antique Clock, artwork by Jessica Schmitt .........................................................................................7 The Devil and Mrs. Jones, fiction by Matthew Johnson ....................................................................8 Bible Beneath the Sun, photograph by Kristi Heinrich .....................................................................9 Form and Function, fiction by Jenny Marboe .....................................................................................10 Majestic, photograph by Linda Peterson ..........................................................................................11 Purity, artwork by Natalia Kharma ..................................................................................................12 Whatever, poem by Darren Roth ........................................................................................................13 Still Life, artwork by Elizaveta Sadilova ..........................................................................................13 City and Sunrise: Soul, poem by Luke Rice .......................................................................................14 North Dakota Sunset, photograph by Laura Kunkle .......................................................................15 A Portrait of a Mentor, non-fiction by Meghan Bartz ......................................................................15 Prayers, fiction by Heather Neumiller ..............................................................................................16 Whispering Spell, poem by Anita Weiler ...........................................................................................17 Motion Studies, photograph by Jessica Weinberger ........................................................................17 Bastard Machines, fiction by Kyla Strasheim ....................................................................................18 Girl on a Swing, artwork by Elizaveta Sadilova ..............................................................................18 First Encounters, poem by Kyla Strasheim .......................................................................................19 A Weird Christmas Eve, non-fiction by Meghan Bartz ....................................................................19 My Grandma’s Hero, non-fiction by Meghan Bartz .........................................................................20 Gitche Gumee, photograph by Amber Lien ......................................................................................20 Before the . . ., artwork by Enkhtamir Otgondemberel ...................................................................21 My Hard Times, Chadee Moss by non-fiction ..................................................................................21 Alone, artwork by Kodi Auch ............................................................................................................22 The Unkillable Optimist Part 93, fiction by Amanda Leftridge .......................................................22 Life, poem by Linda Peterson ............................................................................................................23 My Caboose, photograph by Linda Peterson ....................................................................................24 Small Town USA, photograph by Linda Peterson ...........................................................................24 Summer Evening, photograph by Sarah Holle .................................................................................24 Pretty in Pink, photograph by Brabim Hamal .................................................................................25 Lilacs in the Snow, photograph by Linda Peterson ..........................................................................25


Temple That Hindu Visit, photograph by Sanju Karki ...........................................................25 Selling Bodies, non-fiction by Luke Rice .................................................................................26 Kitten in a Kettle, photograph by Chelsea Sorenson ..............................................................27 My Friend, North Dakota, non-fiction by Amber Lien ...........................................................28 Horses in Snow, photograph by Linda Peterson ....................................................................29 Defined, poem by Kyla Strasheim ...........................................................................................29 The Space Between, poem by Anita Weiler ..............................................................................29 Frightened Animal, poem by Meghan Bartz ............................................................................30 Adventure, artwork by Kristi Heinrich ...................................................................................30 Observing Nonverbal Signals, non-fiction by Linda Peterson ................................................30 A February Affair, poem by James J. Ryan ..............................................................................31 Chairs, photograph by Kristi Heinrich ...................................................................................32 To Live and Undie, fiction by Luke Rice ..................................................................................32 Surreal Sunshine, artwork by Ali Wang ..................................................................................33 What Are You Saying, non-fiction by Linda Peterson ............................................................34 Unrequited Love, poem by Natalia Kharina ............................................................................35 The Oak and the Girl, fiction by Christine Hetzel ...................................................................36 Dandelion Wonderland, photograph by Natalia Kharina .......................................................36 2-D Art, Artwork by Michell Dahl .........................................................................................37 Girl-Dude Reads Between Lines, Demolishes First Date, poem by Kelsey Reidle ...................37 Fallen Angel, poem by Michael Huschka ...............................................................................38 Geese at Night, artwork by Enkhmaa Luvsannyam ...............................................................38 Flower Maiden, poem by Lauren Soderberg ...........................................................................38 Mourning Dove, poem by Kate Macmillan .............................................................................39 Time, poem by Darlene Jung ...................................................................................................39 A Moment, artwork by Kodi Auch ..........................................................................................39 It’s Only Human, non-fiction by Ryan Landblom ..................................................................40 DMK, artwork by Alyssa Kottwitz .........................................................................................40 Letter to My Unseen Love, fiction by Geeta Khakal ................................................................41 That Summer, poem by Charlie Leftridge ..............................................................................41 An Attack Upon the Heart, fiction by James J. Ryan ...............................................................42 Rainbow After the Storm, photograph by Natalia Kharina ....................................................43 Thing of Beauty, photograph by Chelsea Sorenson ................................................................44 A Shadowed Path, photograph by Kristi Heinrich ..................................................................45 What Lies Beyond, photograph by Kristi Heinrich .................................................................46 Teeth, artwork by Jessica Schmitt ...........................................................................................46 Marilyn, artwork by Natalia Kharina .....................................................................................47 Roosevelt, artwork by Bolor Bayandalai .................................................................................48


Contest Winners Poetry~ 1st- First Encounters by Kyla Strasheim 2nd- Flower Maiden by Lauren Soderberg 3rd- Unrequited Love by Natalia Kharina Honorable Mention: Time by Darlene Jung City and Sunrise: Soul by Luke Rice

Fiction~ 1st- The Devil and Mrs. Jones by Matthew Johnson 2nd- Bastard Machines by Kyla Strasheim 3rd- The Unkillable Optimist by Amanda Leftridge Honorable Mention: Form and Function by Jenny Marboe To Live and Undie by Luke Rice

Non-fiction~ 1st- Selling Bodies by Luke Rice 2nd- My Friend, North Dakota by Amber Lien 3rd- It’s Only Human by Ryan Landblom Honorable Mention: My Grandmother’s Hero by Meghan Bartz What Are You Saying? by Linda Peterson

Two-Dimensional Art~ 1st- Purity by Natalia Kharina 2nd- Lazy Dog by Enkbaltor Ider 3rd- Alone by Kodi Auch Honorable Mention: Still Life by Elizaveta Sadilova Teeth by Jessica Schmitt

Photography~ 1st- North Dakota Sunset by Laura Kunkle 2nd- Bible Beneath the Sun by Kristi Heinrich 3rd- Gitche Gumee by Amber Lein Honorable Mention: Kitten in a Kettle by Chelsea Sorenson Motion Studies by Jessica Weinberger 4

Impressions


Lazy Dog By Enkbaltor Ider

Impressions

5


Ties

light. I focused more intently and realized each aura blazed with a different intensity, but the source was the same. Faith. Each of

By Heather Neumiller

these people had the power of faith. I sank to the ground, more from shock than any

It’s not something I make a habit of, you know. Randomly

conscious decision. I readjust-

Sky

ed my Sight, certain that my

choosing people to look at with

By Kodi Auch

my Sight is a bad idea. There’s

first glance was faulty. I was able to see individuals now

too much of a risk that

and I saw that this family

who I choose could show

was not pure or untried.

me something scarring.

Each of them had stains

There’s a lot of evil in

and wounds on their

the world after all and

robes, some more griev-

anything I see with my

ous than others. These

Sight is permanent. Time

were true warriors. They

doesn’t make the memory

fought for themselves

fade, but sometimes, when

and those around them.

all I hear are warnings to

I blinked in amazement

be careful and how awful

and focused more intently

the world is, I want to be

on the robes. There was

reminded. I guess you

something strange… As

could call it renewing

I looked closer at their

my hope. Today was one

robes, I noticed that each

of those days, and there

had a dark red symbol

was just something about

embroidered upon it.

this gathering that drew

For some it was a cross,

my attention. So I closed

others a heart or a crown.

my eyes, concentrated on

The mark seemed to

opening my Sight, and

be different for each. I

opened my eyes.

frowned, trying to figure

I—I don’t know

out the meaning behind

how to describe it. I have

the symbols, when I

never seen such a gath-

caught a flash of grey. It

ering of warriors, not

seemed out of place, so

amongst mortals. What

I looked intently at the

made it even more bizarre

robe that appeared to be

was that they were at a barbeque. There were two men grilling, talking back and forth with three men who took the steaks and

the source The symbol embroidered upon it was a heart over the

covered them as they finished cooking. A group of women were

owner’s left breast. The robe was a mix of colors and it revealed

clustered around a silver-haired matriarch, who was supervising

a multitude of wounds, but the part that captivated my attention

the placement of the rest of the food. A couple of toddlers played

was the fact that the robe’s color shifted gradually. It meandered

in a sandbox, watched by an older teen, while another teen played

between charcoal grey and a pinkish white. It appeared as if the

a video game nearby. Each member of the family appeared as

owner was engaged in a battle of some sort.

angels in my Sight, even the children, and blazed with an aura of

6

Impressions

Mystified, I looked at the face of the angel. I saw a


woman with curly shoulder-length hair, and gentle green eyes. She was holding a baby swathed in a rainbow of color. Her wings

determine where it was anchored. I sighed quietly, happy that whatever battles the woman

were outstretched behind her, unfurled to their fullest length

was facing, she had someone she could lean on. I began to turn

rather than at rest like the majority of her family. I blinked in

my attention back to the woman and as I did, a faint pattern ap-

confusion and for an instant saw two figures: the woman as I had

peared on the man’s robe. I couldn’t make out the design but I

first seen her, and then her standing in front of a group of people,

saw the same dark charcoal that colored the robe of the woman.

wings unfurled, hands blazing with light, and a determined look

Whatever she fought, he had done battle with it and won. There

on her face.

was hope for her then.

I understood then that I was seeing her protective nature. I shook

My eyes went to the woman as I withdrew my Sight, be-

my head slightly, smiling. Even holding a baby, she projected

cause I wanted to vividly remember her strength and determina-

alertness.

tion. Right before my Sight was completely gone, I saw her body

As the double image faded, one of the extra wings did

tense and she turned, looking for something. For a brief moment,

not. It remained wrapped around her shoulders and the woman

her eyes met mine and she appeared to be taking my measure. I

seemed unaware of it. I followed the extra wing back to its

held my breath, hoping irrationally that this woman would grant

owner—a man playing with a blond girl of about four or five. The

me her approval. Her eyes sparkled a moment before she smiled

girl was laughing as he tossed her into the air and caught her, her

and I felt the warmth of her smile wash over me like the comfort

rainbow-colored skirt fluttering in the wind. The man appeared to

of a flannel blanket on a rainy day. She dipped her head to me,

be completely involved with the little girl and I couldn’t quite fig-

as if she was acknowledging everything I had just witnessed. My

ure out what his connection to the woman was. Then I caught the

Sight faded away and I was left with the view of a human family

gleam of silver in the corner of my eye. I focused my Sight and

enjoying time together.

the gleam resolved itself into three distinct cords braided togeth-

As I got to my feet and continued on my way, I knew

er. The outside cords had a green and pink hue, respectively, but

that I would keep this memory strong and bright in my memory, a

the middle cord, which appeared the strongest, had no discernible

candle lit against the darkness that would threaten.

hue. The braided cord led back to the woman, though I could not

Antique Clock By Jessica Schmitt

Impressions

7


The Devil and Mrs. Jones By Matthew Johnson The Devil never rings the doorbell. He (I say he only because I don’t feel right regarding an eight foot tall, red-furred, long-tailed, goat-hoofed, spiral-horned lord of Hell as feminine), he uses the back door and just walks in. Which is why, when I felt the air in the kitchen increase six point six six degrees (he loves that joke), I caught my friend helping himself to a glass of water. “You’re early,” I said, retrieving the ice from the freezer for him. “The girls won’t be here for another twenty minutes.” “I wanted to deliver some bad news,” the Devil said, rolling thunder pouring from his lips. “Devil, what did I say about that?” We had an agreement that if he wished to continue meeting with us on Tuesdays, he would have to take a break from devilry. “Sorry, Mrs. Jones. We are creatures of nature.” He drank his ice-water and enjoyed it as only a creature of fire could. “Come on, then, the tea’s just finished.” I led the Devil into the drawing room and we sat at the coffee table, where a white and blue teapot sat on a silver tray, steam billowing from the spout. “Now, tell me this bad news.” The Devil took a ginger snap from the plate in front of him and nibbled on it. “Mrs. Carter won’t be coming today. She has become a widow.” “Oh, dear, that is terrible. What happened?” “Heart attack, I’m afraid.” His voice was slightly higher than normal, like when he talked about the Holocaust. I raised an eyebrow, “Devil. Did you kill Mr. Carter?” “No, no, of course not.” He leaned back in his chair and was waving his hands a little too much, like when he denied involvement in the Blues. “Devil...” “I... may have... put something in his artery a couple months ago.” I shook my head, “Could you at least try to hide the grin? We mourn the dead, remember?” He made no attempt to hide his grin. “I know. You mortals are very strange.” “Yes, well... thank you, I suppose. Would you like some tea, now?” “Oh, yes, please,” said the Devil, “with two lumps.” I poured two cups, two lumps of sugar in his, one in mine, and we sat and drank and laughed about I Love Lucy and the Tuskegee Experiment. Then the doorbell rang, “Be right back, dearie.” Ms. Tubbs and her large hat were at the door. “Oh, Mrs. Jones, have you heard about poor Mrs. Carter?” She stepped over the threshold and handed me her jacket. I would have answered her, but when Ms. Tubbs wants to tell a story, it is usually best to let her tell it. “Her husband went and had himself a heart attack at one of those awful fast food restaurants. I never liked those places, not even the idea of them. It was only a matter of time before they killed someone we loved.” I hung her jacket in the closet, effectively hiding my grin. Just last week, Ms. Tubbs was saying what a lay-about Mr. Carter was and that Mrs. Carter would be better off without him. I followed her to the drawing room.

8

Impressions

The Devil stood and gave Ms. Tubbs a brief hug. “How are you? Terrible about Mr. Carter...” Ms. Tubbs laughed. “Devil, must you be so sarcastic?” We all sat back down and I poured Ms. Tubbs a cup of tea and warmed my own. Ms. Tubbs also took one lump. “I must know something,” said the Devil, “your friend’s husband just died; why aren’t you upset?” “We’re old women,” I said. “Any one of us could kick off next, no use crying on about it.” “Mmmhmm,” said Ms. Tubbs. “I only cry at my romance novels, now.” A few minutes later, Mrs. Hayden arrived in a flurry of excitement. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, you will not believe it.” She ignored formalities and dropped into her chair before even removing her jacket. “I was down at the laundry mat with Angela Becket and you will just never guess who came in with a load of whites.” I poured a cup and passed it over, no lumps for her, ever since the diabetes. “Do tell.” She paused to look all of us in the eye, and then said, “Only Diane Kruger’s personal assistant!” “Really?” I said. “I think I read that Trivial Lives was shooting up here when Kathy and Savannah go on vacation,” said Ms. Tubbs. Mrs. Hayden took off her jacket and had a sip of tea. “I just love that Diane Kruger.” “Of course you do,” said the Devil. “Noooo....” I said. “You’re kidding?” The Devil shook his head. “Nine years ago... let me think... next Wednesday, she did one of those silly summoning spells with chalk and chicken blood. I thought it might be fun to see what she wanted.” “What was she like?” Mrs. Hayden asked. “She always seems so nice.” “Well, whatever spell-book she used must have said to be forceful or something along those lines, because she was holding the chicken heart in her hand and pointing it at me, and she yelled, ‘Devil, I am your master now!’” “She did not,” Ms. Tubbs said, putting a hand to her mouth. The Devil nodded. “I tried to keep the scary-devil thing going, but it was the most atrocious acting I had ever seen, and I couldn’t hold it in. My stomach hurt, I laughed so hard.” “What then?” asked Mrs. Hayden. “Oh, you know,” said the Devil, “the standard my-soulfor-fame-and-fortune contract.” Mrs. Hayden took a sip of her tea. “I caught my daughters doing that Bloody Mary thing in the mirror once, years ago.” “I remember,” said the Devil, “Susan had pigtails. I was going to show up, give them night terrors.” “Why didn’t you?” asked Ms. Tubbs, adjusting her very large hat. “Mrs. Hayden got to them first. I still would have jumped out, but the look on their faces... it wasn’t possible to scare them any more than she already had.” Mrs. Hayden giggled. She was a great singer once, until a few of years ago when her voice finally gave out. But she wasn’t the type to let something like a loss of identity bother her, and her voice retained all the excitement of her youth, if not the quality. “I didn’t even ground them. They kept waiting for punishment, but I just let the anticipation wear on them.” “I did that to Martin,” I said, remembering the only time my husband forgot our anniversary. “I’d sit and look at him until


he looked at me, then I’d turn away. I did it for a week until he bought me this necklace.” I reached to my neck and patted the small diamond in the gold heart with my finger. “That is lovely,” said the Devil. “Was jewelry your goal?” “Oh, of course not, Devil,” said Ms. Tubbs. “Jewelry is nothing more than a happy byproduct.” “My Robbie’s seventeenth anniversary was yesterday,” said Mrs. Hayden. “He bought Michele a necklace very much like yours, Mrs. Jones.” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hayden,” said Ms. Tubbs, “but I have forgotten whether Robert is older or younger then the girls?” “Three years older,” said Mrs. Hayden. She reached into her purse on the floor, retrieved a picture from her wallet, and gave it to Ms. Tubbs. “I never much liked Michele, but she planned the most beautiful wedding.” The picture was passed to me. I’d never met Robbie; he was already out on his own when I met Mrs. Hayden. He was a handsome man, undeniably his mother’s son, sharing her small eyes and thick hair. I gave the picture to the Devil, who eyed it like a dessert menu. As we passed the picture, Mrs. Hayden said, “The only thing wrong with it was their first dance. Of course, they should have danced to As Time Goes By, but Michele insisted on some modern travesty about underwear and champagne.” “I hate that song,” said the Devil, and a little devilry escaped and his eyes became smoking embers. “Well, what do you expect from a woman who doesn’t take her husband’s name,” said Ms. Tubbs, with all the dignity of a politician’s wife. “I don’t understand,” said the Devil. “If you wanted her to change the song, why not just pull out her tongue?”

Mrs. Hayden laughed. He must have hit a fantasy she had long forgotten. “I believe it is two o’clock,” I said, and, as one, we stood with our cups and walked to the adjacent room. The Devil caught his reflection in the buffet mirror and cleared his eyes. He turned on the television with a snap of his fingers and then joined me on the couch. For an hour, we watched Trivial Lives, our favorite Soap about quiz show host Richard and the many lurid affairs of his family and work life. In this episode, Melanie (who died two years ago) was back and out for revenge against Archie, who was framed for her murder by his ex-wife Natalia, who turned out to be a man. The show ended when Richard became amnesiac, and then Ms. Tubbs and Mrs. Hayden said goodbye, as they were off to get ready for the play they were attending that evening. “Another cup of tea?” I asked the Devil. “No, thank you, Mrs. Jones. But, perhaps, another glass of water?” I smiled and nodded, and we went to the kitchen. Life is full of simple pleasures, measured in those rather than the big moments that do or don’t happen, and although I must have seen the Devil drink hundreds of glasses of water, it still made me smile. “Mrs. Jones,” said the Devil, setting the now empty glass on the counter by the sink, “I really appreciate you letting me join you. I truly look forward to Tuesdays.” I smiled because, really, what else are you supposed to do when evil incarnate shows you gratitude. He walked to the back door, stepped outside and breathed deep. He said, “Is it really Hell if the Devil isn’t there?” and then, with nothing more than a puff of sulfurous smoke, the Devil was gone.

Bible Beneath the Sun By Kristi Heinrich

Impressions

9


Form and Function By Jenny Marboe

It was simple, like tapping methodically on a series of keys to spell a word or smearing chapstick across parched, cracked lips. Jill could feel the mouse’s heart thud to a quiet stop under her thumb and watched as the small, bead-like eyes bulged from their sockets. The rodent’s jaws snapped open and shut as it gasped for the last time before going limp in her hand. Jill stroked the soft fur of the rodent’s belly with her forefinger, then slipped a tag around its foot and dropped it in the bag of cornmeal with the other half-dozen specimens of Peromyscus Maniculatus she had caught earlier that morning. Crouching in the tall prairie grass, Jill slipped a notebook from her cargo shorts and scrawled a few notes on the yellowed pages before resetting the trap. Rocking back on her heels, Jill surveyed the landscape around her. Slender, golden blades of grass undulated gently in the breeze, like water trickling along a riverbed. Gangly trees, twisted with age and laden with leaves ranging in hues from brittle yellow to brick red, peppered the slopes of the gently sloping hills to the east. Mountains, jagged silhouettes against the pale blue of the sky, stood like forbidding sentinels to the west. Even at this distance, Jill could see the vibrant colors of the autumn leaves, blending into one another in a kaleidoscope of color across the mountain slopes. The prairie stretched north and south until the landscape blurred and faded into the sky. Curls of smoke on the northern horizon marked where one of many coal refineries had etched its permanent mark on the land. Without looking, Jill knew that she’d be able to see the steady flow of traffic on the distant interstate to the south. Reaching into the large Ziploc bag at her side, Jill sifted through the cornmeal until her hand closed over a small rodent. Drawing it out of the bag, Jill cradled it in her hand and blew the cornmeal off its body, watching with slight amusement as her breath rippled through the mouse’s fur, creating the illusion that it was still breathing. She traced the outline of the rodent’s head with her finger, flicking cornmeal out of its fanned ears and feeling the small yet significant weight of its body in her hand. There was always something about stripping the skin from the sac of flesh and bone and then recreating the form of the body with wads of cotton that thrilled Jill each

10

Impressions

time she skinned and stuffed an animal. Mice were almost too easy, their small bodies easily manipulated out of the skin, like undressing a puppet. Pinning the stuffed skins to a square of cardboard and brushing their fur was in itself an art; if it wasn’t for the bones and organs lying at the bottom of a garbage can and tufts of cotton protruding from vacant eyes, one could almost believe that the little creature was just stretching out to take a respite. Jill turned the mouse over in her palm and smoothed the brown-grey fur of its back. She felt a little bit of remorse each time she took an animal’s life; remorse and fascination. The beauty of life and nature had become lost to the new generation, the generation of people who text each other from five feet away, who drive along endless, paved roads like robots, eyes fixated on the dotted lines that divide the lanes, completely oblivious to the living pieces of art surrounding them and within them. Absently curling her fingers over the mouse and letting her wrist drop loosely across her knee, Jill cupped her chin in her other hand and ran her finger slowly along the rough, chapped line of her lower lip. Thoughts danced their way through her brain like the drifting motes of dust in shafts of sunlight and she wondered why nobody appreciated the form and function of a living body. Nobody except morticians, mammalogists, and doctors seemed to value the way the femur fit perfectly into the socket of the hip, the way fingers and toes, pulled by so many tendons and linked by ligaments could fly effortlessly across a keyboard or tap out a rhythm on the stage. She always noticed people, but not in a typical sense. Facial expressions, height, hair color never stood out to her; what caught her eye was the rippling of muscle under taught skin, the angle of the bones at the wrist and ankle, the gentle curve of the clavicle at the base of the throat, the sharply chiseled cheekbones or broad, sturdy shoulder blades. Sitting quietly on a bench in the mall, she would watch people throng by with the bleary, tired expressions of cattle going to the slaughter and would note the way their arms swung and knees bent and she always wondered why nobody else could realize the mystery and wonder in their own bodies. Tilting her face to the sky, Jill watched birds soar freely through the blue-gray atmosphere, wheeling and pirouetting in their own carefree dance. Closing her eyes, she focused on the warmth of the sun on her face and the red curtain of light behind her eyelids. If only people would


Majestic By Linda Peterson

take a moment out of their day to feel the bony protuberances of their knuckles and imagine the shape and feel of the bones; if only they would turn their head as if to look over their shoulder and run their fingers along the ridge of the thick sternocleidomastoid muscle that stretches from just behind the ear down to the clavicle. Maybe then they would understand that, under the layer of skin that gives them the superficial appearance that everyone is judged on, everyone is made from the same bits. Perhaps then there would be no prejudice, no racism, no conflicts based off the color of skin or the way a person’s skin fits over his or her tissues. Hefting the mouse in her hand, she flexed its thin toes with her fingers and watched as muscles and tendons along its foreleg obediently relaxed and contracted under the pressure, creating small ripples in the skin of the limb. Just as rubble, rocks and dirt, plain in their consistency and hue, are masked by the vibrancy of trees and shrubs and judged to be beautiful by this surface adornment, people are judged by their clothes, their skin, their hair and lips and shape. Jill did not see beauty in these things; it was the design of the body, the rise and fall of ridges, the compilation of all the grit into a majestic mountain slope or the assembly of small, oddly shaped bones and tissues into a moving and breathing body that attracted her. When she saw a person or animal, she saw

how it moved, how the skeleton and musculature worked together to give the body motion, and she saw art. She did not understand why everyone else was oblivious to the allure of the underlying form of the body and nature. Sighing, Jill slipped the mouse back into the Ziploc bag and covered its small, curled body with a handful of cornmeal. Zipping the bag closed, she slipped it into her knapsack and rose stiffly to her feet. Gray clouds began to roll over the northern horizon and a bolt of lightning forked across the sky. Jill adjusted the bag on her shoulder and shook her head solemnly at the steady flow of traffic on the interstate to the distant south. Saluting the faceless and nameless travelers, Jill continued to walk the zigzagging path of her own forged trail, small twigs snapping under the weight of her boots, the aroma of dust and honeysuckle pungent in her nostrils, muscles flexing and bones stolidly supporting her weight with each step. Perhaps one day they would understand what they were missing, sitting motionless in vehicles that buzzed along the pavement while nature flew by outside the window and the craftsmanship that went into their own bodies went unheeded. Perhaps, one day, Mother Nature would be given credit for Her work and life would be treated with the respect and awe it deserves and has been so long denied.

Impressions

11


Purity By Natalia Kharina

12

Impressions


Whatever By Darren Roth “What’s the weather? What’s your

Everybody ever?

major? How was your last Decem-

No, never.

ber?”

Time takes forever: It’s whatever.

The answer is Whatever.

Thinking back on my life:

I don’t care. Who cares?

Was it ever not whatever?

Everybody ever?

Once? Ever?

No, never.

No, never.

About the weather: It’s whatever.

It’s whatever.

Whatever is forever. But what the hell is forever? I don’t care. Who cares?

Still Life By Elizaveta Sadilova

Impressions

13


City and Sunrise: Soul By Luke Rice Standing at the threshold. Gazing at the mountain. The skyline is becoming warmer by the second. Wishing to get a better view, I pick up the car keys. “Too unexceptional,” I think. Keys jingle as I put them back down. The bike sits by the doorway. As I reach toward it, “Too unremarkable,” I think. The skateboard lays wantonly to my right. That’s it! This thing has got soul. The skateboard bounces off the rubber tires, After I drop it, Until finally resting it’s quadrupeds on the pavement. Push. Glide. Push Push. Glide. Like a trio of violins, Me, The pavement, The skateboard. We are playing a slow and passionate song. This thing has got soul. Two morning stars are my audience. Castor and Pollux wink approvingly. The board, The Gemini, And I ride along. All the rest of the world is sleeping. Each turn we take is smooth. Bending one into the next, Like a river flowing bank to bank. The clouds hang over us--

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Impressions

The sun begins to heat them up, But it hasn’t touched us yet. The gentle winds of the morning cool my shirtless body. Locks of my hair blow backwards, Away from my face as I am picking up speed. This thing has got soul. To the crest of a slope, I see that I am not the only one on the road. Two headlights are awake this morning And they are coming for me. I can step off and let them pass Or I can take the chance. If I loose this race down the hill, I loose everything. If I win, I get nothing. I accept the challenge anyway. This thing has got soul. Three pushes. Then I bend down, Tucking my body away for speed. The wind in my hair is a steady backbeat. Whoooosh… Cracks in the road reverberate off of each set of wheels. Whoooosh… click clack… The occasional branch grazes my body, Setting leaves and flowers in the curls of my hair. Whoooosh… click clack… whap…. The tempo of our symphony is speeding up on the decline. Whoooosh.. click clack.. whap.. click clack click clack The motor behind the headlights joins in. Whooosh.. vroom.. click clack click clack.. whap The lights are approaching. Whooosh. vroom. cli-clack cli-clack. The final seconds melt together. I pass the line first The headlights two seconds away. Our allegro ends with a staccato from the horn section. The headlights had horse power behind them. But, This thing has got soul.


North Dakota Sunset By Laura Kunkle

A Portrait of a Mentor By Meghan Bartz

ing me try to figure it out?” “Guys are like that.” “No, HE is like that.”

Entering the lab, a sense of introversion comes over me. I sit at my desk, putting together my work. I am involved in only myself and my work. My headphones on, I am lost within my own brain, keeping only myself company. I lean forward and start to work. The knob turns, the door opens slightly, I sit up and lean backwards awaiting someone’s outside arrival. As the door opens and a visitor emerges, I smile from ear to ear because I am needed. A question is asked, “Do you have your lab manual? I don’t know what chapters we are on.” “It’s in my truck, I’ll go get it.” As I return I help her out as much as I can, listening to her discouragement and trying to lighten the mood. “I tried putting the data together, but he told me I was doing it wrong. Why doesn’t he just tell me what he wants instead of hav-

I smiled; she was right. She is wise, and I respect her. Her fiery attitude makes me smile. Then he entered, “Do your specimen, or do you want to give me something to yell about, then I will.” “Christ, no,” I said. I entered back into the lab and continued my work. The door opened again and two people entered. She was showing the other girl around. She showed me her newest item, “I ran out in the street in my high heels for that.” I can only imagine. Then she showed me the squirrel she had to put out of its misery. As she left she smiled and told me she’d see me later. People have told me I have the calm attitude to be a teacher, but how was I to know; and the last time I spoke to this mentor he told me that I wasn’t quite like him. I smile because his demeanor pours from my soul. He is someone I wouldn’t mind having the traits of. And when we cross paths he waves and mouths ‘hello’. I smile and mouth ‘hey.’

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Prayers By Heather Neumiller

Lord, he’s so tiny. And my heart quickens every time I hear anything remotely resembling a beep, because I fear it’s that machine telling me he’s in trouble. I hate that we need to rely on it to keep him alive. I hate that he was a preemie and that his lungs aren’t completely developed. But mostly, I hate feeling so helpless. I know that Romans 8:28 says that all things work out for the good of those who love You, but Lord, I’m really having trouble seeing the silver lining here. I want my son to be able to enjoy life, to run and play and be a ‘tough towboy’ like his older brother. I want him to go to school, find a job he enjoys and meet a woman who is his soulmate. I want him to raise a family and know the joys and heartaches that come with it. Lord, I want so much for my little boy right now. But mostly, I want him—I want him—to live. Please Lord, let him live. “Please Lord, let him live.” The mother whispers the last line of her prayer. A tear falls onto the head of a sleeping child, so small he fits into clothes meant for a Cabbage Patch doll. The baby stirs, but her gentle hand rubs away the wetness and he continues to slumber. She steps out of the room, checks on her older son, then slips into the bed next to her husband. The concern that awoke her is gone, replaced by a peace that lulls her immediately to sleep. Lord, You sure surprised me today. I knew he was intelligent, but I wasn’t expecting him to tell me to teach him to read. And at three! Let this enthusiasm carry on for the rest of his life. Give him a love of the Written Word and of reading, so that no matter what happens in his life, he will always have a way back to You. And Lord, even though I want him to stay my baby for as long as possible, please gift the girl you have chosen for him with a heart for reading. And make sure she’s smart. I want him to have someone who can challenge him, and help him to continue to grow. As she opens her eyes, the mother sees her boy watching her intently, impatience flickering in his eyes. “Can we practice some more?” She nods her head and pulls a book from the shelf. Lord, give me patience. And Lord, the girl you have in mind for him? Make sure she gets a large dose too. The mother looks out the window at her son and his best friend, both of them so covered in mud that her son’s brilliant white hair is brown. She heads for the door, frustration warring with the knowledge that boys, especially farm boys, love to get dirty. She stops as she hears shrieks of laughter and turns back to the window. Her husband has the pressure washer out and is spraying the boys off. She smiles as her son throws his hands up and turns into the water, able to withstand the force of it. Unbidden an image of a pale, tiny baby flashes before her eyes and she wipes a tear out of the corner of her eye. Her ire at the mud

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vanishes and she breathes a quick thank you. Oh thank you Father! He gets such enjoyment out of AWANA. He comes home every Wednesday, bursting with new things to tell me. May he always receive such joy from learning about You. Give him a desire to know about You, Father, and let it be feed by his teachers, friends, and family. Your Word says that if we teach him Your way, he will not depart from it as he grows up. Please Lord, let me not screw up. Give me the wisdom to know what to say, and the courage to know when to say something and when to keep my peace. And Lord? Please, don’t yolk him unequally. Let the girl be someone who knows You and loves You. Let her passion for You shine in her eyes. I want that to be what draws him to her, Father. Amen. He proudly shows her the trophy he won that night, explaining what it is for. As she listens, smiling, he excitedly tells her everything they did, speaking glowingly of his teacher. His chest puffs out as he explains that they are going to be painting the youth room and he picked the design for the walls. She nods her head, her heart aglow with peace. Lord, I can’t take this anymore. I-I don’t have the strength for this. He can’t do what he’s doing Lord. He CAN’T! It will take him from You and he’s already having a terrible influence on his younger brother. He needs to LISTEN to me! It’s not safe for him out there. It’s not. We both know it. At least _ still listens. I can keep him safer for a while longer. If I can’t, I suppose I can trust You too. But You didn’t protect me. No one protected me. I won’t let my boys down that way. I WILL protect them. Tears stream down her face as she keeps her head bowed. Her throat aches from the screaming and the words she threw at her oldest son keep reverberating through her mind. She regrets them, but doesn’t know what else to do. She has to keep him safe. And if he doesn’t listen, then her younger son will be in danger, and she can’t allow that. She won’t. She’ll keep both of them safe. Somehow. He’s grown so fast, Father. It seems only yesterday he was running around building dams and riding sheep. Now he’s a young man. And that time is coming closer and closer. I don’t want him to be alone Lord, but it’s going to be so hard to trust him to someone else. I love him so much and I want what is best for him. I know You do to, but sometimes… Well sometimes I get concerned. What if your definition of what is best for him is different from what is best for him? I know he needs trials to make him strong, but his heart is so fragile, Father. He’s like his father that way. He might not always express his feelings with words, but he’s always there if you need someone to lean on. He’s offered his heart to a couple girls now, but they’ve all just seen him as a friend. Always looking at someone else and telling him about it. They don’t know what a treasure he is. Please Lord. Send him who knows. Who will love him the way he deserves to be loved. Who will recognize the strength hidden under his gentleness. Send him someone who he can spend his life with. As she finishes her prayer, she lifts her head and looks at her sleeping son. She smiles faintly and quietly closes the door.


She looks to the room where his older brother used to sleep and heaves a sigh. Then she grabs her Bible and settles beneath the light, searching for the comfort waiting in its pages. Lord, send her now. Please Lord. Send her now. We’ve done all we can for him, but he needs support. He needs help. The pills are helping to a degree, but they can’t heal his heart. It’s his heart that is struggling right now Father. He’s crushed that that girl is marrying someone else. He never told her, but I’ve been around enough men. I know the signs. He loved her and her absence is what is causing this. Please Lord, the one You’ve chosen? Send her now. The mother looks up at the stars as she finishes her walk, leaning into her husband when he puts his arms around her. The worry she feels is eased only slightly, and she knows she will be sleeping fitfully again. She turns to her husband, notes the quiet concern on his face. Her prayers are not the only ones going up for her boy, and she finds a measure of comfort. Father thank you. She blinks back tears as she hears her son’s girlfriend talk about her past. When the girl mentions that someone must have been praying for her, a quiet certainty blossoms in the mother’s heart. “I was.” She answers and is rewarded by the girl’s startled look, then a small smile. She offers up her thanks again. She knows that she has a lifetime of prayer ahead of her, but this gentle proof that her prayers are being heard and answered, is a gem she tucks away.

Whispering Spell By Anita Weiler Your name is on my mind And it is on my tongue And it is on the wind For I whisper your name And the breezes tug it, lovingly From my mouth Leaving me hungry for breath Still I whisper your name Into the sky Where the power of your spirit With the strength of my desires Combine The union reaches the stars And blankets the earth And gently moves over roof tops And over hilltops, And through the trees I have whispered your name. I have whispered your name Not once, but a hundred times. I have whispered your name, And so now, you are mine.

Motion Studies By Jessica Weinberger

Impressions

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Bastard Machines By Kyla Strasheim It was when I worked at Murphy's that I learned the value of process. Murphy's was a steel manufacturing plant. A suitable setting for any psycho movie, the air at Murphy's was hazy from the collective machinery and the welders, always hidden in their own special echelon behind tarp partitions. Natural light filtered in at unexpected intervals, fighting the dust particles for dominance. The noises were the worst. The noises, regardless of how suggestible your psyche might be, affected you. You would need to decide how those impersonal, cyclical gruntings and whirrings of mechanics would strike you. In them you could find the zen of a secure society--each part in its proper place, a system so polished to perfect efficacy that you'd be convinced that the universe itself yielded to intricate design. Perhaps these noises would unlock in you a primal fear. As you gazed up at the 500-ton press in front of you, made of a material that could easily puncture and pulverize the perfect little system of your body, you might see the folly in such interconnectedness. You might glance fervently at the screws holding the die together--tightened by the effort of your own muscle contractions--and know how precarious a balance it has struck. One malfunction would result in a quick and dramatic unraveling of the system. Elements of it would go careening insanely through time and space, releasing a formidable domino effect that could end all existence in irretrievable disorder. I felt neither. As my gloved hands worked solemnly at their task, pushing metal parts into the die, punching the press button, removing the changed metal in an ostensibly endless repetition of movement, I thought. Thinking here was dangerous--one distracting idea, even if responding to the elusive touch of divine inspiration, could mean your finger. Your arm. Your life. Still I let my mind free, wandering whatever pathway of thought it might dare. Sometimes forging beyond pathways into a sort of subconscious thrust into the unknown and unknowable. My hands never deviated from their automation-my face never betrayed where my soul had gone. Yet leave it did--I let it fly. My mind flew over the awe of the machines, never once touching ground. It skated over fear, letting none adhere to it. And it came to me as my soul was flying above the metaphysical clouds into moonlight that would never exist to play on the waves of the ocean--it came to me that these machines, this artificial cycle of production, was our perverted imitation of God. That this bastard system of creation was the closest we could ever truly get to the divine. That's what we were: raw ambition-infused versions of Dr. Frankenstein, clinging resolutely to the belief that we can somehow assert control over our surroundings. Capture the lightning of creation, capture life in a breath, and bottle this gift of life and consciousness in little factory-issue bottles. And I wondered,

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Impressions

in this fleeting moment of clarity, whether That Great Being saw us as unfaithful intruders...or was laughing at us and our ill-fated attempts as Little Gods. The bell for lunch rang. I felt the gravitational pull of my ham sandwich and Cheetoes. Patting the rough metal side of the 500-ton with a grease-stained glove, I pulled in the musty smell of oil through my nostrils. There was a flickering of affection for these monstrous metal structures. Bastard children of humanity trying to assert themselves and failing. Trying to distract themselves and coming up short. I looked forward to the shop talk of lunch hour, but I knew that at odd lulls in the inevitable debates of Ford vs. Chevy, I would gaze out of the window into the blue sky of day and wish I could see it all without the misguided murk of humanity covering my sight.

Girl on a Swing By Elizaveta Sadilova


First Encounters By Kyla Strasheim They are all drawn together by one simple commonality: Hats. Essentially you, in four different male bodies. You, football helmet thrust under your arm, trying your best to look heroic. You, beanie on the dash of your car, spouting philosophy and God at me at three AM. You, baseball cap pushed daringly to the side, looping your arm protectively around a Les Paul. You. With that terrible Indiana Jones hat I did not want to wear but asked to anyway. It doesn't matter which hat you wear, you keep coming back. Stalker-man, why'd you have to go and appear to me in all these different forms? Wear all these different hats? You'll find me again--only god knows what loose disguise you'll assume. I wish you'd stop playing games with me, hat man. I wish you'd stop pretending to leave.

A Weird Christmas Eve By Meghan Bartz

Today my mom, my brother, my dad and I were all getting annoyed with each other for the holiday season. Then this happened: She was poorly dressed, her hands and arms were red from being outside. I watched her walk up the driveway, and when she saw me she stopped. She just looked at me. I went outside and asked what she needed. She just wanted to use the phone. I asked if she wanted to come in, but she didn’t. She just stood outside and used the phone and cried. When she handed the phone back to me I asked if she needed anything. She said she was fine. Fine she was not. Red hands, no coat to speak of, walking aimlessly across the street down one way and back up it again. Shortly after, the phone rang. “Did a woman call from this number?”

“Where is she?” “She’s walking around outside. Trying to cross the road. Do you want me to go get her?” “In the trailer court? Yeah get her.” “No, at 5th and Main. She just got into a van.” “OH, that must be my sister picking her up. Thank you.” My thoughts were, she walked from the trailer court? That has to be over a mile away just to get to the trailer court. That is a hell of a distance to walk and not stop for help. She had tattoos all the way down to her knuckles on one hand. I liked them. My dad thought maybe she got kicked out of her place by her boyfriend, the usual Christmas domestic. It’s been a weird Christmas.

“Yeah,” I said.

Impressions

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My Grandma’s Hero By Meghan Bartz My grandmother is still praising me for being there, and my uncle David. My parents told me that it is because when grandpa was still alive he was there for her. But now that he is gone there isn’t really anyone to take care of her. And I showed up to the hospital (she didn’t know anyone) and it made her comfortable and relieved.

things that I do, that I guess I’m not aware that I do, that reminds people.

I look at it this way, since I was always in the hospital when I was younger (asthma related every time) everyone would come to visit me; Grandparents, great aunts, parents, everyone.

“They taught me well,” chuckling to myself.

I know that I (in soul and attitude) am part of both of my grandfathers. I just have their attitudes and temperaments, their creativity and their scientism. I am both of my grandfathers combined.

So I find that it is just something that had to be done.

Like I was saying, one day I ate my grandmother’s dill pickles from her Dairy Queen basket (she just tosses them aside) and she smiled and said, “Just like your grandpa.”

However, what I guess I find the most odd is that I get compared to my grandfather a lot. I was grandpa’s girl, but there are

It may just be because I am his grandchild that I remind her of him, but you can never tell.

Gitche Gumee By Amber Lien

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Before the ... By Enkhtamir Otgondemberel

My Hard Times By Chadee Moss As a young girl, many thought that I was perfect. Had a fair complexion and long hair, others thought I was not worth it. They all were judging me from what they noticed on the surface. I was only looking for motivation, so that I would be encouraged. Running Mon Marina, where we were living, was called “the spot”. Down in Cavral Beach, straight up the hill and by the dock, Was a run-down place in front of an old abandoned lot. There the trees grew slumped, the building cracked, and the pool began to rot. Using moldy water from the pool to flush the toilet, We came back from a good day at school and this place would always spoil it. Six of us used one bathroom, which was too confined, So I disappeared for hours at a time just to get it off my mind. I’m asking you to hear me out. Can somebody please hear me out? I’m not looking to destroy my past; I am just trying to get these feelings out. Somebody please hear me out! My mom taught us though that we should appreciate our blessings, But alive and doing well with no food was still depressing. Now, the closest thing to a bath was soap and water from a bowl.

That place was old, and to me the hearts of my so-called extended family were “so cold”. The family was always out of town on business making the “paper”. They only came around when they needed us to do a favor, But those selfish people did not do anything for my family who I called “my peeps”. Now all these favors you are trying to give when others tried to help, you fake people can keep. We sat back trying to push through until there were holes in the couches, And in this house even insects complained about the roaches. Mum, no wonder why our hair would suddenly fall out, Because we tried and tried to make things work until our all was all out. I’m asking you to hear me out. Can somebody please hear me out? I’m not looking to destroy my past; I am just trying to get these feelings out. Somebody please hear me out! All those years you were aware of how you turned from friend to a foe, And when times were hard you knew that was when we needed you the most. Your hand is out asking to return those favors that you never did give, And now you see your time has come to live those hard times that we did.

Impressions

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Alone By Kodi Auch

The Unkillable Optimist Part 93 By Amanda Leftridge It was intermission of the final dress rehearsal. Everyone was in the dressing rooms scurrying to get into their heavy 19th century costumes, and she was busily trying to get her mustache to stay in place. They’d been hard at work at this damn production for weeks now, and the energy cutting the air was a tangible, clutching and tingling sensation pulsing in her chest. It had been a hard couple of weeks, but here on the brink of something wonderful, nothing mattered but this show. It was her sanity. She shoved the last stubborn curl into her hat, and turned to pull her coat from the hanger. She was relieved to see all but an oblivious costume hand had gone backstage, so no one caught her almost toppling over. Her hand drifted absent-mindedly to her belly, where for just a second there was a pang of pain. She blinked a few times, wondering if her high-waist pants were too tight. At thirteen weeks, she was expecting to have grown, but upon further inspection, it was clear that the pants fit the same way they always had.

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She didn’t have time to think about it, she decided, and went backstage. One of her latest friends called her over, indicating she should sit on her lap. She smiled and complied, reflecting on how much she loved the ways of the theatre world… so different from, and more welcoming than, anywhere else she’d been. The thought didn’t last long, however, before a wave of dizziness hit her. She was lucky to have been on her way down already. This friend began talking to her, and she was sure that what she had to say was of great importance, but she couldn’t focus on it. Her mind was on the sweat that was beginning to collect on her forehead and how warm her ordinarily cold, dry hands were. She spouted some response or other, amazingly managing to assuage the friend, and then she heard her cue. She got on stage in time to deliver her lines to satisfaction, but she didn’t feel like herself. Ordinarily this would be the point, but now the warm lights were too bright, her coat too heavy, and the boisterous nature of what she was doing felt un-


natural and awkward. She was happy to exit on the right, knowing that no one else would be back there. Once the door slammed behind her, she leaned heavily on a miscellaneous table. She looked down, frightened and confused, and touched her belly. “God, no.” she whispered. “No, God… not this, too… Please, God, don’t take my baby, too.” She fought to hold back the tears, afraid of ruining make-up that had taken almost ten minutes to get just right, and then took a deep breath. “No. There’s nothing wrong. I won’t… I can’t. I don’t believe it.” She tapped her heels lightly against the drum-like stage, careful that the sound didn’t go past her private backstage bubble, and listened for her next cue. She went on to deliver a single line, then exited, returning to her thoughts. “You’re ok, aren’t you, baby?” she said, looking down with almost a sense of pride, “You’re ok. We… We’re ok. And you know what? I’m not ever gonna let anybody take you away from me.” She stopped to listen again, but decided she didn’t care. She was talking to her baby, and that was more important than a show. “We’ve talked a little bit about… about the nice lady at church who lost her baby? And about how happy she and her man are, and how much they love their little boy and girl… and about how you could be happy in that family, too. Remember? I know they could give you so much more than I can… You know it too.” She stopped then, collecting herself and realizing she was almost late. She went on for her line, and exited again. “I love you so much, honey… I promise you, I really, really do. But that’s why… that’s why I can’t keep you… I’m all alone, baby. My man left… I’m still living with my mom, for God’s sake! What am I supposed to do? Live off the charity of everyone else? What kind of life is that? You deserve better than that… you deserve so much more than that… you deserve so much more… “You know what you deserve? Do you? You deserve to have a daddy who isn’t gonna leave you.

You deserve a mommy who can take care of you, and send you to a good school without worrying about how much it costs or whether or not she’s going to be able to graduate herself. You deserve to live somewhere clean, and safe, and have your own bedroom, and not have to worry about whether or not you’re in someone’s way. You need that… and I can’t give it to you. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, but I just can’t…” She wiped away a tear, frustrated that she couldn’t do anything to keep it from falling. “In the mean time…” she sniffed. Another entrance, this time only a brief opening of the door, and another exit. “You’re ok. You’re gonna be ok… God, please be ok…” She clenched her fists then, disgusted that she could even think like that. “You know what, baby? I’m going to get through this semester, and have a great summer, and then you know what? I am going to deliver you… and that son of a bitch who abandoned us isn’t ever gonna come anywhere near you. His name’s not even going on the birth certificate. I promise. And that lady’s gonna adopt you, and fall in love with you just as much as I have, and treat you just like her other kids. And she’s got a job, and her man’s a lawyer, so you’re gonna get everything you need… and then some! You’ll never have to be afraid. And you’re gonna graduate and go to college, and fall in love (just for the conversation’s sake we’re gonna say you’re a boy) with a pretty girl who’s gonna stay by your side and respect you. And you’ll get a good job that you love, and you’ll get married, and have kids of your own, and you’ll grow old with your wife by your side every step of the way. And then one day, you’ll die, and you’ll be able to look back at your life and laugh, and say how great a ride it was.” Light change, a slamming door… “Right now I hafta go on stage… ‘Cause I love the stage, too… but don’t you ever forget: I will always love you more.” The rest of the night went smoothly, and she was satisfied to know that it was going to be a very successful show. The next morning, she woke up refreshed and threw off the covers… And screamed.

Life By Linda Peterson When I was a child, the teacher would put on music and tell us to draw lines and circles to the music. Then we had to try and pick out something of a design in the midst of our random lines. We were to color it and see how pretty we could make it. Sometimes that is like life. Inside we have a paint brush that is making all sorts of lines and circles to the accompaniment of the music of life. Maybe when our life is over, we will see a beautiful creation appear from the midst of what appears to be nothing but chaos.

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My Caboose By Linda Peterson

Pretty i Small Town USA By Linda Peterson

Summer Evening

By Sarah H 24

Impressions


Temple That Hindu visit By Sanju Karki

Lilacs in the Snow By Linda Peterson

n Pink By Brabim Hamal

Holle Impressions

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Selling Bodies By Luke Rice I bought a bracelet. It’s a thin, green and black creation with white stripes. The strings are woven extremely tight in the middle for durability; the frayed ends were loosely crocheted for the purpose of making the tying and untying of the bracelet around one’s wrist easier, and I liked how they dangled from my wrist, blowing in the wind as I walked. It is very nice, but its meaning goes much deeper than a simple fashion statement. I wondered who made this bracelet with such skill and precision, though (to be honest) I knew roughly who made it. In truth, the reason I purchased the bracelet and told its salesman to keep the change was because I did know (in a general sense) who had made it. It was made by one of the many women in the Philippines who weave bracelets like mine by hand and ship them all over the world to be sold in an attempt to free their sisters, daughters, and themselves from forced prostitution. I had wanted to get involved for a long time. A while before I was united with my bracelet, I watched a video about anger. In the video, a calm-faced man stared directly into a camera, onto a television, and into my very heart. He talked about how people lose their tempers and engage in the aggravated past time of road rage, and how some will blow up with an explosion of words just because the server at their favorite restaurant got their dinner order wrong. The man stared at me and said that they didn’t have an anger problem. There is no such thing as an anger problem. What these people had was a priority problem. Anger can be good. Anger motivates people. The real problem was that the road ragers and food critics had no idea what they were supposed to be angry and motivated about, so they just released their anger on innocent bystanders. The trick with this anger business is that, as human beings, we use our time, money, and other resources to get what we want. We get what makes us happy. What we should be doing is using what we have to stop the things that make us really angry inside. And what I’m angry about is sexual slavery and child prostitution around the world. I want so badly to end the suffering and the dehumanization of women around the world. So, when I saw the bracelet stand that day, I hurried to the nearest ATM, withdrew a fresh twenty dollar bill, and bought my bracelet for one dollar. The other nineteen dollars was a donation. I felt good about myself. I helped someone. I hoped that the woman who made my bracelet knew that although we had never met, I cared about her. I made a difference. Even after the bracelet was mine and the extra nineteen dollars were gone, I was still angry. Prostitution puts a price tag on a human being. But the value is more than nineteen dollars. The value of a woman is much more than any asking price. Even if I gave all the money in the world, it wouldn’t end forced prostitution or my anger. I offer these words instead. The true value of a woman is her body, mind, heart, soul. Therefore, to end sexual slavery, we must devote our bodies and our minds and our hearts and our souls. Any economist knows that business is controlled by the universal law of supply and demand. As the demand increases,

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so must the supply. Prostitution is no different. If everyone in the world supported the cause of eliminating the demand for prostitution, there would be no prostitution--both consensual and forced. To support the institution of legal prostitution, creates a demand which is ultimately filled through sexual slavery. We support prostitution everyday, whether we do it consciously or not. For by supporting the ideas which create the system, we are indirectly supporting the act itself. The parts of ourselves in which these ideas are created must be devoted to (re)valuing the women we have taken advantage of. First, we must devote our bodies. Let me qualify that this does not mean denouncing sex. Sex is a wonderful gift -- one of the greatest given to mankind. It is the beautiful joining of two people on a spiritual, emotional, and (obviously) physical level. The most horrific things on earth, however, are those beautiful things that have been twisted. We have urges -- as human beings -- that were given to us in our very creation. They are who we are on a biological level. They should be listened to, but only in the condition that they are used for their beauty and not for more selfish gain. We have hormones streaming through our bodies that drive us towards procreation. We have a definite sexual drive. Those hormones can either drive us towards a beautiful sex, or they can drive up the demand for prostitution and the objectification of our bodies. For example, I was walking down the street with my friends one night. We came up to a man holding a stack of cards. He smiled as he handed us each a card. Printed on one side was a picture of a nude woman. The other side was the phone number and location of a local strip club. Throughout the night, we met other card peddlers who added to our collection. Strip clubs, pornography, phone sex hotlines, escort services, etc. Any way that a dollar could be made off of the female body was represented in the assortment. Upon reflection, those cards were some of the most evil things I’ve ever seen. The picture on one side induced those hormones that I have already said are natural, useful, and good. The businesses that print their information on the back, however, are playing on our natural desire to make love and using it for their own desire to make money. Any business that sells sex is essentially selling bodies as a commodity. The product of this booming business is what makes me angry, because the corporate scale of prostitution begins with phone sex (the most minor form of prostitution) and culminates in women being sold as sexual slaves around the world. Both men and women are guilty. If men refused to take part in any of these forms of sexual selling, there would be no demand and no market. If women refused to work consensually in these businesses, they would cut off the growing demand for services that objectify any part of their body. The next step we can take in stopping the selling of bodies is to devote our minds to the cause. Our minds are our most powerful body part. As such, they are our most powerful sexual tool. Both men and women can become aroused through a single sexual thought. The power of the mind -- being immense as it is -- must not be let run loose but rather controlled and focused. The body is the need center of humans. It tells us to eat, drink, exercise, have sex, etc. The mind is the reasoning center of humans. It tells us what is the best course of action through reason, instead of the cause and effect nature of the body. One way we must separate our minds from our bodies is


in our media. We have to stop buying into the idea that sex sells. It is yet another supporter of selling sex. By bombarding ourselves and others with sexual advertising, we are relating the idea of sex with the principles of business once again. A milder form of selling the body, sexual advertising appeals to our hormones to make a product more desirable. Many high performance car companies use scantily clad models at their car shows. The woman grabs people’s attention through their sex drive, and they draw that attention to what the company wants their customer to drive. We must focus our minds, however, on what is the most reasonable purchase. We must ask ourselves if we really need the car. If we really want the car. Instead, the company is hoping that men will associate a nice car with an attractive woman. The anticipated conclusion is that if men want to ride a woman like the model, they need to drive the car. By buying the car, however, they are buying into a company that uses the female body for their own purposes. We must also follow our hearts in a way that devotes them to eliminating the objectification of people. The most intentional way that people (men and women) are objectified is in our hearts. People are often used for sex in the same way that a hammer is used to conjoin two pieces of wood. There is no emotional connection between the hammer and whatever it is nailing. There is no emotional connection with the casual sex partner. I’m not saying that you must love someone to have sex with them--though I do believe you should love them. The American legal system requires mutual consent. To devote

one’s heart requires mutual respect. When a person is viewed as a means to relieve that hormonal sex drive, they are a tool. They are an object. By respecting a sexual partner, however, we must acknowledge that they are a person. What does this have to do with forced prostitution? It is impossible for a human to deny the moral degeneration in selling another person who has their own thoughts and feelings and dreams. We know that it is wrong. When we see people as tools and objects, however, they are transformed into commodities. Commodities are meant to be sold. Meant to be traded. Suddenly, the moral line is erased from the matter. Lastly, we must dedicate our souls. The soul -- that is the eternal essence of who we are -- transcends any physical situation. That is to say that if we are devoted with the very essence of our being we will never buy or sell sex. We will never buy into the ideas that support the sex market. We will stand firm in the war against our own societies. Stand firm in a battle for not only the freedom of women around the world, but also a battle for our very selves. It is easy to be angry about sexual slavery. Easy to want to do something about it. It is much harder to make the change. That change, however, is what we (as a global population of men and women) are charged with. If we have extra income, we should donate it to help save women from sexual slavery around the world. If we truly reject that sexual slavery, we must save ourselves from being a component of it.

Kitten in a Kettle By Chelsea Sorenson

Impressions

27


My Friend, North Dakota By Amber Lien

I haven’t always felt as I do now. I once felt the exact opposite. Unfortunately, I’m unable to remember the moment I started to feel this way, but I can tell you that it was not very long ago. It’s not that the emotion is new, but that which it is directed towards. I am feeling a new found love for a new found friend. It’s not the kind of friendship that comes and goes, but the kind that withstands the test of time. This special friend is not a person, but rather a way of life and the place in which I live, North Dakota. It is my first home and the place in which my roots will remain forever buried. North Dakota is home to many contented citizens like me, who find its atmosphere enchanting. What is unique about this place that many hold so close to their hearts and why do people choose to make North Dakota their home? The reasons are too numerous to count, but here’s a few. North Dakota is a land of simplicity. It resounds of an old agrarian lifestyle, rich in heritage and history. The culture of the U.S. revolves around technology and growth, not the past. The majority of the population desires this in order to move and interact in socially pleasing activities. Although North Dakota is growing and being transformed through new technologies, it is doing so in areas like energy not entertainment. North Dakota lacks the large metropolises, theme parks, and cultural centers that society utilizes for entertainment. Our state moves at a slower pace than the rest of the United States. But all is not lost, because North Dakota possesses the power to hypnotize us with its grace and simplicity. As we all know, life can seem uncontrollable at times, especially in a fast paced environment. In North Dakota things are not as unruly. This is in part due to a dominant agrarian lifestyle. Crops and cattle move and mature according to the seasons; therefore, North Dakotans live by the seasons. The seasons come and go, taking considerable time as they do. As a result, we have more time. We have more time to think, feel, taste, touch, smell, and hear. This allows some to see life through a different lens, a much simpler and clearer lens that ceases to be tainted by the workings of a complicated world. With this lens, North Dakota is a land of self-discovery. Life’s complexities can also be found in the human personality. Our personalities may consist of agreeableness, melancholy, deviance, authenticity, coldness, vainness, and a range of other characteristics. Personalities are unique to their beholder. But the places in which we choose to live have the distinct ability to leave their own unique imprint on our spirits. North Dakotans have their own mark of distinction. Many have a can-do attitude, which is necessary to our character as we must survive blizzards that threaten to blow us away. In the face of these winter demons, a can-do attitude is the only thing detaining us, less we drop our snow shovels, leaving our sidewalks and driveways to the mercy of

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Mother Nature. With this spirit, North Dakotans have the ability to survive. Unlike the human personality, which is rather consistent, the character of North Dakota weather is not. What a wide selection of meteorological cuisine there is to sample. If you don’t like the weather at any present moment, stick around because it is bound to change intermittently. If you prefer teeth chattering blizzards, we have exactly what you’re looking for. On the other hand, if you prefer hair raising thunderstorms, we have those as well. This variety in meteorological conditions is quite rejuvenating. I am particularly fond of thunderstorms and the intense chill of winter. Our thunderstorms give perspective to how delicate the balance of life and nature are, while the intense cold has the ability to make one feel rugged and undaunted. Winter’s intense chill is especially restorative, making one feel as though they have been handed a new perspective on life by a cold hand. With its weather, North Dakota can renew the senses of any disheartened soul. Like our weather, music exists in many varieties. Music serves as a soundtrack to not only movies, but the lives of all. The same can be said about the echoes and reverberations of North Dakota, such as the howl of the wind, the rippling sound of the tawny grass, or the hoot of an owl at dusk.These natural whisperings are musical compositions in their own right. They are but a few melodies that grace the landscape of North Dakota. These melodies provide North Dakota with a medium in which to transport its history through the veins of all, like a soundtrack to a movie. The echoes of North Dakota are the soundtrack of my life. With its musical resonance, North Dakota comes through loud and clear. Just as music can be a powerful medium of expression, so can the written word. Those who don’t believe that need only look at some of the most powerful examples in history, such as the Declaration of Independence or the Bible. That is why I chose to write this piece. I could think of nothing else that could sufficiently confer my love and appreciation of this great state. As William Wordsworth once wrote, “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart” (BrainyQuote 1). Although this might be the end of my musings about North Dakota, it is not the end of my relationship with the state. Dakota means “friend” in Lakota. Justly so, North Dakota has provided me with friendship at times when I’ve been uncertain about my future. Whether it was a North Dakota sunset or the call of a coyote in the distance, this state has provided me with more friendship than I deserve. With its caring hand, may North Dakota be a friend to all who find themselves wandering within its reach. Works Cited: Brainy Quote.22Feb.2010<http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/ authors/w/william_wordsworth.html


Horses in Snow By Linda Peterson

The Space Between

Defined

By Anita Weiler

By Kyla Strasheim Save me. Little knots of words, little sculptures of reality. Save me. Pin on me “buoyant” and “resolute” and “all-consuming.” And, tell me, is my smile full of “sick desperation” or “iron will”? Your choice, but help me out here. Tweak me, words. Bend my reality to something more.... a) palatable b) likely to keep me sane c) all of the above. Use terms like “liberated” and nix any use of “betrayal.” And, if you can, steer me away from petty inspriation so that next time we meet we have something else to talk about.

To you, Just words, A jumble of sounds poking and prying And getting in the way, Not poetry And barely prose. You feel it is fine, and all is well And how little it matters That I don’t feel the same. To you, Just words. To me, A tumbling calligraphy of life’s dance, The truth of a thing And all of its lies. A studied comparison of the top-side And of the underneath And how from different view points It may not be apparent That we are looking at the same thing.

Impressions

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Frightened Animal By Meghan Bartz My skin thickened, My hair stood straight out, I growled, A warning not to come near, I was like this for years, Avoiding contact with everyone, My brain deceived me, My past crept up on me, I couldn’t see throught it, I was drowning, I forced myself to talk to someone, I stood there, Sounding crazy, With my head down, Shaking Well now you have to figure out If you are introverted or extroverted.

Adventure By Kristi Heinrich

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Impressions

Observing Nonverbal Signals By Linda Peterson My goal was to observe people from a distance and try to analyze what nonverbal signals were being sent. This was a very interesting analytical experience. There is so much happening in a room full of people it is hard to process all the signals that are being sent. My family went to a citywide dinner and I decided that this would be a great opportunity to gather information on nonverbal communication. It was awesome. I truly sat and paid attention to all that was taking place around me. Many times I tend to tune out what is happening outside my immediate area and I found I was missing a lot. As I entered this room full of people, I found my reaction was to look until I found someone I knew quite well. When I found that person, I waited until we made eye contact. As soon as eye contact was established, communication through kinesics began. I smiled and they smiled back. Then we acknowledged each other with a nod of the head. I felt welcome due to the response I got from the other individual. Humans enjoy and need communication with one another. As my husband and I went through the food line, everyone was bantering back and forth as if all belonged to one big happy family. The communication taking place was a mixture of verbal and nonverbal. As people spoke to one another, eye contact was established. The people involved in conversation tended to lean towards each other in an attempt to catch every word that was spoken. When I got to the end of the food line, a woman came up to me and started talking to me. She seemed hesitant to terminate the conversation. I finally picked up the signal of what she was waiting for, a hug. We then shared communication through haptics, the use of touch. After I gave her a hug, she left and I went to my table. As I was eating, I observed what was happening around me. One young boy was very interesting to watch. He was skipping and dancing around in the open area of the room. If you did not watch carefully, you would have thought he was oblivious to what was happening around him. His body language was loud and clear. “Look at me! Look at me! I am having fun! Do you think I skip and dance well?” You could see by the look on his face he wanted recognition and approval. People are different, but people are very much the same. All those around me seemed to have the same need, interaction with others. It was interesting to observe the communication taking place without hearing a word. You could see people smiling and enjoying the companionship of each other. Hands were waving and emphasizing the words that were spoken. Communication is a gift from God. It truly is something we humans cannot live without.


A February Affair By James J. Ryan

They are all just waiting for rides for death for appointments.

His covers are wrinkling at the middle this Joseph Brodsky

Am I the only man here not allowed to see his alcoholic mother…

He goes in my back pocket, and out, and back again, and out bending as I sit and stand and sit and stand.

If the doctor knew I had driven here…

My ankles chill with the door’s opening and closing: its good manners automated and whirring. I am that close. Joseph is out and I breath, but no. He goes back in. My stomach is as sick as one binging on ice cream: churning, curdling, begging to erupt in soft velveteen fountains of foam and acidic wisps Like fifth grade volcanic Kinesthetic pyrotechny A woman with sleepy wrists walks by and I want to ask her what it is like. I also want to hold her. I don’t ask. I could hold a grenade wrapped in razor-wire, unpinned, right now. Am I the only one in this damn hospital who is uncertain? I am the only one rubbing the back of his neck, kneading his mouth, pacing the 86 steps from the receptionist’s desk to the elevators. Come here Joseph, “Seasons are metaphors...” No, go go, no, go

I just… No, she must go on her own, for her pride. Or does she need me for support? or will I be an out, a way to get home, all two hundred miles to avoid more treatment. I’ll just guard the main entrance in case she runs I’m up he’s out open: “beauty at low temperatures is beauty,” Damn it Joe head back, book shut, in. hand— neck, chin, cheeks FFFF…hair Am I the only man in this hospital with a lilac and lavender girlfriend leaving him by text message right now? Stay, go open, close free will? choices an upset stomach

Impressions

31


Chairs By Kristi Heinrich

To Live and Undie By Luke Rice I had always been under the impression that if ever there was an uprising of the undead, I would be the first to go. The once desolate land at the southern edge of the Las Vegas valley is said to contain the cadavers of ex-mafia gangsters, who crossed the syndicate and now occupy the dirt under the foundation of the house my family moved into. My childish daydreams were like nightmares of a real life scene from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” music video. Except, instead of zombies awing the world with their dance moves, I was haunted by visions of the pinstripe clad undead tearing through my room with tommy guns--my brain was toast. Fifteen years passed, and I came home from college for the first time. The city had moved in around that old house. What once seemed to me the emptiest place in the world, was now filled with schools and churches and strip malls. I grabbed my old, faithful skateboard (my truck was sold upon my departure for college) and set out for the 7-11 down the street. I was about to embark on an epic pilgrimage to obtain the sweet manna that I craved during all those late nights studying away from home: a chili dog and a slurpee. The wheels made a constant grinding noise underneath me, as I dodged traffic down the newly paved roads. As I approached the gas station parking lot, apprehension struck me at the recognition of a familiar yet decidedly changed face. His name was Diego. He was one of the smartest students in my high school class, or at least he worked hard towards that goal. Diego and I were never the closest of friends-at least not close enough to stay in touch while I was gone--but I had been to his house a few times for school projects. His mother would cook us tamales or empanadas while we studied.

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This graciousness made me feel ashamed when Diego came to my house, and all I could offer him was a hot pocket. His parents held on to the values, like hospitality, they had learned growing up in Mexico. There was no doubt that their migration to America after Diego’s birth was what made them push him to achieve. Now, however, I didn’t see the same skinny teenage boy with math problems swimming around in his head. His head was tightly shaved, and his clothes hung loosely around his body. An oversized flannel, buttoned at the top button, hung down to the top of his belt, which rested halfway between his waist and his knees. Under the belt, spotless work pants sagged and scrunched their way down to the ankles, where they were tucked into a pair of seemingly unused work boots. His hands rested firmly in his pockets as he slumped on an orange Ford Mustang with a blue lightning bolt streaking down the side and a spoiler hanging off the end. I hoped he wouldn’t notice me. I didn’t want to acknowledge the change that only a few years had made. The stranger, however, locked his eyes on me and tilted his head back as if he were pointing his chin at me. “Yo homie, you bang blood now,” he said as he raised one arm up to point out the red headband I was wearing. “No man,” I said with uneasiness, as I pulled the bandana off my head, “I just wear it to keep the hair out of my eyes, when I skate.” At this, Diego’s face changed from a stone frown to a vicious smile. “Bro, you need to get a set of wheels,” he said as he lifted his foot onto the side of the car and lowered the pointing finger to shake my hand. “Get off my back,” I replied jokingly, “I just got home from college.” I felt that we had regained the old friendship of high school, but just then the stone harshness returned to his visage and his voice: “I’m over that. No way am I working all day for some stupid grades anymore. I’m trying to get paid and live my life.” Diego spread his arms to each side as he said this. I could see the edges of tattoos poking out through his sleeves. They looked like feathers, as if some great bird was flapping its wings in a vain attempt to fly from his wrists. “But since you’re back, you should celebrate,” continued Diego, “Shaw’s having a party at the warehouse tomorrow.” *** Shaw was the kind of person who was never satisfied. No one knew much about what his father did, but everyone knew that he made a lot of money at whatever it was. Shaw’s father gave his family everything, except for his time. That was much too precious a commodity for the business man who had a hand in the pockets of every major casino in town. Shaw was given anything he could bother to ask for. In addition to fast cars and designer clothes, Shaw was given a seemingly unlimited allowance, which he used to buy beer, drugs, and most of our classmates’ friendship. He never had to lift a finger to do a day’s work in all his life. To put it plainly, Shaw was a brat. Sensing Shaw’s lethargic nature, his father tried to teach Shaw the value of labor by making him get a job in the family business. Shaw started working as an assistant manager of one of his dad’s many warehouses in the industrial district of town. Instead of learning what it meant to work, however, Shaw only


discovered more inventive ways of getting out of doing anything. The new job furnished him with the keys to an empty warehouse in a part of town that was emptied of every living soul after five o’clock every Friday. The parties were things of legend in high school. But, to be honest, I had never been to the warehouse. I had no idea what to expect when I slowly pulled my mother’s car into the unlit parking lot behind the massive grey box. I could hear a few seconds of some music, then complete silence. After a couple minutes, heavily synthesized techno music would play again and then disappear. I followed the phantom tempo around the side of the building, where a huge garage door interrupted the solid concrete wall. When knocked on, the garage door would open like Ali Baba’s cave. For a few seconds, the blaring music inside would tear through air of the desolate streets until a handfuls of kids could pour into the warehouse and be swallowed up by the mouth of the gargantuan door. I knocked and entered. There was Shaw; he had this habit of standing by the entrance of any room, so that anyone who entered couldn’t help but recognize him. His designer shirt was unbuttoned and half of it fell off of his right shoulder. He had a metal pipe (the purpose of which I couldn’t exactly guess) in one hand and the waist of a rather haggard looking young girl in the other. Her hair was disheveled and her dress wrinkled as she wrapped her arms around Shaw’s almost shirtless body, either for the purpose of enticing him or because she couldn’t stand on her own. The girl looked as if she couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Their eyes burned red and squinted at irregular intervals. Somehow, Shaw found the ability to speak: “This is the bast pary ever. I should go down in history for this. I’m the king of Las Vagas.” He then turned his attention on me, “What do you need? We got drank and weed and rollers and snow and dust and codeine and sugar cubes and …” he seemed to be searching for something that his mind couldn’t perceive in his current state. The fanatic was obviously proud of his selection and the fact that he was rich enough to give it all away. Shaw was Bacchus and this was his wine. “No thanks. I’m good,” I replied politely and quickly shuffled my feet deeper into this cave of ice. I heard Shaw’s attempt to whisper that became a full fledged scream, “What’s wrong with that guy?” The lights were out in the main warehouse. The air was heavy, thick, and dark. My eyes being poorly adjusted to the low light, I stumbled around and tripped over someone sleeping in a dark brown pool that had sprung from a rectangular 40 oz bottle. Upon further inspection, I saw that it was Diego. He didn’t even stir when I accidentally kicked him. My eyes began to brighten the enormous room. I realized that it was not only the darkness which impeded my vision but also a thick haze of mixed smokes; it smelled like death. A now fully shirtless Shaw came stumbling in behind me and made his way to the nearest corner on his hands and knees. His body became harder to see as he slunk through the cloud made by his artificial triumph. I walked on further to discover what this place really was. The warehouse was used for a tech storage space. Hundreds of black computer servers towered about the room. They looked like so many colossal headstones in the rows

of this industrial graveyard. Fog--in the form of smoke--drifted between the giant grave markers. I began to see dark images spring from the tombs and creep slowly through the mist. They came closer, and I could see the faces. Some I didn’t know. Many I recognized as the features of my former classmates. They were, however, noticeably changed. It was more than just a physical disfigurement. It seemed as if they had been changed to the very depths of their souls. They tried to speak, but it all came out like incomprehensible moaning. Their minds were gone. Nothing but their forms gave me an impression of humanity. They noticed me through their blurry and bloodshot eyes. They began to approach. I heard a shrieking come from the corner. I turned my eyes and peered through the mist. There sat Shaw--curled up and shivering from his bad trip. Again he screamed, “The horror! The horror!” The mindless, soulless beings have surrounded me. I perceive through the fog that the undead army of vacant bodies has set their eyes on me. There are too many monsters. I have no hope of escape. Stumbling forward, the abominations come slowly closer. They are descending on me from all around.

Surreal Sunshine By Ali Wang

Impressions

33


What Are You Saying By Linda Peterson The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis states “the ways in which people perceive the world around them, including their natural and social environments, is essentially dictated by their language.” Sapir also concludes “people of different languages see different worlds.” This concept was brought home to me in speaking to my son. A number of years ago, my family was planning a trip to Canada to play on a huge water slide. My youngest son and I were discussing what items should be brought along for the trip. I was thinking about the water slides and how the slides were built into the hillside. I thought of the stickers that could be present in the grass. I looked at my son and said I was thinking of bringing thongs along for the day. The look on his face was worth a thousand words. He was thoroughly appalled. It was not until I saw his face that I realized what I was saying was not what he was hearing. I said I was going to take thongs along for the trip. In my mind I am thinking the flip-flop, sandal type apparel that would protect my feet from the stickers in the grass. My son was hearing, “Mom is taking a thong bathing suit!” His thoughts were reflected on his face. He did not think it would be appropriate for a woman my age, especially his mother, to be seen in public in a “thong bathing suit.” Another example of miscommunication between our generations is the word “hiney.” My husband and I were discussing the “hiney” hair cut and my son had no idea what we were talking about. We were talking about a hiney, which is a very short haircut. My son is thinking “hiney”, a nice female behind. Two very different meanings for the same word! As I thought about these differences of language in two generations, I was reminded of how careful I need to be when I speak to someone I do not know someone who may have a different interpretation of the English language. What I say is not always what the other person hears! That does not mean that I am wrong or they are wrong, it just means we look at the world through different eyes. Observing Nonverbal Signals My goal was to observe people from a distance and try to analyze what nonverbal signals were being sent. This was a very interesting analytical experience. There is so much happening in a room full of people it is hard to process all the signals that are being sent. My family went to a citywide dinner and I decided that this would be a great opportunity to gather information on nonverbal communication. It was awesome. I truly sat and paid attention to all that was taking place around me. Many times I tend to tune out what is happening outside my immediate area and I found I was missing a lot.

34

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As I entered this room full of people, I found my reaction was to look until I found someone I knew quite well. When I found that person, I waited until we made eye contact. As soon as eye contact was established, communication through kinesics began. I smiled and they smiled back. Then we acknowledged each other with a nod of the head. I felt welcome due to the response I got from the other individual. Humans enjoy and need communication with one another. As my husband and I went through the food line, everyone was bantering back and forth as if all belonged to one big happy family. The communication taking place was a mixture of verbal and nonverbal. As people spoke to one another, eye contact was established. The people involved in conversation tended to lean towards each other in an attempt to catch every word that was spoken. When I got to the end of the food line, a woman came up to me and started talking to me. She seemed hesitant to terminate the conversation. I finally picked up the signal of what she was waiting for, a hug. We then shared communication through haptics, the use of touch. After I gave her a hug, she left and I went to my table. As I was eating, I observed what was happening around me. One young boy was very interesting to watch. He was skipping and dancing around in the open area of the room. If you did not watch carefully, you would have thought he was oblivious to what was happening around him. That was far from the truth! I watched him carefully and he was constantly looking to see if anyone was watching him. His body language was loud and clear. “Look at me! Look at me! I am having fun! Do you think I skip and dance well?” You could see by the look on his face he wanted recognition and approval. People are different, but people are very much the same. All those around me seemed to have the same need, interaction with others. It was interesting to observe the communication taking place without hearing a word. You could see people smiling and enjoying the companionship of each other. Hands were waving and emphasizing the words that were spoken. Communication is a gift from God. It truly is something we humans cannot live without. Male/Female Communication My husband and I have basically been raised in similar environments, but our communication methods are quite different. It has been an interesting and difficult time learning how to effectively communicate. When we were first married, comments and actions were easily misunderstood. As we have matured in our relationship, it has become easier to understand what the other person is trying to communicate. There are still times when we have to work on communication because it is easy to fall into old habits of assuming the other person thinks and responds like we do. My husband and I are different in the type of load environments each one can function in. He is much more comfortable in a low-load environment. He does best when there


is only one person or one circumstance to contend with. It is hard to divert his attention from the first thing at hand. When my husband is watching TV, it is very difficult to get his attention. I have had to learn that he is not trying to ignore me, but he really cannot hear what I am saying because his attention is focused on what he is watching. I, on the other hand, do very well in a highload environment. I can carry on two conversations at one time and I enjoy every minute of the stimulation. I am more easily bored with a low-load environment. I seem to need a challenge. Because we are so different in this area, we have had to learn to adapt to each other’s type of communication. I have had to learn to wait for the opportunity to open in order for me to get his attention and he has had to learn to try and be more observant of what is going on around him especially when I am in the same room with him. It is not easy, but it is worth the effort.

Unrequited Love By Natalia Kharina

A lovely girl I used to know does never more exist Because the girl fell for the guy And that exactly girl is me I’ve never thought of pain in love, of how it makes you feel It hurts; it burns inside your soul It hardly makes you breath

My husband and I have similar thought processes concerning nature and animals. Nature and animals are to be respected and appreciated for what they are. We are also similar in our need for order in our semi-fixed space. There is a little difference in our opinion of informal space. I tend to be a cuddly type person in the intimate distance level and he still needs his personal space even on the intimate level. That was a hard obstacle to overcome in our relationship. Again, when each of us tries to understand how the other person thinks and feels, it is easier to contend with the differences. I had to understand that just because my husband did not like to snuggle with me, it did not mean he did not love me. He showed me he loved me in other ways. It has also been interesting to see how we have changed by living together for so long. He has become cuddlier in the intimate distance level and I have learned to be more distant. We have learned to compensate for our differences.

The worst of all of being in love is unrequited love

The greatest challenge of our relationship had been the concept of time. When we were first married, I tended to be on the far side of the monochronic time orientation. My husband, on the other hand, was, and still is, on the far side of the polychronic time orientation. This put a strain on our marriage. I would always be upset because we were always late, and he really didn’t care if we were late or not. Through the years, I have had to learn to become more polychronic. This is one area where my husband has not changed very much. He still has no concept of time when he is working on something. His personality has been good for me, though, because he has taught me to relax and not fret if things are not done as scheduled.

Inside my soul there’s still a hope

As I look over my life with my husband and how we have both had to learn to communicate in a new manner, it makes we realize that these lessons can be used in learning how to communicate with other people from other cultures. I believe patience and acceptance of our differences is a large part of developing a relationship that is conductive to effective communication. When we can learn to try and understand what the other person is thinking, when we stop trying to make people act and react like we do, we will be able to communicate in a much more effective manner.

The loss for words, the loss of heart That’s how it makes you feel The loss of nerve, the loss of mind That’s all about love But how it makes the other person feel When he is not in love? You slam the door in front of face I turn around and feel how cold you are, how cruel you are That’s how you make me feel You’ll come for me and say; I love you, I need you miss You are the one I pray To be with me, to share my dreams And never go away. My heart is torn and bleeds to death By nasty things you say I wish I could turn back the time And never meet you on my way But life is cruel and love is cruel What keeps me strong today? A hope that you’ll change your mind and say: What fool you were, that you regret But I will say: “Too late.”

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35


The Oak and the Girl By Christine Hetzel The mist oozing into the dim countryside starts dripping into an early morning rain. The winding road that disappears into the huge trees is traversed by only one: a lone walker, shoulders slouched forward into a black scarf and equally dark winter jacket and backpack. With her eyes downcast, she trudges through the fallen leaves. Stepping a beam of light that somehow managed to stream though the branches that were still laden with autumn leaves, she stops in surprise. Her face gazes upward, and the tearstains on her face and the redness of her bright eyes make it apparent that she has been crying. Her mouth opens slightly, and her expression is one of wonder. Her eyes fill with many conflicting emotions, but eventually the darker ones push out the others, and a cold look that reflects a terrible conclusion settles hard on her features. Her face falls once more onto the road, and she continues on her way. A glistening tear falls to the thick blanket of fallen leaves that are soft under her tread. The tall oak watching her approach up the path can feel her misery; her anguish is perceptible in every swallowed cry. The tree had seen many walk down this lane, some in joy, and others in grief like the young woman walking ever closer, but it had never felt as it did now. Some new feeling was taking over: a need to comfort, to protect. It struggled to reach out to her, to whisper sweet comfort into her ear, but was unable to move. In its mind, it screamed out for her, for her intent was clear in her face. It wondered how any creature could decide such a thing as it fought to reach her. The leaves clinging to their branches tremble

as they fill with energy. The oak silently rejoices at its accomplishment, then gasps internally in fear; the troubled girl how has reached it. She kneels with her bag at her feet, and she pulls out a long white rope, the end of which she quickly fashions into a looping knot. The tree struggles harder than ever to stop her, and sends up a desperate plea to the cloudy heavens. The girl flings the end of the rope over a branch, then secures the other end to a gnarled root protruding from the ground. Using up its previously unknown strength, the giant oak wrenches itself, and great slabs of bark and splinters of wood fly in all directions. As tremendous cracking fills the air, the girl screams and curls into a ball on the ground. A thunderous boom accompanies an incredible thud as the tree, snapped near its base, collapses against the sodden, rigid earth. When the girl looks up, shaking in fear, she stares at the beautiful, dying oak lying in the mist near her. As the last of the dust and leaves settle, the whisper of the leaves against each other seems to speak to her. Her eyes fill with tears as she listens to the tree’s message to her‌you are loved‌ A year later, as the leaves in the woods slowly turn from a vivid green to bright shades of orange and yellow under the warm sun, a traveler walks up the lane. Her head is held high and her face is calm. She finds her way to the decaying oak hidden in tall grasses. Kneeling beside it, she smoothes her hand down its rough bark. Her expression is sorrowful. She shifts, uncomfortable, then freezes. Reaching down, she pulls an acorn out from under her knee. A bright smile transforms her expression to one of delight, and she searches around the ground for more acorns. Happily she leaps to her feet, laughing, and gazes into the clear sky. She walks up the path from whence she came, cradling her acorns, the final gift from the compassionate oak that saved her.

Dandelion Wonderland By Natalia Kharina

36

Impressions


2-D Art By Michelle Dahl

Girl-Dude Reads Between Lines, Demolishes First Date By Kelsey Reidle You are not a poet just because your jeans

Strategic planning at its finest.

Fit like that.

By the way,

I can press the enter key too,

You missed a spot shaving.

And call it art. You’re not an artist because you “Almost

You have girl hands.

Thought About”

Have you ever had a job

Backpacking once.

outside of Old Navy?

Any fool can make it

No, Ron Jon doesn’t count.

As a transient.

Do you even know how to surf, fakerboy? Oh, you helped on your

Drink your import.

uncle’s farm once?

It’s bitter, I know, but the

When you were fourteen?

Label matches your costume.

How noble of you.

Make me beg to know what lies Beneath the mystery

You’re irritating me.

currently covered in

I’ll have another Sapphire Tonic, thanks.

shaggy chic goatee.

Impressions

37


Fallen Angel

The Flower Maiden By Michael Huschka

I met a girl who fell from the sky. She seems to be an angel, but tends to lie. So all her holy I see, It seems is only towards me. She takes her revenge on the rest. She claims the devil has taken her best. I don’t know whose will she intends to carry out, I have a lot of questions that make her say, “Bury the doubt.” I’m conflicted with whether or not I can save her soul, I keep asking if I’m the brave to complete this goal. Does she deserve redemption? Maybe she’s the exception. It’s hard to tell when darkness covers the mystery. And if this task consumes me, I hope you’ll miss me.

Geese at Night By Enkhmaa Luvsannyam

By Lauren Soderberg I was told a tale, once upon a time; a love story--recited entirely in rhyme-of a witch’s son, cursed forever to despair in a life devoid of that which makes life fair. Ne’er -- or so I was told -- would the man take a woman of flesh and blood by the hand. Lonely he grew until he made up his mind that he would get himself a lady, both lovely and kind. He would make himself a wife. Her hair he spun golden from the silk of a worm. Her skin from white lilies he formed, smooth and firm. Her eyes were like violets; between purple and blue. And her lips were a soft rose petal folded in two. On her cheek, cherry blossoms rested pink and her dress was of wildflowers, or so I think. She was beautiful, with orchids woven in her hair. The dull human women cuoldn’t hope to compare. And into her he breathed life. That spring they spent in one another’s arms. He was enamored entirely; a prisoner to her charms. He had made her for this purpose, this she knew. Yet, she loved him deeply. She was passionate and true. Warm days and cool nights to the wind’s music they’d whirl and under the moon they’d lie; the man and his flower girl. But, spring faded into summer all too quickly and when summer began to dim, the girl became sickly. In the man, sorrow and fear were rife. Autumn set in before winter came and the pink in her cheeks turned red as flame. The gold in her hair paled and broke and her ivory skin faded into the color of smoke. One by one, the dead petals fell and what once was a woman was now only a shell. What we could gather, the man dried out. On his next course of action, there was no doubt. He took out his knife. Now the love of his life was dead and gone. And the world held nothing for him. Neither Dawn with her rosy pale light, nor Night’s stars could heal and make him forget the scars on his soul. How very much he missed the joy he felt whenever they touched or kisssed. He wept and he cursed the heavens for hours and hours. Then, to be again with the love he had made out of flowers, He took his own life.

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Impressions


Time By Darlene Jung Time never stops Put aside you grief, your pain, your sadness, they all say; “Don’t you know that time heals all wounds.” But whose wounds did time heal? How could that be possible? Time has passed.

A Moment By Kodi Auch

My wound is still open, oozing... My grief, pain, and sadness all so close to the surface, struggling to seep from my wound. Time has no pity. Sometimes I think just maybe the edge of the dark knife has dulled. But no... A few spoken words, a song the sharpness reopens me I am bleeding with sadness. Time, Hah! Holding my breath, afraid to exhale, something of importance my escape, get caught up and carried away With time.

Mourning Dove By Kate MacMillan

Night Descends, immersing razor sharp talons into dissipating light. Turmoil manacles tranquility. One dominant, defiant spirit evokes an internal furnace. Dreggy, damaged feathers mingle with decaying foliage. Restless for sun’s warmth, autumn’s cool breath, cradles one defeated, trembling dove as her mournful lullaby ascends into earth’s rustling atmosphere.

Impressions

39


It’s Only Human By Ryan Landblom Humans are such interesting creatures, so selfish, and the greatest liars. They make me think, “Has God spoiled them so much that they forget who he truly is?” Or “Has God gave up on them?” I see people every day; they look like they are at peace and look like they are happy. They are unhappy and they want more.

The leaders desire power they want it all, selfishness takes over, wanting everything and no satisfaction for what is already gained. Not looking at the victims of the aftermath. There are some people who will sacrifice what they have, and being recognized for it, but not many, they bring hope for the hopeless. But there are people who claim they are devout, and also say things, like which people going to find salvation in Heaven and which people are going to live in damnation in Hell. Who gave them the position to say who goes to Heaven and who goes to Hell, based on their opinion?

DMK

I watch as some human proclaim they are God’s chosen prophets, claiming the race is doomed as if God has truly gave up on us humans, unless a donation or becoming a follower of these unknown self proclaimed prophets, their souls will be saved.

By Alyssa Kottwitz

A man who kills another for pleasure sounds much worse than the stories about devils that we read and listen to. Most of the stories we hear about are how a deal is made between a devil and human, and the human is left with his reward and his life in ruin.

It seems that the prophet’s life before was very boring and uninteresting before they started claiming what they now are. Perhaps these prophets want attention from society and urge to have power and attention. Because it seems humans want things, mainly power, pleasure, and things that they want. From the unknown office worker to leaders, they desire things and will sometimes not stop until it’s obtained.

And yet the devil is just a spark while the human is the wild fire that comes after the spark lights a patch of dead grass in a forest. And a human can be a spark for another’s wildfire. Perhaps humans are truly the devil, but finding evidence to support this is weak, because human do not want to admit this. For now I will live with them as a social outcast, but I am also a human. A human who cares to the suffering’s needs, for some need it more than anything.

An office worker may get bored of the same routine of eat, work, and sleep. And will desire much more, either it be a promotion or a form of being noticed. Becoming a prophet sounds like it is an easy alternative, but most of the time it fails to launch in the long run or stay going. A man proclaiming to be Jesus sounds like it is a sad attempt for attention and power. I do not remember hearing anything about Jesus shouting who he is; I remember he simply said his name when asked. When Jesus is coming I will simply wait for a conqueror riding a white horse. The wars that are fought in the name of God is a weak reason.

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Impressions

If I remember what priest say correctly, God is merciful and not cruel. The more I watch them the more I think we are worse than the devils in Hell we hear about.

I am will strive to be hope for the hopeless. Because in the name of God, I will not give up! I will try to get through to them! Can you hear them? They are killing each other! Can you hear them? They are suffering! Can you hear them? They are crying to you! God! Almighty God, I will not break! Can you hear them?


Letter to My Unseen Love By Geeta Dhakal Hi dear, surprised to see a letter for you? Then don’t be. One day when we will meet, you will be happy for my imaginations about our life. Many beautiful faces have passed by me but I am still blinded by the unearthly beauty that will come with you and take me to a land where everything is green and shining. Looking far in the horizon at the coyness of the sky for the setting sun becomes lost in your thoughts and inadvertently my heart smiles with joy in the ecstasy of an immortal saga of an eternal love and then the night comes bringing with it the comfort of your arms and the euphoria of your touch. In the land of dream, your face, hidden in the veil of time, calls me in the chirping of bird or pouring of rain and in the tunes of saxophones. You carry me in your arms and dance in the dusky light of candle, in the melody of darkness unknowingly my lips touch yours and you become mesmerized in that velvety softness. Voice of mine whispers in your ears and ignites the fire of passion within, the music of water dribbling from your hair and erotic fragrance takes away our sanity – my shameless imagination touches you everywhere, I transcend the worldly pleasures. Standing below the lamppost I imagine you and me walking along the street with your hand in my hand and me wondering over your innocent curiosities and sweet jealousy. The little moments of quarreling and laughing, the glasses of coffee and hugging, tears in your eyes and me standing beside; ah! Heaven is here for me I imagine playing with your hair or buttoning your shirt, your cooking on Saturday nights and lovely flirts, sometimes my being angry and ordering you to spend the night on the sofa, sometimes your silly jokes and your loud guffaw – our own little world. In my moments of loneliness, I imagine you and me in the distant land of solitude celebrating those moments when we were far from each other. In a dark room, I close my eyes and a soft voice starts the chants of passion and I marvel at that grand design of God whose touch is so desired in my life, only thinking about whom conquers me of all my desire and lost in the sea of my own emotions I think about the fire which has lit up our world, bringing tremendous

brightness around us. Life has different meaning for everyone but me, it has only one meaning that is you and your love. One day looking at the mirror of time when I will see your grey hair and my wrinkled face, my love will fly you away to a snow clad mountain where reclining with my head on your lap we will pay tribute to the memories we cherished. The memories for which I am and shall always be grateful to you, my love, where with every sip of coffee, we will thank God for creating this world and creating you and me. Try to look at these words with my eyes and feel me melting, waiting for us to trek the road of care and affection, love and happiness, forever.

That Summer By Charlie Leftridge

running through the long grass the whispers in the wind those precious moments that had no imagined close. such warmth and smell of skin those days we made our own held tight within my stilllearning hands that Summer. all those indigo nights long evenings crossed with stars mere seconds encased with much longer promises. the season’s brevity hands of clocks red with time what was endlessly slipping through grasping fingertips. all too quickly behind finite more so than wished symphonies of nature bid unwanted farewells. still scents linger in sleep soft skin pervading dreams longing to suspend Now and return just once more.

Impressions

41


An Attack Upon the Heart By James J Ryan Billy O’Rawe heaved his bulk out the doorway with his oil-stained hands upon the jambs. He burst out and landed on the sidewalk, rocking on his feet, breathing a plume of acrid smoke into the midnight air. His face was sour, turned so not by the Knob Creek sours he had been drinking, but by the idea of death that had been presented to him that afternoon. His face twisted by disbelief, Billy was trying and failing to accept his greatest fear: his brother’s death. “Who done it?” he screamed with a mucous-thick howl. “Who done it!” He wiped the spit from his chin and let the back of his chapped hand drag across his twenty-eight year old face. “Hey, Bill. What’s with the hollering?” asked Steve Odesky walking up the street. Steve had occupied Billy’s coveted shotgun seat for years of drunken escapades. However, he had recently traded in that position for the driver’s seat in a Steelefire police cruiser. “Steve! I can’t get it outta my head. He’s dead. Robbie’s fuckin’ dead.” “I know. I was there this morning. Grabbed his chest and just went down they said.” “Screw that, you know Robbie. He is…was…straight laces. He didn’t smoke and he only drank when he was hanging around us. For Christ’s sake Steve he ran half marathons, and, well, half ran a full one last spring. He was tough and toned up like a cage fighter.” “Whoa Bill, I can’t have you yellin’ in the street here.” “What the Hell’s with this ‘Bill’ crap. What? You’re a cop now and all of the sudden I’m ‘Bill’. I’ve been ‘Billy’ to you are whole damn lives. Why don’t you just call me goddamned ‘William’ like…” Billy stopped midsentence. His whiskeywhirled brain had caught onto an idea. “Steve, it was murder. Michelle, Robbie’s wife, she killed him. I don’t know why, but I can feel it.” “Come on Billy. Michelle won’t even get her heels dirty for a Prada sale. She’s too ‘Miss Priss’. Come on now, I’m giving you a ride home so you can sleep it off,” Steve said opening the back door of his cruiser. Reluctantly Billy moved towards the door. Climbing in he said, “Alright, I’m going, but damn it Steve I am on to that bitch.” In the morning Billy spied the sun’s flickering, atomic intensity. He fell out of his bed: a mattress and box-spring lying directly on the floor. He dressed and went out the door with no more of a bath than his dry palms over his bristled face. It was purposeful dishevelment, because he and Robbie’s wife were bitter opposites. Michelle watched Billy strut up the walk. She gritted her teeth thinking, God I hate him. How can he and Robert be family? How? Robert was so clean, so purposeful. Wlliam you are disgusting. You look like a homeless person. You reek of cigarettes. Why don’t you care, you awful bastard. You have no right to come here. You have no right to act so free and treat me like a child playing house. I… Michelle rammed a newly opened bar of soap into

42

Impressions

the trash as Billy rang the doorbell. Pulling his finger back from the door buzzer Billy thought, She’ll be home, not because her husband has just died, but because the outside world is filthy. She can’t even hold a job as a newspaper executive, because it is too unclean. Worthless bitch. And if she said ‘hey’ one time I’m gonna… The door flew open. “Oh, William!” Michelle said. Her face is just red enough to placate suspicion, Billy thought, more abraded than tear stained. With her eyes squinting she tossed her head and lifted her arms as if to embrace Billy. But seeing him she hesitated and said, “William, you smell drunk and…vomity…” Billy smiled at her repulsion. He moved to walk in, but she stopped him. “Take your boots off outside, hey.” Inside the television was on and Billy leaned toward the remote. Michelle cut him off. “William, wash your hands, they’re filthy.” Billy rolled his eyes, but went to the kitchen and washed his hands. He wiped them on the thighs of his pants. Michelle eyed him with disgust. When Billy went back for the remote Michelle wiped off the handle of the kitchen faucet. Flicking off the television Billy said, “Michelle do you think anyone would wanna kill Robbie?” “My God William, Robert had a heart attack. He grabbed his chest and fell to the floor. Everyone saw it. The paramedics didn’t even attempt CPR,” as she spoke her face reddened. “There is no murder, hey. It…it pisses me off that you would even bring it up. I can’t believe you want to soil Robert’s memory by thinking somebody killed him.” Billy eyed her as she spoke. There is something off, he thought, something nervous and defensive about her. He leaned against the back of the ecru sofa that divided the living and dining rooms. Michelle’s face got redder as she said, “And wash your hands, hey, you’ve just touched the remote.” “He is twenty-five! For Christ’s sake! He was a runner! Why do you give a rat’s ass about that fucking remote. Your husband, my brother, is dead— goddamn you— and you don’t even care.” “It’s fucked up, I know, but your family has a history of heart problems.” Michelle’s profanity threw Billy and when he turned to her she had tears in her eyes. He looked away, but glancing back noticed her tears had dried not an inch down her cheek. More salt than sorrow, he thought. “Who’d want Robbie dead?” he asked. “I don’t know. Robert had just been promoted at work. He’s young, perhaps somebody got passed over. I really don’t know.” “I’m going to ask around. I gotta or I’m gonna go crazy.” Billy said, rubbing his hands over his cheeks. “I gotta go see…” he trailed off while pulling his gloves out of his jacket. The right hand glove dropped to the floor. Billy quickly kicked it back into the air and caught it. Out of his stupor for a second, he smiled at the glove. “Don’t kick shit around in my house!” Michelle screamed. “Jesus, Michelle,” Billy said and left. In his rumbling red pickup Billy sat thinking. Could she


have done it? God, I can’t believe it has come to that. She used to be fun back when she was partying, back when she didn’t care that her parents lived in a doublewide, back when her odd little ‘hey’s’ were cute. Billy drove across town to the Bernstein Law Offices. Inside Helaina was jockeying her cleaning cart through the door of Robert’s office. “Sorry, Billy,” she said staring at the floor. She did not look up. She just reversed the cart down the hall. Robert’s desk was neat. The drawers were ordered, save the occasional protein bar wrapper. His appointment book was laid out next to his half empty coffee mug on the desktop. The offices were open on Saturday, but Robbie’s secretary, Gail, was absent. There were pictures of the two men fishing and at running events. Billy decided to stop by Gail’s apartment when he finished here. Nothing else stood out as evidence, but Billy could not help the tears as he looked over the animal mounts displayed around the office. When Robbie and Billy were growing up their dad had supplemented the family diet and income by hunting and trapping. He took both his boys along. He taught them to love the outdoors. Billy, being older by three years, was always the better hunter, but in truth Robbie was the natural. Thinking of his brother’s pure passion for what their father had passed on Billy had to steady himself against the desk. Pocketing Robbie’s appointment book Billy spied an empty liner in the trash can. He pulled it out and wrapped up Robbie’s coffee mug. He was careful not to touch the cup with his bare

hands. Too many CSI reruns, he thought. Behind him there was a bustling. Michelle was sashaying in. Her blond hair was pulled back tight not granting an inch of curl or a hint of bounce. Her lips were set. There was no sign of the thin remorse that had been in her face earlier. “William what are you doing here? What have you got there, hey? Those are my husband’s things. Give them to me.” Michelle said. “These are photos of my brother and me. I’m taking them,” Billy lied. The lie did not match the form of his parcel, but it did not matter. He stepped around the woman and out. In his pickup Billy thought, I know it was her. “But why?” he asked aloud, knowing he had no reason for his suspicions other than his inability to accept his brother’s death. He pulled Robert’s appointment book from his jacket pocket and flipped through it. There were hundreds of names in the book. Billy’s eyes narrowed as he had a thought. He began looking for a female’s name, but no name stood out. He put the book back in his jacket and stared for a moment at the coffee cup in its plastic shroud. Billy sucked air around his tongue noisily, contemplating. He pulled out his phone and dialed. “Hey, Steve,” Billy said. “Bill, listen about last night…” “I went to Robbie’s office. He was drinking coffee when he went down. I talked to Michelle…Steve, I think she put something in his coffee.”

Rainbow After the Storm By Natalia Kharina

Impressions

43


“Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there in two minutes,” Steve said. “No. I left. Michelle came in. I took Robbie’s day planner and his coffee mug and got the hell outta there.” “Well, that ruins it as evidence.” “No, it’s cool, I wrapped it in plastic.” “No…um, ok, well…good…Listen you know where McVinney Labs are on Central Avenue?” Steve asked. “Sure,” Billy said “The owner, Anson, owes me a big favor,” Steve said. “He’ll drop whatever he’s doing if I call him. If there’s anything there he’ll find it. He’s the best.” This thing is really happening, Billy thought after hanging up the phone. Taking a minute to think he remembered his father’s death. His father had died unexpectedly in a fall just after Billy graduated high school. Even more unexpected was Billy’s reaction. He disappeared for two years into complete despondency. During Billy’s absence Robbie had an accident of his own. While skiing Robbie went off a ledge. He landed so hard that the force of the compression broke his back in four places. Robbie was hospitalized for over a month. Billy never went to see him. It was

Thing of Beauty By Chelsea Sorenson

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Impressions

Michelle’s family who stepped up. They not only cared for Robbie in the hospital, but also took him in during the months of rehab. It was the most likely reason that Robbie had married Michelle: no matter how fanatical she was becoming, no matter how much she berated him, or stole away his tiniest independences her family had been there for him, he would stand by her. And Robbie had stayed the course of his career. Despite his injury he finished college, graduated from law school, and had a successful practice. He continued on because it was what their dad would have wanted. Robbie and Billy’s dad had always talked about a “better life” for his sons. Robbie had achieved that dream. But it was a strange situation when the man you idolize and the life you idealize were belittled. This idea caused tension between Billy and Robbie. Billy had been the older hunter, but Robbie the more avid outdoorsman. By towing the line Robbie had separated himself somewhat from that lifestyle. By folding and taking a construction job Billy found himself surrounded by the outdoors and he hated it. Robbie saw Billy as wasteful. Robbie worried that people thought he did not care as much about their dad because he did not fall apart like his brother. Animosity had persisted between them for years. Billy could not face Robbie. He felt guilty for abandoning his little brother, for not going to the hospital, for not being good enough to come into Michelle’s house, for many things he could not control. Billy was ashamed because he was living the life Robbie had wanted: a life like their dad’s. But Billy knew the reason Robbie was successful was because it was Robbie who was most like their father. Recently however, they had been trying. They were hanging out, having beers, and getting together on the holidays. They had made amends, but they were still making up. Now, Robbie was dead and too much was left unsaid. Billy collected himself and drove to McVinney Laboratories. He shifted into neutral just as a man came bursting out the front doors. “You Anson?” Billy asked. “Yes…” Anson replied looking angry. Billy handed him the cup in the trash liner. Anson eyed the package and said, “Jesus.” He turned on his heel and stomped back into the building. “Asshole…” Billy said and drove to Gail’s apartment. Seeing Anson so annoyed made Billy enraged enough to forget his reeling suspicions. But by the time he stopped at Gail’s his fears were returning. He stared at the falling snowflakes vacantly, with a sensation like Novocain in his mouth; perhaps, the onset of grief. After twenty minutes he broke from the trance and walked into Gail’s apartment building. “Did Robbie have a girlfriend?” Billy asked. Gail looked at his Budweiser. “Come on Gail,” Billy pleaded. “Man, you know how it goes. Robbie did everything he could for her and the harder he tried the more pissed Michelle got. Two years living like that, then along comes this girl. They met at a marathon. I don’t know if they ever did anything, but…” “But he wanted to?” Billy asked. “Yeah, of course, she’s hot and funny. Robbie talked about her like he had found a flower after Armageddon. You know,


he was my boss, but we used to talk about junk like that.” Billy ran a hand across his mouth. “Do you know her name or where she lives? “Rachael Timmons. I’m sure she’s in his appointment book, if you can get it.” “I picked it up this morning. Thanks, you’re helping Robbie out here man.” “I wish I could’ve helped him out before…” Billy put his hand on Gail’s shoulder for a long moment, then left. Michelle found out Robbie was having an affair and it ruined her perfect world. Better for social perception to be a widow than an ex-wife, Billy thought, almost screaming, knowing he was making wild assumptions, yet unable to control his thoughts. Typical bitch, kill the cheating husband; the one you drove away. Billy tried to calm himself. He found the address for Rachael Timmons. He drove to her house. It was small, but had a yard and an unattached garage. Billy knocked on her door. He heard a rustling and glass break. “Crap, crap, cra…” came from inside, but the final word was cut short as Rachael Timmons opened the door and saw Billy. “You’re…” she said. Her eyes were puffy and red. Billy had never met Rachael before and was shocked at her appearance. She was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. She had a pastel pink suit coat on, as if she thought she should go to work but in her grief was unable to formulate all the steps necessary to actually get to her job. There was a tissue stuck to her sock. Her mousy brown hair was more disheveled than Billy’s. The woman was a wreck. “Yeah, I’m the brother. Billy.” “Ohhh, God,” she said breaking into tears, but waiving him into the house. “It wasn’t like that,” she said. “I…His wife was horrible. He was going to leave her. She kept getting worse. She didn’t love him anymore. She couldn’t love. It was like she silted in. It would’ve been sad if she had tried to get help, if she had wanted to

change, but she felt powerful being hateful.” “It’s okay. I’m not here to judge you. If you were making Robbie happy and convincing him to get outta that house I should be thanking you,” Billy said. Rachael hid her face in a tissue. “Did Robbie tell her?” Billy asked. “No. I don’t think so, but if they got into a fight he may have let her have it. It was getting to that point.” “I think she killed him,” Billy said. “Ohhh…” Rachael sobbed dropping her face back into her tissue. Billy helped her to sit down and let her cry. When she lifted her head she said, “You know about a week ago Robbie By Kristi Heinrich called from his house phone. Michelle was in the bathtub with her Jasmine salts and he just wanted to hear my voice. He was really bitching about her. He had built a fence in the backyard and she had stayed completely away from the project until he was finished. Then, once it was too late, she just tore into him. When I asked him to come over so I could make it all better there was a click on the line. I wrote it off as the wiring in this old house. Do you think she was listening in? Oh, God if she was…” “I think she must have known, either by that or some other way,” Billy said. Just then Billy’s cell phone rang. It was Steve. Billy put his hand on Rachael’s shoulder as he answered the call, then walked out to the front porch. “Anson says it’s nicotine Billy. I don’t know where you’d get it or why you’d have it, but it was in the coffee. He said it’s way past lethal levels. You were right.” “Damn it Steve! She poisoned him!” Billy said. “If they do a tox-screen during the autopsy they won’t be looking for nicotine and if it shows up I doubt anyone will even glance at the levels. It’s so common it’s not given a second thought.” “Get a warrant. Tell the judge what we found. I’m gonna go confront that fuckin’ bitch.”

A Shadowed Path

Impressions

45


“Billy, I don’t think you should,” Steve started to say but was cut short by Billy snapping his phone shut. Jumping in his pickup, Billy sped to Michelle’s house. He stalked up the path. He banged on the door. Michelle was upstairs nervously arranging throw pillows in the guest bedroom. She went to the window and looked down. Ice laden fear leaped down her spine at the sight of Billy’s trembling rage. Too afraid to confront him she opened the upstairs window and yelled, “Get the hell out of here! What do you think you’re doing, hey?” “Open the damn door Michelle,” Billy said. “Look at you! I’m not opening the door. You’re a crazy person!” “I know you killed him Michelle.” “William you are fucking insane!” “You put nicotine in his coffee. I had a guy run tests on the gunk in Robert’s coffee cup.” “William I did no such thing. If there was something…nicotine…in Robert’s coffee… someone else put it there…Oh, God, Billy, do you think he was really killed?” “Shut the hell up Michelle. I know about Rachael. I know you killed him.” “I didn’t do shit, you lunatic!” Michelle cried. “Yes you did Michelle,” Billy said, his voice getting quieter, but more fearsome. “Yes, you did…” Billy raised his hands over his head and set them on the jambs of Michelle’s front door. “Yes…” Billy let his head fall down and forward until it was resting against the door. Michelle stopped breathing. In a second Billy would be through the door. Unbridled fury was coming for her. Her fears materialized in her mind as a caricature of Billy storming down the hallway with eyes of fire and gigantic fists that drug against and crumbled the sheetrock of the walls. She saw her trinkets and her

What Lies Beyond

Teeth

life crushed under his heavy boots. Michelle watched Billy’s shoulders heave up, and down, and up. Billy’s whole body shivered and Michelle could already see the door exploding into splinters. Not even the sunshine which had broken through the clouds could still her thudding panic. But Billy collapsed, the top of his head sliding down the door. Billy was lying on his knees with his hands on top of his head. The overcast had melted away and the rays of sun had slipped across his back. He was sobbing uncontrollably in the firestorm of his emotions. His body retched as he gave in to his grief, his loss, his shame. With each spasm a picture popped into his mind. There were pictures from carnivals: he and Robbie in cowboy hats…holding hands. There was a picture of Billy on his way to his first day of Kindergarten, and little Robbie with his own backpack ‘just like Billy’s’. Again, they were holding hands. There was a picture of the two brothers, side-by-side, peeing off the curb into the street. The boys were completely carefree like they were on a hunting trip.

By Jessica Schmitt

46

Impressions

By Kristi Heinrich


They were not holding hands, but they were smiling for the camera. “He never knew…he never knew. I never showed him when he was old enough to remember…” Billy’s sobbing continued as he began lifting his head up and dropping it onto the porch again and again, in a mechanical rhythm. “Oh, gawd Michelle he never knew how much I loved him. I should have protected him.” Balling up tighter, still sobbing, Billy was weathering his own personal Dresden. “Sir…” comes from behind Billy. Neither Billy nor Michelle had heard the squad car arrive. The officers had their guns drawn. One was moving tentatively towards Billy. Holstering his weapon he put a hand on Billy’s back. “Thank God Officers,” Michelle called rushing out the door. An officer placed her under arrest. They arrested Billy too; eventually. After Michelle was convicted at trial Billy went to the State Prison not to see Michelle, rather to visit Krista Collins. Billy and Krista had worked road construction together. She was pretty, and funny in a take-no-flack kind of way. The two were as like-minded as a pair of Clydesdales and had been lovers. But Krista was in jail, sentenced two years earlier for killing her husband. He had been terribly abusive. Only one thing enraged Billy more than domestic assault and that was a victim defending their abuser. So, he took Krista under his wing and built her up. It was not until Krista was stronger that their romance began. The day Krista chose to leave her husband he had come home and attacked her. She could have gotten off with self-defense had she stopped an hour earlier. There was too much grizzly retribution on her husband’s body for the prosecutor to ignore. “You really think she did it Billy?” Krista asked. “I know,” Billy said. “It makes me sick, but it was her. You know that labor strike…” “Come on Billy, I’m inside. I don’t know anything.” “Oh, well, the Sanitation Workers Union has been on strike. Nobody’s been picking up the garbage. And you know Michelle wouldn’t touch a garbage bag if a baby was suffocating under it. She wouldn’t have noticed the garbage piling up. Their backyard was half a block wide and Robbie just put up that new fence…” “Oh god Billy, did they find…did she make Robbie haul the evidence of his own murder to the trash?” Billy’s eyes were wet and his hands had begun to shake. “I don’t know,” he said. For a moment his face twisted with tears. “Under about a week’s worth of garbage they found a five gallon bucket. There were empty bags of roll-your-own tobacco stuffed in it under some junk. The bottom of the bucket had nicotine residue…” “My god…” “Yeah, they figure she leached the nicotine out of the tobacco and then let the water evaporate off. She put the nicotine in Robbie’s coffee. Oh, and she bought the tobacco with a credit card, which was stupid, and the store where she bought it had surveillance cameras. I don’t think she thought they would ever figure out the poison.” “She had to know they would check his coffee cup. She’s a bitch, but she’s not stupid.” “Gail testified that she drove Robbie to work, you know put-

ting them together the day of, which wasn’t unusual, but just after Robbie collapsed she came into the office carrying one of Robbie’s zip drives. I bet she intended to grab the coffee cup during the clusterfuck. Anyways, Gail grabbed her and hauled her out before she could get to Robbie. He was trying to save her from being traumatized. When the paramedics came Gail was there the whole time. He walked them out, locked up the office, and drove Michelle to the hospital.” “Thank God for Gail.” “No kidding,” Billy said, his eyes fixing on the table in front of him. Krista caught the flash of rage in his eyes and said, “I’m so sorry Billy. If you want her done I know lifers who will do it.” She had been close to Robbie since a summer fishing trip when he had rescued her from one of Billy’s water balloon ambushes. The four of them had gone together: Billy, Krista, Michelle and Robbie. Michelle spent most of the weekend on the shore complaining. Just from her loud complaints Krista quickly drew correlations between her husband and Michelle. Michelle would not be getting any sympathy from Krista. “No. I don’t want anyone to kill her,” Billy said. “I want her to live a long time. No one takes her life, but make sure everyone gets a piece of everything else.” “Done and done, Billy.”

Marilyn By Natalia Kharina

Impressions

47


Roosevelt By Bolor Bayandalai

48

Impressions



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