Impressions 2011 by Dickinson State University

Editors: Lew Froelich Tony Haynes Amy Magstadt Chukwuka Nwafor Darren Roth

Advisor: David Schreindl

Front Cover: Florida Keys Sunset, Sketch by Alysha Zaske Back Cover: Brewing Storm, Photo by Lydia DeJesus For the full color version and past issues of Impression s please visit our page at http://www.dsu.nodak.edu/Language-And-Literature/Impressions/. Front Cover and Back cover designed by Darren Roth. 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 2011 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 .......................................................................................................................................................................5 Three Blooms of Tension, Poem by Chukwuka Nwafor .........................................................................................6 Ocean View, Photo by Dara Anderson ...................................................................................................................6 Hurricane Egypt, Poem by Misty Rilly ...................................................................................................................................7 Above, Photo by Tyler Houston ..............................................................................................................................................7 No Refunds, Fiction by Alex Jacobs ........................................................................................................................................8 Traversing Troubled Waters, Photo by Lew Froelich ............................................................................................................8 Earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Echo, Photo by Amber Lien .......................................................................................................................................9 The Mask, Photo by Binxuan Chen .......................................................................................................................................10 Haiku of Lies, Poem by Alex Jacobs .......................................................................................................................................10 Reflexology, Poem by Linda Peterson ...................................................................................................................................10 Artic Growth, Poem by Jermaine Christie ...........................................................................................................................11 Missing Plank, Photo by Wenwen Chang ...........................................................................................................................11 Party Crashers, Non-Fiction by Eric Jensen .........................................................................................................................12 Fragility, Photo by Suresh Misha .........................................................................................................................................12 Journey by Rail, Photo by Amber Lien .................................................................................................................................13 Spring Floral in a Tin Can, Artwork by Alysha Zaske ........................................................................................................14 Natural Beauty, Photo by Jessica Schmitt ............................................................................................................................15 Tiger in Bamboo, Artwork by Denise Johnson .....................................................................................................................15 A Little Chaos Always Hurts Somebody, Poem by Trace Wells ............................................................................................16 Sunny Sunset, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel .........................................................................................................................16 On Island Time, Photo by Amber Lien .................................................................................................................................17 Vines, Poem by Diona Osterman-Api ................................................................................................................................17 Winter, Poem by Amy Magstadt ..........................................................................................................................................18 A Minnesota Summer, Photo by Amber Lien ......................................................................................................................18 Four Seasons, the Seasons of Life, Poem by Linda Peterson ................................................................................................18 Living at Home Blues, Fiction by Cindy Thronburg ...........................................................................................................19 Death of a Dog, Poem by Linda Peterson .............................................................................................................................19 Tiger Cub, Artwork by Denise Johnson ................................................................................................................................19 Love Song for a Vampire, Poem by Anita Weiler .................................................................................................................20 What do I say?, Poem by Dara Anderson ............................................................................................................................20

Throwback to Old Chicago, Photo by Jayde Hecker .............................................................................................................20 Stoxen Studies, Artwork by Stephanie Perkins ...................................................................................................................21 Re-write, Poem by Sabrina Greenwood ...............................................................................................................................21 Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Beauty, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel .....................................................................................................................21 Darlene Mae Hodgkinson, Non-Fiction by Lauren Soderberg ...........................................................................................22 Confused, Artwork by Seth Walters .....................................................................................................................................22 Lone Flower, Photo by Stephanie Perkins .............................................................................................................23 Kacey, Fiction by Amanda Leftridge ....................................................................................................................24 Lonely Tree, Photo by Wei Long Liu .....................................................................................................................24 Wishing and Waiting, Poem by Cindy Thronberg ................................................................................................25 Winter View, Photo by Binxuan Chen ...................................................................................................................25 Love or Hate, Poem by Marie Dukart ....................................................................................................................26 Forgotten Memory, Photo by Alysha Zaske ..........................................................................................................26 Winter, Photo by Binxuan Chen ...........................................................................................................................27 She Cried, Poem by Amy Magstadt ......................................................................................................................27 Happiness, Poem by Amy Magstadt .....................................................................................................................27 Fall, Poem by Christine Hetzel .............................................................................................................................28 A Sign of Spring, Photo by Jessica Schmitt ...........................................................................................................28 Without Answers, Poem by Diona Osterman-Api ................................................................................................28 Bull Berries, Photo by Linda Peterson ..................................................................................................................29 Belladonna, Fiction by Christine Hetzel ................................................................................................................29 Stream of Life, Photo by Linda Peterson ................................................................................................................29 Apparent Reality, Non-Fiction by Lydia DeJesus .................................................................................................30 Lions and Lanterns, Photo by Wenwen Chang .....................................................................................................30 Frears, Artwork by Keisha Sparks ........................................................................................................................31 Save Them, Poem by Lydia DeJesus .......................................................................................................................31 Band Camp, Fiction by Dara Anderson .................................................................................................................32 The Old Ford, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel ...........................................................................................................32 Bubbles, Artwork by Megan Miller .......................................................................................................................33 What Matters Now, Non-Fiction by Lydia DeJesus ..............................................................................................34 Bark, Photo by Stephanie Perkins ..........................................................................................................................34 Waterfalls, Photo by Lew Froelich ........................................................................................................................35 Bad Day, Photo by Linda Peterson .......................................................................................................................36 Circle of Life, Poem by Cindy Thronburg .............................................................................................................36 Bikes, Photo by Andrea Schock .............................................................................................................................36 Sketched Fruit, Artwork by Enoch Ohene-Ntow ..................................................................................................37

Of Fathers and Sons, Poem by Anita Weiler .........................................................................................................37 Deus Ex Machina, Non-Fiction by Meghan Bartz ................................................................................................38 Time Stands Still, Photo by Tyler Houston ...........................................................................................................38 I Thought You Loved Me, Poem by Dara Anderson ..............................................................................................39 Proud Bird, Photo by Tyler Houston ....................................................................................................................39 The Dog, Photo by Linda Peterson ........................................................................................................................39 Face On, Face Off, Fiction by Jenny Marboe .........................................................................................................40 Fading Avenue, Photo by Andrea Schock .............................................................................................................40 Life, Photo by Yue Wang .......................................................................................................................................41 St. Louis Cathedral, Photo by Tyler Houston ........................................................................................................42 A Moment in Time, Poem by Valerie Milicevic ....................................................................................................42 Happy Endings, Poem by Dara Anderson..............................................................................................................42 Mysterious Tree, Photo by Stephanie Perkins ......................................................................................................42 Anchored, Photo by Yue Wang ..............................................................................................................................43 The Prier (Revisited), Poem by Nwafor Chukwuka ..............................................................................................43 Rose Side, Artwork by Stephanie Perkins ............................................................................................................44 Sonnet II (For Morgan), Poem by Robert Meador .................................................................................................44 Mournful Lullaby, Poem by Kathryn MacMilan ...................................................................................................44 All the Worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a Stage, Non-Fiction by Jenny Marboe ........................................................................................45 Ancient Dam, Photo by Wenwen Chang ..............................................................................................................45 Santa at the Carwash, Non-Fiction by Meghan Bartz ...........................................................................................46 Glowing Tracks, Photo by Jessica Schmitt .............................................................................................................46 Sonnet III, Poem by Robert Meador ......................................................................................................................47 One-Way Street, Poem by Cindy Thronburg ........................................................................................................47 Tall Glass of Water, Artwork by Keisha Sparks ....................................................................................................47 The Number Four Revised, Non-Fiction by Linda Peterson ..................................................................................48 Homework, Photo by Binxuan Chen ......................................................................................................................48 Little Village, Photo by Binxuan Chen ..................................................................................................................49 Jade, Photo by Wenwen Chang .............................................................................................................................49 You Call Me Asian, Poem by Kelsey Chan .............................................................................................................50 Chinese Palace, Photo by Wenwen Chang ............................................................................................................50 Urban Grace, Photo by Amber Lien .......................................................................................................................51 Gives You Hell, Poem by Tony Haynes .................................................................................................................51 Into the Nothing, Poem by Tony Haynes ..............................................................................................................51 Progress, Photo by Wenwen Chang ......................................................................................................................51 Ray of Hope, Photo by Yue Wang ...........................................................................................................................52

Contest Winners Poetry~ 1st- You Call Me Asian by Kelsey Chan - Pg 50 2nd- Reflexology by Linda Peterson - Pg 10 3rd- Fall by Christine Hetzel - Pg 28 Honorable Mention: Haiku of Lies by Alex Jacobs - Pg 10 Artic Growth by Jermaine Christie - pg 11

Fiction~ 1st- No Refunds by Alex Jacobs - Pg 8 2nd- Face On, Face Off by Jenny Marboe - Pg 40 3rd- Belladona by Christine Hetzel - Pg 29 Honorable Mention: Band Camp by Dara Anderson - Pg 32 Kacey by Amanda Leftridge - Pg 24

Non-fiction~ 1st- All the World’s A Stage by Jenny Marboe - Pg 45 2nd- Apparent Reality by Lydia DeJesus - Pg 30 3rd- Darlene Mae Hodgkinson by Lauren Soderberg - Pg 22 Honorable Mention: The Number Four Revised by Linda Peterson - Pg 48

Two-Dimensional Art~

Photography~

1st- Florida Keys Sunset by Alysha Zaske - Cover 2nd- Tiger Cub by Denise Johnson - Pg 19 3rd- Spring Floral in a Tin Can by Alysha Zaske - Pg 14 Honorable Mention: Tiger in Bamboo by Denise Johnson - Pg 15

1st- Ray of Hope by Yue Wang - Pg 52 2nd- Earth’s Echo by Amber Lien - Pg 9 3rd- Brewing Storm by Lydia DeJesus - Back Cover Honorable Mention: Ocean View by Dara Anderson - Pg 6 Forgotten Memory by Alysha Zaske - Pg 26 Winter View by Binxuan Chen - Pg 25 Nature’s Beauty by Laura Lee Kunkel - Pg 21

Impressions

…You must set forth at dawn. -Memoirs, Wole Soyinka I

Three Blooms of Tension (A Sestina for Cairo) By Chukwuka Nwafor

ADVENT must yet remain a reason for chaos; At most in defense of the beauty in awoken Cairo. Else –what, better would fetch for such ripple in society? What else asides any same hunger for epiphany and Bud? When the very air has lost its own stench to government And the river its last chance to complete a square.

Wont. Yet what slumber it’d remain to play such faith-games at the square When what hover’s the sky is clearly no bird for games, Cairo… VI

AND FORTH rightly stirred to wake as Ra would his Cairo, You must set forth at dawn. The running Nile must not know any end. Her deluges are not to be taken any lightly still, or speared. Oh let it be rage to defeat misery-at-large without sufferment: If all at need is but desirity. And let it remain a “Coup” for the narrowed that Cairo from her slumber did arose.

II IN ANTHEMING proofs, the Red Rooster –uncaged have assumed its square. As yet from the safe-sounding music of blight-chaos Must retreat the norm. Every pulsating beat made manifest as government Cheques to the lottery man. Voices yet must be made night Cairo, If only in the glossy role of a mute will the stared and Be-spelled ever discover truths beyond society.

VII A BOLD STAR in Cairo yesterday was born. A mutelacking government -And I dream, to be weaned by Loath, Self-truth and Society. For manger: a hyterised city-square and inauguration: divine chaos.

III LET IT BE rage to dare misery-at-grand! Society— Knows no such “cool” as patience till it’s finally squared Into plucks - until every piece of mind is bought and Forged indifferent - until all that goes is anything but “why” and chaos Defines an over demanding table cloth, shadowing healthier thoughts. Yet Cairo – Would know better even still: discarding all passionately for a table cloth government!! IV A TUNE of choice it hurls back at my thoughts, what government? Two treasures will always amount no worthy bargain, society! Let the hands find their way in the dark for so shall follow indeed, Cairo, The leg and the trunk -- and impersonal is the voice heard at the square. As numbering yet the fists -- to a single course the strength of a million chaos As clearly dealt by harmony’s wand. V NOW WHILE the eagle-head finally perches abroad and Hope is well rekindled for a better next of his cousins, still government Eludes the people: if all it craves is to pass batons, while chaos Usurps the wrong stage. Agreed, alls betterment’s in deed the society’s

Impressions

Ocean View By Dara Anderson 6

We all fight for the right and chance for Pain, mistrust, and killing are occurring our own place to belong in Egypt That place may take some time, it canPeople are trying to enter where they By Misty Rilly not all happen now do not belong. First in ourselves, then in our efforts, When roses and skunks mix, it’s nothand lastly in Egypt ing but utter chaos. Change needs to happen also and quickly in our government. Loyalties are split; confusion is running amuck. Where is government? The need to react in a positive way needs to start with our Instead of trying to come together, everyone chooses to government. protest. We must make peace without war, and instead engage in Something needs to be done; everyone needs to come topeaceful protest. gether now. Together we can make a simple, and thought-out Lives lost, sadness lurking plan of action for Egypt. at every door, we need a With different techniques solution now. for change and peace, People are dying, enemy’s perhaps no more chaos overtaking, and hope is It may happen slowly, perlost in Egypt. haps months and even many We live to fight, but why years from now. should death be our final We may all need to fight protest? and push forward for our Come together as one to place where we all belong. work in a place we can all belong. Peace and love need to We live to serve, and fight come together so we may all to stand by our governbelong ment, One day we may all start But our foundation is believing again in our own cracking, and people are government lost in the chaos. We may want change to happen today, but it is just It’s time to stand up and not possible now fight against the chaos First we must make a plan, Pray, write, sing, just do and try to end all of the something proactive now. dangerous protest It’s time to take charge Success cannot come out and be our own governof all this ongoing and terment rifying chaos Our hearts and our Perhaps one day soon, minds must now belong in peace and contentment will Egypt. reside again in Egypt. To have the privilege to finally truly belong, Compassion must start now so we may all We just need to reconsider the need By Tyler Houston learn to belong. to protest. We must all believe in Egypt, and also in our dwindling government. Killings, bloodshed, loss of innocence are all reasons to proSo please stop the protest and perhaps together we can test. lessen the chaos. Our need and want for things to change, should not result in chaos.

Hurricane Egyptt

Above

Impressions

No Refunds

the same thing and HAD that person smile at them? Human nature notices the negative before the positive. No one ever hears anyone talking about being dissuaded from suicide, because the people who didn’t kill themselves appear fine now. But, if one of them let even a single, “Oh, have you heard about the time I tried to kill myself?” slip, and suddenly it’s nothing but doctors, doctors, doctors. I know they mean well, but it’s the mentality that bothers me. People don’t want anything “undesirable” around. Maybe the crazy is catching! I couldn’t help but giggle softly as I nearly tripped over an empty beer case someone had discarded along the road. Blast, I could have used that to stop myself from thinking for a bit. How sad is it that the only time we feel happy is when we are made to be fools? Bunch of hypocrites, I thought to myself. People are all too willing to see the damage of others before the damage in themselves. Instead of using this difference in perception to help each other and ultimately better society, everyone screams, “NOT IN MY BACKYARD!” and just shuffles the undesirables away. The Bible says something to the effect of, “Why worry about the speck in thy neighbor’s eye before the beam in your own? Remove the beam from your eye, and then use your sight to remove the mote from his.” That’s solid advice, really. It’s a shame so many good messages like that are so prone to misinterpretation by people desperately grasping for justification for their actions; after all, with God on his or her side, how can a deranged lunatic lose?

By Alex Jacobs

veryone has problems. Everyone is damaged. One particular night, I decided to leave my apartment, forgoing my usual routine of staring at a screen that blared concepts I no longer agreed with, to wander the streets instead. What meaning was there to life anymore? Everyone just plodded along at the same pace, content to be made subject to the whims of others. All I had in my life was watching my precious reality shows and drinking myself to death. I felt like this was some great truth that no one was willing to voice: modern life holds no meaning. This truth exists as an elephant in the room that no one wants to see, because to see that means being labeled as crazy. She’s a little… different. He’s an outsider. And more than ever, these days, no one wants to feel alone. Plenty of people give in to despair and subject themselves to being forever alone. I’ve heard stories of people walking toward a bridge, intending to jump and end it all. Several of them have left notes behind, saying, “If even one person smiles at me on my walk, I will not jump.” I guess the cold water or harsh pavement was kinder than their fellow people. Then again, how many other people have done

Traversing Troubled Waters By Lew Froelich Impressions

Earth’s Echo By Amber Lien

Now I’m doing it! I slammed a fist into a nearby light pole, causing the snow atop it to dump on my head. What right do I have to criticize others when I’m such a wreck?! Tears welled up in my eyes, unbidden. I’m too insecure to talk about my problems, but I’m so good at putting on a brave face that almost no one sees what I go through! Lowering my head, I wrapped my hands around the pole and throttled it. Eventually, I tire of the empty action and slammed my head against the metal. The feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant, so I let it rest there. That dull pain was pleasant, in a strange way. Unlike many things in this world, it was honest. Here there were no lies. Here there was no deception. Sometimes all I really need is a little honesty. Pain does not lie. Imagine if everyone was completely honest in word and deed. A passerby asks, “How are you?” Normally, I would smile insincerely and reply, “Oh, fine. And you?” Instead, I would say with a gleam in my eye, “Well, I’m running out of money at an alarming rate, I scare off friends as soon as they see my myriad problems, I haven’t had a stable relationship with a member of the opposite sex in five years, and I don’t know what I want out of life on the whole, BUT I’m too frightened that people would think I’m a crazy person to voice it aloud or ever seek help. And you?” I can just see the pedestrians fleeing in terror now. But maybe that’s what the world needs! Someone needs to be WILLING to do these things, to shatter the fantasy of daily life and reveal the reality! Someone needs to do all these things! All I need to do is raise awareness… “Erm, excuse me. Are you all right?” I looked up, alarmed. An elderly man, accompanied by a tiny dog, gazed at me with con con-

cern in his eyes. How much of his concern was just an act? This man is old. He’s doubtlessly seen the world! He will understand! You can tell him! THE REVOLUTION BEGINS HERE! I chuckled slightly, and with a sheepish grin stopped smashing my head against a light pole alongside one of the busiest roads in town. Luckily I did not have to rip any skin to do it. “Oh, erm, just h-having a little bit of a rough day...” NO! Come on, what was that?! Speak up! Tell him that I’m in danger of being evicted and I die a little inside every day at my soul-sucking, worthless job and“Oh. Well, that’s too bad. You’re young; don’t worry about it! These are the best years of your life. Enjoy them.” He nodded curtly and hurried along his way, his tiny dog yapping and running ahead in unthinking excitement. I stood and watched them walk off into the night, their breath forming little tiny clouds as they went. I bet he would have understood, too. Sure, there is a chance he would have lectured me about “how good young people have it these days,” but odds are, he’s been in my situation. We all have. We all are. The human race is floundering, hopelessly lost and being crushed under the weight of our own societal constructs. Honesty is my aim? That’s what the world needs? What a joke I am. It turns out even I can’t follow through on my convictions. I’m a hypocrite like everyone else who remains silent. I stared, unfocused, at the receding figure of the old man and felt the cold winter wind blow through my shaggy hair. Is this life really all there is? These are the best years of my life? If these are the best years of my life, old man, I think there ought to be a refund. refu

Impressions

The Mask By Binxuan Chen

Haiku of Lies By Alex Jacobs

The lie we present Satisfies others' interest Does your mask please you?

Reflexology By Linda Peterson Reflections on my life. Who? What? When? Where? How? Why? Why seems to be the most often asked question. It is the answer that comes the slowest or not at all. Maybe we don’t need to know the whys. Maybe we need to concentrate on the “What” am I to learn from this instead of “Why” is this happening. “Who” am I to help? “When” is an opportunity coming to grow? “Where” is my help needed? “How” can I be of service to mankind? As I look beyond who I am and try to see and feel and experience life at its fullest, I will truly be happy and content. Happiness and contentment do not come from without, it comes from within. Inside of me I have everything I will ever need!! I only need to learn how to utilize what I have been given! Impressions

Artic Growth By Jermaine Christie As I have stared into what is my past pondering the remnants of my existence? What lay behind me and what lies ahead? I see the struggled footprints of those that trod this road before me. As the great poet of the soil once said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Gardening in the tropics you often unearth skeletonsâ&#x20AC;? I wish to add more to her perspective Gardening in the ice filled soil of North Dakota you often unearth flowers Dead or hibernating, waiting for the warmth of spring The flowers beautiful, serene, resilient, frigid! Living in the north we too become like the flowers. Delicate and beautiful, frozen by the conditions that hinder our growth. Our hearts become frozen in the frigid negative thirty degrees of misunderstanding, intolerance and Hatred. Yes I am ashamed, not of you but of myself. For I have become like you. We sit and ridicule the difference in others. Not trying to build but to tear down, Nothing constructive only destructive. You ridicule the difference in others as to appease your insecurities. I have become lost like you have in this artic wilderness of frozen dreams. As the winds of despair lash our faces we seek solace in repression, depression When the darkness of winter passes, even in the warmth and light of spring we suppress our ability to Grow. The decrepit state of our minds!

Missing Plank By Wenwen Chang 11

Impressions

The Party Crashers By Eric Jensen

emories of "Zipping to Zap" might be a little murky for the nearly 3,000 drunken college students who descended on the small North Dakota coal-mining town in May 1969. Even many of the now-retired North Dakota Guardsmen who chased the mob across half the state aren’t certain about every detail of the ordeal 41 years later. But memory doesn’t linger on detail, just the focal points. And the collective recollections of these retirees lead them to one anecdote in particular—the one about the inebriated student who took a sharp bayonet to the rear end after antagonizing a tired and irritated soldier. The confrontation was one of a few the Guardsmen faced on a drill weekend that had them crashing the largest spring-break beer bust their state had ever seen. The Zap-In started as an innocuous joke published in the North Dakota State University student newspaper, The Spectrum, inviting the collegiate world to convene at the small town of Zap, which had a population of just under 300. The town in the westcentral part of the state, 280 miles west of Fargo, would be a new haven for students during spring break, a “Fort Lauderdale of the North,” the article suggested. Mayor Norman Fuchs reacted enthusiastically to the idea, assuring prospective attendees that his town would be a ready and willing host. Soon, the idea of Zipping to Zap gained momentum in college newspapers across the region. Even the national media picked up on the story, which referred to the event as “a Grand Festival of Light and Love.” Continued local publicity only added to the appeal. The Spectrum published a map of Zap with an article detailing the town’s bars and cafes and the natural beauty of the surrounding area. The story ended with a prophetic statement, “In addition to these events, a full program of orgies, brawls, freakouts, and arrests is being planned. Do you dare miss it?” All this raised the specter of a crowd larger and more unruly than Zap could handle. Fearing that town authorities could be overwhelmed, the governor put five companies of the 164th Engi-

Impressions

neer Group on alert to assist local police, if needed, with the 141st Engineer Battalion in reserve. Soldiers assigned to these units would report for weekend drill May 9 to 11 to coincide with the Zap-In. They would remain on drill status unless called to state active duty, with drill beginning at 7 p.m. Friday, May 9. Retired Brig. Gen. Jerry Engelman remembers commuting to Bismarck from Grand Forks where he attended school at the University of North Dakota. “I came into town with my girlfriend, Linda, now my wife, and I remember that we were going to go to Zap with some of our friends,” he said. A second lieutenant at the time, Engelman instead joined his unit, the 816th Engineer Company, to review civil-disturbance training and procedures. The Guard, in many states over the decades, had been called into the streets to restore order, especially in the tumultuous Vietnam era, but never in North Dakota. “There had been student rallies that got out of control,” he says. “The Guard nationwide was directed to get a few hours each year of riot and crowd-control training.” As training ended at about 11 p.m., Friday, the soldiers were told to be prepared to report back to the Bismarck Armory if the Guard was called to respond to any situations in Zap. An hour or so later, Engelman and more than 500 other Guardsmen were moving out to evacuate Zap-In rabble rousers.

Fragility By Suresh Misha

Journey by Rail By Amber Lien

The town, almost literally, was on fire. RULES OF ENGAGEMENT By the time the Guard was called out on Friday night, more than 2,000 drunken college students had laid waste to Zap. The streets were littered with beer cans and passed-out people and a few of the local businesses had been vandalized. Alcohol and subfreezing temperatures drove students to tear apart an abandoned building on Main Street to fuel a huge bonfire. But those who hovered around the fire in Zap were not the only ones trying to shield themselves from the cold. Engelman remembered convoying to one of four staging areas around Zap in an old MA151 jeep with side curtains and no heat. “My driver and I had parkas on, along with every piece of clothing we had been issued,” he said. “Plus, I had my fart sack [old sleeping bag] around me and so did my driver, who drove with one foot out, just enough to step on the gas to drive.” Engelman and his driver arrived in Beulah, about 10 miles southeast of Zap, at about 3 a.m. Retired Sgt. Maj. Chris Doll, who was a platoon sergeant with the 164th, remembered stopping there as well. “We were freezing our buns off. We stopped and warmed up in the basement of the motel in town,” he said. The Guard had been ordered by the governor to move the entire crowd out of Zap at daybreak. While units grouped in various staging areas, there was already chatter about the town being in shambles.

“We heard all kinds of things on the radio,” Doll said. “People were saying the whole town was burning.” Duane Dehne, who was the training officer for the 164th Engineer Group and the vehicle driver for Col. William Tillotson, commander of the 164th, remembered the caution taken while developing the rules of engagement for the operation. “The decision was made to not put any ammunition into the hands of the soldiers. We didn’t want to have any casualties,” he said. While the Guardsmen would be unarmed going into Zap, precautions were made to have a sniper-qualified marksman in Tillotson’s vehicle. In addition, the entire force would march in with fixed bayonets. “[The soldiers] got very energetic when that order was issued,” Dehne said. “At the same time, they were told that you do not use the blade of that bayonet on anyone. It was just used as a method of intimidation.” At 6:30 a.m. Saturday, the Guardsmen entered Zap and rousted hundreds of college students camping throughout the town. “There were kids scattered all around, sleeping on people’s porches and in their yards,” Engelman says. About a hundred or so partygoers remained on Main Street, many of them drunk or hung over, as the Guardsmen made their way through Zap. Doll remembered the poor condition the town was in. “You could see smoke rising from town as we approached,” he said. “[In one of the bars,] the sheetrock walls were all gone. It was totally demolished. The empty beer cans were about kneedeep in there.”

Impressions

Spring Floral in a Tin Can By Alysha Zaske

The citizens of Zap, an older, rural community, looked on dismayed as the Guard cleared their streets. “We saw townspeople looking out their windows wondering what the heck was going on. I’m sure they didn’t get any sleep that night,” Doll said. As for the college students, it seemed as though they were ready to pull up stakes and go home. The Zap operation appeared to be a success with virtually no incidents. “Getting them out of Zap was no problem,” Doll said. “We thought it was all over with.” But the party was far from over. THE MOB GOES WILD Retired state Command Sgt. Maj. Ron Hopfauf, a squad leader with the 816th Engineer Company, remembered a few party-goers stealing a beer truck from behind one of Zap’s two bars before the inebriated mass made its way to Beulah. No one is sure what prompted the change of venue, but the

Impressions

college students were still up for partying. Civil authorities, including the state highway patrol, followed the crowd, along with the Guard. “By the time we got to Beulah, they were passing free beer out from the beer truck ... [to] anyone who wanted to drink it,” Hopfauf recalled. With the change of location came a shift in attitude. The crowd had diminished since being kicked out of Zap, but the revelers had also grown agitated and affirmed their disdain for the Guardsmen by yelling obscenities and hurling anything they could at the soldiers. “There were people on top of buildings throwing down tires and beers,” Hopfauf said. “If there would have been anyone in that crowd with a gun, they could have sat on top of one of those buildings and started plunking away like you wouldn’t believe.” Doll recalled, “People were calling us names and throwing rocks and all sorts of stuff ... beer cans, whatever they could get a hold of.” Eventually, the crowd dispersed only to regroup and convoy 10 miles east to Hazen. The chase would continue and the surly crowd met the Guardsmen head-on in the town’s Main Street area. Engelman remembered moving down the street doing the “riot shuffle,” a formation learned during civil disturbance training in which a Guardsman would move forward with the left foot, then drag the right foot up to meet it while lunging forward with a bayonet. “There was kind of a rhythm to it,” he remembered. The crowd grew more and more violent the further it was pushed down the street, yelling anti-war epithets and throwing trash at the soldiers. Engelman even remembered one student producing a light-weight log chain and snapping it like a towel, occasionally striking the Guardsmen’s bayonets. Dehne, along with many others, vividly remembered what happened next. One of the students had finally crossed the line, taunting the wrong Guardsman, and took a bayonet to his posterior. “One of the guys in our formation decided he was going to make a point,” Dehne said. “Well, he decided to make that point right up the guy’s rear end.” The wounded student was taken to a medical tent that had been set up by the Guard while trying to contain the mob. Engleman chuckles about how much preparedness went into the operation. “I mean this was a full-blown war. This was like M*A*S*H,” he said, referring to the television series from the ‘70s. Finally, the soldiers blocked off all streets leading into Hazen’s main intersection. From there, county sheriffs and Highway

Natural Beauty By Jessica Schmitt By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, the crowd had vanished. “It was time to go back to school. The party was over,” Engelman said. The Zap-In had turned into a nearly 48-hour affair for the North Dakota National Guard. Dehne believed the outcome for the soldiers was positive. “They felt that they had done the job that they were asked to do and they felt good about it,” he said. “They felt they had given back the town of Zap.” The incident is the only official riot in North Dakota history put down by the Guard. Patrolmen began making arrests. Remnants of the crowd made their way to Riverside Park in Bismarck where they were permitted to continue partying as long as they did not leave the area. The exhausted Guardsmen, who, for the most part, had not slept all weekend, were relieved by soldiers of the 141st Engineer Battalion. The unit and law enforcement monitored the gathering to ensure it didn’t turn into another unruly mob.

Tiger in Bamboo By Denise Johnson

Impressions

A Little Chaos Always Hurts Somebody

I do watch a bit of the protest. I want to see the mistakes of your government. I hope the flames of hatred burn to all corners of Egypt, Until her countrymen have nowhere to belong! Your country will become a symbol of panic, led by Cairo. Then this world will be on pins and needles and then chaos.

By Trace Wells I know nothing of the city of Cairo. I know nothing of the country of Egypt, Especially about your government. However, I am a fan of chaos. I have no reason to want to stop that protest, After all, people need to figure out where you belong.

Is it so wrong to hope for chaos? It is only a matter of time before it becomes a violent protest. Then your leaders will start to burn Cairo, After that there will be the destruction of your government. Everyone will then know where they belong, Out in the deserts of former Egypt.

I know where I belong. That place is not Cairo. If you want me to get involved in your protest, I have two words to say, “screw Egypt.” I want the whole world to fall into chaos. In fact, I don’t want the world to have any government.

That is one fate of the country known as Egypt. I can only hope for this chaos. I can watch it from where I belong. Maybe Americans aren’t far off from our own protest, Maybe we’ll get the chance to torch our government, Like everyone in that country is doing in Cairo.

Why would I care about your government? Even if you lose your place to belong, You can still achieve glorious chaos. Whether it be just in Cairo, or across the whole country of Egypt. Isn’t it wonderful to protest?

To the people who belong to the country of Egypt, I don’t care about Cairo, I care about your chaos. Please go ahead and protest your ineffective government.

Sunny Sunset By Laura Lee Kunkel

Impressions

On Island Time By Amber Lien

Vines By Diona Osterman-Api Wrecking havoc upon an unsuspecting Hopeful perch Like hundreds of years of stagnant water Touched by some evil source A winding matriarch too complex To ever sort Too slippery to ever grab ahold False ginseng whispering In palatable ears And upon untouched skin Around that pillar Are enveloped lies Shuddering with the anticipation Of damned retreat

Impressions

Winter

A Minnesota Summer

By Amy Magstadt

By Amber Lien

All day long I hold my head This season filled with gloom and dread. Winter To try to find a bit of good Is really what a person should Hard to find beneath oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hood. Winter Matching gloves, scarf and hat Cocoa, Cider, Tea, and Frappe Only serves to make one fat Winter Mushy, sloppy, dirty snow Freezing from my head to toe I will not hate to see it go Winter All day long I hold my head This season filled with gloom and dread And this is all that should be said Winter Spring learning experiencing innocence but selfish self centered early new growth fresh green tender delicate

childhood

Summer teenager heated life live hard live fast pursue your own interests begin to bud begin to blossom become interested in the reproduction process

Four Seasons, The Seasons of Life By Linda Peterson

Fall mid-life mature productive begin to realize the harvest is approaching pour nutrients and strength into growth and life Winter old age weakness sorrow time is running out there is a wealth of knowledge that needs to be shared then, the end.

Impressions

Death of a Dog

Living at Home Blues

By Linda Peterson

By Cindy Thronburg

ould you please … SHUT … UP?!” I’m standing in the doorway of our kitchen. I was awoken by my dad’s howling laughter and my mom’s annoying giggles. They are now staring at me wide-eyed, my dad holding the newspaper and my mom midway into a sip of coffee. “I’ve only been asleep for an hour, I’ve been up all night studying for a final that is in two hours, and I’d like to get at least one more hour of sleep before that!” I yell. “It would be nice if you could at least try to keep it down.” “We’re sorry, sweetie,” my mom says. “Garfield was just so funny today!” “It really was, Potato Bug,” my dad says, then proceeds to read the joke. I’m only half paying attention. I’ve gone and gotten my favorite mug out of the dishwasher, a green one with a snowman on it that never finds its way back to the cupboard. I put coffee in it and add two ice cubes so it’s cool enough to chug, and by the time my dad finishes reading the cartoon I am preparing my second cup. Hopefully the caffeine will kick in by the time I need to get up. “That’s great, Dad,” I say. “I’m going back to bed.” “Sweetie, did you try those earplugs we got you?” Mom asks. “Yes, but oddly enough laying on the side of your head with something protruding out of your ear isn’t that comfortable.” “What about using a fan?” my mom continues, not noticing my sarcasm. “It’s 11 degrees below zero, Mom. I don’t want to use a fan.” “Well, you’re just going to have to try to block us out somehow. We’ll try to keep it down, though. We’ll both be leaving for work soon.” “Good luck on your final, Potato Bug!” my dad adds in cheerily, oblivious of the exchange my mom and I just had. I go back to my room, crawl under the covers, and double check my alarm for the eighth time. I fall asleep to the chant in my mind that went, “Two more years. Just two more years.”

Death of A Dog, My Best Friend How did I feel when I knew your last breath was breathed? And the last beat of your heart was done? My heart was breaking with the realization that You were really gone! The vet stooped and picked you up in her arms. Your legs and head were so limp. There was nothing there. I knew my friend was gone. I looked, I touched, I cried. My friend, my friend, my very best friend! Why did you have to go? I love you! What a large part you have played in my life. May your new journey be a good one

Tiger Cub By Denise Johnson 19

Impressions

Love Song for a Vampire By Anita Weiler

What do I Say?

Annie sang it first, but not best,

By Dara Anderson

And not for you. I sing for you, but not alone. I am but one of many,

I think of ducks, boys, and the invention of waffles. I want to tell you I’m sorry.

But I mean it more deeply. I feel it more acutely. When I sing, I bleed, My life force flowing in warm, Bloody waves From my chest, From the torn flesh of my neck, Feeding you. You, who neither asks nor wants To be fed. And in that moment When you most need my prana to sustain you, You push away, In that moment, I am struck aware, It is I, not you, Who feasts upon the living, My legs wrapped around your waist, My lips wrapped around your neck, Sweating and heaving, Drawing out your life-force, Swallowing it greedily, Claiming it as my own. You throw your head back, Shuddering with ecstasy and pain. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? But now you’ve so little left to give, Still, I take it. I, and the others, Leaching your energy, your light,

Throwback to Old Chicago

Only in sucking you dry

By Jayde Heckler

May we live.

Impressions

Stoxen Studies By Stephanie Perkins

Re-write By Sabrina Greenwood I am endless need Dependent and free Tethered to my heart – And falling apart… Filled with lovely rage I rip up the page And re-write my life Let’s delete the strife… But I can’t let go Hurt’s a friendly foe She kisses my sweet pain And leaves a lip stain The color of my soul Yet softly she stole My sweet tears away

Nature’s Beauty

And hope of another day

By Laura Lee Kunkel

Enraptures me…

Impressions

Darlene Mae Hodgkinson By Lauren Soderberg

ne Saturday in July 2009, I was lying on the floor of the living room, throwing a toy for my dog. I was sleepy, a side effect of the heat. I could hear my father’s phone ring from the next room. My father answered and the obnoxious Verizon provided tone stopped. I tried to hear who he was speaking with, but soon lost interest. I was almost asleep on the floor when I heard a sound that shocked me into awareness: my father was crying. My mother must have heard him the same time as I did, and she was in his den before I could even sit up, the puppy bounding after her. The room seemed to darken and it became hard to breathe. I had seen my father cry twice before, and both times had meant the death of someone close to him. My head spun as I imagined every possible scenario, each one more terrible than the next. I stood up and walked on shaky legs to his den. My parents had squeezed themselves into one recliner chair and my father was sobbing, his face against my mother’s chest as she stroked his hair and the dog attempted to lick the tears off of my father’s face. My mother waved her hand in a silent order for me to leave. I made my way into the living room, sat down on the couch, and waited. Fifteen minutes later, my parents emerged from the den. My dad’s eyes were red, but he seemed to have composed himself. He looked at me and said “Grandma isn’t doing too well.” A burden was lifted as I realized nobody had died at the same time my stomach dropped as I considered what had happened to my grandmother. She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years before, and the last time I had seen her (almost a year ago) she had been completely lucid, if a little forgetful. I sat and waited for him to continue. All he said was, “I’m flying out the day after tomorrow to be with her.” The words came out of my mouth almost instantaneously: “I’m coming with you.” My parents looked hesitant and when my father started to say something, I said “No, I’m coming with you.” My mother tried to be reasonable: “We can’t afford two plane tickets.” “I don’t care. I’m going. I haven’t seen her in a year and this could be the last chance I get to see her alive. I’m going.” My parents were silent, but eventually agreed that I would go. A day later, my father and I were en route to Oregon City. The plane we had taken arrived in Eugene, Oregon, a city two hours south of our destination. He had rented a car and we sat silently for much of the journey. I am horrible at small talk—a trait I had inherited from my dad. The silence wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable, though. We both seemed to be content in our own little worlds. We were listening to a classic rock radio station and occasionally we would both hum or sing a little to the song that was on. We commented on the song or band playing, at one point scoffing together at my mother’s distaste for Queen. Looking back now, there was a sense of foreshadowing in our journey: two of the songs we belted out together were “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult, and “Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel. Two hours of driving later, and we had arrived at my grandmother’s house. Every single one of our relatives were there to

Impressions

meet us, as is our family’s way. I hugged aunts, uncles and cousins I hadn’t seen in a while and waited patiently for my father to hug my grandma first. My grandmother Dolly had always been a small woman. I had surpassed her in height by the time I was thirteen, despite the foot-tall bouffant wigs she used to wear. She had survived off of coffee, cigarettes, beer and bird sized portions of food, and had had a hell of a time doing so. But despite her small size, I had never seen her look so frail before. Her wig was not to be found, and wisps of gray hair covered her scalp. Her makeup was not on, and the maroon polish on her long fingernails was chipped. Her customary sweats and sneakers were gone; she wore pajamas underneath a simple bathrobe and slippers. It was obvious her condition had deteriorated, but not as much as I had expected. Her eyes lit up in recognition when my father walked in the door and she smiled widely as she exclaimed, “Hello!” When I hugged her, I held her as if she were a piece of crystal that could break in my embrace at any moment, but she clung to me with strength I didn’t think she had. I was beginning to regain hope, to believe that my relatives had simply been exaggerating, when I realized that she had forgotten my name. I gently reminded her as I blinked back tears and withdrew from the hug. Her icy cold hand was still clenched in mine. Later, I overheard my aunt telling someone that my grandmother had been more lucid than she had been in months; that she had put on “one hell of a show.” I spent the week being with my grandmother as much as possible. She had a habit of wanting to

Confused BySeth Walters

Lone Flower By Stephanie Perkins

move from the back porch swing to the front porch swing, and back again every few minutes. It seemed as if she couldn’t decide where she would be most comfortable. During one particularly heart-breaking instance, she demanded a cigarette. I had no idea how to refuse her, but I was sure a cigarette wasn’t in her best interest. But her niece was prepared for this. She gave my grandmother an unlit cigarette and my grandma proceeded to puff on it, completely unaware that it wasn’t lit. One day, the family was having a barbecue and relatives had come from all over Oregon to spend time with my grandmother, as well as to see my father and I. At one point, my cousin Brandi’s four year old son, Cole, came up to my cousin Rachel and I and asked us to come with him to my aunt’s trailer. He had put on his serious face and spoke rather urgently, so Rachel and I complied right away. He led us to the trailer, ushered us in, shut the door and turned to us. “Okay,” he started, “we can’t let Grandma know we’re talkin’ bout her, cuz if she knows we’re talkin’ bout her, she’s gonna get real mad.” He paused there, pressed his fingertips together and looked at us as if he were about to devise a plan that would save the world. “Grandma is sick. Grandma keeps losing her appetite, so we need ‘ta make sure she takes her appetite pills so she can eat and get better. Now, her memory is not so good so we should put her pills right next to her bed, so in the mornin’ she’ll take them first thing. Can you do that?” He looked at us expectantly, as if he thought that he might have lost us. I could feel my stomach drop as I looked at my cousin; she appeared as if she were feeling similarly to me. Out of the mouths of babes. Though I could tell that my grandmother was not getting any better, I still maintained a childish sense of hope that everything would work out in the end. She, despite her mind being affected by the disease, knew that her time was coming, however. She began

asking us to call or bring her relatives who had been dead for years: her second husband, her sister, her cousin. One day, we sat rocking on the back porch swing. I was working on relaxing, matching my breaths with the motion of the swing. I held my grandma’s hand in mine and we gently rocked together. She had seemed to be in a fog when suddenly, she turned and looked straight at me. I asked her if she wanted anything. She ignored my question and said simply, “You’re so beautiful.” The words melted the ice that had been creeping into my heart and brought a smile to my face. I squeezed her hand gently and replied (more genuinely than I ever had before), “Thank you!” She smiled and nodded her head, and then turned to stare vaguely in front of her. I thought that would be the end of the conversation until she started speaking. In a clearer voice than she had had my entire trip, she said to me, “I know I don’t have much time left. I can feel it. But I’m not afraid.” She turned to look at me and then continued, “I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll be with your Grandpa soon enough. And I don’t want any sadness, okay?” Tears came welling to my eyes and I choked the sob that was building up back down into my throat as I nodded my head. She turned away again, and there was silence for a minute before she said, “I think I’d like to go to the front again.” The next day, my cousin Jessi and I were eating lunch with my grandma when she turned to us and said “You girls won’t forget me, will you? Don’t forget me when I’m gone.” Jessi and I hurriedly and sincerely promised her that we would never forget her. That seemed to appease her and she continued to peck at her food. A week after we arrived, my father and I prepared to leave. Hugs were exchanged, goodbyes were spoken. I held my grandmother for as long as I could. All the clarity that I had witnessed seemed to be dissipating, and her goodbye was a mumbled slur. As we made our way down their long driveway, I prayed for the first time in years. I prayed that this wouldn’t be the last time I would see her alive. The drive back to Eugene was somehow even more silent than before. Sorrow was like a blanket over both of us, and neither of us really had anything to say. The same radio station again played “Don’t Fear the Reaper” and “Only the Good Die Young,” but this time neither my father nor I sang along. Three days after we returned, my father received a call from my aunt, informing him that my grandmother had become comatose and was being moved into a care facility. Once again, my mother held my father until his weeping subsided. Two days later, August 2nd, 2009, she passed away. This time, my whole family drove up to Oregon from Las Vegas. The journey was a stoic one, with no one saying much. Because my father had already taken time off for the trip we had made just a week earlier, we planned to stay only for the funeral. If one had ever doubted the scope of the impact my grandmother had had on people during her life, her funeral service reassured them. The casket, pink—my grandmother’s favorite color-- was underneath a shelter designed to hold twenty people at most. Many times that came to honor her memory. The building was full of her relatives, and friends and acquaintances completely filled the surrounding area. At least a hundred people came to her funeral, and just as many came to the service afterward. The event switched from mourning her death, to celebrating her life and lasted well into the night. In a true homage to my grandmother, Darlene Hodgkinson, we partied until the place closed.

Impressions

Kacey By Amanda Leftridge

hen I was a little girl, I always carried dolls around. Not porcelain dolls, or Barbie dolls, or baby dolls, usually, but rag dolls. Little cloth faces with button eyes, and yarn for hair. I had a particular favorite which for about a year I took everywhere with me. I named her Kacey, because her brown hair and eyes reminded me of my best friend from school. In the summer I didn’t see my schoolmates—the price of living in a rural community surrounded by rural communities is that you spend most of your time alone—and I wanted to have a friend I could take home with me. Those were the months of stained lips and wild adventures for Kacey and me. We ran through the groves and snitched plumbs from our neighbor’s backyard, hunted for wild strawberries among the violets at the woods edge, lie in my mom’s raspberry patch watching the clouds through the tall green of their stalks, whispering our dreams to each other and watching to see when the little clusters would turn red. Oblivious to everything outside ourselves, we built a world together out of sunshine and swing-sets and tall grass. And at night, we held each other and pretended we were somewhere far away. Perhaps on a ship, sailing quietly through the dark toward some mysterious moon-drenched shore, or hiding under a buffalo hide in a tepee on plains of endless waving grass, we were safe from the angry whispers in the next room. But the summer soon faded, and as sun started to disappear earlier, the whispers in the next room got louder and angrier, and some nights they wouldn’t stay in the next room but would fill the whole house, changing from whispers to voices to shouts. Kacey was scared most of those nights, but I held her to my chest and stroked her hair, promising that it would be okay. One night, Kacey didn’t believe me. She said that the shouting hadn’t stopped in a long time, and she wanted to go and see what was happening. I didn’t want to; I was afraid that mom and dad would be mad if we got out of bed. But Kacey insisted, and I thought, “Maybe if we just peek and then run back to bed before they catch us…” We left the safety of our tepee and stepped out onto the barren plain. The grass had all died and the wind swept around us without reservation. There was an enemy camp on the other side of the prairie, and we had to creep along the foot of a great mountain so that they wouldn’t see us. Then we turned into mice and crept up to the door of the enemy tepee, which was open just a crack. Then, abruptly, the make-believe ended. There were no feathers in my mother’s hair, and my father was not holding a tomahawk, but a lamp. An instant later, mom was on the floor, protecting her head with her hands. The lamp had never fallen, but she threw herself to her knees in tears. I must have gasped, for mom and dad were suddenly looking at me. I ran back to my room and hid under the bed. I’d dropped Kacey. I waited for a long time, too scared to move. Then the light came on, and I held my breath as a pair of hairy bare feet thumped into my room. I watched as he knelt, and was expecting him to yell at me, but the man who soon came into view

Impressions

did not look like my dad. I’d never seen him cry before, and the puffy eyes and trembling lip looked foreign on what was ordinarily a hard, proud face. He coaxed me out and gave Kacey back to me, and we sat at the edge of my bed without saying anything for what felt like ages. Then he hugged me, whispered that he was sorry, and without another word got up and left, turning the light off as he went. I held Kacey loosely, not sure what to tell her, not sure if I should be angry at her. Finally I looked at my button-and-cloth friend, examining her expressionless features for what felt like the first time. I put her on the shelf with the rest of my dolls, and for the first time since I got her, I went to sleep alone.

Lonely Tree By Wei Long Liu

Wishing and Waiting By Cindy Thronberg

Winter View By Binxuan Chen

For that tooth to get loose enough to pull. For December 25th. For Dad to pull up the drive. For the first signs of spring. For the first day of kindergarten. For pizza day in the cafeteria. For that boy to look your way. For an ‘A’ on your math test. For the freedom of a driver’s license. For that boy to ask you to the prom. For the acceptance letter to the university. For that sparkling ring. For the moment you can count your baby’s toes. For the front door to open when she’s two hours past curfew. For the call from the doctor that says the test results are fine. For retirement. For grandbabies. For peace. For the moment you realize you’ve spent your whole life wishing and waiting.

Impressions

Love or Hate By Marie Dukart

Him This feeling inside consumes me My heart pounds and my hands shake Each time I see your face The world seems to stand still and make Me so confused I can’t think Your smile makes me mad, but in the yelling way I argue with you nonstop And we have never agreed on anything other than We have nothing in common So is it Love or is it Hate? Is it Joy or is it Pain? Please give me an answer If it’s Love I will run to the ends of the earth to escape And if it’s Hate I will enjoy the fun of hating one such as you and wonder Why I hate you

Forgotten Memory By Alysha Zaske

Impressions

Winter By Binxuan Chen

Happiness By Amy Magstadt

She Cried By Amy Magstadt

It is found in the plumpness of a babe Or in a present that you gave

She cried.

In the linger of a kiss

For the thing she always wanted, but never wanted.

Or the answer of a wish

She cried. For the dreams she felt, now nightmares.

In the holding of a hand

She cried.

and helping defeated stand

For the time she wasted, but did not want back. She cried.

A phone call with an old friend

For the winter, not sure of wanting spring.

Completing a book to the very end

She cried. For the cruelty of uncertainty, and the wonder of not knowing. She cried.

In the game you havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t won And the best you did is done Something good has become

She cried, and cried and cried.

Happiness

Impressions

Fall By Christine Hetzel A heart is breaking above the shell-littered shores of the sea. Youthful gaiety is lost as time dances with Gaiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s children to the Edge of death. How cruel the bitter end of summer must seem to A young tree, when vanity of autumn fades and crumples in the Wind. Yet, as dawn breaks, the icy glitter of winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s promise Renews hope and beckons swiftly a humble elegance unsurpassed By the rest of nature.

A Sign of Spring By Jessica Schmitt

I beg whispers Without answers

Without Answer By Diona Osterman-Api

Never has it been so cold as this dayStick men dance in charcoaled circles And crumple into Their haphazard heaps.

Impressions

Bull Berries By Linda Peterson

Belladonna By Christine Hetzel What a beautiful day it is! The sun is shining through my win-

he music stops when china shatters against the wall; you

dow as you give me a drink of sweet, sweet water. The corner is

scream at him to stop. Of course, he doesn’t. My poor Susan. I

your sanctuary, filled with healthy plants and beautiful flowers.

watch his hand slap you down again and again. Finally you just

You praise us over and over again, but I know that I am your fa-

cry, and you don’t get back up. He laughs and stumbles into the

vorite, that I am as much of your prize as you are mine. You are

next room, clenching the neck of the bottle and muttering to him-

very careful to pay attention to my every whim, and I love you for

self. I silently plea for you to leave and not come back, even as I

it, my dear Susan. You tell me that it’s not time yet, not yet time,

know that there would be no one to take care of me, even as I know

though I am ready. I know

you won’t leave.

what you want from me, and

The next day you pretend

nothing

I would gladly give you my

hap-

every leaf and flower.

pened. After he leaves

Today, I see the anger

for work, you turn on

that hides behind your smile.

the radio and sing along,

You carefully cut out my dy-

washing dishes, vacuum-

ing leaves and place them

ing, and doing his laun-

in a jar, and then you add

dry. Then it’s my turn for

a few tiny drops of arsenic

your attention. I stand up

into my soil. I have become

taller and beam at you

used to these bitter sips and

when you draw near.

allow them to fully integrate

You talk to my neighbors

into my body. You smile at

and I, apologizing for

my lovely purple flowers,

the night before and tell-

and I quiver slightly with

ing us, for the hundredth

delight under your attentive

time, that it won’t happen

gaze. I know we are sisters,

again. It’s just us now to

and after he is gone we will

keep her company, be-

live happily together. You

cause he will be in his truck traveling across the country for the next few weeks.

Stream of Life By Linda Peterson 29

are my belladonna, and I am yours.

Impressions

Apparent Reality By Lydia DeJesus

aiting rooms, the name alone echoes the thousands of thoughts that run simultaneously through a person’s mind, as they sit and wait. I will never forget that day my mother and I sat in the hospital waiting room. I felt so lost and confused. The world around me seemed so surreal, I didn’t want to feel, I didn’t want to think, I just wanted to hide. Looking at the strangers in the waiting room, I wondered if they could see my fear. Instinctively I turned to my mother for support, but she appeared consumed with anger. Up until that moment, my mother had uttered only two words to me. At that moment, I felt so alone, so ashamed, and not ready for the consequences soon to follow. Early that morning my mother walked into my bedroom, her eyes shot daggers of judgment that pierced into my soul. I fell still, silently trembling inside. Does she know? How? I’m still trying to make sense of it all. She looked at me and sternly said, “Get dressed!” I remained silent overcome with anxiety and guilt. I did not dare challenge or question her actions. The sound of the door slamming shut paralyzed me. I heard in one sound all the doors to my future close shut. I scanned my bedroom looking at the posters that hung on my wall like wallpaper. The latest rock icons hung beside the latest teen heartthrobs. I once looked at the faces and imagined a glamorous future for myself. The images made me feel uneasy as if I were standing in a room filled with people judging me. “Are you ready,” my mother bellowed. Her voice reverberated through the house and jolted me back to reality. I hurriedly threw open my closet door and haphazardly searched for clothing to wear. Trends change so often it is hard to keep up. Next month, a new trend would replace the one before. As a teenager, my appearance seemed to be so important, but in that moment, it was trivial. For the first time in my adolescent life, I did not care if my attire made the right fashion statement. I threw on a black turtleneck sweater and pair of black Bubble Gum jeans. I’d say the outfit certainly matched my mood. I stood in front of my mirror and looked at my dreary wardrobe. The person staring back at me looked depressed, in turmoil, and lonely. I turned away trying to dismiss my anguish and the thoughts of “next month.” I couldn’t help but think of the chaos I foresaw in my immediate future. I heard a knock at my bedroom door and my heart began to palpitate at speeds I never imagined possible. I mumbled to the tyrant behind the door, “Yes, I’m ready;” I took a deep breath and turned back for one final gaze at my room. I looked into my bedroom and knew that when I returned my life would forever be altered. From my seat in the waiting room I stare blankly at the entrance door that leads to the examine rooms. The fate of my future lies behind that white sterile door, the truth is my actions eight weeks ago determined my fate. The nurse who flings open the door interrupts my thoughts. She stood there, appearing ten feet tall,

Impressions

dressed in blue scrubs, and gripping a medical file. I could see her mind racing as she contemplated the pronunciation of the patients’ name. I watch the words tumble from her mouth and immediately succumb to relief as I hear the name of another waiting room resident. I withdraw from my surroundings and want to run home and hide. This wave of emotions that I am experiencing must be what is defined as the denial phase. How else do I explain the rush of emotions coursing slowly through my being? Slow deep breaths, I recite these words in my mind over and over again. I find solace in these words; they are all I have now as I sit and wait. Suddenly, the nurse reenters the waiting room and again I begin to recite my words of comfort. Although she is standing across the room, I feel her hovering over me, judging me. She says nothing as she looks to me and then to my mother searching for words. A thought occurs to me right then, does she know too? The nurse composes herself and signals with her hands for us to come forward. My mother and I languidly follow behind her to the examine room where again we wait. I feel like I’m in the middle of an after school special and we’ve reached a commercial break. The only

Lions and Lanterns By Wenwen Chang

difference is I can’t leave the room to grab a snack. Although in that particular moment, the thought of food brought waves of nausea. I spent the last weeks ignoring the signs willing them away, but they always returned with vengeance. Another nurse enters the exam room and proceeds to perform her routine duties. After taking my vitals, she hands me a paper towel robe. Before retreating, she tells me to change into the exam robe. I quickly glance over to my mother and her eyes repeat the nurse’s words. I look at her wanting to tell her that I’m scared, but the words just won’t come out of my mouth. Instead, I turn away and obey her command. After I’m done, again I sit and wait. The silence in the room is deafening. Uncertain of what to do next, I begin to shake my right leg violently, praying for an end to this point in time. The doctor enters the room, a cheerless smile painted across his face. My judge and juror here to hand down my sentence. I wish he would just get to the point, instead, he reads my medical records, as though he were reviewing a manuscript. He appears intrigued by its contents and after a long pause looks up and asks

me how I’m doing. Instantly I think to myself, “Are you kidding? How am I doing?” I just wanted to yell out at the top of my lungs and unleash the mixture of emotions that boiled vehemently inside me. Instead, I meagerly responded, “I’m fine.” Those were the last words I remembered hearing before my life shifted and the ground beneath my feet fell. The doctor’s lips were moving but I heard nothing. Everything around me was moving in slow motion. When I looked at my mother, a teardrop lay suspended on her face. She clenched her hands tightly as if in prayer. When she dropped her head in apparent shame, the tear fell exploding onto her hands. In that moment, I realized that I had mistaken my mother’s fear for anger. When I looked at her, I saw a mother mourning the loss of her daughter’s innocence. The tyrannical demeanor now swept away by the doctors’ words. I could see she had no clue how to tell my father that I was fifteen and I was pregnant. It’s been more than twenty years since that fateful day and still I remember it all. The look in my mother’s face resonates in my mind. Every day I strive for excellence, never wanting to let her down again.

Frears By Keisha Sparks

Save Them By Lydia DeJesus

They live in enigmatic darkness Unsuspecting souls Unconscious to the world outside their desolate surroundings Their lives monotonous Childhood dreams aborted Their future jettison Ingesting mind altering drugs Searching for asylum…drowning in hopelessness Who among them will find a sanctuary away from the wanton world they’ve created for themselves. Their cries assent…but remain unheard.

Impressions

Band Camp By Dara Anderson

our instrument, and your personality,” Nicole said, sounding like a teacher. She sits next to me on her bed, with a very serious expression. She’s trying to help me choose an instrument for marching band. I’m not sure how it’ll turn out. “It’s funny how you can know someone, just by looking at what instrument they play.” Nicole points at a black case on her floor and then back at me. “You can know if they are really cocky, or really helpful.” She raises an eyebrow and stands up. “It's interesting and most of the time you don’t even know if you’re in the right place or not.” I’m not sure what to think of it, but since Nicole has been in band since middle school, she knows these kinds of things that I sure don’t. Plus she’s making me join band. Yay. “Let’s start with the woodwinds, shall we?” she says eyeing me and waving her finger around. We’re in her blue-walled room on a Saturday afternoon, the last real Saturday of the summer. “Clarinet players.” She continues. “Clarinet players are the ones who have nowhere to go. It’s a mix of most personalities. The average player is a goody goody and plans everything out. They get straight As and know what they’re doing… most of the time. They try to fit in with the other band people, but we just accept them for who they really are.” I’m not so sure if I want to be a clarinet player anymore. The way Nicole puts it, it seems that the clarinet players are big fat zeros, much like me, but I don’t want to be a zero anymore. “Flute players.” Nicole says in a perky voice, she jumps a little. “Mostly girls play flute, but sometimes there’s a guy or two. It doesn’t mean he’s gay or anything…” Uh huh, right, I thought. I keep listening to Nicole’s mini speech. “It just means they have a big heart unlike most guys in band. The flute players are super helpful, they always want to lead you in the right direction so you won’t get lost. If you’re crying, you’re going to want a flute player around to make you feel better again. They are just very optimistic people with big hearts. But once in a while you have the kind of slutty flute player, still nice, it’s just that they hook up with all the guys in the band. Yes, we have all encountered one.” Nicole finishes the flute part in an angry voice; maybe I shouldn’t play the flute. Plus I’m not always that perky; it’s just too weird.

“Saxophone players!” Nicole yelled, and threw up her arms. Nicole plays the Sax, so she’s really just going to say good things about it. “Saxophone players are jumpy.” She says with a smile on her face. “They always need to be doing something, and if their whole bodies can’t move around, their mouth is the one that moves. You can’t shut a saxophone player up; it’s just how they are.” So true, I thought. “They are super party people and really adventures. The girls flirt a lot with the Drum line, and they will go to a caution area with their head up high.” She winks and smiles. Nicole is such a Saxophone person… but jeez, is everyone in her section exactly like her? I can barley stand her alone at times! “Now the brass players,” Nicole says, standing like a soldier. What does standing like a soldier have to do with brass players? What exactly ARE brass players? “French Horn players,” Nicole says as she plops down on the bed next to me. Oh, I thought, that’s a brass player. “French horn players make the band a whole. They are relaxed and easygoing, but can be super wacky if they want to.” I watch her with wide eyes. “A French horn player is a person who likes to snuggle and make weird animal noises. They have a better sense of what to do and not to do than most of the brass players. They have brains, and are very proud people. French horn players love everyone and they don’t judge.” Nicole finishes with her right fist over her heart. Well, I thought, this is better. Except the whole no judging thing, I judge people way too much. I think I gotta stop that. “Trumpet players!” Nicole yells again, I think she likes the trumpet players. “Trumpet players think they are that.” Well there goes my theory. “They are super cocky and sometimes have a short temper. They are most likely to say, ‘Ha! I’m first chair, I’m the best, the rest of you guys suck!’ than anything else. Trumpet players who are girls are the opposite of the cocky one-minded male trumpet

The Old Ford By Laura Lee Kunkel Impressions

players. The girls are a lot like the flute players, except sometimes they don’t want anything to do with you because they have their own problems to deal with.” She finishes, laughing a little. I don’t know why she’s laughing, but I guess it’s a band thing. Trumpet I think… sounds more like me, I kinda don’t want to get up in people’s business, but I don’t think I’m better than everyone else. Next instrument please! “Trombone, Baritone, and Tuba players, also known as Low Brass.” She nods, and sighs. We all know about the low brass, I’ve heard lots of stories about them. “Low brass players are the LIFE of the band. They are the nerdiest of the whole band, but you’d be surprised what they can do. They Yell “Horse Dick!” at any time. They draw pictures of a weird guy name Gary on the white board, and make him say, “Damn it Juno.” During concerts they are backstage, making fart noises, and yelling, “Yay Robert!” Nothing can stop these guys except a stampede of elephants and soap.” I don’t want to play low brass. I thought. I’m not exciting or super weirdly gross like them… I’m just, me. “Percussion” Nicole smiles. She wants to be in percussion, she always says so. “Percussion players are like French horn players, except they don’t get wild, unless under the influence of the Drum line.” She stands and thinks a little, “They are mostly a mix of sections, either because they don’t belong in the section they were in, or they just want to try something new once in a while. Percussionists are very organized and smile all the time, they want to please the Drum line and percussion instructor.” I look around the room. Nicole is a VERY messy person. The posters on the walls are falling off. Clothes are all over the floor, including a pair of pokemon undies, the bed hasn’t been made since roaches know when, and the room smells of beef jerky. She doesn’t even like beef jerky. It’s kind of bizarre how she wants to be in percussion, I know I don’t want to; I’m messier than her for crying out loud! I know, it’s hard to believe. “Then last, the drum line.” Nicole sighs and bats her lashes. “Do you have something in your eyes?” I joke. “Shh!” she shushes me. “The drum line has the best-looking people in the band.” She dances around the room. I look at her like she has two heads. “They are the troublemakers. At the marching competition, they are louder than the low brass, they go under bleachers to get high…” Um, how does she know this? “And on the bus, they start the rave. Extremely outgoing because they are so conceded, and really cocky at times because half of the trumpet section joins the drum line. If you want to be someone, be friends with a drummer, they can get you anywhere.” Hmmm I thought, drum line sounds promising, but I’m nothing special, I don’t even like the way I look! What am I going to do? “So, you found your soul instrument?” Nicole plops back on the bed next to me. I put my hands to my face and groan. “It’s okay” she pats my back, “you have until Monday to make your decision,” she gets up again, and goes to the bathroom. I put my hand on my lap and stare at her instrument case, “What am I going to do?” I think out loud. It’s Monday the first day of Band camp. I remember what Nicole told me about the different personalities. I sit in the empty

Bubbles

band room wondering what instrument I should play. By Megan Miller I look around the room, there’s the white board with a drawing of someone name Gary saying “horsedick.” I giggle, remembering Nicole. I glance at the clock. It reads 5:30. I should be going home soon. Stupid band camp. My cell rings. “Hello? Yeah mom I’ll be done in a little bit, I’ll call you… ok bye.” I shut my phone. “Ugh, stupid Nicole! Why did she talk me into this band mess?” I groan and walk to the director’s office. I have made my choice. I open the door. “Hello, Millie,” the director sounded so calm, writing little nothings on a posted note. “Um, I think I know what instrument I want to play,” I said nervously. “I want to play French horn.” “Great choice!” she exclaimed still looking down. Does that mean there was a wrong choice? It kinda confused my ninth grade brain. “Okay, yay,” I added, moving my arms a little bit. “Well, tomorrow starts your official first day of band,” she scribbles more things on the post-it note. “Aren’t you excited?” she looked at me with her freakishly huge blue eyes. “Umm, yeah, I guess,” I back away a little, if she’s sick, I don’t what whatever she has. I just want to get out of here. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she goes back to her postit. How can someone write so much on one post it? “Okay, bye.” I opened the director’s door and I ran out of the band room door to the outside world, not wanting to talk to the director again, she’s so weird. I grab my phone and dial my mom. “Hi mom, can you pick me up?… ok thanks, bye.” I shut my phone and sit down on the grass that surrounds the side opening to the school, AKA the band room. The setting sun beams its rays on my black t-shirt. I want to go home! I sit on the grass and continue to think about what I’ve just done. I joined band, I thought. I might as well have signed my soul over to the devil.

Impressions

What Matters is Now... By Lydia DeJesus

n the summer of 2002, I packed a U-haul and forced my children to travel west from New York City (NYC). Often times, I am asked, “How did you end up in North Dakota.” At first, I replied with a simple nod of my head, followed by the statement, “I wanted a better life for my children.” I now reply, “I threw a dart at the map and it landed here.” However comical this response, it suited my needs because it is easier than providing an honest response. I grew up in NYC and never contemplated leaving “the city;” I could not envision a life outside of NYC. This was also true for my two eldest children who were teenagers at the time of our move. When I announced my decision to move to North Dakota, they were angry. They looked at me with disdain and said they would return when they turned 18. It has been six years since our move and they both still live in North Dakota. At the time of our move my youngest child was six-years-old, so he does not recall the lifestyle. He is unable to comprehend the things we miss. Although we may sometimes feel lost and isolated, we are pleased with the changes in our lives. My family back east thought I was insane to move half way across the country. In fact, when I said I was moving to North Dakota, my family’s response was “where?” and my brother asked if North Dakota had cars. I replied, “No, Mike, they still use horses to travel.” Sadly, he believed my statement and called me crazy. Generally, when I recall my life in NYC, I remember the best years of my life. Often times we revisit the past and smile at the memories. However, the fall of 2001 marked one of the darkest times in our lives. On the morning of September 11, 2001, the terrorists’ attacks on the World Trade Center forever changed our lives. Recalling this day is difficult, but I remember it with such clarity. The memories of this day haunt me still. At the time of the attacks, I worked as a property manager in NYC. One of the perks of working as a NYC property manager is responding to building citations from city officials. The process included making the needed repairs, completing the proper documentation, paying the fines, and filing the forms at the respective agencies for certification. On September 11, 2001, being overworked proved to be a benefit. The day before, my initial plan was to file the necessary documentation in the morning. However, on that evening, I forgot to bring the required paperwork home with me. The next morning, I dashed into my office and haphazardly grabbed the file, and said “I’ll be back ,I have to certify these violations.” My colleague stopped me and said, “Don’t leave, a plane crashed into the towers.” I looked at him, not amused. I had to get this done. If I didn’t the owner of the building would not be happy. I turned to him and said, “Stop playing, the repercussions won’t be pretty if I don’t file this today.” He grabbed my arm and looked at me with desperation, he repeated, “Don’t Leave!” I

Impressions

had to take notice and listen. How could I not pay attention, the building that would be directly affected was my destination. He motioned and led me to his radio where the words heard became a motivating force, not just for me, but for all who heard his words. The entire staff followed him, like mindless zombies. We gathered around his radio as if we were sitting by a campfire about to tell scary stories. Unbeknownst to us this was more than a scary story, we would become a part of history. This would become a story that required the courage to retell. We listened attentively as the announcer reported “Manhattan is closed.” Manhattan is closed – what did this mean? I remember looking at my co-workers, the look on their faces remain with me today. I saw in their faces the same feelings that were overwhelming me…lost and confusion. We were in such disbelief that we ran up to the roof of our office building. Yes, even in times of distress and upheaval, “New Yorkers” trust no one. We needed to see for ourselves, we needed to understand and confirm the accounts we just heard on the radio. When we arrived, all we saw was smoke emanating from one tower. We ran back downstairs to contact our families, but the landlines were dead. Seconds later, my boss reached me on my cell phone and all I heard was “Hello! I was about to get on the Lincoln Tunnel and… Oh my god!” then silence…in that instance the core of my soul trembled with fear. My only thoughts were that I would never see my family again…I would die here. I would never have an opportunity to express to my children their importance in my life. The

Bark By Stephanie Perkins

Waterfalls By Lew Froelich

only thing my children would remember of me was a woman dashing in and out of the house, with her own selfish purpose, briefcase in hand... I felt like movie character, but no, this was reality. I ran back up to the roof, and another co-worker stood there, tears welling in her eyes. She’d watched one tower fall to the ground. She looked at me unable to communicate what she had just witnessed, but the words were not necessary, I felt it too. We stood there, looking on in disbelief. I turned to her and said, “I can’t believe that one is still standing,” and in that instant the second tower crumbled to the ground. As I watched the second tower dissolve into a puff of smoke, I watched my sense of security dissipate. I silently wondered, so many thoughts ran through my mind. If I did survive, how would I ever feel safe again? I remained on the roof watching this cloud of smoke slowly envelop the sky above us. I became frozen unable to move, I was staring aimlessly at the scene before me. I thought about the meaning of life, my family, and the lyrics to a particular song by the band Stabbing Westward. Specifically, “…when I reach the end, will anything I’ve done mean anything.” These lyrics echoed in my mind. I couldn’t make it stop, I had to get out. I had to find my children and tell them, “I Love You!” I stepped out into the street, but nothing made sense. I was not

alone, the people I once viewed as strangers were now my comrades. We were lost in a world…alone, but at the same time, we were connected. How could we not feel a connection? Manhattan was closed…again I asked the question, what did this mean? I am unable to articulate the feelings I felt when I walked onto that street. When I saw the look on these strangers’ faces, my instinct was to grab hold of them and tell them everything would be okay, but again I could not move. I did not have the answers…nobody did – paralyzed by fear we began our journey off the island hoping and praying that we would get home to our families. As write and share the events of this day, I feel that I can go on for pages, but in reality all that matters is the difference we make now! I moved here not knowing anybody, or anything about North Dakota, including the location on the map. At the time, North Dakota was a state in the middle of the US that nobody ever went to, but I believe in taking chances, especially if the only thing holding you back is fear. When I made my decision to move to North Dakota, I feared living in NYC and I feared moving to North Dakota, so it was a difficult decision. Nine years later, I believe it is the best decision I ever made.

Impressions

Bad Day By Linda Peterson

Circle of Life By Cindy Thronburg

Above, a bird soars. Below, a caterpillar Eats a leaf of grass.

Bikes By Andrea Schock Impressions

Sketched Fruit By Enoch Ohene-Ntow

Of Fathers and Sons By Anita Weiler He has seen his father slay dragons. In awe, he stared slack jawed, as his hero presented to his queen the trophy of the beast’s head. Father, in all his rogue swagger, scooped up the queen and the son knew he was wisking her off to his bed. He longed to be such a presence, to be like Father, a young son could dream. Yet he felt to fragile,

too young, too fearful, too weak. He wasn’t much of a marksman. He cried when he skinned his knee. He didn’t know much of warfare. Of women, he knew not a thing. He trembled in Father’s shadow, and stuttered when he tried to speak. To be like Father was far from his reaches, but a boy, a boy could dream.

Impressions

Deus Ex Machina By Meghan Bartz

his is a story of betrayal, well loyalties and betrayal. I was told by someone that I look up to that “I have to take pride in my work.” And we found what I was good at, pride came naturally then. His influence spilled out onto me into what made me happy, as what he does makes him happy. “Not everyone has jobs that they hate, some of us are lucky enough to do things that we enjoy,” he told me once. I take his advice and his ridicules because he can make me stronger and better. I came to him with nothing left, and through hardship and pain he made me realize my strengths, and realize that I have to believe in myself because no one else will. He has taught me a lot in the few years I have known him, more than he’ll ever know, that I am sure. And this is how the story began, because I am not one to sit back and be taught nothing and being a rebel of sorts, I complained. However, my complaints fell silent. No one would stand by me with it, I was alone, and what can one person do to affect the change in the world, really? The class was more than a joke. I even camped out in an office pod during class because it wasn’t worth my time being there. One day after talking to the person I tell everything to, I told him too much maybe. I say this because as I told my story about my ex and what he told me, I had a flashback. I stopped in midsentence and just sat there without budging for, what seemed like for an eternity. When it was over I was drained, exhausted, and my attitude changed. I sat back in the chair and groaned, and finished my story in much less detail than I started with. My listener was worried, I could see it in his eyes. He knew something was wrong, I had tried to explain it to him before but I was too afraid to say it. Or I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. I had been silent for many years, and words did not come naturally to me anymore. He said he had to deal with another student, and I knew my time was up. So I told him that it was ok and I got up to leave. As I left he tried to say something. “HEY! You can come back.” I smiled a little, it was as if I had died all over again. I went on with my business trying to keep in the present. Trying is the key word. I was in class listening to someone speak about what they are passionate about, but not what I am passionate about. And I scoffed, or sighed. I’m not sure which. And she wanted to know who, so I said it was me. Even though I wasn’t sure it was me. And she asked why, and what I said I do not recall, but I know it was rude and abrupt. It was as if I had no control over what I said. Class ended and I left, not realizing maybe I had said something uncalled for. However, about two hours later I saw the man I tell my stories to, the man who listens to all my problems. I waved, as I usually do. And usually he waves back, but this time he did not. He just stared at me. He knew. I don’t know if my name was stated when there was a complaint, but I assume either he knew or my name was stated. In my head I heard, “Oh crap he knows.” And I realized maybe I should apologize. I ate lunch however, because the office hours were not until afterwards. I walked to the office, and stood outside it. I stated the name, and heard a reply. “Do you have a couple minutes?” I was allowed in the office. I apologized and almost started to cry, but held back my tears,

Impressions

because I don’t want to appear weak or fragile. I was told that all she wanted was respect, the respect that was given to all of us is all is wanted in return. After that, I made my way to another office. “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO, GET ME IN TROUBLE!” I stated that I had already apologized. “What did you say?” I told him I couldn’t recall, but it was rude and abrupt. “I’m glad you apologized, and you have just been indoctrinated into my world. I’d be careful that probably won’t be let go.” I knew, because there was something that was said in that office that wouldn’t have been said if it hadn’t been thought about. “Go make sure that room is clean.” I left to go check. It was clean, or as clean as it could be. And realized maybe I should go talk again. I set up an appointment and went to it. “Do you LIKE to live in the past?” I told him that I don’t but thought I could get past it myself. However, I was wrong. “You know some people have to take medication to equal out the chemicals they are missing in their brain. It helps to make people so that they don’t go from one extreme of being really mad to the other extreme of being really sorry.” I smirked slightly, trying not to acknowledge that he was talking about me. I was quite positive he was. I listened to him talk, because somehow the softness of his voice calmed my mind and soul. And allowed me to see into the future and not be stuck in the past. The mind can be a wonderful thing, but it can also be terrifying. As I said, this is a story of betrayal.

Time Stands Still By Tyler Houston 38

I Thought You Loved Me By Dara Anderson Did you really love me? Under the mother eyes of the Mexican sky He was happy and it showed in the sun. And it was fate laid in stone Sacred heart, sacred ground Our two souls moved as one. And you said you loved me Now there’s something missing when you’re kissing me It’s subtle yet it’s gone And then I’m suspicious And then we get vicious And then there’s a hole right through the heart I thought you said you loved me Now there is an ocean of time Between your life and mine You look happy and you’re loving again And oh my Lord how you’ve grown To find me still alone I am humble But I’m still trying to forget When you said you loved me I thought you loved me

Proud Bird

The Dog

ByTyler Houston

By Linda Peterson

Impressions

Face On, Face Off By Jenny Marboe Face On. he idea of putting makeup on had always baffled Scarlett. To be “made up” implied that one was made false, an imaginary or idealized image of oneself. Even as a teenager struggling with doubt about her worth and her place in society, Scarlett had shunned the practice of powdering her nose, dusting a fine film of colored powder across her eyelids, and brightening the shade of her lips. With her entry into college, everything, and nothing, had changed. She had been forced to accept the stunning realization that life, in its most bitter reality, was not much more than a glorified high school with glorified cliques and glorified classrooms. Putting on makeup had then become a daily ritual. Foundation, excessive eye shadow, mascara, dark eye liner; there had been a time when she had not even known what each of these things was for. To begin with, she had plastered her face with too much makeup, enough to cause comment; a little too much notice for the inconspicuous look she had attempted to achieve. Since then she had learned how to use it in just the right ways, blending shades of brown and red eye shadow to create a dusky effect on her brows and eyelids, fluttering a blush brush loosely across her cheeks to create the appearance of a flushed, warm skin tone.

She ran a brush through her hair and laid it aside. Gripping the porcelain sink until her knuckles whitened, she leaned into the mirror and regarded her reflection with a critical eye. Her cheeks had grown sallow and even with makeup she could easily pick out a red rim around her eyes. Her jaw was subtly defined yet seemed square and coarse. Gold flecks highlighted the green of her irises. Auburn hair tumbled across her shoulders and rolled in waves down her back. She never wore it up anymore, which was just as well because of the time it used to take her to braid it in the mornings. Scarlett pushed herself away from the mirror. Even with the warm spring sunlight streaming through the bathroom window, intimating that it would be a hot day, she pulled a turtleneck sweatshirt over her head and tugged the sleeves down until she could grasp the cuffs in her fists. Scarlett closed her eyes and sucked in her breath until she could feel the air straining against the walls of her lungs and crammed an orange knitted cap over her head. Giving the indifferent face in the mirror one last musing glance, Scarlett slipped out of the bathroom and sidled out of the door to her apartment complex, merging into the throng of people on the sidewalk like she had every day for the past three years. The faces around her were blank and wax-like. The combined frozen stares of her fellow pedestrians added a theatrical quality to the monotonous plod of the crowd, effecting the same apathy one would expect from the zombies lounging around the break room between “Thriller” music video rehearsals. Glazed eyes focusing on some unseen destination stared listlessly ahead as the day’s task list scrolled through the person’s head. Scarlett wondered how

Fading Avenue By Andrea Schock Impressions

many pairs of eyes could attribute their bloodshot undertones to last night’s caffeine binge and how many were still chasing a high from their drug of choice. At the foot of the stone staircase that rose solemnly to the main doors of the Biology wing of the University, Scarlett paused and let traffic redirect itself around her as effortlessly as water flowing around a stone. Staring up at the looming building with its daunting, gray windows and terracotta stonework draped with vines to conceal the cracks running along the walls, she wondered at her own attempts to hide. She wondered, with some twinge of hatred, whether anyone else could tell that, like the vines, her makeup concealed more than just the bags under her eyes. Face off. carlett pulled off the turtleneck that had, thanks to the heat of the day and coarse, thick material, made her skin itch. She balled it up and tossed it to the floor. Steam rolled off hot water as it filled the bowl of the sink and clouded the mirror. Scarlett cupped her hands under the water and splashed it across her face. Her eyes closed, she scrubbed vigorously at the layers of makeup until her skin burned and her eyes watered. Blindly reaching for the faucet, she pulled the stopper of the drain and listened to the water swirl out of the basin of the sink while she patted her face dry. Pulling the towel away, she surveyed her worn, haggard face in the mirror. Distorted by the steam, her face was merely a blend of colors. Swiping at the clouded mirror with the palm of her hand, she hardly recognized the face that stared back. A dark bruise circled one eye and blended into another gray-green blotch that covered the bridge of her nose. Pulling her hair into a ponytail, a tender lump and purplish bruise became visible on the back of her neck, spreading like a rash to the slight crevice along the line of her jaw. Scarlett laid her arm against the sink, palm up. Under the bright fluorescents of the bathroom, the scar that spanned three inches between the base of her palm and the crook of her elbow was clearly visible as a glossy white ridge. Scarlett reached under the porcelain basin where she had taped a sharpened razor blade and pulled it from its hiding place. Starting at the base of her palm, she drew the blade along the scar, watching in fascination as the tissue separated and tiny beads of blood began to collect in the groove left by the blade. Curling her fingers into a fist, she watched blood bubble from the wound and run down the side of her arm into the basin of the sink, streaking the white porcelain with crimson ribbons, like parade flags fluttering against an overcast sky. She wanted to know that she could still feel, that she hadn’t

Life ByYue Wang

been numbed by the helter-skelter life that she had embraced as her lot. Some days she wanted to be able to opt out of this charade, let the blood pool in the sink until it spilled over and speckled the tiles, like an artist’s abstract painting. Other days, she just wanted to be held, to curl into a ball and cry until the tears flowed stronger than the blood pumping out of her arm. Today…today she just wanted peace. Scarlett ran the razor along a similar scar on her other wrist and smiled in satisfaction as all of her pain trickled down the drain. Every time she picked up the razor, she told herself that she would put it down again and hide it or throw it away. Scarlett let her arms fall to her side. Slowly sliding down the bathroom wall, streaks of blood framed her body against the jovial, butterfly-festooned wallpaper. Scarlett traced the outline of a tile on the floor with the stained blade held loosely in one hand and hummed softly to herself, rolling the notes of Nat “King” Cole’s “Smile” over her tongue. This time it really would be the last time. There would be no more after this.

Impressions

St. Louis Cathedral By Tyler Houston

A Moment in Time By Valerie Milicevic Not enough hours in a day The clock keeps ticking your life away Take time to stop and live Who can you help? What can you give? Look in the mirror Who do you see? A person filled with generosity? Small opportunities to show you care Put yourself out there, if you dare The smallest of gestures....a miracle unfurls Give of yourself, and change the world.

Happy Endings By Dara Anderson I gave up on happy endings.

For thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no place in the

For so much pain

sun

and tears

For all I have done.

have filled my life instead of love.

And though I want to believe,

Stories I have read,

I stand alone.

Movies I have watched, They have become lies in my

Then I put it to the test.

eyes

But in my heart,

And they tear me apart.

I know it to be true. I know what I gotta do.

Never have I felt that sunrise, Awaking me from my forever

And I already know,

sleep.

How this will end.

Impressions

Mysterious Tree By Stephanie Perkins 42

Anchored ByYue Wang

The Prier (Revisted) By Nwafor Chukwuka It is nothing but sheer gamble,

A sign of nesting lucks?

Intruding unoccupied rooms.

A cluster of hatching tunes?

Nothing but cheap-effrontery at work. Yet we’d stare at walls for reasons to our own dooms.

For you…for me or the nosy geckos, Indenting the wooly-hours of our recluse, Or is it for her…is it for the prying one,

Making do with the idea of a trim, Tuck away in peace, the now cultured-broom.

By the door way—

And what here do we have ready:

Gliding through, per-noon?

Impressions

Sonnet II (For Morgan) By Robert Meador The sordid scrape of stone on steel bleats out; It stretches and screams through an empty hall, But as I listen with an ear devout No echo does survive the Dark’s wide sprawl. My cold bare feet replace each other’s tread As I push a Great Mirror to its place. It soon stands facing its own Brother’s head And only Fog’s gray glow grants each a face. There, with ragged eyes and a hollowed soul, I stand between to see eternity. Before me is both past’s and future’s hole, That slithers and seals, as the earth to sea. I stretch across forever all alone, But I feel my bare feet on the cold stone.

Mournful Lullaby By Kathryn MacMilan 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

Rose Side

as her mournful lullaby ascends

By Stephanie Perkins Impressions

into earth’s rustling atmosphere.

ouse Out.

faulty pipes. Some are the directors and stage managers; the CEO of a A building is given character by major organization, the By Jenny Marboe the people who inhabit it. A theatre, oil tycoon or ranch owner, in the stereotypical sense that one the voice of an outdated thinks of it as a building, is often ostentatious in its design. From speaker phone commanding the actions of three female agents of the outside, it may be so bold as to feature ravenous gargoyles or questionable character. Others are divas, born to dramatize every half-nude, pudgy cupids and stately angels with bodice malfuncsniffle and broken nail. We are all actors. tions. It could lean cumbersomely between similarly flamboyant People do not give themselves enough credit when it comes buildings on a busy city street or be so broad as to claim an entire to acting. We are all much better actors than we can hope to know valley as its backdrop. or understand. Boys have mastered the innocently worried face Within the building itself, tiered rows of plush seats critithey can pull up at will when they mysteriously forgot a condom. cize a broad, black stage shrouded by a rich velvet curtain from Girls can hold a grudge for years while assuming an air of perfect beneath a cathedral-style ceiling. Behind the scenes, source fours ease. Each of us has at least two masks, two faces, two personas. and Fresnels hover from networks of metal pipes, appearing like To argue otherwise is to assume that the human race has much hibernating bats in the recesses of the theatre walls, and costumes more self-esteem as a collective unit than we actually do. gently shed glitter as they dangle freely from wire hangers in The world is not perfect and, despite rather clandestine efthe dressing rooms. Taut ropes of nylon and manila groan under forts to change this fact, it is not good. Life is a competition for the weight of their loads and dormant pieces of furniture hover the right balance of light and sound, the right interaction with just offstage, awaiting the next scene change with the tangible stage managers and directors and divas and fellow actors. Life is anticipation only inanimate furniture can achieve. Nevertheless, trying to separate the act from the fact. It is no wonder that this without the murmuring of an audience or the moaning of the task is so hard to perform. Fact often blends itself into the act stage under the weight of actors and scenery, it is dead. until the act becomes a fact and the fact is merely a façade. We blur the lines on purpose, but whether to make life a little more Lights Up. interesting or out of a primordial feeling of self-preservation is uncertain. One could argue that the lights define the stage, outline the theatre. The contrast of hues across a blank cyclorama setting the Curtain. mood, washes of “surprise pink” putting warmth into the stage and its inhabitants, pale work lights silhouetting the black-clad The difference between life and a stage is that we can change the stagehands between scenes. Indeed, the lights themselves have a set whenever we want. Scene changes come and go at will, with life of their own and tell a story to the shrewd observer, but they as much precision and detail as we would like. It is up to us to do not define the theatre. build the lives we lie about or fabricate the lies we live. The stage Theatre, in the purest sense of the word, cannot be defined by is set for us from day one; a building or lights. Theatre is defined by the people who inhabit it is up to us to change the the space in which it is confined. It is defined by the characters scene, to create our characon the stage, by the men and women in black who move like ter, to build our theatre. shadows behind the scenes, by the idolized actors and overlooked By Wenwen Chang technicians. These are the people who give the theatre characTake a Bow. ter, who give it life. With these people, even a square of grass can be considered a theatre, the sun providing a natural lighting plot, the landscape a malleable setting.

All the World’s a Stage

Ancient Dam

Scene Change. All the world is a stage. Some of us are the technicians. These are the people who make the world turn by going behind the scenes, cleaning up the trash we leave in the street (both in the figurative and literal sense), hauling the wounded to hospitals and the dead to morgues, fixing pesky things like loose wires and

Impressions

time keeping warm (probably due to the surface area to volume

Santa at the Carwash

ratio) and I asked if he wanted to use my hoodie. He said yes, and

By Meghan Bartz

with flash I was down to my long john top and my work t-shirt. He put it on and stopped shivering. Dealing with the water in the

cold does not help to keep anyone warm.

t was winter, a month before Christmas. I was work-

I peered around the corner to see a car coming up the con-

ing in the carwash. It was cold, the heat was never on

veyer. I also noticed a man in the lobby. His hair was white and

because it would be lost when we would open the doors.

My friends and I would stand in the small back room where

his beard was long. I ducked my head back in to the small room,

the girls (mostly me) would end up doing the laundry while not

"There is a guy who looks like Santa out there."

wiping down vehicles. We were trying to keep warm. I had a

"Yeah, we've seen him before. He's from Killdeer."

longjohn top on. I had cut it to short sleeves to fit under my work

I peered again. His head popped up and he smiled and waved.

top for occasions when I didn't wear a hoodie. Today, I was wear-

I had been spotted, what could I do? I waved and smiled.

ing a very large hoodie under my work shirt. My friend Mike was

As the car came off the conveyer someone jumped in it and

shivering trying to stay warm. I don't generally have a difficult

drove it to the drying bay. It was a number 3. We wiped the car down with damp rags to clear off the excess water. The rags being damp did not scratch the surface. The windshield and door jams are also dried. On a number 3 we also clean the windows, inside and out. When it was done, the owner to the vehicle was called. "White Buick!" The owner would come out and waited for us to open the bay door and drove off. The next vehicle was a dark green Chevy S-10. It was a number 4, no windows involved. On the driver side of the windshield laid a sticker "Department of Defense, Minot AFB." I chuckled, "So that's how he gets all those presents delivered." As I finished up, I stood up and felt someone behind me. "Thanks for leaving me those cookies." I smiled and opened the bay door. He got in and drove out.

Glowing Tracks By Jessica Schmitt Impressions

Sonnet III By Robert Meador Conviction is that which I covet most. Erratic in his visits and by far Too short he stays; an awful play of host He makes at dinner, scurrying to the car. And Hope would soothe the constant friction’s burn Amid time’s passage and heart’s pulpy thumps, If not at Operation took her turn, And dumbfounded stood as blood spurt in pumps. But it is to you, Love, that I would speak. Not absence nor fault would join with our speech; Too pure and constant, far beyond critique. Yet bled me dry; a fat well-fed leech. Perhaps I’m drawing circles with my hands, But I am balancing my feet in stand.

One-Way Street By Cindy Thronburg How did I get here, On this lonely stretch of the metaphoric road of life? I must have missed a turn somewhere along the way. I did. I know I did, Because you’re nowhere to be seen. The road forked, and you went one way, I went another. Now you’re too far gone,

Tall Glass of Water

And you’re not looking back,

By Keisha Sparks

Because the road of life is a one-way street.

Impressions

tion where dreams and visions allow one to appreciate oneself and

The Number Four Revised

the Creator. White is the color of the North. It is an experience in purity as it is from the North that the secret of many cures is found

By Linda Peterson

for healing. The white reminds one of the aged and the wisdom

s I began my tour with the Lewis and Clark Institute,

they hold within themselves. Some of the Native American tribes

I realized there were many things

have a little variation of the colors for the different directions, but

I did not know or understand about the Native

the attributes are quite similar.

American culture. The more I was exposed to bits and pieces of

Black Elk, an Ogallala Sioux holy man, spoke of how the four

their culture, the more intrigued I became concerning the signifi-

directions were four spirits and yet they were one. He likened the

cance of certain numbers and rituals in the Native American way

four colors to the four races of man and the four seasons to the

of life. I was especially interested in the number four. As I have

stages of life from childhood to old age.

researched the number four, I have learned much about the Native

The Native American culture looks at life as a whole experi-

American heritage and the philosophies in life one can draw from

ence. The Medicine Wheel is a symbol of this life. At the center of

the number four.

the wheel is the hub that represents the Creator who sits in perfect

There are four directions in life. The color yellow represents

balance. The spokes in the wheel represent spiritual paths to the

the East. From the East comes knowledge. Everything from the

Creator. The wheel teaches the four aspects of nature ... physical,

East is fresh and new. Here is where the sun rises everyday bring-

mental, emotional, and spiritual. It also takes into account the four

ing a new beginning. The South is represented by the color red.

elements ... earth, air, water, and fire. The four quarters are colored

From this direction everything in life is replenished and renewed.

red, yellow, black, and white representing the races of man and

This is the direction of growth. Black is the color of the West.

the seasons and stages of life. The four spokes point in the four

From the West one encounters reflection and insight. It is the direc-

directions (walkingant.com). As one looks at the Medicine Wheel and its symbolism, one begins to realize how important it is to be thankful for each direction and each season in life. Spirituality is an important part of the life of an American Indian. A process of renewal attained by combining the physical and the spiritual world is the purification ceremony, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Oenikika.â&#x20AC;? This ceremony varies from tribe to tribe, but it is similar in its purpose and meaning. William J. Walk Sacred, a Cree medicine man, shared the Cree version of the purification ceremony. A circular lodge was prepared with various coverings to keep in the steam and warmth. The shape of the lodge is likened to a womb. The person, who wants to be purified, has to approach the medicine man and get instructions from him. The medicine man prays and gets instructions for this person to follow in order to be purified. The one to be purified is to make a prayer pouch. The prayers are a gift of the heart to the spirits. The spirits look to see if the person is sincere. The medicine man sends up sacred herbs in the four directions. There are four sacred herbs; sage which purifies a room of negative energies, sweet grass which brings in good spirits to heal, cedar which purifies, and tobacco which blesses the earth. A

Homework By Binxuan Chen Impressions

fire is built and grandfather rocks are heated white-hot. The rocks are brought into the lodge one at a time and are arranged in the four directions. Sweet grass and sage are sprinkled on the rocks and

the medicine man prays to the four directions. Water is put on the

Jade

rocks and steam is created. The steam fills the lodge and the ones

ByWenwen Chang

inside the lodge are connected with the basic elements of life. The participants offer prayers of thanksgiving and praise to the great spirits, the great mystery, the sky father and the earth mother. Songs are sung for bringing in spirits, talking to spirits, giving praise and gratitude, and giving acknowledgment to the great mystery for all the gifts of life. The prayer of thanksgiving is for all gifts, good and bad (spiritalk.net). As I look at all the lessons that can be learned from the number four and the significance of this number in the Native American culture, I find much of what was taught many generations ago is still applicable today. Each day I need to be open to what the world has to teach me. From the East I can obtain knowledge that is constantly changing and I need to have my eyes and ears open in order to see what is before me. Each day is new and I have to decide what I am going to do with this new day. From the South I have growth but I can only grow as I keep

way I can understand and relate with others who are not like me.

my mind open to new thoughts and ideas. From the West I have reflection and insight. Here is where I have to remember to look at things from a differ-

Little Village By Binxuan Chen

ent angle. I need to try and see life as others see it. In that

From the North I have the secret of many cures for healing. Here I acknowledge the fact that the secret of healing the inner self comes through wisdom obtained by the experiences of life. These simple lessons in life create a well-rounded person within me. There are four directions that give me four attributes to help me grow. I have four seasons that can help me understand the aging process. Each direction, each season has something to teach me as I go through life. Only as I embrace all this life has to offer me, the good as well as the bad, can I become the person the creator intended me to be. Words Cited Online Posting. 5 June 2004. Date of access 21 July 2004 <http://www.spiritalk.net/nahealing.htm> Online Posting. 19 February 2001. Date of access 21 July 2004 <http://www/walkingant.com/shadow/ medicine.htm>

Impressions

You Call Me Asian By Kelsey Chan What’s with all the crazy hype? We’re just your Asian stereotype. When you have problems with the math equation, You can always turn to the nerdy Asian. We always seem too high strung. Of course we’re related to William Hung. Everyone is Jackie Chan’s son, And we don’t play until our homework’s done. We can never ever be wrong. You make us feel like we don’t belong, Just because we’re named Ching Chong Ping Pong Ding Dong Wong. Of course you think that we’ve got smarts, And that we all know martial arts.

Our rice bowls follow us everywhere, We all have chopsticks in our hair. Just because of our thick accent, You roll your eyes at our Asian descent. We’re only here to build a railroad. Touch our rice and we’ll explode. We got our rice bins on our backs, Around our waist are fanny packs. In our pocket is our Soya sauce. Don’t ask us how to play lacrosse. You ask us what is our future career? Of course we reply with “Engineer” Our skin the shade of pale bananas. Our gang members only wear bandanas. You see a driver temperamental, You just assume he’s Oriental, And that we are all instrumental. Why must you be so darn judgmental?

Chinese Palace By Wenwen Chang

Impressions

Urban Grace Gives You Hell

By Amber Lien

By Tony Haynes I tried to be nice But you would have none of it You thought it would be great to ruin me But you failed I now can hope that every time you see me Every time you hear my name And every time you think about me I hope that it will give you hell

Progress By Wenwen Chang

Into the Nothing By Tony Haynes I look back to see what was I look ahead and see emptiness The past prepared me The future will define me I venture forth Into the unknown Into the nothing And out of it all I will make nothing Into something

Impressions

Ray of Hope By Yue Wang

Impressions

Poems Three Blooms of Tension, Poem by Chukwuka Nwafor .........................................................................................6 Hurricane Egypt, Poem by Misty Rilly ...................................................................................................................................7 Haiku of Lies, Poem by Alex Jacobs .......................................................................................................................................10 Reflexology, Poem by Linda Peterson ...................................................................................................................................10 Artic Growth, Poem by Jermaine Christie ...........................................................................................................................11 A Little Chaos Always Hurts Somebody, Poem by Trace Wells ............................................................................................16 Vines, Poem by Diona Osterman-Api ................................................................................................................................17 Winter, Poem by Amy Magstadt ..........................................................................................................................................18 Four Seasons, the Seasons of Life, Poem by Linda Peterson ................................................................................................18 Death of a Dog, Poem by Linda Peterson .............................................................................................................................19 Love Song for a Vampire, Poem by Anita Weiler .................................................................................................................20 What do I say?, Poem by Dara Anderson ............................................................................................................................20 Re-write, Poem by Sabrina Greenwood ...............................................................................................................................21 Wishing and Waiting, Poem by Cindy Thronberg ................................................................................................25 Love or Hate, Poem by Marie Dukart ....................................................................................................................26 She Cried, Poem by Amy Magstadt ......................................................................................................................27 Happiness, Poem by Amy Magstadt .....................................................................................................................27 Fall, Poem by Christine Hetzel .............................................................................................................................28 Without Answers, Poem by Diona Osterman-Api ................................................................................................28 Save Them, Poem by Lydia DeJesus .......................................................................................................................31 Circle of Life, Poem by Cindy Thronburg .............................................................................................................36 Of Fathers and Sons, Poem by Anita Weiler .........................................................................................................37 I Thought You Loved Me, Poem by Dara Anderson ..............................................................................................39 A Moment in Time, Poem by Valerie Milicevic ....................................................................................................42 Happy Endings, Poem by Dara Anderson..............................................................................................................42 If I Were to Ever See You Again, Poem by Cindy Thronburg ...............................................................................43 Sonnet II (For Morgan), Poem by Robert Meador .................................................................................................44 Mournful Lullaby, Poem by Kathryn MacMilan ...................................................................................................44 Sonnet III, Poem by Robert Meador ......................................................................................................................47

One-Way Street, Poem by Cindy Thronburg ........................................................................................................47 You Call Me Asian, Poem by Kelsey Chan .............................................................................................................50 Gives You Hell, Poem by Tony Haynes .................................................................................................................51 Into the Nothing, Poem by Tony Haynes ..............................................................................................................51

Fiction No Refunds, Fiction by Alex Jacobs ........................................................................................................................................8 Living at Home Blues, Fiction by Cindy Thronburg ...........................................................................................................19 Kacey, Fiction by Amanda Leftridge ....................................................................................................................24 Belladonna, Fiction by Christine Hetzel ................................................................................................................29 Band Camp, Fiction by Dara Anderson .................................................................................................................32 Face On, Face Off, Fiction by Jenny Marboe .........................................................................................................40

Non-Fiction The Party Crashers, Non-Fiction by Eric Jensen ..................................................................................................12 Darlene Mae Hodgkinson, Non-Fiction by Lauren Soderberg ...........................................................................................22 Apparent Reality, Non-Fiction by Lydia DeJesus .................................................................................................30 What Matters Now, Non-Fiction by Lydia DeJesus ..............................................................................................34 Deus Ex Machina, Non-Fiction by Meghan Bartz ................................................................................................38 All the Worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a Stage, Non-Fiction by Jenny Marboe ........................................................................................45 Santa at the Carwash, Non-Fiction by Meghan Bartz ...........................................................................................46 The Number Four Revised, Non-Fiction by Linda Peterson ..................................................................................48

Artwork Spring Floral in a Tin Can, Artwork by Alysha Zaske ........................................................................................................14 Tiger in Bamboo, Artwork by Denise Johnson .....................................................................................................................15 Stoxen Studies, Artwork by Stephanie Perkins ...................................................................................................................21 Confused, Artwork by Seth Walters .....................................................................................................................................22 Frears, Artwork by Keisha Sparks ........................................................................................................................31 Bubbles, Artwork by Megan Miller .......................................................................................................................33 Sketched Fruit, Artwork by Enoch Ohene-Ntow ..................................................................................................37 Rose Side, Artwork by Stephanie Perkins ............................................................................................................44 Tall Glass of Water, Artwork by Keisha Sparks ....................................................................................................47 Tiger Cub, Artwork by Denise Johnson .................................................................................................................52

Photography Ocean View, Photo by Dara Anderson ...................................................................................................................6 Above, Photo by Tyler Houston ..............................................................................................................................................7 Traversing Troubled Waters, Photo by Lew Froelich ............................................................................................................8 Earth’s Echo, Photo by Amber Lien .......................................................................................................................................9 The Mask, Photo by Binxuan Chen .......................................................................................................................................10 Missing Plank, Photo by Wenwen Chang ...........................................................................................................................11 Fragility, Photo by Suresh Misha .........................................................................................................................................12 Journey by Rail, Photo by Amber Lien .................................................................................................................................13 Natural Beauty, Photo by Jessica Schmitt ............................................................................................................................15 Sunny Sunset, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel .........................................................................................................................16 On Island Time, Photo by Amber Lien .................................................................................................................................17 A Minnesota Summer, Photo by Amber Lien ......................................................................................................................18 Ray of Hope, Photo by Yue Wang ..........................................................................................................................................19 Throwback to Old Chicago, Photo by Jayde Hecker .............................................................................................................20 Nature’s Beauty, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel .....................................................................................................................21 Lone Flower, Photo by Stephanie Perkins .............................................................................................................23 Lonely Tree, Photo by Wei Long Liu .....................................................................................................................24 Winter View, Photo by Binxuan Chen ...................................................................................................................25 Forgotten Memory, Photo by Alysha Zaske ..........................................................................................................26 Winter, Photo by Binxuan Chen ...........................................................................................................................27 A Sign of Spring, Photo by Jessica Schmitt ...........................................................................................................28 Bull Berries, Photo by Linda Peterson ..................................................................................................................29 Stream of Life, Photo by Linda Peterson ...............................................................................................................29 Lions and Lanterns, Photo by Wenwen Chang .....................................................................................................30 The Old Ford, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel ...........................................................................................................32 Bark, Photo by Stephanie Perkins ..........................................................................................................................34 Waterfalls, Photo by Lew Froelich ........................................................................................................................35 Bad Day, Photo by Linda Peterson .......................................................................................................................36 Bikes, Photo by Andrea Schock .............................................................................................................................36 Time Stands Still, Photo by Tyler Houston ...........................................................................................................38 Proud Bird, Photo by Tyler Houston ....................................................................................................................39 The Dog, Photo by Linda Peterson ........................................................................................................................39 Fading Avenue, Photo by Andrea Schock .............................................................................................................40 Life, Photo by Yue Wang .......................................................................................................................................41

St. Louis Cathedral, Photo by Tyler Houston ........................................................................................................42 Mysterious Tree, Photo by Stephanie Perkins ......................................................................................................42 Anchored, Photo by Yue Wang ..............................................................................................................................43 Ancient Dam, Photo by Wenwen Chang ..............................................................................................................45 Glowing Tracks, Photo by Jessica Schmitt .............................................................................................................46 Homework, Photo by Binxuan Chen ......................................................................................................................48 Little Village, Photo by Binxuan Chen ..................................................................................................................49 Jade, Photo by Wenwen Chang .............................................................................................................................49 Chinese Palace, Photo by Wenwen Chang ............................................................................................................50 Urban Grace, Photo by Amber Lien .......................................................................................................................51 Progress, Photo by Wenwen Chang ......................................................................................................................51 My Little Green Friend, Photo by Tyler Houston .................................................................................................55

My Little Green Friend By Tyler Houston