Calming Site Samantha Holzer
*Tooth Berry* Keisha Sparks
Volume 25, Issue 1 Front Cover:
Reflections,* Photo by Stormie Sickler
Back Cover:
Steel Light, Photo by Chantel Hubert
Front Cover designed by Chantel Hubert
Impressions is a literary art magazine created and edited by the students of Dickinson State University since 1989. It is composed of material submitted by DSU students, faculty, staff, and Alumni. The goal of Impressions is to showcase the talents of those individuals assocated with Dickinson State University. 212 Stickney Hall, Dickinson, North Dakota 58601. Phone 483-2124, fax 483-2059, David.Schreindl@dickinsonstate. edu. For the full color version and past issues of Impressions please visit our page at http://www.dickinsonstate.edu/ publications/the_hawk/index.aspx.
Editors: Chantel Hubert
*Ava Bridge* Kelsey Laib
Emilee Burbidge Molly Reopelle Robert Meador
Advisor:
Mariah Duran
Dr. David Schreindl
Hyeyoung “Effy” Shin Ju Young “Julie” Um Copyright 2013 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. Impressions is made possible by the sponsorship of Dickinson State University, and specifically the Language and Literature Department. Awards for Impressions are judged and determined by the editors of impressions without knowing the authors of the submissions. Awards are handed out in five catagores: Poetry, Photography, 2-D Art, Fiction, and Non-Fiction. While anyone can submit items only current students are eligible for prizes. The editors of Impressions reserve the right to both edit submissions or refuse to print submissions. Editors for Impressions are a part of the Literary Production course and the publication of the magazine is a class project. Submissions for the 2014Impressions can be submitted to David.Schreindl@dickinsonstate.edu.
table of contents Reflections,* Photo by Stormie Sickler ................................................................... Front Cover Calming Site, Photo by Samantha Holzer ............................................................ Inside Cover Tooth Berry,* 2D art by Keisha Sparks ............................................................................................ 1 Ava Bridge,* Photo by Kelsey Laib ..................................................................................................... 2 Classics, Photo by Chantel Hubert ..................................................................................................... 6 Contest Winners................................................................................................................................... 6 Ross,* 2D art by Keisha Sparks .......................................................................................................... 6 Asundering Rivets, Poem by Diona Osterman-Api ........................................................................... 7 On-the-Farm, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel ........................................................................................ 7 Winged Warriors, Poem by Emilee Burbidge ..................................................................................... 8 Old Fashion Tough, Photo by Amber Lien ........................................................................................ 8 Subtext,* Fiction by Alex Jacobs ........................................................................................................ 9 The Voices, 2D Art by Alyca Norris..................................................................................................... 9 Here and Now,* Poem by Alex Jacobs .................................................................................... 10 BoBo Face, 2D art by Keisha Sparks .................................................................................... 10 Dokdo is Korean Territory, Non-fiction by Julie Um .................................................................. 11 Split Rock Romance, Photo by Paul Reopelle ................................................................................... 11 Glimmer of Hope, Fiction by Alex Jacobs ....................................................................................... 12 Wintery Foliage, Photo by Michael Bacon ........................................................................................ 12 Seeking Air, Poem by Diona Osterman-Api ..................................................................................... 13 Reminisce, Roosevelt’s Road, Photo by Sam Simonson .................................................................... 13 Purple Love, Poem by Tricia Ann Myran .......................................................................................... 14 What the Future Holds, Photo by Stormie Sickler .......................................................................... 14 Home,* Poem by Cassidy Rhoades .................................................................................................... 15 Meditation, Poem by Cassandra Johnson......................................................................................... 15 The Cabin, Photo by Amber Lien ...................................................................................................... 15 Sathhappen White,* Fiction by Diona Osterman-Api ..................................................................... 16 Life Illuminated, Photo by Amber Lien ........................................................................................... 16 Confused at Heart, Poem by Hyeyoung Shin.................................................................................... 17 Henry D, Photo by Jenna Sandman ................................................................................................. 17 A Lovely Day,* Photo by Amber Lien ............................................................................................... 18 Distant Shores,* Non-Fiction by Alex Jacobs ................................................................................... 18 The Balloon, Poem by Robert Meador .................................................................................... 19
Endless Opportunities, Photo by Alycia Norris ................................................................... 19 Soldiers at Ease, Photo by Stormie Sickler .................................................................................. 19 Stressing the Self Saves the Stress,* Non-Fiction by Alex Jacobs ................................................... 20 Long Walk, 2D Art by Keisha Sparks ............................................................................................. 20 Fire and Fog, Poem by Joshua Bart Kralicek .................................................................................. 21 Perfect Day, Photo by Mariah Duran ............................................................................................... 21 Chelsea, Poem by Robert Meador ...................................................................................................... 22 Alternatives for Exercise, 2D Art by Keisha Sparks ......................................................................... 22 Love the Game, Poem by Mariah Duran .......................................................................................... 23 When,* Poem by Tricia Ann Myran .................................................................................................. 23 The Big Dance, Photo by Stormie Sickler ......................................................................................... 23 Convenience, Safety, Fiction by Alex Jacobs..................................................................................... 24 Whisper, Photo by Sam Simonson .................................................................................................... 24 Uphill, Photo by Amber Lien ........................................................................................................... 25 From With In,* 2D Art by Alyca Norris ............................................................................................ 26 Sonnet XI, Poem by Robet Meador ................................................................................................... 27 Flutterby, Photo by Jenna Sandman ................................................................................................ 27 Words and Sex, Poem by Diona Osterman-Api ................................................................................ 28 Forked Paths, Poem by Cassandra Johnson .......................................................................... 28 Flower, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel .................................................................................... 28 Gaia’s Daughter, Poem by Cassandra Johnson ........................................................................... 29 Summer Light, Photo by Amber Lien ............................................................................................... 29 Dark Man,* Fiction by Joshua Bart Kralicek................................................................................ 30 Why Must I, 2D Art by Alyca Norris ................................................................................................. 30 Door to the Drawing Room,* Photo by Dara Anderson ................................................................... 31 Rushing Creek, Photo by Samantha Holzer ..................................................................................... 32 Mighty and Proud, Photo by Stormie Sickler ................................................................................... 33 Two Peppers, Photo by Chantel Hubert ............................................................................................ 34 Constellations, Poem by Cassandra Johnson ................................................................................... 35 Triple Goddess, Poem by Cassandra Johnson .................................................................................. 35 Trudy, 2D art by Keisha Sparks ....................................................................................................... 35 Costly Shadow, Photo by Chantel Hubert ........................................................................................ 35 Love Abandoned, Poem by Cassandra Johnson .............................................................................. 36 Sonnet XII, Poem by Robert Meador................................................................................................. 36 Snowman, Photo by Paul Reopelle .................................................................................................. 36 Do You Remember, Poem by Britney Rose Miller ........................................................................... 36
Chest, Poem by Cassidy Rhoades ...................................................................................................... 37 A Boy and His Dog, Photo by Dara Anderson ........................................................................ 37 Self Betterment: The Hands On Approach, Non-Fiction by Robert Meador ........................ 38 Circle of Lights, Photo by Unknown .............................................................................................. 38 Beyond Boundaries, Photo by Sam Simonson .................................................................................. 39 The Muses’ Depth, Poem by Joshua Bart Kralicek ........................................................................ 40 Resolution,* Fiction by Alex Jacobs .................................................................................................. 40 Reading, 2D Art by Keisha Sparks .................................................................................................. 40 I Want to Fall in Love Today,* Poem by Joshua Bart Kralicek ...................................................... 41 Void of Meaning, Poem by Joshua Bart Kralicek ............................................................................ 41 Bowling, Photo by Chantel Hubert ................................................................................................... 41 I Guess I’m Like My Dad That Way, Poem by Joshua Bart Kralicek ............................................. 42 Hawks in Flight, Photo by Samantha Holzer................................................................................... 42 Nearsighted,* Non-Fiction by Alex Jacobs ....................................................................................... 43 Tyrants Don’t Cry, Fiction by Alex Jacobs ....................................................................................... 44 Fascination, Photo by Molly Reopelle ............................................................................................... 44 Scar Tissue,* Poem by Jenna Sandman ........................................................................................... 45 Peaceful River, Photo by Samantha Holzer ...................................................................................... 45 The Solitude of Masculinity,* Non-Fiction by Joshua Bart Kralicek ............................................. 46 Of Prairies and People, Non-Fiction by Suzanne Russ .................................................................... 48 Siem Reap, Cambodia, 2D art by Keisha Sparks .................................................................... 48 Sunlit, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel ..................................................................................... 49 Peek-a-Moo, Photo by Laura Lee Kunkel ...................................................................................... 50 Delighting Meadow,* Photo by Samantha Holzer ........................................................................... 51 Bane,* 2D Art by Dara Anderson.................................................................................................... 52 Tristen, 2D art by Keisha Sparks.................................................................................................. Back Inside Cover Steel Light, Photo by Chantel Hubert................................................................................ Back Cover
Classics
Chantel Hubert
contest winners *Ross*
Keisha Sparks
Poetry 1st - Cassidy Rhoades - Home - Page 15 2nd - Joshua Bart Kralicek - Love Today Page 41 3rd - Tricia Ann Myran - When - Page 23 HM - Alex Jacobs - Here and Now - Page 10 Jenna Sandman - Scar Tissue - Page 45
Fiction 1st - Alex Jacobs - Resolution - Page 40 2nd - Joshua Bart Kralicek - Dark Man Page 30
2D Art 1st - Keisha Sparks - Ross - Page 6 2nd - Keisha Sparks - Tooth Berry - Page 1
3rd - Alex Jacobs - Subtext - Page 9
3rd - Dara Anderson - Bane - Page 52
HM - Diona Osterman-Api - Sathhappen
HM - Alyca Norris - From with in - Page 26
White - Page 16
Non-Fiction 1st - Alex Jacobs - Nearsighted - Page 43 2nd - Joshua Bart Kralicek - The Solitude of Masculinity - Page 46 3rd - Alex Jacobs - Distant Shores - Page 18
Photography 1st - Stormie Sickler - Reflections - Front Cover 2nd - Kelsey Laib - Ava Bridge - Page 2 3rd - Amber Lien - A Lovely Day - Page 18 HM - Dara Anderson - Door to the Drawing Room - Page 31
HM - Alex Jacobs - Stressing the Self Saves Trees - Page 20
* - Winners have astriks next to them
On the Farm
Impressions
Laura Lee Kunkel
Asundering Rivets Diona Osterman-Api I’ve seen these rivets in their trivial fashion Holding a million pounds of steel together with a thread of screw A supposed marriage of each part male and female faking the hole Of an active working operation, both soundless and petit mort-Unyielding nocturnal grandiosity (if only on date night) and the sanction of diurnal compassion But this buck-tail mocks consummation of iron and steel, tress and suspensionThey stand in their cold somber silence and mock the refugees that believe them strong And assured of 59 years in sight and forever in mind The bridge stays together but no union protects the builders and the built resents its makers Funny how what no man should put asunder
April 2013
Unscrews any homage of this, or any, Asunderwoman.
7
Impressions
Winged Warriors
Combat often leads to catastrophe,
Emilee Burbidge
winged warriors breaking down,
Soft butterflies fighting my dear valiant knights
Releasing wine colored failures past
protect my wounded body,
soft flesh they fought to defend.
prevent future damage.
My life force slowly draining through
Named after faithful allies
broken wings, they fought with courage.
giving much needed strength. Some battles won, valiantly.
My skin releases tears of red; weeping
Exhausted, proud eyes close.
our bodies lie vanquished as we crash.
Those demons they fight, wicked lightless eyed monsters haunting
My dear tizzy little warriors, fault did not lie in your wings.
dreams, their weapon of choice?
Blame is cast unto myself
Sharp blades drenched by blood.
I am not as strong as thee.
Old Fashioned Tough 8
Amber Lien
April 2013
*Subtext*
Impressions
Alex Jacobs
The feel of the couch underneath me is comforting as I lay there, only partially paying attention to her. The ceiling has a few cracks in it. I force myself to look at her face that's scrunched up with worry. “I'm okay.” I am not okay. Smile. “But you're so alone. I worry about you when you stay away from everyone.” Keep smiling. Her words ring with a truth I accept and reject. “I like it that way.” I don't. “Wouldn't you rather spend time with others?” I would. Smile. “No.” See the lie. Please. I beg you. It is truth. Worry no more. “Well, okay. I'll leave you alone.” No, don't! Smile. Hug. Wave. My body is a traitor. My body is honest. She goes and I shut down. Alone again. I am happy and miserable. Having lived for so long without friends, without those who would care, my walls are high and habits deeply ingrained. I've become adept
April 2013
at amusing myself, at the cost of not knowing how to enjoy others' company. I didn't mind then; I don't mind now. I did mind then; I do mind now. Emotional breakdowns come less often now. I've learned to tolerate even my own indifference to myself. I want to go after her. The concern in her eyes was real. I'm fine here. She would only abandon me anyway, like they all eventually do. Why do this to myself? I do it to protect me. Do I really think so little of people that I assume no one is worth maintaining ties with? Yes. No. I sit, alone, watching the specks of dust float through the air with all the haste of a fillibustering politician. Utter silence reigns as I stare blankly at a window that shows a beautiful, drab world outside. A teardrop. Why am I crying? I have no reason to cry. I have every reason to weep. With my lonely, peaceful abode all around me, I sit and wait. Heaven. Hell.
The Voices
Alyca Norris
9
Impressions
*Here and Now* Alex Jacobs The present Something that cannot be grasped Some look forward, others ahead Who sees the here and now?
Reaching right around the rational Only the mad could think they could capture the present Well Dreamers have been called worse.
Questions spin around without answers Things come, go, change, leave, nothing stays the same. People never stay the same. Where’s resolution in this kind of world?
We search And search And search Almost ready to give up— Then, there comes a moment when it’s there The present Shimmering softly, silently I reach out, eager to grasp its elusive substance Blink
BoBo Face Keisha Sparks
It is now the future.
10
April 2013
Dokdo is Korean Territory
Impressions
Julie Um
‘East sea’, ‘Dokdo’ is a geographical designation used by Koreans for over 2,000 years. Unfortunately, however, the use of the ‘Sea of Japan’ became its common name, spread throughout the international community starting during in the Japanese colonial period, and this erroneous usage persists. That is why I’m trying to reclaim the correct geographical name “East sea” for the waters of Dokdo to Americans who are often seen as the top nation and who are a leader of the international society. I will give you three reasons why Dokdo is Korean territory, based on the facts. First, according to Sejong silok jiligi geographically (Korea’s version of Google/ Wikipedia), Dokdo is located 54.30 miles from Ulleungdo, Korea but 97.86 miles from the Oki islands, Japan. Also, Dokdo is visible to the naked eye from Ulleungdo, but not from the Oki islands. Second, historically, according to Samguk Sagi vol.4, Korea has been aware of Dokdo’s existence since the 6th century. Japan, on the other hand, did not know about Dokdo until the 17th century. There are also a number of Japanese historical records and old maps in which Japan itself acknowledges that Dokdo is not its territory. In March of 1877, according to Japan’s Ministry of Home Affairs and the Dajokan, the country’s supreme authority at the time, confirmed that “Ulleungdo and another island [Dokdo] is a closed issue as of 1696” and that they are Joseon owned territory “not related to Japan.” This acknowledgement was based on a 1693 incident surrounding the abduction of Ahn Tong Bok and his fellow Korean fishermen. According to Dajokan document vol.2, after it was reported to the Edo Shogunate, April 2013
the Shogunate issued an order on January 28, 1696 banning any future Japanese visits to Ulleungdo according to an investigation report by Tottori Prefecture. This means that since long ago, Japan had recognized Ulleungdo and Dokdo as territories belonging to Joseon. Thirdly, according to Great Korean Empire’s Imperial Order No. 41, for the standpoint of international law, the Korean Empire legally proclaimed Dokdo as its territory stipulating in its Decree No. 41, in1900, that Dokdo is under the jurisdiction of Ulleungdo. Japan’s Shiname Prefecture later illegally incorporated Dokdo into its territory by issuing Notice No. 40 in 1905. Now, Americans might have some doubt over this issue, ignoring the distance of Dokdo to Korea and the earlier finding of Dokdo by Koreans as really supportive grounds. Then let’s think about this: do you think is it would be reasonable if China insisted on a US territory since they regard US close enough and believed Columbus to be Chinese in order to distort all of eternal truth with abusing mighty power they hold right no. Besides all of the above facts, the Republic of Korea works hard to manage and preserve Dokdo’s environment. According to Province of Gyengsangbukdo, Dokdo is currently home to Korean residents. About 40 Dokdo guards and three lighthouse keepers are permanently stationed on Dokdo along with Korean citizens. Only Koreans live in Dokdo, there are no Japanese there at all. According to Natural Monument no. 336, as a means of protecting Dokdo’s ecology for posterity, the island was designated as a natural monument which limits public access to Dokdo. Amid the restrictions, more than 100,000 people visit the island each year, serving to affirm Koreans’ interaction with and their affection for Dokdo. 11
Split Rock Romance Paul Reopelle
Impressions
Glimmer of Hope Alex Jacobs
I stopped to steel myself before entering the men-
in everything became a nightmare the world could not
acing door before me. My hands shook as I thought
wake from. She was so ready to risk everyone’s safety
of what awaited on the other side. I gripped my sword
if she could only help just one person... yet, somehow,
tighter, my knuckles turning white. I motioned to my
she became a mockery of everything she had stood for.
few allies to rest themselves. We’d all need to be at our
How much pain, how much suffering, had sprung from
best for this next fight.
the twisted mind of one
The upcoming fight
woman?
may see us with the advantage in numbers,
Much as I hated
but the mere thought
to imagine cutting her
of what waited on the
down, it was for the
other side of the door...
good of all. I couldn’t let
I shuddered and looked
my personal feelings
across the room.
get in the way of such an important mission,
Dead bodies of the
but... damn it. I just can’t
crazed guards were
be sure. Sure, she had
everywhere. I had
caused more damage
thought we might have
to the world than any
been able to convince
one human should be
some of them to aid us,
capable of, but even if
but it seemed they were beyond hope. I grimaced. It hadn’t supposed to have been
Wintery Foliage Michael Bacon
she has forgotten your former life, I remember. Can she be redeemed? Can I bring her
like this! It was so easy to pic-
back to that time when we’d stare
ture bursting in and gallantly
into each other’s eyes for hours,
striking down the nobles who’d
speaking nary a word?
bled the country dry, but when I had to fight those I’d recognized? Ordinary people who were probably glad
There must be hope. She must be made to remem-
to take the job of guard, just for the pay? I didn’t feel
ber. I stood tall and nodded to my companions. We
so noble, killing young men and women who, in other
were bound to go through the door, looking for that
circumstances, may have been my friends, if it weren’t
glimmer of hope. I just hoped we weren’t searching for
for her warping their minds with lies and manipulation.
something that didn’t exist.
That monster. With my friends gathered around me, I swallowed I smiled wryly, thinking of that day, so long ago,
and spoke in a low tone. “Is everyone ready?” A silent
when we’d spoken as friends. She had bodily blocked
nod and their determined eyes gave me a more power-
me from smiting an infected villager, halfway through a
ful answer than words ever could. Unable to think of
horrific transformation brought on by foul magics. Not
anything else to say, I slowly opened the ornate doors—
this one. Some monsters... carry a glimmer of hope, she
doors that I hope led to a
12
had said. How ironic that the one who believed
brighter future.
April 2013
Seeking Air
Impressions
Diona Osterman-Api A million minutes ago she reflected on the six million before, crossing back and forth an adobe bridge, hating the Smother.
Her pen moved with her, a painful reminder that its scythe had No power over it — Over her—- yet crusted doubt rekindled the
Now of here and Now of then clamored in disarray,
Smother.
their Other selves forced and malformed into a drunken Smother. She grew and grew and grew and kicked off her shoes in the sand. No freedom dive spoke of her passage, yet conspiring feminist whispers
She found but sought air, flailing again when he needed a reason to
Penned her poisoned dragging feet and her coiffed Smother.
Smother.
The silence of those first few drops of rain moved her, timid,
The ocean, its salty and cavernous disquiet, its drowning overmulling,
saturated with doubt but —she read—- moved to murder of the
Pushed the growing back in- Malintent offering its flexibility to the
Smother.
Smother.
April 2013
Reminisce, Roosevelt’s Road Sam Simonson
13
Impressions
What the Future Holds Stormie Sickler
Purple Love
Tricia Ann Myran The lovely lilacs sway in the wind.
For his love, my mom, to see and grin,
Happily waving their greeting.
Before she serves his lunch.
Each tiny bud springs forth the scent, Of a love that was strong, but fleeting.
In the Spring when they give sway, I shake free of winter’s dark.
My generations have loved them,
But my own purple love has gone away,
And Grandma thought they were blest.
And left behind his mark.
They announce the Spring, the time to plant And Bird moves North to nest.
They crown his grave, a royal headdress. He is tucked in their purple shade.
14
Their scent soon engulfs a room,
In a purple box by a purple tree,
When Dad brings in a bunch.
His ashes eternally laid.
April 2013
Meditation
Impressions
Cassandra Johnson Listening— Patience, Silence— Rushing water curtain Upon earthen rocks Splashes— Gossamer scales of Indigo, Crimson, Cerulean. Sitting— Embracing, Caressing— Rays of Light Bouncing off continuous Ripples Like that of skipped stones.
The Cabin
Breathing— Deep, Languid— Breezes crisp as Dried autumn leaves. Cleared mind, Focusing.
Amber Lien
*Home*
Cassidy Rhoades A new grass wind Breezes through lush foliage. Seeing— Hues, Beauty— Aqua, Violet, Pine The colors of Nature’s— Design. Bright fruits shine in Light Like that of newfound jewels. Enjoyed in tranquility -Listening, -Breathing, -Seeing, Beauty Divine.
Down the aisle, Hands bound in chains,
No chance of escape
To hear the sentence.
Or freedom, ‘til the End of your time.
He’s sealed your fate, That wretched judge.
Death, or a lonely
You’re on your way.
Existence? Violence, or silence? This is what awaits you.
Cold jeers, screams, laughter, As you walk in.
One prison, one section, one cell.
You are the fresh meat now.
Your Hell on Earth. Home.
Cement, steel solidity. Four walls, a thick door,
April 2013
And cold, iron bars.
15
Impressions
*Sathhappen White* Diona Osterman-Api
My Dearest Sister Abigail,
was an exquisite beauty!). Her demise was that she
I write to you with a deeply embedded sadness as I
believed she needed not blanket or comfort of pillow
look over our gray and damp little town. Unimaginable
in those chilly copses, for the only thing she had upon
horror has forced its burden upon our normally delight-
her was the pocket mirror her father had given her
ful existence, and has changed the inner selves of our
as a wee toddler. The dear doomed thing challenged
inhabitants in ways no human should have to bear.
Jacob further when she chose only to don her dressing
I will not elaborate with words of my own, for I could
clothes. When Annie grew weary with the slow pace of
never do justice to the power of dismay in this story of
dawn, she fell into the whispered dreams of night, and
a child gone mad and lost to her loved ones forever. I
fell asleep upon the twig-scattered sward. As she slept
will relate instead with the very words of the unfortunate
deeply upon the twig scattered lawn. [It is here, my dear
child’s Aunt Toomie. Herein is their grim story, which be-
Abigail, where you will recall the fantastic imagination
gins in the wretched patch of wooding of which you will
of Annie’s aunt, and her perchance for a dramatic flair.
undoubtedly remember from our own childhood forays.
Her story took quite a fevered turn as she, too, fell to the
Toomie’s frightful narrative follows:
fancy of children’s thrill seeking.]
“You must know the story of beloved little drowned
“Annie awoke to a black horrid fright as she opened
Charlotte Rivers that so many children have thrilled
those dear sockets of blue, and the poor lass stricken
themselves with over the years in our little crag of the
with paralyzing fear. She felt the air grew cold, and
world, and the way she haunts the shores of Sathhappen woods. You will also remember the dares of children to spend the night in those dreary and wretched thickets. Most recently, these typically innocent imaginings found their way to the ears of Annie Windham when Jacob Harsheim taunted her with such a dare. Annie boasted a fearless smirk at the thought of a ghost-girl that would dare rob her of her wits; they wagered six bits that Annie would survive the night in Sathhappen Woods. By no means am I speaking ill of my innocent niece, or of the innocent dead, but it was well known that An-
16
nie liked the mirror (as can be understood! She
Life Illuminated Amber Lien
April 2013
Impressions
there stood before her Charlotte Rivers adorned only in an eerily similar nightgown as that of which Annie wore! The bleached specter of Charlotte stood before our poor dear Annie, surrounded by eerie white light! Annie had enough of her wits about her (I believe she was
Henry D Jenna Sandman
operating on shock alone!), and ran back to the village in mad hurry and fear. The poor child was shrieking of ghostly moonbeams, and that Charlotte haunted her heels with a speed she could not escape! Annie never again was the same as her delightfully daring former self. Her mind abandoned her soul as nightmares discomfited the child, and she ceased to interact with anyone around her in a comprehensible manner, including her own poor, poor, poor mother! She screamed wildly of a young girl, turned pallid in skin, soaked to the bone, and with the grey and dreary eyes of the Drowned. Two days after her night in the woods, Annie happened to catch a glimpse of her reflection in a hallway mirror, and succumbed to the unthinkable fate of madness! She went mute, her eyes vacant, her movement languid, and her family retreated her to bed rest, with hopeless words of old Doc Crenshaw. The next morning, they found her muted forever, with twisted and troubled countenance. Now, I know you have heard the whispers, my sweet Adelaine, after laying Annie in her white satin-lined coffin that it was not Charlotte that shocked Annie into death, but the likeness of herself, donned in her own white tattered gown! Never again will Annie look into the glass of her little mirror!” It was here, my beloved sister, that the wretched woman let go of her story-telling nature, and broke down in sobs. You can imagine the blend of sadness, disbelief, and dreadfulness that filled my soul. I cannot bear to think of the agony of which those closest to Annie are subject, and will be all of their remaining days! Forgive my swift departure from pen and letter and the absence of other news to share from our home hearth. My heart weighs heavy after the retelling here within. Adieu, my dear sister, keep well, and may Annie’s nightmares never ring in our slumber! In Cherished Sisterhood, Adelaide
April 2013
Confused at Heart Hyeyoung Shin Time frozen I’m still moving In a race against myself and I’m still losing On a road to nowhere, forever ongoing With turns, ups and downs I’m on this road not knowing What’s ahead for me, who is there? Don’t know how, who, when, or where Eyes open and yet I’m blind Somehow I’m able to keep in between the white dashed lines Driving my heart of dreams, love, and hope Without a map I’m on the road of so and so So is it okay to feel this way? Can I manage to see my fate? Is it even right to for me to stay? Confused at heart here I lay I don’t know where to start But today is the day.
17
Impressions
*A Lovely Day* Amber Lien
*Distant Shores* Alex Jacobs
It’s the very personal moments that we treasure. Knowing things that others do not is one joy that few can deny. So we manufacture these secrets. Invent flaws for ourselves. To what end? The simple pleasure of having entertained? And worse, if this is taken too seriously, and the performer becomes the mask: how to live with whatever you’ve invented? It’s always there, just out of reach. Forever inspiring you towards the horizon, and yet you will never arrive there within a human lifetime. Some may ask, what good is the journey? Other still insist that the journey is the pleasure, or, more succinctly, that the progress of a human life towards death is the most anything can amount to. I want to write in new langugaes. I feel as though my thoughts cannot be expressed in any means provided to me by humanity that I am aware of. Art? Music? All I know is to write. Expressing myself in a codified manner that has been done so by a portion of humanity for more years than my mind can reasonably comprehend.
18
But if reason has led us this far, perhaps it is
time to abandon rationality. Just go out and run. Run. Wear dirty clothes. Leave everything behind. Build up something new. Then, just when your comfort zone has been re-established, run again. Find another place. Forever on the run, but from what? Society? Myself? Other people? The past? There it is again: that feeling of wanting a secret. I’ve done some awful things, and hinted at worse just because maybe I wanted to establish more “depth,” like I was some character in a story. I don’t have character development. I’m not a solidified hero, villain, antihero, antivillain, god, demigod; I’m something far more common, and far more terrifying: a human being. Within me lies the potential for everything and nothing. Limitless choices once spread out before me like stars before the child gazing at the heavens and they shall do so again. Whatever I am is entirely malleable. One can argue nature being important in the character of a person until the end of time, and to a point it is true, but people change. I change. Others change. I am not the plaything of anything beyond nor below. I am myself, and I will cling to this truth. All that holds me back is myself. If I allow others to project their values on me, it is my own fault or pleasure to agree. I know what I want, and I will allow nothing to stop me.
April 2013
The Balloon
Robert Meador
Then endless yearning Crushes a man’s heart. Li Po
Impressions
Endless Opportunities Alycia Norris
The balloon string curled in her chubby fingers, tangled in bunches, gripped in a hand that clung not with muscle, but with a determined pouty face. Grass tickled the tips of her exposed sandaled toes as she encroached the playground mulch, stepping in with carefree knees and frightened hips— like Bambi on ice. Instead of planning the next drop of her foot, she would look back and give a quick pull on the knotted string, held tight in her sweaty grasp. When she was sure the balloon, too, was coming, her posture relaxed and her belabored walking breath
Soldiers at Ease Stormie Sickler
made way for her small arms to tense, raised slightly at her sides, squeezing out a small little squeal at the recognition of the slide. She kicked up wood chips in her rush to reach the steps. She took each step with hurried meticulous care, always placing both feet in each metalwebbed stair. At the top, she anchored out with both hands on the surrounding bars, plopping to her rear, giving six scoots to the edge of the drop. And she slid down-- arms held above her head, hair frizzled with static. The balloon was swept into receding air, rising into its depth, until it popped.
April 2013
19
Impressions
*Stressing the Self Saves Stress* Alex Jacobs
A bit of advice: if you don’t want to stress yourself out in college, stress yourself out in college. Although, like some, I floundered a bit with my
and/or expense, depending on one’s personal situation. The best way to ensure that planning is accounting for everything is simple: talk to people. It may seem
choice of major at first, once I decided in my sopho-
a simple answer, but many of the accounts I’ve heard
more year that Communication was going to be my
included the person not talking to his/her advisor until
major, I attacked it with gusto. During my sophomore
it was far too late. Advisors and the rest of the DSU
and junior years, I never took less than fifteen credits a
staff exist for the students, so letting them help us is the
semester, and several semes-
smart choice.
ters saw me flirting with twenty.
Keeping up-to-date with the
Some called it insane. Some
catalogue requirements for a given
called it pointless.
major is also key. Although these
I called it “setting myself up
details change as time goes on,
for a low-stress final year.”
graduation requirements for a
Of course, that in itself is
student generally don’t unless he or
something of a misnomer. My
she chooses to switch catalogues.
class load is light this year, but
Benefits and disadvantages should
other concerns such as future
be carefully weighed when choos-
plans and internship opportuni-
ing to do this.
ties are weighing on my mind.
One of my minors—Writing—
I had assumed this would hap-
had a change coming through the
pen, and it was for this exact
administration that would have
reason that I set my classes up
radically altered the requirements
in this way. I would encourage
to fulfill it. One of the classes being
others to do the same, assuming a solid plan has been laid for graduation.
Long Walk Keisha Sparks
The benefits of this ap-
added was one that I had a great deal of personal interest in, but it would not have counted towards completion of my minor under the
proach are twofold. First,
catalogue I fall under. I was advised
as previously mentioned, more “practical” concerns
to consider changing catalogues, which would have
outside of academia may be pursued in preparation for
solved that issue, but I found that other changes would
life after graduation. Having fewer classes leaves more
have required me to remain at DSU for at least another
time for setting up the future.
year.
Second, this sort of planning can help ensure that a
Although I harbor no disdain or distaste for those
four-year degree will take four years. I have heard a few
who remain at DSU beyond four years, one of my
horror stories from friends about being blindsided by
personal goals was and is to graduate this coming
graduation requirements they were not aware of, such
May. This has to do both with expense and simple time
as classes they needed not being offered some semes-
management; much as I love my studies, I don’t think it
ters or entire classes they were barely aware existed.
would look impressive on my credentials if I attended
Laying in a plan to get as many classes done as soon
DSU full-time for four years and didn’t graduate in that
20
as possible can help to avoid this and gradu-
time. I also doubt my poor,
ate on time, defraying further student debt
battered bank account would
April 2013
Fire and Fog
appreciate another year. In light of the facts and my own wishes, I petitioned
Impressions
Joshua Bart Kralicek
for a substitution so that class could count towards the requirements for my minor. It was granted, and unless something goes horribly awry, I will be graduating on
The cloud is on fire that takes to the ground
time this May.
Burning men below in its terror Truth
All this was made possible because I communi-
Where sins and justice together resound
cated and did my research. I would encourage all other
And Divine reconciles the traitor’s truce
students, particularly those still sophomores or freshmen, to plan ahead as much as possible and follow a
The fire is me and the fog is you
path similar to the one I took. Preparation can save a
Lighted pathways placed to know you best
person a lot of trouble in the long run.
That together within we see each other through
If nothing else, trust me on this: I like looking back at
Finding worldly peace until a Diviner rest
those years where I ran myself ragged and not thinking, “Boy, Past Me just needs a good punch in the face.”
The enigma of man and other reconciled in the fog As incense from fire awakens the eyes of faith Seeing through you and ritual the One True God Dispelling the enemy and his army wraiths Fire undirected brings great pain for all And fog unknown distorts the way The separation results from mankind’s fall Until recompense in Mercy pays So now we pave ways with cautious marks Flames directing our souls to meet Cautiously for the wraiths still rule the dark Trying to rouse the fog and human heat Clouds on fire upon the earth The gift of youth and the gift of love Bringing despair, sorrow, joy, and mirth Reflecting below what resides above But murky waters shadows by the flame Viewed by the eyes trapped in the fog Enticed the wraiths that bring us pain And hide so secretly our One True God So the fire is loosed in reckless rage
April 2013
Perfect Day Mariah Duran
And the wraiths victorious flee away To return maliciously to their cage Having over former lovers demonic sway
21
Impressions
Chelsea
Robert Meador
The path to one’s own heaven always leads through the voluptuousness of one’s own hell-- Nietzsche
my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. my name is robert. she was horrendously ugly. her face was a red, scarred minefield that a sneeze could set off. her stuttered introduction was longer than most conversations, and her outstretched hand convulsed to the point that the jerking required her small frame to compensate— so she tucked in her elbow and tilted to the side, rigid in her attempt to stay still long enough to shake my hand. i shook her hand like i would touch lance armstrong’s balls. her fingers were hospital cold and her palms were hospital sweaty. she smiled like small talk was fun. i watched her greasy hair get braided by amanda as her snarled teeth gripped and released, part from speech and part from the spasmodic lurching of her jaw muscles. after i unthinkingly said during group session i would like to know how her day had been, she was not further than five feet from me, other than when i made my frequent visits to brush my teeth in my useless attempt to cleanse my mouth of the evaporated embalming fluid being pumped from the vents. every day she told me the other kids in her group home called her ugly and retarded. she showed me small milky scars on her overly hairy arms, where the other kids stabbed her with thumb tacks and their pencils. she tried to open her wrists with the arts-and-crafts room scissors. when i was released, she cried snotty tears and asked me not to leave her. in the following months, i spent my time actively not thinking about that place. i spent so much time not thinking about it that when my psychiatric heartbeat evened out, i had forgotten her name. and that scared me more than the box ever had. i was no better than the group home pieces of shit whose throats I wanted to rip out with my bare hands. Keisha Sparks i spent months reenacting every conversation, searching and searching for her name.
Alternatives for Excercise
when i found it, i could only remember how ugly i was in comparison to her. i knew i didn’t deserve it. Her.
22
April 2013
Love the Game
*When*
Mariah Duran
Impressions
Tricia Ann Myran It’s time to lace up my shoes, and put my jersey on Once the game starts, the butterflies are gone. I run out of the locker room and hear the crowd cheer I look up at the clock and see that the game is near. The game is about to start and I’m ready to go I get on the court and look at the other team, people I don’t even know. The game starts, we get the ball, put up our first shot and score
When your peace lily blooms on the shelf, When peace finally fills my heart, When your things no longer fill my garage, Will I get a brand new start? When the tremors stop choking me When I open a door, When I move from this house, Will you let me seek more? When I feel whole instead of holey With leaks everywhere like a sieve, When I find the missing puzzle piece, Will you please let me live?
I love the feeling of hearing the crowd roar. The game goes back and forth and comes down to the wire We come down and make the winning basket, my team has never felt higher!
April 2013
The clouds will give a thumbs up, My age will be your lucky number. I will start over, a new life, And you will forever slumber.
The Big Dance Stormie Sickler
23
Convenience, Safety
Impressions
Alex Jacobs
The issue of online privacy in the United States is a
tant work is utterly hamstrung without it—I can speak
contentious one, with battles still flaring up today. Vari-
from experience that education certainly depends on
ous entities and the public have conflicting views about
Internet access more and more. If I don’t have access
how the Internet should be policed, if at all. The United
to the Internet, I cannot view my assignments, conduct
States’ overwhelming rejection of the United Nations’
efficient research, or turn any completed projects in.
proposal to create a single regulatory body for online
Although I focus on the United States, impor-
activity illustrates this nicely. The internet has become a
tant examples can be drawn from abroad that illus-
vital tool for communication, and any attempts to regu-
trate why the United States should not crack down on
late it would hamper a piece of technology we have
the Internet. China is a prime example. A professor of
come to almost take for granted.
mine once mentioned speaking with some Chinese
Picture this scenario: you’re sitting at home,
counterparts of hers while they were in the country
working on a laptop, when suddenly, the Internet goes
and mentioning the Tiananmen Square massacre. The
out, whether due to router problems, DNS issues, or
Chinese professors were confused, but when shown
some other arcane phenomena. Odds are, any impor-
the pictures online documenting the events, became excited and emailed their colleagues back home, urging them to check these websites. Naturally, the Great Firewall of China had blocked those websites. I myself was once part of an organization called Peacefire that, at the time, was running software allowing Chinese users to connect to the Internet through foreign connections in order to bypass the filter. The organization has since moved on to other causes. Here at home, the issue of online privacy weighs heavily upon the minds of the people. The massive political firestorm over the government’s two Internet regulatory bills—SOPA and PIPA— showed lawmakers that their constituents felt strongly that the Internet should not be filtered, an event I believe led directly into Congress’ overwhelming rejection of the proposed U.N. agency. Corporations are beginning to look at online privacy as a part of corporate social responsibility, and although no unified stance on the
Whisper
Sam Simonson 24
matter has emerged, the exchange of viewpoints is ongoing (Pollach 88-99). Notably, smaller companies seem to be focusing on online privacy more than larger ones, which is unusual, as according to a study by Irene Pollach, large,
April 2013
successful businesses usually set the standards that
business, or their employers, see
smaller ones emulate (99).
what they do on a daily basis. As
Social media is an interesting area to consider
Impressions
an advocate for online privacy, I
privacy in. By its very nature, social media involves
find this mental disconnect maddening. Many people
giving up privacy in the name of informing others
are very willing to give away the very thing that those
(sometimes largely consisting of complete strangers)
same largely unmotivated people are willing to fight to
what one is doing, pictures one has taken, and so forth.
keep. An outsider could perhaps find humor in this, and
Facebook, at least
I must admit that it
according to my own
provides a power-
observations, has
ful counterargu-
emerged as both the
ment to advocacy
most widely used
of online privacy.
social networking
A study suggests
site and the one that
that the determin-
most often takes fire
ing factor is trust
for how it handles
for the organization
user privacy con-
that will be collect-
cerns. I can generally
ing the informa-
count on seeing a
tion; the greater
forwarded Facebook
the degree of trust
privacy scare in my
users have for the
personal feed two or
entity, the more a
three times per year.
lack of privacy is
According to a survey
ignored or ac-
of Facebook users
cepted (Joinson,
conducted by Deridre
Reips, Buchanan,
O’Brien and Ann M.
Schofield 1-24).
Torres, over half of
The Internet has
Facebook’s users are
made many crimes
very conscious of
easier, simpler,
their own security, but
or in some cases,
fewer trust Facebook (63). Most of them did believe that the bur-
Uphill
Amber Lien
den of protecting their
actually possible. Identity theft has become a major concern, as the ad-
privacy lay with both themselves and Facebook, how-
vent of credit and debit cards and online purchases has
ever (63).
made the job of the thief easier than ever. Security mea-
As someone who has spent an inordinate amount of
sures exist for this, but by engaging in a practice known
his life staring at various social networking sites, I can
as “social engineering,” thieves can often bypass these
safely assert that many people are all too prepared to
measures simply by sweet-talking customer service
sacrifice their privacy in the name of getting people to
representatives at the company. As ever, the tradeoff
pay attention to them. In a way, this reflects the dual-
between convenience and security is paramount.
ity and irony of this issue; the people do not want the
Copyright infringement, too, has become easy and
government, big business, or their employers looking
almost celebrated. Numerous sites—popular sites,
over their shoulders at what they do online, but many
even, such as Youtube, DeviantArt, and others—promi-
April 2013
use the Internet to let anyone,
nently feature a great deal of derivative or reproduced
including government, big
work of dubious legal status, done either for profit
25
Impressions
or otherwise. The rise of “torrents”
before a course of action is decided upon. In the grand
has also allowed many to pirate
scheme of things, the Internet is a new technology that
copyrighted material with a few
plays by few of the established rules or conventions for
clicks of a mouse, and unlike giants of the past like
communication, which provides both many opportuni-
Napster, this comes largely without risk of viruses.
ties and risks. In a way, it is the new generations’ Wild
Some sites of this type, like MegaUpload, have been
West—a brave new frontier, yet to be truly settled and
successfully shut down by the government, but usually
tamed. Just as law eventually came to the Wild West,
these sites have to commit particularly egregious of-
so too must it to the Internet, but a hasty response
fenses before action is taken. Law enforcement agen-
could easily cripple the Internet.
cies simply seem overwhelmed, and even when major
Consider this scenario. A high school, in the name
companies like Capital One or Mastercard have their
of protecting its wards from the filth and perversion the
websites taken offline by hackers, justice is usually slow
Internet churns out with alarming frequency, installs a
in coming, if at all.
web filter. As search engines could conceivably come
However, despite all this, the sheer potential of the
up with pornographic results if the simple controls for
Internet means efforts to control it should be looked
the website are manipulated, the school blocks all im-
upon with wariness at best. China provides a good
age search engines and keeps a wary eye on normal
example of when what may have been well-intentioned
search results. Problem solved, they say.
efforts turn sinister, and opposing viewpoints suddenly
Now, consider what happens when a teacher at
find themselves muted, not allowed to speak in this
that high school, who wants her students to under-
bold new arena of public opinion and discourse. I am
stand how to use technology in order to keep pace
not construing efforts to safeguard Internet users as a
in a rapidly advancing world, assigns them to create
slippery slope, but I believe that the dangers of an over-
a Powerpoint presentation for an upcoming project,
ly zealous response should be taken into consideration
and in order to demonstrate that they fully understand
26
*From Within* Alyca Norris
April 2013
Impressions
Flutterby Jenna Sandman
the various functions of the program, requires them to insert images as well as text in the slides. Now, when a hypothetical student goes to complete this assignment, where is she to obtain the images she is required to use? At home where an unfiltered Internet may reign, which would disadvantage students without such access? Through the paltry selection of stock clip
Sonnet XI
Robert Meador To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead. Bertrand Russell
art in Microsoft Office’s files, which may or may not contain anything suited to the topic she is covering? A similar issue arose in my very own high school,
When they tell you that you’re wrong, know you’re right.
where a man I greatly respected—my history teacher—
It would be just a step, slide in black ice
presented roughly the following argument to the school
down-- heavy-laden in the spine despite
administrators: “In many countries abroad, their citizens are beaten to death for expressing their views. Many of them dream of the United States, the land of freedom.
the lofty lessening, of which entice the willing mind. Gut feels what mind denies.
I want to teach my students about this, yet here in the
We act as if forever we would live;
land of freedom, we are not able to watch the videos of
we act as if our happiness in skies
those events thanks to the school’s filtered Internet.” Online privacy in the United States is a very current, hotly debated issue, with many parties with vested interests taking part in the ongoing debate. Although action
lay in wait, promised as a humid gift— a multi-hued contentment, arching high at rain’s end. But we don’t, and it is not—
should be taken to make the Internet a more secure
love’s the crust on her puffy morning eyes.
place, following the example of China and censoring
They tell you: close-off, shut down, hide as taught.
it excessively and thus reducing its utility for all is not a
I say fuck that— let it hurt. Plastic love?
path that should be followed. I urge continued patience
It’s messy, ugly, and by end: enough.
and research as the full effects of this relatively new
April 2013
technology are determined.
27
Words and Sex
Impressions
Diona Osterman-Api Dear God,
Of the seventies fabric of his couch.
Dear plagiarism policers,
I have been high
Dearer still, lit profs who may read here
on crisp mountain air, whispy-still prairies.
this agonizingly white space-
In cloudy dorm rooms.
I admit I have heard it somewhere before my pen
But I dare claim a kinship with F. Scott, Zora, Berta,
from Fitzgerald, or
-Ray.
Thurston, or
No other high exists like unopposed words
Aunt Roberta’s ghost.
Born naked from my deviant keyboard-
Or even
like sex
From Dad. As he sleep-talked on the browns and oranges
when I could give a damn who might be watching
Forked Paths Cassandra Johnson
Passed years, Faded memories, Changed lives, Broken hearts. “Everything happens for a reason.” Expressed: -Religion -Values -Family (influenced decisions) Controled the path Choices lead down paths
Flower
Laura Lee Kunkel 28
Crossroads -Instincts listened to -Guided toward correct road Influence one, influence many. Intertwine All— Destiny.
April 2013
Inside an altar resides waiting, Outside resides nature, A world understood with growing
Gaia’s Daughter
Impressions
Cassandra Johnson
maturity. From Gaia’s swollen belly life is
Include no such thing
born.
Involving exuberant worship. Blessings and healing are the specialty.
Sons and Daughters of the Earth Mother Seek fulfillment in endeavors--
For enchantments used in harming innocents
Seeking to guide and protect others.
Gain assaulting karma threefold.
Press not upon others The Path.
While arousing happiness and joy Receive threefold gaiety.
Pictured as wicked old hags With brooms bewitched and ridden across Lady Moon.
Karma is not something to be forgotten carelessly.
That spells from mouths Bring forth decayed shriveled bodies of plague.
False accusations and unjust prosecution, The licking flames of fire,
Seen as cohorts of Satan
The caressing waves of water,
Who signed the Devil’s book,
and the smooth surface of stone became enemies.
Inflicted intense pain and suffering on villages, Sacrificed innocent babes to satisfy him.
The Tree of Life suspended from the ground, Lifeless eyes observing the view from Gallows’ Hill.
Sacred rites to the Goddess and God
Summer Light Amber Lien
The time again comes to worship The loving Goddess and Her Consort, the protective God. To step forward from the oppressive shadows. Today, wise experienced neighbors, Men and women who volunteer time, Who garden and enjoy the comfort nature brings. Only the ancient trees know The truth of days gone past. They heard the pleas and screams of Past wrongs. Do you hear them when the trees speak? I hear them every time the wind blows Rustling the leaves, reminding me to never forget Who i truly am.
April 2013
A witch, a daughter of Gaia, a High Priestess of the Earth Mother.
29
Impressions
*Dark Man*
Joshua Bart Kralicek The perpetuity of the night sky dragged me into a run just as everlasting, or so I thought after the first forty five minutes. The streets grew in distance, time slowed, and individual songs I listened to obscured in a haze of exhaustion. Everything tangible and absolute crumbled as I grew more lucid, more aware of my exhaustion, though this was only a part of a common cycle in my runs, where my awareness nears its peak, I would cast away the feeling, being renewed until the wheel of my feelings went full circle again. Simply ending exhaustion is impossible, I’ve come to realize. That is to say, the feeling I described wasn’t real. In actuality, I was
bored, lengthening time and numbing my senses. I consider now that perhaps this numbness is what stalled exhaustion. I run since every stride brings me closer to where I find peace. I suppose that may seem naïve, especially since I do sometimes run in circles. The tedium of it makes it a living hell, where I force myself through its fires of sweat and salt, of fatigue and soreness, in hopes of redeeming myself before any true judgment may come. Or am I as Lazarus? Do they who made their way into a paradise of a fulfilled life only look down on me and remind me that I am trapped? Perhaps I have been captured in a snare, the one that was so easy to see, the one that I was warned of time and time again. I took it on with pride, with ignorance, and denied those around me and their teachings that I claimed to accept. I run with the mild acceptance of this being true, and peace may not be my destiny. I run for the reward despite all circumstances. I was a kamikaze running for honor. My music accompanied me and became an integral and essential part of the run. It helps me remove feelings of hopelessness. I tried to hold no regard for anything but the melodies, oftentimes loud and cacophonous, making it easier, making it harder. The loudness of my step and tune can startle other people on their own paths beneath our shared night sky. I dislike encountering other people. Their thoughts of me are never pleasant. I began losing sense of where I was, despite being on my usual route. This was just another phase, and I didn’t question it. My breathing was fluctuating between hard and stable, as usual. I often adjusted pace to the song, trained like a pet to salivate when the bell rings, so was I to go faster or slower beyond my control, and I breathed accordingly. My thoughts wander, and I prefer that they do. They entertain me. They entice me to continue by motivating with prophecy, by reminding me how horribly I was doing. I found similar inspiration from people. As I said, they are unpleasant. It pains me during the runs that
30
Why Must I Alyca Norris
I do as I do to please the masses, the inconsiderate, insulting masses. A passerby will amuse themselves thinking why a person like me would be running. They
April 2013
Impressions
will amuse themselves in thinking that I will likely fall out of my routine. I will not. Leaving that torture would be entering another one, I reasoned, and pressing my way through this one will lead me to the backdoor, like Dante, through the deepest level of my personal Hell. I did feel closer every time, at the end, when a sense of accomplishment was roused. It cleared my mind and gave me the confidence that I’ll make it. I did empty my mind of foulness, and the cleaner was a poison, one that triggers in sweat, a thing to reactivate my misery when I ran again. Every time I improved. Every time I worsened. I look to a transparent form of myself, glowing in white light, running as I did the last time I took the path. He’s always ahead of me. I was getting slower, I reasoned. Where was I then? How much time had passed? What song was I listening to? I checked the title to see that it was one of my favorites, which roused nothing in a deaf mind. In these lost times, I am thankful for my always quick ‘ghost’ that ran out ahead of me, guiding me the right way. He was thinking more clearly. The street lights were fewer in number as I approached the outer limits of the town. I never feared, but this time a string of panic was pulled as the ghost of my mind in front of me faded. He was getting too far away from me this time, and I couldn’t bring myself to go any faster. Anxiety gripped me for a few minutes, until, at last, I reasoned the ghost never existed. Maybe I was getting
*Door to the Drawing Room*
too tired. My breathing was weak then. What caused it
Dara Anderson
was beyond me. The escape caused my dreary limbo to come to a pause. I was able to focus on running for a time now. I recognized where I was since I was nearing an acquaintance’s house. I have seen him on his front lawn as I ran before. It certainly is something I’d rather avoid, but the house was memorable with a corner stone engraved with the address, which was lost in memory and in the darkness, but the stone kept my attention. It was a marble stone in a bed of other rocks, looking similar to a grave stone. Its brighter surface was easy to see in the veil of surrounding darkness. It was a beacon for me at night. The road this house was on was much longer
April 2013
than that of a normal city block. I was amazed my illu-
sion outran me there. It was probably a figment of the mind, but I still cursed to my shortcomings. Whether the figure I followed wasn’t real or it went another way, I was determined to outrun it someday, thus vanquishing the thought of turning back. This road was the darkest yet with only two streetlights. I turned into it in nothing but star light, as the first light is halfway up the road and the second is at the end. In between was total blackness. I tried to adjust my eyes so not to trip, but I always brought my gaze back to the light to follow, so my attention to safety was lessened. I had a rare moment of mental silence. The music came to an interlude, so I could for once hear the night’s song... It was mute. There was nothing,
31
Impressions
no emotional or physical feeling.
going along another city block, or continuing out of
My body was moving, but not by
town of a gravel road. Logic dictated that he move left,
my will, it seemed. In this moment,
as the gravel road shot out into total blackness, where
I realized that I wasn’t alone. A clear mind often sees
even the light of the moon and stars seemed to cease
truth better without the clutter of sound, of people, of
existence. Intuition told me the Dark Man took that
knowledge. Basic recognition is what makes reality.
route. My mind was likely playing word association
In the dark of night, I made out the outline of a person,
with Dark Man and dark path. I made my way to the
seeming to walk casually. I slowed, the pendulum mo-
turn, to the highest level of the street. I strained myself
tion of my arms halted so I could rub my eyes and con-
getting there. It was the steepest hill on my path, and
firm what I saw. It may have been a trick of the night. It
now, beneath this second light, I fearfully began a step
may have been a trick of my mind.
onto the gravel, but rebounded back into town upon
The figure may or may not have been past the first
questioning the purpose of chasing the Dark Man, and
light on that street. Concepts of distance were dis-
questioning my own standards of wanting to get away
torted. I may have only noticed the figure because they
from him. I wanted to pass him. My pride took over and
passed the light, but I never saw anything but the dark.
clouded my judgment, but I was able to prevent myself
I could only see the silhouette. The person, a man, I be-
from the irrational that time.
lieve based on the contour, had to have been wearing
I realized my pace was increasing again. I felt an
black clothes, a practice my mother ill-advised. It was
odd sensation seeing the Dark Man again. I was happy,
ironic that I wore all black. Speculation was foolish,
happy to see that he had taken my path. I was afraid
given the circumstances, but of course I amused my-
for the happiness, as it was unlike me. My pride turned
self thinking about it. I hoped to pass this person and be rid of the torment of his company. Certainly he was only walking by the way he moved. It annoyed me that the Dark Man came no closer. If anything, he was moving further away. He had to have been aware that I was there, with how I breathed, with how I stepped. He was probably mocking me, but the graveness of it was miniscule compared to the manner of insult I had from not being able to pass someone who was walking. I finally passed the first light, with my pace increasing. The Dark Man was at the second light, my eyes claimed to me, but the light brought no new details of the entity’s identity than before other than a confirmation of his existence. I knew he was there. He moved along the edges of the light, I concluded, but I couldn’t see for sure where he went from there. The road
32
forked only two ways. It either turned left,
Rushing Creek Samantha Holzer
April 2013
to anger. My music didn’t seem to exist. The Dark Man
entity sometime ago; of this I was
was ever casual in his walk, and then I realized what
certain. Maybe the two were the
Impressions
Mighty and Proud
same being created by my mind, but I discarded the
Stormie Sickler
desire to understand fueled me to new speeds that I
thought. I still did want to know what he was, and that held no pride for.
truly drove me was curiosity. I wanted to know who this
I had driven along that road before, but when run-
man was, who was forcing me to strain myself with
ning, it seems alien when you travel a path you haven’t
such little effort. I grew hopeless as he seemed to grow
before by foot. There was nothing significant to remem-
farther, closer, and farther again. The mixed emotions I
ber. I was too transfixed on the Dark Man to pay atten-
felt made my stomach lurch and dance in rhythm with
tion to much else. That street had more lighting, but
my thoughts.
nothing of the Dark Man’s identity was revealed.
This street was downhill, and my pace adjusted,
The road lead back up to a main road I typically
perhaps explaining the differing speed of the Dark
ran along to start heading back home. On one side is
Man. The street branched off four times along the
residential, on the other is the town cemetery. I fol-
way, the bottom taking you towards the main road. I
lowed the Dark Man down this road by the cemetery,
had always taken the third path from the bottom, as
along the residential side. If one were to continue on
construction influenced the route in its early making.
the other side, past the cemetery, there would be unde-
Both paths lead to a city block. I followed the Dark Man
veloped land. I was in the far corner of the town. There
down this path, and it seemed quicker this time. His
were three lights on this path, one at where I turned,
distance from me switched somewhat, it seemed, but
and one at the way end, beyond a bridge and far be-
kept fairly consistent. Was he trying to keep ahead of
yond the cemetery. It wasn’t in my sights. The middle
me? I realized now that I was at the bottom and turn-
one, however, was off at the time. It was activated by
ing towards where I have not ran in the past. Unlike the
motion and would do so as I approached, or in this
gravel road, I wasn’t even aware of the option to turn
case, (and I was angry to think this) it would turn on
where I normally did, blinded and guided by the Dark
as the Dark Man approached. The Dark Man casually
April 2013
Man. I felt envy for my ghost.
traveled along the lights, the second one not activating.
He had passed this new
I didn’t question why.
33
Impressions
I realized someone was getting closer to me. The Dark Man had slowed down! I sped up at
sprinting. I had to pass this man, for my peace of mind, for success. The Dark Man grew no closer! Then, he began to
the revelation. The weak orange light of the second
cross the street towards the cemetery. That was my
post began to glow, but for whom, me or the Dark Man,
chance! I began to run diagonally to cut him off. It was
I was not sure, as it turned on when I was alongside
unusual, that he was heading towards the cemetery
him. I glanced to him, in the weak light. He was white,
gates despite their being closed for the evening, but I
oddly, and he gave me a strange look, menacing in
was beyond the point of caring about the detail, or any-
the light. I’m sure he had thought something snide. I
thing else for that matter. White light illuminated on me.
continued past, faster, the victorious sensation draining
I believe it meant I had achieved the level of my ghost.
away soreness. My curiosity for the Dark Man’s identity died.
Closer, closer he seemed to come. I wasn’t tired or sore, despite being in full sprint. Nothing seemed
Then ahead, in the darkness, an impossible-to-
to register to me anymore except he who I pursued.
know distance away, was the Dark Man. I had passed
The white light around me magnified and blinded my
a fake. I had failed again. My victory was as unreal as
peripheral, and my eyes closed as I realized my body
the success I feel at the end of runs. I cursed softly, not
flung to the side. My last sight was that of the Dark Man
really caring if the man I just past heard. I sped up. The
seeming to dissipate. I couldn’t comprehend what had
disappointment in this failing, in the failing of all of my
happened and my mind had achieved total numbness.
past endeavors exploded in anger, and I realized I was
Slowly, in what seemed an eternity, my awareness restored somewhat, but its only effect was for me to realize pain. I was on the ground, my music was gone, and my back was twisted. The pain in my legs was the sharpest. The next thing I understood was that the light had stopped growing, but it was there, some distance away. I heard, yet was deaf, to a screeching sound and the sound of running footsteps. Maybe I was running. No, I definitely was, for somehow, above me, a figure was walking with his back turned. Somehow I was running after. We were always moving, never growing closer or farther apart, trying to stay ahead of one another, the other pushing himself, trying to keep up, wanting to pass. All the speed he gained failed him, for the one in front of him kept
Two Peppers 34
Chantel Hubert
equally far in all circumstance. And suddenly, there was absolute blackness, but the Dark Man’s silhouette was still there, still walking, and I was still following.
April 2013
Triple Goddess
Impressions
Cassandra Johnson The Goddess watches progress, She grants wishes. Her signs are all around— Forever enveloping in love. Her will is All— As will is brought about by her. She is a youthful Maiden, She is a loving Mother, She is a wise Crone. We too, are the Goddess’s aspects. As women we are the Maiden, Mother, Crone. We, as females, are Triple Goddess.
Trudy Keisha Sparks
Constellations Cassandra Johnson
Ink Abyss accompanied By glistening silver diamonds. Shooting stars, Well-known formations— Big and Little Bear, Mother, Child. Draco and Orion, Hunted, Hunter. Star-written stories Passed down throughout The ages.
Costly Shawdow
A sky that holds the Past, Few now remember How to spin the webs. Words influence lives, Stories transcending centuries.
Chantel Hubert April 2013
Retold— Remembered.
35
Impressions
Love Abandoned
Cassandra Johnson Bitter winter chill, Frigid nights. Found in Darkness Left behind by false affection. Holes left behind Yet to be filled -to find true joy. That which is said to Last through all turmoil’s, Overcomes obstacles. Pulled from underneath One’s own feet. Abandoned on the linoleum surface, Calling for that which saves all. Love— Happiness— Once truly found can be Salvaged and cherished—
Snowman
Paul Reopelle
Salvaged soul.
Sonnet XII
Robert Meador
Do You Remember Britney Rose Miller
Pain comes from the darkness And we call it wisdom. It is pain. Randall Jarrell We scraped away our surface and the snow slow-settled in. The clean white weight lied light
Remember that unforgettable moment The one you’re supposed to remember the rest of your life Do you remember how you felt? Do you remember if you cried?
on finger-tilled fields still sun-warmed below— packed heavier as small flakes pressure tight, cementing slates, precipitating waste. Reflecting in the smeared sheen was grey sky— grey as a shadow’s heartbeat— a bland paste that seals land to horizon when applied. And truth, I felt the color of the cold engulfed entirely my vision’s sphere; and I would like to say that from this mold, I planted hardship, reaped gold. But more near, I fell to the snow, ripping, tearing it,
36
your castles, just for a small crack to split.
Remember that moment, and how the weather felt Were you chilled to the bone or hot as hell? Do you remember that moment, or is it a dream. Something that can’t be grasped or seen. Share your moment with new friends and old Find pictures that remind you of the stories you told
Make an effort to let your memories clear Don’t let the fog settle, Don’t let them disappear. Memories forget, and pictures fade Letters get lost, and numbers change Friends may move, but are never lost As long as you chose to hold them in your heart Unforgettable moments happen everyday Chose if you’ll remember yours Or let it fade away
April 2013
Chest
Impressions
Cassidy Rhoades The dreadful pain that he felt in his chest Came from the sorrow and all the despair. It did not depart, even in his rest.
Even when the man tried his very best, He tried and tried to completely repair The dreadful pain that he felt in his chest.
He kept a small bone knife close to him, lest The howling of his heart, he could not bear. It did not depart, even in his rest.
The man hid alone in his barren nest. Run from it, scared of it, he did not dare, The dreadful pain that he felt in his chest.
He failed to be rid of his nagging pest, The hole in his heart, where once was its pair. It did not depart, even in his rest.
The long days and nights were all just a test. He could not escape from the woman’s lair. The dreadful pain that he felt in his chest, It did not depart, even in his rest.
A Boy and His Dog Dara Anderson April 2013
37
Impressions
“Self-Betterment: The Hands-On Approach” or “Ugly People, Ugly Options” Robert Meador
The worst of my actions or conditions seem not so ugly unto me as I find it both ugly and base not to dare to avouch for them. Michel de Montaigne With suicide on the mind, it (the gray matter) grows heavy until it loses the necessary elasticity to maintain its shape-- a veteran rubber band left out in the cold, curled and lost within itself. Soon after, it loses viscosity and like melted cheese spills out. The gray, now intestine-like, brain drains down into the nasal cavity. The small rational part of the brain that remains warns the body of the potential escape, and the head tilts back, as if in a nosebleed. The brain redirects and floods the opening of the pharynx. To avoid the constriction of the windpipe, the body gags and the gummy substance is diverted to the esophagus, to be swallowed in long, laborious pulls. It is stringy like undercooked meat, but contains the consistency of egg drop soup.
around this fact. I cannot conceive of a way to accidently cause my own death, thereby, letting me off the hook. She has me boxed, entrapped in hypothetical tears. The sweaty graying hair of my high-school wrestling coach’s arm smashed against my face. “Meador, you have to look into a crossface. It’s going to hurt either way, but if you look into it, it doesn’t work,” he told me. He pulled his arm back again and brought his fist and arm across my face. I tried to look into the leathery skin of his elbow. “Better. Now if you are going to give a good crossface, you don’t mess with the forehead-no nerves-- and you don’t mess with the nose, ‘cause there’s no real nerves too. You go ‘cross the eyes cause there’s these little clusters of nerves at the outside of your eye. It should hurt the guy. Here…” He demonstrated. “Look into it, Meador.” My father sat next to me in the Army recruitment office— retired, his hair was slightly less buzzed than the man across the desk. I had been an easy sell; I had walked in the first time and told the man that I wanted to be a soldier. At first he went with the diversity angle, showing me the variety of jobs that the Army could provide, but when I said, “No, a soldier,” he quickly adapted, tossing the pamphlets away, calling them pussy jobs. “So Mr. Meador,” addressing my father, “what do you think about your son joining the Special Forces?” My father barely looked at him. He looked at me. “Do you think I can get through the training, Dad?” “I think that’s up to you. You either will or you won’t, but it will be up to you.”
Circle of Lights
And so, with nose high, rocking back and forth in the thick, slow exhalations that only push air into your cheeks and tense your gut, I stumble to the stairwell. My bare feet rub on the thin brown carpet that covers the second floor of the dorm. The carpet continues out past the wood door with a small plastic square window and onto the stair landing. The three-floor stairwell is empty. ... With suicide on the mind, it is guilt that stays the hand. I think it may be my goal in life to never again make my mother cry. She has instant access to my guilt complex and my guilt complex has hold of my better judgment. I need to die, but my mother will not let me. I can never seem to get
Unknown
38
He never said anything to persuade me either way and his face never said one way or the other, but I thought he knew that I was looking for a way to die. His light blue April 2013
eyes never filled with tears, but when I sat in that office I somehow knew I was causing him pain. I let my father down and told the recruiter that I would do it. Upon filling out the medical history, I was rejected based on a previous anti-depressant subscription. … With suicide on the mind, the hand takes action. A policy of retaliation. A blacksmith’s forging fires. A sculptor’s chisel. A hot breath on frozen hands. A cold water splash in the morning. As a child, I was too busy to use the restroom. I would hold it until I found myself in the throes of intensely painful stomach cramps. I would lie in bed and scream. My mother sat next to me and told me, “Robert, boys don’t cry. Toughen up.” I pressed my lips together and shuddered, but I won. I never could cut my wrists because I read that’s what women are known for doing.
April 2013
Impressions
And so, feet on the carpet, out in the stairwell, I punch myself as hard as I can in the square of my face. It is a surreal moment, as if I had always thought of doing so and now finally had. I punch myself in the face. I find it somewhat laughable. I try it again. And again. Using both hands. My face starts to lean back, attempting to flee, but I tighten my neck and force my face down. I look into each knuckle. My pace quickens. Adrenaline spills into my stupor, and pleasure and pain intermix. I am careful to attack every part of my face, careful not to neglect. My knees begin to lose strength, folding in, but I force them straight, at attention. I frequent my eyes to produce more effect. … With suicide on the mind, it is fight or flight, but there is nowhere to run. No one raises my hand in victory. I receive no medal. I will never tell my parents. But I stagger and crawl back to my bed. I lose consciousness, and I win.
Beyond Boundaries Sam Simonson
39
Impressions
*Resolution* Alex Jacobs
I walked down the pier toward the faded red lighthouse, my work boots splashing up water as I strolled, uncaring, through the water puddles scattered about. The lighthouse was a quaint thing, from an era gone by; a big enough wave from the surrounding ocean might engulf it, rip it right off its foundations, and carry it off, to become a monument in the middle of the ocean to nothing at all. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the mental image. Still, the town had kept it in an acceptable state of repair. The paint wasn’t too chipped, and for all I knew, it could still be in use. The sea seemed to churn with wrath. Grinning, I dropped my parcel into the water. Just another bit of litter to the casual eye. Perfect. The crashing waves seemed soothing, as though they were trying to remind me that when it came to that deadliest of sins—Wrath— Nature trumped Man every time. It was a soothing thought, likely a delusional one, perhaps, but I needed look no further than a few feet to see an ocean of evidence. How many lives had the sea ended over the years? One more would make no difference. I leaned on the railing, looking for all the world like just another loitering tourist, awestruck by nature’s splendor. I could afford to stop now. The small puddles of water about my feet looked more suspicious than I. A small boat was moored below, but I paid it no mind. It was comforting to think that I could take it and speed off if I really needed to, but there should be no need. Due to the inclement weather, few people were out today, so my parcel should have a nice, easy, unseen ride out to the middle of the bay... or perhaps even further. I was free, mentally, physically, and spiritually. I didn’t even mind when a wave came rolling in over the cold steel of the railing, soaking me to the bone. Perhaps this is what they call catharsis: this odd sense of peace washing over me with the water. All my crimson worries, carried away on nature’s tide. I laughed. A man once told me that nothing could prevail against someone who was laughing. I’d never been a superstitious man, but I’d take all the help I could get. A heavy step sounded behind me, a boot crashing into a puddle. Lost tourist, or trouble? I closed my eyes and inhaled, tasting the sharp, salty sea breeze in anticipation. I could almost sense a figure directly behind me, awaiting my next action. I spun on my heel to face the newcomer. Time to roll the dice and see. I opened my eyes.
40
Reading
Keisha Sparks
The Muses’ depths Joshua Bart Kralicek The Muses’ depths are where we gather To assemble in the name of verse Drawing beauty from God’s matter -Alongside matter’s curse In vino veritas rings throughout the hall Indulging to the point of Muses’ birth Along the line where conscious falls Where despair conquers the poets’ mirth Singing songs of woe and love The poets sink into their doom Sobered writers turn eyes above Writing not their graves - but of open tombs Sinking, sinking into the depths of wine Where the black bottom marks their death Spiraling down with their rage and cries Crafting a work of finite depth Rising, rising, our eyes unto the skies Where the bright light marks what we pursue So new verse is born that never dies Through the verse brought forth from only You April
2013
*I Want to Fall in Love Today*
The Void of Meaning
Joshua Bart Kralicek
Joshua Bart Kralicek
Impressions
Solitude is a funny thing to like
Memories are made by love
I am often told
But I love alone
No one likes
Not myself
After all,
Selfishly
To be alone
But the entire world
Don’t go by yourself
A silent homage I try to pay
My peers often said
As I go through busy streets
In big cities
They won’t notice
In strange places
Not me alone
They warned me to no end
But that’s how I know I’m free
But I like walking
I guess I’m like my dad that way
With the peace of quiet
Always wordless service
Through bustling cities
Not wanting glory
Silent forests
No
Among angry riots
Just his quiet homage
In the mountains I like the air
I get to know him in the quiet
The cities the people
That’s the only time
The first word lies above But here we are to fall below We pick words of hate or words of love
They walk by
He does not open
A black abyss or blinding glow
So funny
No
Like strange gyros
Not this dad of mine
Unwinding and going free
But father’s love is a quiet one
To die in the wind
And the winds are another’s too
I’m blown too
Whipping fiercely
So fiercely
Wrathfully
By wings of seraphim
Loving only You
I just keep walking through it
I guess I’m like my dad that way
Passing by it all
Just going on by until the angels
Letting the forces rend
send
Violently
All quiet knowledge
So I’m not called
Silently For the world without end
April 2013
We’re seeping into the void of meaning Stripping everything of what it’s worth Somewhere, here, maybe Might lay all of meaning’s birth A web of words reaches out Sprawled across a black abyss Spiders here consume our doubt And our plans will go amiss Words make words, meaning meaning And here the web stretches to some end To the primordial man’s first sleepy dreaming Where nothing and eternity blend We set fire to the web The first memory to set us free Free to fall where memories shed Free to fall where none may be
Bowling
Chantel Hubert
41
Impressions
Hawks in Flight Samantha Holzer
I just keep walking through it Passing by it all Letting the forces rend Violently So I’m not called Memories are made by love But I love alone Not myself Selfishly But the entire world A silent homage I try to pay As I go through busy streets They won’t notice Not me alone But that’s how I know I’m free
I Guess I’m Like MyDad That Way Joshua Bart Kralicek Solitude is a funny thing to like I am often told No one likes After all, To be alone Don’t go by yourself My peers often said In big cities In strange places They warned me to no end But I like walking With the peace of quiet 42 Through bustling cities
Silent forests Among angry riots In the mountains I like the air The cities the people They walk by So funny Like strange gyros Unwinding and going free To die in the wind I’m blown too So fiercely By wings of seraphim
I guess I’m like my dad that way Always wordless service Not wanting glory No Just his quiet homage I get to know him in the quiet That’s the only time He does not open No Not this dad of mine But father’s love is a quiet one And the winds are another’s too Whipping fiercely Wrathfully Loving only You I guess I’m like my dad that way Just going on by until the angels send All quiet knowledge Silently For the world without end
April 2013
*Nearsighted* Alex Jacobs
she will speak as though some earth-shattering tragedy has be-
Impressions
fallen them. What a joke. Why are people so impatient that they can’t wait 5 minutes to
My generation is a difficult thing to define. With so many people representing so many varying interests, I may as well have been asked to drink the Sphinx. I consider myself happily out of touch with what most people consider “mainstream”, so most of the rambling that follows will likely seem completely off-base when compared to other, more well-informed views. For that, I apologize. A main defining characteristic of my generation is how well we keep in touch with one another. Thanks to our constant exposure to technology, a cornucopia of options spreads before us. Facebook has become nearly universal in my generation. I myself am guilty of checking my account nearly every time I turn on my computer. I would also be willing to wager that most people my age check their cell phones before doing anything else after a prolonged, forced abstention. I once experienced something in high school that summed up how important communication technology is to my generation. I was something of a social outcast during high school. This did not bother me much, but even the most anti-social teenager sometimes craves some conversation. When I outright asked my classmates, who were discussing the weekend’s plans within earshot of me, if I could accompany them, a slight hush came over them. After an awkward silence, someone said, “Well... you don’t have a cell phone, so how can we get a hold of you?” I replied, “It’s called a land line. Is my dad really that scary? I’m in the phone book. Come on.” The weekend came and I spent it alone, playing video games. I did not own a cell phone until I was 18 years old. Before then, I felt that they were pointless gadgets that represented everything that was wrong with my generation. If you doubt my assessment of how important cell phones are, watch for anyone who
April 2013
has a cell phone confiscated or broken. No doubt he or
contact someone? In emergencies, I can understand, but other features of these things just puzzle me. Take, for example, these so-called “smart phones” that can access the internet. Oh boy, finally technology has made it possible to view web sites on a very tiny screen! There’s nothing wrong with laptops. Some cell phones also function as cameras, music players, and GPS trackers, none of which function as well as other devices made for that purpose. While it may be convenient to have all of these things in one package, all I want in a phone is the ability to call and the ability to store numbers. I don’t need so much extra nonsense driving up my monthly bill. There is another side to this coin of communication. Since my generation has so much instantaneous options, we often neglect face-to-face communication. I have had several girlfriends who actually preferred to talk on Facebook or over instant messenger, though I suspect that was just so they could have a permanent record of the silly things I said in my futile attempts to keep them with me. Even out here in “small-town” America, it’s not uncommon to have two members of my generation who are acquainted walk right by each other without so much as a greeting, yet later, the clicking of texting will be heard, with the message no doubt being “i saw u” or some other delightfully literate statement. My generation is also concerned with money. Most of us were raised in an at least comfortable environment, so we’re used to material comforts. This leads to a sense of entitlement. Technology is also a large part of this obsession, as we begin to think of wants as needs. I have a low opinion of my generation. We are talkative about things that do not matter, are technology-obsessed to the point of excess, and are losing sight of simple things in life. How does one define a generation? All I can do is state what I see. Is this accurate? I certainly do not know.
43
Impressions
Tyrants Don’t Cry Alex Jacobs
The tears rolled down my cheeks, a raging river that no dam could halt. My followers gasped, seeing me in a rare moment of weakness. Quickly, I was left alone as they scurried for cover in other chambers. When someone of my stature broke down, everyone wanted to reap the benefits, but no one wanted to pay the costs. Already, some semi-autonomous region of my mind was working out how to turn this situation to my advantage. Where had my plans gone wrong? Wasn’t this—the power to affect what change I saw fit—what I wanted?
full well what sight would await my eyes when I would return them to earth. I couldn’t help but smile and think: tyrants don’t cry. Events have progressed too far to end any other way, regardless of my feelings. If this confrontation was the end result of the path I chose, then I welcome it. Some people complain and complain about the state of the world, but I took action. I changed the course of history. I’d leave it to others to debate my lasting impact. Even if I used magic that twisted my body into a demonic mockery of itself and the land into a barren husk, I made a difference. I had my shot. We earned peace through my power. I looked down at the motley band and the conflicted swordsman who led them, and spoke: “So, you’ve come at last...”
I looked over the room I sat in. Devoid of the usual rabble, it looked lonely. Hollow. A figment of the imagination that any stray breath of wind could knock over. I shut my eyes and just blew out of my parched lips, desperate to wish reality away. Of course, when my slitted eyes opened, everything was still in its proper place. Banners hung limply, projecting my twisted image down upon any who should enter. I should have known from the moment I stepped on this road where the end would be. I had expected the long hours. The unrelenting toil. The fame. The admiration. And the loneliness. What I hadn’t expected was that my victory should be so Pyrrhic—by all rights, I should be the most pleased person in the world right now! None dared to defy me or go against my word. Everything in this world existed by my pleasure and my pleasure alone. Yet, I couldn’t help my mind drifting to a simpler time, when I had little but the purest of ideals in my mind and the love of a certain knight. Those days are long behind me. I am what I am, for better or worse. I wiped away my tears. Best to let my court think this was another attack of madness. After all, how better to keep my enemies guessing? If not even I know how I will move next, what hope have they? I looked to the skylight to see a luminous moon beaming down at me, as though in support. That made me think of him, and I chuckled. For all you blather on about redemption, my old friend, there comes a point of no return. I heard the door creak open, admitting him, the one who was now determined to take my life. I continued to gaze at the moon, knowing 44
Fascination
Molly Reopelle April 2013
Peaceful River
Impressions
Samantha Holzer
And slowly
Will bury
The wounds
Kill me.
Burrow
That are invisible
A slap
And stay
That bring us
May bruise
Living inside
Down from
Sticks and bones may
A punch
Of me forever
Inside
Break my bones
May bleed
Broken bones
Sticks and stones
But your words
A kick
Will heal
May break my bones
Are poison
Can sting
Bruises fade
But your words
Or break
With time
Are slowly
But words
It’s the words
Killing me.
*Scar Tissue * Jenna Sandman
April 2013
45
Impressions
*The Solitude of Masculinity* Joshua Bart Kralicek
Growing up in a Catholic environment and embracing the teachings of the Church can lead men to think of life in terms of vocation, i.e. how they are supposed to serve God. This takes shape in many forms, but the most general are the religious life as priests (or monks) or in the family life as husbands and fathers. There are more beyond this, but the majority are called either to the role of fatherhood for their children or spiritual fatherhood for their “flock,” or the people put under the priest’s care as pastor, spiritual director, teacher, or whatever role may be given to him. Looking at these roles of “Father” in either sense helps to mold an idea of what masculinity is and what shapes it can. The different roles can seem vastly different in type and scope, but the trials are very common among any vocation. The most common factor that keeps men from even attempting seminary is the fear of giving up on marriage, or young men can even fear giving up dating for a year or two of spiritual formation. Aside from the obvious sexual drive for this, there is also the need and desire for companionship in marriage and the desire for earthly fatherhood. Priests can easily struggle with the absence of a wife if their duties are set aside even briefly for self-interest. Extraordinary and strange cases excluded, I was told that there are three reasons that people leave the priesthood after being ordained: they may fall in love, feel unappreciated, or feel lonely. Typically a priest can handle any one of these factors, but when two or all three become an issue, than the priest will struggle to keep serving in his position. These three matters all relate to that lack of companionship and the natural desire for a sexually healthy male to desire a wife. These trials relate to the trials of the more common role that men take on as husbands and earthly fathers. I was once told that, in term of vocations, “the grass is brown on both sides.” Though I see this as a bleak outlook, some truth rings with it; all vocations are bound to (if not demand) suffering, which can be embraced or shunned to the blessing or detriment of an individual. While priests may say “I wish I had a wife,” I am told it is quite common for a husband to approach a
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priest and say, “I wish I had your life.” It is clear that marriage has its trials, that fatherhood is difficult, and that men are honing up less to their masculinity nowadays and divorce rates are soaring. When a husband wishes for the life of a priest, it is probably not a wish for the “bachelor life” as we understand it, but it is a wish for the freedom from the duties of the family, freedom to see other people outside his family, to be appreciated by a community, to not be lonely anymore. Fatherhood can be lonely. I do not advocate this loneliness, as loneliness is a poison that we choose to drink. I advocate an embracing of loneliness’ better-liked cousin: solitude. A priest I knew once told me this, “A husband can wake up in the morning, look at his wife who’s aging, not wearing make-up, hasn’t been intimate emotionally or physically in a long time, and say, ‘that’s ugly.’ He kisses her on the forehead anyway and says, ‘I love you.’ That’s love. A priest can wake up in the morning, see the empty space in the bed and say ‘that’s ugly.’ But he gets up and prays his breviary anyway. That’s love.” Here we see the distinction between loneliness and solitude; a man wakes up, feels burdened to see a distant, duty-filled marriage, but chooses to serves his wife. A priest wakes up to an empty bed space, but chooses to serve the Church. Loneliness is self-centered. Solitude is other-centered. The men who leave the priesthood are the ones who feel like they are not given enough attention, and men who leave marriage make the same excuse. I’m told the most common things that marriage counselors hear from men are complaints of decreased intimacy, too much money being spent by the wife, and a lack of appreciation. The forms these complaints take are likely “she doesn’t talk to me as much anymore,” “she’s not as intimate with me as she used to be,” “she spends too much money,” and “she doesn’t appreciate the support I provide for the family.” The common thread to these complaints is the subject to which they’re addressed: the wife. These men are bound to feel lonely when these complaints lack any introspection of their place in the matter. I see the same with men who are divorced. When they discuss
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the reasons for it, I always hear the faults of the wife, or of a demanding job, or of financial matters. The blame is always cast externally because of a self-centered attitude of loneliness. A common cause of long-standing affairs goes beyond sexual desire. The worst adulterer does not only give into passion, they give into emotion. A one-night stand, though grave, can be pardoned. I have seen many marriages that have endured this successfully. A several-year mistress, however, is another, more difficult matter. This goes back to that desire for companionship. Men seek emotional intimacy, and emotional expression often precedes the physical. It starts with dates to coffee shops and dinners, perhaps even under a casual pretense, but develop when the long-time married man finds that emotional intimacy his marriage has lacked for some time. These affairs center around man’s loneliness and contrived need for expression and love when love is readily available to him within his family as soon as he is ready to be loving. It is said that the birth of children often takes away the attention of the mother from the husband to the child, and when maternal love is held in higher regard and priority than spousal love (as it ought to), the effects can either alienate a man or bless him. He can either be lonely and fall into despair or enter into solitude and rise into sanctity. I have touched on much of the trials of marriage and the consequences of loneliness, but let us direct our focus to the benefits of solitude. I imagine that this is more difficult to adopt if a man has no religious or spiritual belief. Men, though in need of companionship, are suited towards their mission, their tasks, and their duty. This can be seen from a kindergarten classroom; the girls are making houses out of anything quickly and giving each other roles, living out relationships and focusing on each other while boys are making building things more meticulously out of carefully picked materials and focusing on making the other boy’s structures explode. Girls talk to one another, boys make toy armies to defeat one another. Though maturity makes the aim less violent (and some boys sadly never mature), the development remains focused towards what men do rather than whom with. The glory of masculine maturity is not a matter of “who with” but a matter of “who for.” There is great fulfillment April 2013 to be found in service and
great sorrow in mere tasks. It is Impressions either a chore to go to work, or it is peaceful to fulfill one’s duty. Men can find glory in their work and devote their energy into it for the sake of his family, subordinates, and those he serves, or he can go to work for the sake of himself and devote everything to his success or to his impatience for the work day to end. This is not a matter of good jobs and bad jobs; there is no such thing as either of them. This is a matter of good men and bad men. Hiking is masculine. Brooding walks are masculine. Many solitary activities are masculine because men are built for solitude, to enjoy it and the peace it provides. Men can feel bound to the duty of family, or freed by it. When true love is the center of a man’s life, his life becomes more joyful, despite being distant from his spouse, his children, or his friends in his call to duty. Men direct their energy towards their labors in solitude and produce excellent work, or they direct their energy towards self-pity in their loneliness and produce barelyadequate work. The difference between great men and poor men are the same differences between lonely men and solitary men. To conclude, I return to the Catholic root that began this exploration of men of solitude. It was once said that Saint Joseph, the foster father of Jesus, appeared to a nun and relayed to her the greatest trial of his life. In this trial, there was no blame on Mary or Jesus, or on his silent duties to them (which are certainly “underappreciated” for the absence of Scriptural attention). His greatest trial is nothing self-centered or pathetic. Saint Joseph suffered the single most manly trial of all fathers. This great, masculine trial was being aware that Jesus would be crucified and that he would not be at Calvary to console Mary and Jesus in their suffering. This is the trial men should aim to reach. There is no self-focus in it. There is no blame. There is only love. When our trials are trials of love, we are men of solitude. When they are trials of self-worth, we are men of loneliness. Men can be called to so many different types of duties in life, but they will always be isolated from their families or into their work, and then they will face their choice; a choice for shame or for glory, for self or for other, for loneliness or for solitude. This is and always will be an either-or decision. If both paths are ignored and the question is avoided altogether, we have chosen to be something less than man.
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Impressions
Of Priries and People: Intertwined Roots and Interconnected Fates
Driving for the first time along the endless interstate that severs North Dakota, a person sees little for miles beyond the waving heads of prairie grasses aloft against the endless winds. The grasses do not succumb to breakage and splitting as would trees, nor do they find themselves misshapen by wind like the low bushy cottonwoods that line the rivers. The grasses are timeless, monotonous, unremarkable in their understated simplicity. Each blade in quietude supports the other; none rises above the other in ambitious grandeur. Beneath the modest swaying grasses lays a tangle of intertwined roots providing a dense web of enduring solidity. Roots that boast an underground storage structure from which the plants can obtain nutrients in fire.
Suzanne Russ
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Roots that hold the soil in place. Roots that allow the plants to persist despite drought and fire and harshest temperatures. Roots that amass so tightly that damage to one is damage to all. Roots that intertwine to form a net of unified strength that defends against invaders. Roots that deepen to seek life-sustaining water in times of drought. This marvel of ecosystem adaptation overawes observers only when they intentionally seek to understand it, for prairie roots draw no attention and garner no bold applause. Just as these modest grasses interconnect so determinedly to ensure survival, so do the people of this prairie state interweave tightly together in symbiotic connectedness. The roots of the people, only recently
Siem Reap, Cambodia Keisha Sparks
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planted in the broad spectrum of history, echo the purpose of the grasses: they prevent the erosion of human resolve, they provide sustenance during times of difficulty, they lay tendrils ever downward and outward when threats become imminent. So interconnected is the human web beneath the communities that collective knowledge of one another seems intuitively understood rather than spoken. So dense are the roots of community that the outside world fades into a place of obscure foggy illusion. So conjoined are the roots of these pockets of humanity that one cannot know an individual without perceiving the generations of people behind and beside them. Like the prairie, the intertwined roots of the people cannot be observed from the surface. Above ground, these communities appear as all other communities: as mere collections of people, each filling their small niche detached from the doings of the neighbors. It is not until one digs beneath the topsoil, sifts through myriad interactions and experiences and observations, that one recognizes the web of roots that links these people in permanent stasis. Awareness of this web of roots comes to an observer gradually and indistinctly. One discovers, for example, that the ancestors of two disparate acquaintances homesteaded next to each other more than a century ago. One visits with college students and discovers an unassailable sense of common identity forged through endless iterations of suppers at the kitchen table, Saturday basketball games, afternoon chores, hours in the same schoolrooms. One drives to a friend’s small hometown and discovers a trove of communal memories and joys and pains carried through interwoven generations. One visits with a neighbor a small unprepossessing cemetery to find that each gravestone holds commonly-known tales of the life it represents. The roots of the communities are not deep in the grand scale of time; “Mayflower� families in North Dakota have lived here barely a century and a half. And yet their intertwined nature provides a core of sturdy unfailing strength to the communities just as the web of prairie roots provides unfailing stability to the grasses and land on which it rests. Substantial human roots are a rare commodity in this second decade of the 21st century. Easy mobility has created a rootless society in which many young people have no hometown April 2013 with embedded roots, no
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Laura Lee Kunkel
certainty about their identities, no web of entrenched community on which to rely. Families are fractured and scattered randomly across thousands of miles of land, retaining slipknot ties through Christmas newsletters and Facebook posts. The dense web of roots that stabilizes and protects and ensures stability and survivability has dissolved for many who must warily rely on the fragile support systems of newfound friendships and job collegiality. Such delicate root systems lend ephemeral security rather than the deep and enduring refuge of long interconnectedness. Thus these invisible but tenacious human roots of North Dakota communities are a treasure perhaps as valuable as the reserves of black riches above which they rest. These heavily rooted communities of western North Dakota have assimilated the understated character of the shortgrass prairies on which they emerged. Just as the grasses of the prairies are perpetually modest in height due the aridity of the climate, so are the people forever modest and unassuming in homes of unpretentious proportions furnished with the sturdy tables and cookware of earlier generations. Just as the shortgrass prairie forms a vast expanse of subtly muted and understated colors, so do the communities harbor a harmonious and undramatic weaving of congenial interactions. Just as the shortgrass prairies boast few bold flowers hovering loftily above the grasses, so do the people of North Dakota remain reticent and
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understated with few seeking unique glory. Topics that foster boisterous protest elsewhere generate only unhappy shakes of the head in North Dakota; conflicting opinions boldly pronounced elsewhere are voiced with tentative apology in North Dakota.. This harmonious pallet seems reasonable: A plant on the shortgrass prairie that stands too tall risks shearing by wind and natural forces; a voice that speaks too loudly in the woven communities risks the unmeshing of that protective web. The roots of the prairie grasses, dense beneath the ground, offer remarkable protection against weeds that might topple the well-balanced ecosystem. Invasive seeds can land, but require a very adept strategy to take root and become established within the roots of a healthy prairie. The prairie secludes and protects its completeness with this dense and invisible web. In similar manner, the intertwined human roots of community form a self-sufficient network that is adequate unto itself—a complete ecosystem with all the needed components in place. Newcomers may alight and sustain themselves, but must labor for many years before their roots become intertwined in the long web of connections that form the understructure of the communities. Though the roots of both prairies and communities have enduring tensile strength in normal or even
Peek-a-Moo
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Laura Lee Kunkel
strenuous circumstances, persistent aggressive stressors can wreak permanent destruction on both. Prairies overgrazed season upon season, for example, soon succumb to invaders and erosion. Even a land as vital as a prairie cannot endure repeated degradations without becoming worn down, vulnerable to invaders, unable to sustain itself. From such ill health recovery is a long path, necessitating tender attention from humans to rid the field of the invasive weeds and nurture the healthy plants back into symbiotic sustainability. In similar manner, the communities of North Dakota fall into decay with the stress of too much change. This becomes apparent if one travels into the farmlands, where advances in transportation and agriculture portended the demise of the small farming communities that dotted the landscape. Every seven miles or so along the old gravel roads lies a dead community, a ghost town, a collection of weathered buildings in semistates of collapse. Crumbling dance halls echo the Saturday night romances of earlier generations, tilting farmhouses long since abandoned voice the stoic courage of their hardy inhabitants, school buildings with rusting desks and long-idle swingsets burst with the ringing voices of children past. Only the wind endures ever steady. But the decay of the seven-mile towns, while certainly an unarguable reality, is nevertheless different from the decay that comes from repeated degradations. The demise of the seven-mile towns seems a natural response to progress, a dynamic and responsive change that served changing demands. One can trace the wisps of roots etched into the crumbling buildings and see that they have not truly unwended themselves. They have instead simply stretched themselves, taken root in a new place but not lost the web. The strands of connections, some worn thin and broken as young people seek fortune elsewhere, nevertheless retain a solid base, a haven little changed across generations. The young people once directly connected to these roots can at any time walk back in time to their childhoods where families share Sunday dinner after church, neighbors wile away time on lawnchairs in the shade of a tree, town news revolves around the building project of a single family. Prodigal sons and daughters returning to the fold will find those roots intact, the community waiting expectantly in the stillness of one time and one space. April 2013 And is this root system--this
human root system that provides identity and stability and timelessness in a turbulent changing world—worthy of preserving? Does this delicate network of interconnected families, entrenched in ideas of a generation past, hold value in a global world? Does this segment of conjoined humanity, replete with anachronisms and naivete and neighborliness and love, harbor a treasure? Or should these roots be sacrificed to modernity, to the cravings and demands of the outside world, just as many native shortgrass prairie lands were sacrificed to the wheat fields? What is once destroyed cannot be recreated. What is sacrificed cannot be retrieved. What is sold to the highest bidder cannot be bought back when the cost is recognized. What is decided now—or what is not decided but passively allowed— cannot be undecided later. This is the question at hand during this spring of 2012 as western North Dakota is saturated with oil money in exchange for its roots: Are the benefits worth the sacrifice? Just as grasslands eventually succumb to perpetual onslaughts of invasive plants, so will the fragile communities of North Dakota weaken and erode and collapse under the weight of development. As the lands sell, and fields give way to scoria-covered roads and wastewater pits, and highways line with tin housing and storage facilities, and towns fill with too many strangers, those that comprise the heart of the community will slowly and quietly depart. Some will leave rich, flush with money born of mineral rights. Some with strong shoulders and long endurance will join the crews and become accustomed to quick wealth. Others will simply leave for parts unknown, no longer April 2013 recognizing the once-familiar
places that were their hometowns. Impressions And the web of people-- the neighborly gatherings, the shared history, the family cemeteries--will dissolve into ghost towns as surely as those unneeded buildings of century old farmsteads stand decaying on the land. And so we repeat: Are the benefits worth the sacrifice? This question was not asked when the last of the bison were sacrificed. This question was not asked when the lands were overgrazed. This question was not asked when the prairie ecosystem was replaced by an agricultural monosystem. This question has perhaps never been asked when substantial change was imminent. Will this generation of North Dakotans ask that question now, when slipshod development threatens not only the roots of the prairie but the roots of the people at stake? Perhaps we must return to the roots to find the answer, for it is the intertwined roots of North Dakota communities that simultaneously form its culture and forward its demise. The very character of the modest shortgrass prairie, echoed in the character of the good people who call it home, limits its capacity to defend itself. By its own self-sufficiency, it fails to welcome those who might challenge the trajectory. By its own modest reticence, it fails to speak on its own behalf. By its own modest proportions—its shortgrass nature--it fails to draw the attention and support of those who might demand foresight. By its own desire for harmony, it fails to challenge those whose decisions would threaten its peace. Perhaps. Or perhaps the North Dakotans living in this time and this place will cohesively unite to preserve the treasure of roots in a rootless world.
Delighting Meadow
Samantha Holzer
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*Bane* Dara Anderson 52
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Tristen Keisha Sparks