Impressions 2018

Impressions

2018 Vol. XXX

Impressions Literary and Art Magazine

Volume XXX, 2018 Dickinson State University

ABOUT IMPRESSIONS Impressions is Dickinson State University’s annual literary and art magazine. Founded in 1989, the magazine has been produced by students of English 213, the Department of Language and Literature’s literary publications course, since 2005. We consider submissions of creative writing, photography, and two-dimensional artwork by DSU students, faculty, staff, alumni, and regional high school students. All work should be submitted using our online submssion form, which can be found, along with our submission guidelines, contact information, and most recent issue at dickinsonstate.edu/impressions. © 2018 by the editors of Impressions. All future rights to material published in Impressions belong to the individual authors and artists. Any reproduction or reprinting of this material requires their permission.

Colophon Cover Art: Deborah Dragseth Cover and Internal Design: Salena Loveland, Darla Hueske Typefaces: Arial and Arial Rounded MT Bold by Robin Nicholas and Patricia Saunders, Bodoni MT by Giambattista Bodoni Cover: House Laser Gloss White 80# Cover with UV Coating, CMYK Contents: House Laser Gloss White 70# Text, CMYK Size: 6” x 9” Binding: Perfect Bound The staff and advisors would like to thank Dickinson State University and the Department of Language and Literature for funding the magazine. We would like to thank Short Run Printing, LTD. Most of all, we would like to thank those who have submitted their work for consideration. Without your willingness to share your work, we could not achieve our mission of encouraging the practice and appreciation of literary and visual arts.

2018 IMPRESSIONS STAFF STUDENT EDITORS Kendra Cox Megan Dailey Allison Hert Salena Loveland

Design Salena Loveland

FACULTY ADVISORS Martin McGoey Darla Hueske

EDITORS’ WELCOME What does it mean to make an impression? The artists within this edition of Impressions have found a way to leave a lasting mark on each of us who have gotten the opportunity to read and view their work. We hope that the artists will do the same for each of you who open this book filled with talent, emotion, and passion for the work that they have done.

How do we make an impression last? Though most artists will say that everything has been done, every story has been written, every painting has been painted, we feel differently. Every artist is unique, as is every story, painting, or poem. It takes the vulnerability of artists to be willing to share their own vision the way that they see it, experience it, live it. We encourage those of you who open this edition to be as vulnerable as the artists and let their pieces inspire you, bring life to you, and most of all leave their lasting impressions.

We would like to welcome your eyes to the thirtieth volume of Impressions. This is the first year that Impressions has been guided

by Martin McGoey. Also, this is the second year that our magazine has been perfect bound with smaller dimensions, ensuring that the artists have their own page to share their story or their vision. This year’s magazine presents a work of Dickinson State University students, staff, faculty, and alumni, as well as high school students from the surrounding area.

This year, the staff created the magazine through various courses including independent study, senior project, and directed study.

We would like to thank you, the reader, for taking the opportunity to read what we have enjoyed creating. We hope that something within these pages leaves you with a lasting impression.

Sincerely, Impressions Staff

2018 AWARDS DICKINSON STATE UNIVERSITY STUDENTS FICTION First Prize

Hailey Entze – Finally, a Family

POETRY First Prize

Christine Hetzel – Aspirin with Water at the First Hint of Pain

Second Prize

Hailey Entze – Secret Maker

PHOTOGRAPHY First Prize

Austin Stockert – Calm Before the Storm

Second Prize

Emily Suwyn – An Hour in Chicago

TWO-DIMENSIONAL ART First Prize

Mariah Marsh – Bane

Second Prize

Maclyn Hauck – Vertebra

HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS CREATIVE WRITING First Prize

Shelby Kanski – Cityscape

Second Prize

Rose Bateman – The Beginning

VISUAL ART First Prize

Nicole Ferebee – Gazing

Second Prize

Lakota Mollohan – Jack’s Back

TABLE OF CONTENTS FICTION............................................................................9 NONFICTION...................................................................37 POETRY...........................................................................55 2-D ART..........................................................................93 PHOTOGRAPHY............................................................ 101 AUTHOR BIOS............................................................... 119

Fiction Contents DSU Award Winner Finally, a Family

Hailey Entze...................................10

Porcupine Wolf

Trent Myran....................................15

Jackie without a Beanstalk: Reimagining a Fairy Tale

Margaret Barnhart..........................20

At the Altar

Kamryn Morrison...........................23

The Old Man Who Fed the Birds

Marytta Davis.................................27

Houses

Salena Loveland..............................31

Impressions 2018 || Entze

|| Impressions 2018

DSU AWARD WINNER

FINALLY, A FAMILY Hailey Entze

My shoes are the first to come off—one kicked by the foot of the stairs, the other flung towards the shoe rack. Next, my backpack hits the floor and I drop my mittens, hat, and coat on my way to the kitchen.

I open every cupboard until I find the biggest plastic bowl they have and proceed to dump a whole box of Lucky Charms into it, followed by half their carton of milk. Once I’ve poured myself a huge glass of lemonade, my “snack” and I make our way to Rob and Veronica’s huge living room with the plush couches that practically swallow anyone that sits in them.

I carefully set my cereal on the end table while I flick through channels on Rob’s sixty-inch TV. I find Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives on the Food Network and settle in for the night.

Five minutes into my relaxing evening and it’s interrupted by the door creaking open and a “What the heck,” from the foyer. Rob’s head pops around the archway a second later.

“Clara?” He takes in the enormous bowl and my fuzzy-socked feet up on the coffee table and looks at me like he’ll never understand how I’m his daughter. Which is understandable, seeing as he only found out I existed a month ago. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m drowning my sorrows by eating my weight in Lucky Charms. What are you doing?”

Before he can answer, however, the door opens again and there’s a clunk, an “OUCH” and enough swear words to make 11

Entze || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

a sailor blush. Tony’s six-foot three-inch form stomps under the arch next to my…dad?

“Would it kill you to pick up your stuff? I almost rolled an ankle.” My stepbrother looks so offended that my hat and mittens had the audacity to so rudely assault him.

I shrug, “How sad that almost was for you.”

He throws his hands in the air. “If I sprain an ankle I can’t play in this week’s game; I have scouts coming!”

I don’t know what he’s so worried about, his mom owns the biggest law firm in town; it’s not like he can’t pay for college, unlike some of us. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Do you want me to put my mittens in time-out?”

This earns the world’s iciest glare from him. “Are you always such a sarcastic pain in the butt, or do you save it up for us?”

“Guys, please don’t start fighting already, at least give it another hour. I can’t deal with it right now.” Rob rubs his temples like he’s had the most stressful day in the history of his life.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t really want to deal with my mom running off and never returning, but here I am, dealing,” I say, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into my mouth. Rob freezes and stares at me while Tony snorts and walks away, muttering about how he’s so glad he’s not blood related to either of us.

“I’m sorry, Clara, I didn’t mean…” I cut my biological father off before he dies of embarrassment.

“Seriously Rob, I was just kidding. She’s done this before; I’m used to it.” I pick the marshmallows out of the cereal so I don’t have to make direct eye contact with him.

My mom started disappearing around the time I entered middle school. At first, she only left for a few hours and was always back by the time I went to bed, making sure I got all my homework done and asking if I found something to eat.

As I got older, though, hours turned into days and then weeks.

The disappearance before this one lasted a month. That time I didn’t have enough money to pay the electric bill and sat in 12

Impressions 2018 || Entze

|| Impressions 2018

the dark for three days before she finally came back.

However, a week after that she left again, and I haven’t seen her since. Our crotchety old neighbor Mrs. Weaver called Social Services this time because “she had had enough of that poor girl being left all alone.” They banged on the trailer door at eight on a Saturday to turn my world upside down. In other words, to tell me that yes, Clara, you do have a father and he’s rich, remarried, and, oh yeah, never knew you existed!

That father now clears his throat, and out of the corner of my eye I see him nod. “Okay” is all he says, “okay.” With that, he squares his shoulders and walks down the hall where I hear the door of his office close a second later.

I’m finally getting comfortable and focusing on Guy Fieri raving about a fantastic burger joint in Baltimore when someone, presumably Tony, starts rummaging around in the kitchen. A few cupboards slam and then the fridge before he strolls in, breathing out of his nose like a bull, just like I knew he would.

“Clara.”

“Antony.”

His places his hands on his hips like a stern, middle-aged dad when he asks, “What’s in the bowl?”

“Lucky Charms.”

“All of them?!”

I pretend to count the leftover pieces in the bowl, “Not anymore. I ate quite a few already.”

He growls, rolls his eyes, and sighs so hard that he probably starts a tsunami near a small, Caribbean island. I don’t think anyone has ever angered Antony Davis as much as I do by simply existing.

“Do you want some? Get a spoon and we can share, just like real siblings.” I bat my eyelashes at him and smile sweetly.

He storms out of the room, and I do a little victory shoulder shimmy (so as not to spill my cereal) for having won at least 13

Entze || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

one of our fights. However, it’s a short-lived victory because a second later he’s back with a serving spoon and is shoving me over so that he can plop himself down on the ridiculously fluffy couch cushion next to me.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut up. We’re being a ‘family’ like you said. Now pass me the bowl.” He holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers.

I’m so caught off-guard that I dumbly hand it to him and watch as he scoops up some now decently soggy cereal.

“What are we watching?” he asks around a mouth full of the marshmallowy goodness that was previously in my possession.

I don’t know whether I should be impressed or appalled that he doesn’t mind germs.

“I am watching Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. You are eating and leaving.” I make a grab for the bowl, but Tony shifts so his massive shoulder blocks my attempt.

In another world, I could actually see myself getting along fine with Tony. If it was a world where I wasn’t the weird girl that showed up one day because Social Services told her that his stepdad was her biological father. Or, if I wasn’t the art freak that willingly wears denim overalls, paint splattered sweatshirts, and black plastic glasses. Or, maybe if he wasn’t the greatest basketball star in all the land with dashing good looks and a charming personality; or so I’ve heard, I have yet to see anything “dashing” or “charming” about him.

So basically, there is no world where we would get along.

He looks at me with a grimace. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

He makes a grab for the remote.

“Don’t!” I yell, crashing my arm against his in something resembling a karate chop and startling him so much that the bowl of cereal tips precariously in his lap. One drop of blueish-green milk lands on Veronica’s pristine white and beige Oriental rug before he catches it. We both breathe out a sigh of relief.

She may be his mother, but I think Tony is as intimidated by Veronica as I am.

14

Impressions 2018 || Entze

|| Impressions 2018

Tony runs a hand down his face and then clutches it to his chest. “Fine,” he huffs, “we’ll watch your dumb show.”

I gawk at him. He finally let me have my way after a month and a half of living here. I suppress a small smile and settle back into the cushions. We continue watching the show, sharing the cereal, and occasionally commenting on the food that comes on. It’s the first time that I’ve felt at home here, like I was part of the family, or any family for that matter, and it makes me feel like my life is finally normal.

15

Myran || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

PORCUPINE WOLF Trent Myran

“Jeb, stop them mules and get up here!” Glenn shouted over his shoulder.

Takes Eagle was riding up fast with a look of concern on his face to which Glenn was not accustomed. He was an excellent guide, but “Eagle,” as Glenn referred to him, didn’t talk much.

Actually, he never talked, just used signs like most all other tribes.

“What’s he a goin’ on about this time?” asked Jeb. Takes Eagle brought his mule to a short stop and started signing so quickly that Glenn could hardly make sense of any of it. “He says… somethin’ ‘bout a wolf up ahead… south of the trail, I think.”

“So what?” Jeb replied. “Wolves is always about in this lonely country; we got rifles anyhow.”

Glenn wasn’t sure what to make of all the urgent “signs.”

Eagle was of the Pawnee tribe. Some called them “People Under the Wolf.” They would cover themselves with a wolf hide when approaching a herd of Buffalo in an attempt to get in close for a shot.

Did Eagle mean he had seen a warrior up ahead south of the trail? Glenn thought to himself. That didn’t make any sense.

They had just started the driest part of the trail. No water for at least fifty miles and no game, either. The last critter they had seen was a porcupine a few days back.

They started up again after drinking the last of the water.

16

Impressions 2018 || Myran

|| Impressions 2018

It would be at least two days’ travel with no water until they reached the Cimarron River.

The purpose of their trip was simple: buy as much dry goods in Missouri as the wagon could hold and head to Santa Fe to trade for Spanish silver. This trail had been used for three years now; it was easy to read, and there had not been much trouble with Indians.

After plodding along slowly, wagon wheels creaking for about three hours, Glenn called a halt to rest. Jeb put in a fresh chaw, his last one, while Glenn took out a small spyglass to survey the trail ahead.

Something seemed odd about two miles up the trail.

Brown, grey, and white shapes appeared in his spyglass. “Hey, Jeb! Come have a look at this,” said Glenn. He handed the glass to Jeb. “What’s that look like to you, ‘bout two miles up?”

“Can’t tell, but I think I see another blamed porcupine about half mile up on that low hill to the south,” replied Jeb. “Eagle,” said Glenn to his silent guide, “go on up ahead.

See what’s to be seen.” Eagle signed in the affirmative and started out.

Meanwhile, Glenn put the spyglass back up to his eye and scanned to the south where Jeb had seen the porcupine. It was gone. Just that quick. “What in blue blazes! Why was a porcupine way out here? Not a tree in sight for bark to eat off.

No water.”

“Eagle’s on his way back,” mumbled Jeb, nervous-like.

“He looks mighty troubled ‘bout something.”

Jeb was right. Eagle looked downright scared out of his leather shirt. His mule was running flat out like it was being chased. But Glenn didn’t see anything behind the frightened pair.

Upon reaching his two companions, Takes Eagle dismounted his mule. After trying to calm himself, he said one word: “Woof!”

Neither Glenn nor Jeb had hardly ever heard Eagle say anything. This must be serious. “How many ‘woofs’?” Glenn 17

Myran || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

asked. Takes Eagle made the sign for one.

“He ain’t talkin’ about wolves, is he Glenn?” asked Jeb. “No sir, he’s talking about Pawnee,” replied Glenn.

“Why’s he so fired up? He’s Pawnee too, ain’t he?” asked Jeb. “He is, but he hasn’t ridden with them for more than ten years. They don’t take kindly to one of their own helpin’ us find game and water on this trail,” said Glenn. “We can’t just turn back now; we and these animals need water.”

After hesitating a few more minutes, they continued forward. The sun was high and hot. Their tongues were starting to swell. Dreams of waterfalls and springs were filling their heads when the smell hit them.

The mules hesitated and brayed their opposition. The colored shapes Glenn had seen were now a few hundred feet ahead. Much to their alarm, they started to see the irregular figures turn into dead livestock.

Clouds of flies lifted off dozens of dead mules, horses, and oxen ahead of them and on either side. A burned wagon with its canvas ripped lay on one side. Arrows protruded angrily from the sides of the wagon, and most of the animals had been lanced or pierced with arrows, as well.

Glenn motioned for them to stop. He and Jeb went around to get a closer look at the overturned wagon.

Clothes and shoes were scattered here and there. More flies.

“Over here!” shouted Jeb. The remains of two travelers lay next to each other, reduced almost to the skeletons God gave them. Just enough flesh remained to give evidence of a scalping.

All they could do was move on toward the river. Avoiding the three more wagons they found, they stuck to the trail.

They had already seen enough.

The threesome and their animals needed water badly, but they were afraid to stop for the night. “We should be near the 18

Impressions 2018 || Myran

|| Impressions 2018

river tomorrow around noon,” said Glenn. “The problem is they will be waiting for us there.”

After resting for a few hours after dark, they slowly moved forward. One of the mules in the team gave out about three in the morning, so Jeb took out his knife and cut the exhausted critter from its harness. He then ended its suffering with his rifle.

The sun had been up for a few hours as the exhausted trio trudged along, when suddenly the mules picked up their pace.

They strained at their traces, and the three serving as mounts became impossible to control. “They smell water!” shouted Glenn. “Try and keep ‘em steady! There’s sure to be trouble up ahead.” But try as they might, the mules kept picking up speed. Finally, the river!

Men and animals alike plunged into the muddy water and commenced drinking their fill. They refilled their canteens, and as Jeb was refilling the water cask on the side of the wagon, an arrow seemingly from nowhere zipped into his left arm. He stood dazed for a moment, and then shouted, “Indians!”

All three men looked in every direction at once. Nothing moved. The mules kept slurping to their hearts’ content.

“Where in blazes are they?” whimpered Jeb grasping at the arrow in his arm.

“Look! There’s that porcupine again,” said Glenn in little more than a whisper. Forty feet away in the brush, the spiny creature didn’t even twitch. “Why ain’t it movin’?” asked Jeb. Takes Eagle had strung up an old bow he had with him.

Knocking an arrow, he took aim at the porcupine.

“What’s he aimin’ at that…” Jeb was mid-question when the arrow whistled past, hitting the porcupine with a thud.

The brush started to rustle, and Glenn clicked the hammer back on his rifle.

All at once, the porcupine stood up and tumbled out of the brush in front of them. There in front of them was a Pawnee brave with Eagle’s well-placed arrow in his chest.

He had already started singing his death song as the three of 19

Myran || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

them approached. His tall, spiny mohawk headdress was the “porcupine” they had been seeing all this time. A dusty wolf hide lay in the brush where he had waited as they drank their fill.

Takes Eagle looked down at the dead warrior and then at Glenn and Jeb. “Porky pine – woof,” he said.

Drawing by Rachel Dazell

20

Impressions 2018 || Barnhart

|| Impressions 2018

JACKIE WITHOUT A BEANSTALK: REIMAGINING A FAIRY TALE Margaret Barnhart

Everyone has heard the tale of Jack, the imprudent son of a poor, widowed mother, who couldn’t seem to follow his mama’s simple instruction to sell the family cow. Instead, he fell for a too-good-to-be-true sales pitch from a crafty “phisher” man and traded the family’s only source of sustenance for what amounted to a hill of beans.

“Ah yes,” you may say, “but they were magic beans.”

Of course they were magic, just like ‘shrooms and ganja and opium-dope are magical. The enchantment of the beans was in their alluring promise of adventure, wealth, and euphoria—of a happy-ever-after kind of mind-trip, for that indeed is the kind of fantasy it was. Where else but in some psychedelic journey is one to encounter such fantastical places, persons, and things: a land beyond the clouds, but not outside the atmosphere, peopled by a strange race of cannibalistic giants; a land where bags of gold coins are hidden in oversized cupboards, where hens lay eggs made of gold, where stringed instruments sing lullabies and tattle to their owners.

You see, Jack didn’t really want to work for a living. In his magic-bean hallucination, he found all the wealth he and his mother needed for the rest of their lives. He didn’t earn that wealth; he stole it—and committed a little (or rather a large) “giganticide” to boot.

Not everyone has heard the tale of Jackie, the resourceful daughter of a widowed and wise mother who herself was neither helpless nor hopeless. Of course, they struggled during 21

Barnhart || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

economic downturns when bills were hard to pay. Want and need are, after all, heavy burdens, often feeling like a giant upon one’s back. One day, a sympathetic land investor visited Jackie and her mother and offered to buy their property.

“After all,” he said kindly, “farming and ranching are difficult enterprises. A widow and her daughter should be looked after, not looking after a small plot of ground and one measly cow.”

The mother didn’t like his attitude and sent the man on his way. She looked at Jackie and said, “Daughter, we must use what wherewithal we have: our goods and our talents, in order to make do.”

They did not sell the property and kept the cow, milking it twice a day. The milk was good because it contained no artificial hormones or antibiotics, coming as it did from a natural-grass-fed cow. Jackie and her mother used some of the milk for their own needs but also sold butter, buttermilk, cheese, and cream. With this income, they began to pry away at the giant on their backs. But they didn’t rest there.

“Mother,” Jackie suggested, “let’s invest in some chickens and grain.”

So they did. Some of the grain they fed to the chickens and the cow, but the rest they planted. Soon they had an entire field of grain to harvest. In time, they found their free-range chickens to be quite marketable, as were the farm-fresh eggs with golden-colored yolks. Using the fruits of their labors (milk, eggs, flour), they worked together baking delicious delicacies: cookies and cakes, tarts and tortes, biscuits and breads. These they also sold at market and earned a sizeable pile of coins.

Keeping frugal, Jackie and her mother became adept at making their own clothing, practicing and perfecting intricate stitching, which was admired throughout the village and even beyond. Women and men began to pay Jackie and her mother for their hand-made clothing, pillows, and household adornments. Villagers even began to pay Jackie and her mother to teach others their methods of self-sufficiency.

22

Impressions 2018 || Barnhart

|| Impressions 2018

One day Jackie looked up from the accounting books.

(Yes, they kept track of their own finances.) She smiled at her mother and said, “Mom, we did it. We got the giant off our backs.” Her mother smiled in return and said, “You have been such a responsible and clever daughter. I have a gift for you. I’ve been saving for it for a long time and finally bought it today.”

She revealed the gift: a beautiful stringed instrument. No—it wasn’t a singing, tattling harp, but a second-hand piano with a rich tone, and both Jackie and her mother learned to play because life needs something more than fortitude and good business sense. It needs aesthetics, like beauty and music.

Did they live happily ever after? Does anyone?

The moral of the story: it takes more than a beanstalk to rise to one’s potential.

23

Morrison || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

AT THE ALTAR Kamryn Morrison

When you’re a teenager, you try your absolute hardest to find something to associate yourself with. Something to belong to.

At the tender age of sixteen, I thought I had found my place: singing and playing the piano in a small practice room at my school, The Borstad Academy for the Arts; dancing in the community center’s Creative Movement class with my best friends, Regan and Paisley; and strolling Naomi across town to daycare every morning.

But something I’ve learned is that the world is changing a little bit every day. Friends leave, safe places become war zones, and people get sick. Some day those charities started from sob stories will be for you. For me, that some day is now.

Grandma Katherine had always seemed eternal. She was untouchable, as if one hundred years into the future she would still be baking cookies for her reckless grandkids, sewing quilts for charity auctions, and helping Grandpa and my uncles on the farm.

But no human is eternal. Cancer knew this and decided to show Grandma Kate.

I’ve never seen someone so weak. Not even in an intensive care hospital like this one. The many tubes going in and out of her almost lifeless form made Grandma Kate look more like an ill-fated extra in a science fiction movie than the energetic woman who used to play dress up with me. I can’t handle it.

Mom looks over and squeezes my hand, silently asking if everything’s okay. I shake my head, hot tears invading my 24

Impressions 2018 || Morrison

|| Impressions 2018

cheeks with the same intensity as the Huns invading Rome.

She tells Grandma Kate her goodbyes, promising to come talk to her in just a few minutes, and leads me outside room 168 and into the hallway leading to the visitor’s area.

She pulls me into an embrace. I clutch onto her. I start sobbing into her shoulder, careless of the fact that we were in the middle of a small hallway and were blocking traffic for the bustling nurses and doctors. One of the doctors sees us and looks away quickly, for how could he bare to look into the eyes of all the souls affected by the one woman he won’t be able to save?

A nurse gives us a sympathetic look and leads us to a private room. “The doctor has news for you. Your family is in here.” She holds open the mahogany door and walks away, as if this monumental life or death event is just something she sees every day. It probably is.

The doctor awkwardly asks us all to sit down. I shiver as my family scatters, leaving me the lone core of a discarded apple. I know he’s saying something. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t listen. It’s like I’m not here, as if my soul was at the old red farm visiting Grandma Kate and putting together a tea party for Naomi and her cousins. As if I were a child, daydreaming of a land that will never again be. The tears escaping Grandpa James’s stone face brought me back to reality quickly. Grandpa never cried. He was a tough farmhand, nothing could activate his tear ducts. Not even the tractor accident in which he broke both of his arms.

I know, without hearing, that this is it. I run out of the room, a collection of various weeping noises escaping me.

Run. Run. Run. Hop on the elevator. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it as I try my best to find my way to a place that could maybe possibly somehow help me. I hear the angelic cry of a choir’s hymn nearby and run faster to the right.

I fling open the oblong wooden doors and collapse into the nearest vacant pew. A woman with long ebony hair conducts a choir rehearsal from the front of the chapel. I listen intently, trying to find a message within the music that would magically 25

Morrison || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

heal my sorrows. Sadly, I have a hard time connecting with “O Happy Day.” Realizing that choral music may not be the solution to my current sorrow, I crack open the brown leather-bound book lying alone on the cushioned seat. I have never read the Bible outside of church before. I have no clue what I am doing.

Looking around me, I see that perhaps I’m not the only one in peril. Fifteen or so motionless souls litter the chapel, all with grim expressions and teary eyes. A young man sobs into the shoulder of his wife. An elderly woman clutches an old, heart-shaped locket in mourning, her eyes dead and absent.

Three sleep-deprived children with unwashed clothes and messy hair herd around a stressed mother.

Although our situations are scattered across the board, we are all the same. Depressed. Sorrowful. Crestfallen.

Well, maybe not all of us…an old man with a twinkle in his eyes and a young heart approaches me. His expression is understanding, as if he can see all of the individual terrors running through my mind. He sits down next to me but says nothing to explain who he is or why he is here. He doesn’t seem to blend in with the rest of us. His face seems stuck in a permanent smile. He pulls out a hard-backed hymnal and begins singing with the choir. His voice is worn and faded, but he is passionate. Every cell of his being is devoted to the canticle. He gestures to me to sing along. I awkwardly joined in at a mezzo piano, afraid to let my voice be heard. I know it will crack and squeak with all the crying I’ve been doing.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he challenges. “You go to Borstad, after all,” gesturing to my black, embroidered school jacket.

“Put some soul into it!”

I smile, my vowels brightening. I crescendo into a forte, adding a few ornamentations and riffs here and there. The man stands up and begins dancing happily to the beat of the choir’s song. He grabs my hands and pulls me up joyfully. I start to dance, too.

In my mind, I’m a chameleon. The norm at Borstad is to 26

Impressions 2018 || Morrison

|| Impressions 2018

break out into song and dance at the most random of times.

So I do, just like everyone else. I’ll do whatever embarrassingly uninhibited pursuit you ask. Present a speech? Sure. Sing a solo in front of the entire student body? Alright, alright, alright.

Try a complex tumbling pass in the middle of Walmart? Sounds fun. Have my voice critiqued and dissected in front of life changing instructors and producers? Go right ahead. But, back in the real world, people don’t do that. So I don’t, either.

But right now, praising my heart out with the kind old man, I don’t have a care in the world.

The dirty children see us chirping and join along with a beatific expression in their eyes that wasn’t there minutes ago.

One of the three, a little girl with brown pigtails, runs up to me and embraces me. The mother follows quickly, trying to stop her from crossing boundaries, but she eventually gives up and sings softly with us.

I look around to see that the whole chapel is singing gleefully. The choir smiles wide, surprised. There isn’t a soul in the room being distorted by their familiar chains of sorrow.

After a few more verses filled with blithe, the song is over.

All of the previously somber individuals are celebrating or hugging. The choir, stunned by the substantial reaction to their song, quickly moves on to another familiar melody that the crowd rapidly welcomes.

Ready to go back to the waiting room, I turn to the old man. He is putting on his coat.

I begin thanking him profusely, delighted that he has just turned such a dark moment of my life into something I could smile at, no matter how short term it may be.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He begins walking away. “I’ll see you next Sunday.”

27

Davis || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

THE OLD MAN WHO FED THE BIRDS Marytta Davis

The man, he was a strange man. He never really did much, just sat on the corner feeding the birds. Nothing special. He was just a man. So why was this man always on my mind? Why is he always there, never doing anything except sitting in the back of my mind, even when I don’t see him out the window?

He would just sit there and feed the birds. Every day at 2:23, he sits down on the bench. The one that sits on the corner of Brookings and Welling Street, the green one that, for some strange reason, all the birds flock to. It is maddening when I try to walk my dog. He likes to chase the birds, you see. He enjoys catching them and holding them in his mouth, and well, being a dog, he would have great fun pulling out their eyes and eating them. I don’t really care much for the sight, and it always gets him far too riled up, so I have taken to walking him along the path of Buster and Main. But the man is still there no matter what. He just sits there. In his light green coat and blue jeans. He always wears his hat pulled down low over his head, cocked just enough to where I can never see his eyes.

No matter which way he turns, I never see his eyes. Why could I never see the eyes?

The eyes are what people call the windows to the soul.

They reveal what a person is really thinking, and how someone really feels about something. God gave eyes to mankind so that we may see what the other is really thinking. He gave them the ability to sparkle with delight and flash with envy, to burn with anger and glow with pride. We can all know the world of the 28

Impressions 2018 || Davis

|| Impressions 2018

eyes if we simply take the time to notice them. I would like to consider myself an expert when it comes to eyes and their behavior. However, to boost false praises is something I am not fond of doing. I find myself constantly learning something new about the human eye. It is what keeps me so intrigued by them. I have been intrigued ever since I was little. That’s one of the reasons why I don’t care for my dog and his little... habit. Some may differ with me saying that some cultures believe eating the eyes of your enemies allows you to see the world like they would have. However, in the manner of dogs and birds, I find it far too animalistic to appreciate. So, as you can see, this man’s having no eyes to study was a small annoyance to me. But why would he hide his eyes like that?

What was so wrong with them that they must be hidden?

This is how I lived my life for several months. The man would come, sit, feed the birds, and leave. He would not look up and would not speak to anyone. With his hat pulled low over his eyes, he would do this task as if it was all his life was made for, as if he was born only to wake up and feed the birds.

I would make it a point to be at my window at exactly 2:23 just to see if he would come. He would never disappoint me in any way. At exactly 2:21, I would look out, see him round the corner onto Brookings Lane, and make his slow way to the bench. No one else ever sat on that bench. I don’t recall ever seeing one soul sit on that bench other than the man. I concluded that it must have been made for him special because he seemed to just know that no one else would be there.

Perfect clockwork.

There was nothing very distinct about this man, and that is what made him so irritatingly noticeable. He was too average.

I had to know who this man was. I had to see his eyes. One day, I made up my mind to try to see this man in person. I would go and sit on that bench and wait for him to come. I was going to do it. I was going to see the man who had haunted me for the past month. I went down to the park and sat on the bench. I checked my watch; it was 2:20. Perfect. I would be just in time to see him round the corner and sit on the bench.

29

Davis || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

He would sit and I would wait a moment before addressing him. I would turn and say, “Wonderful weather we are having today.”

He would respond, and with the turn of his head, I would finally see those eyes that I have always needed to gaze into.

I was pondering on all this when I realized something. I looked at my watch and it was 2:29. I was sitting alone on that bench and it was 2:29. I looked around frantically. Why was he not here? Where could he have gone? Perhaps something happened to him. I sat on that bench for another three hours. No one noticed me, but I noticed everyone. I was looking for the man, the man whose eyes I had never seen. I looked at all of them.

I watched the street that he normally came down, waiting for him to turn the corner. Waiting to see his eyes. I waited...but nothing. He never came, and I never saw his face. I never saw those eyes. How could eyes that you have never seen haunt you to obsession?

I went back to my room and looked out over the park.

I looked at the bench expecting to see it empty, but he was there! He was sitting there feeding the birds. I pressed my face against the glass as if that could somehow give me a better view of his face. I needed to see his eyes. How could this man not have eyes! The thought enraged me. I am normally not a violent person, but this was wrong. Dr. Melbourne said I shouldn’t let things like this control my head. That’s why I am in this place to begin with. They call it an obsession, but I don’t think it’s that bad. All I could think about was the anger that I felt towards this man. How dare he hide from me like this! I slammed my fist against the window and listened to the hollow thud it made. I fumed at that man, trying to burn him with my fueled glare.

I was in the middle of this calm expression when there came a knock at the door. It was the hollow thunk of knuckle on metal. Then there was the squeak and grinding of a big metal door. In came the nurse with her white dress and clicking shoes.

“Hello, and how are we feeling today?” She didn’t even look at me as she set the tray down on the dresser. “It’s that 30

Impressions 2018 || Davis

|| Impressions 2018

time of the day again. Time for the medicine.� She pushed the end of the needle into the vile and drew out the perfect amount. Then she looked at me. I could see her eyes. Round and big. Full of emotion. I couldn’t take it.

They say that in a fit of rage, I went mad and needed an escape. There is a long list of medical words to explain it all, but I am not going to take the time to list them. I will admit that in the moment, I did become quite hostile, and that poor nurse had to suffer. I can still feel her neck between my hands.

I can still remember the terrified look in her eyes as she gasped for air. But I had to. I needed to see that look in her eyes.

Needed to know that my philosophy for life was not wrong.

When it was done and her eyes had glazed over, I stood there looking into her dead eyes. I thought for what felt like forever.

I thought about my dog and what he would do to the birds. I thought and thought and then...I decided that I needed a new perspective of the world.

31

Loveland || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

HOUSES Salena Loveland

His head, crowned with silver-rimmed glasses, rises and falls with each breath. The hands I loved to hang on and swing from as a little girl now rest in his lap. I tiptoe across the room to the sofa. As I sit here, on the other side of the coffee table from his occupied Lay-Z-Boy recliner, I look at the man who has guided and shaped me into the woman I’ve become.

After Mom died, he insisted on staying in this house, even though it meant he’d be alone. Remnants of the phone conversation I had with my brother play in my head: “Look, I love Dad, but we just don’t have room for him.”

“I know, Tom. I understand. Sissy is in the same boat.”

“Besides,” he reasoned, “it wouldn’t make sense to move him clear across the country, anyway.”

“He needs more help than I can give him,” I explained.

“So, we all agree.”

“Yeah,” I conceded, “Sissy and I’ll look into some places around here.”

“K, sis. I’ll see if I can find anything online. And sis, it’s for the best.”

Specks of sun dust float and sweep around him like miniature fairies attending to his comfort in the pale yellow 32

Impressions 2018 || Loveland

|| Impressions 2018

afternoon sunlight. If he were spryer, he would be finding something to do outside on a day like today.

A memory of one of those particular days from about fifty years ago makes its long way through to my conscious thoughts.

I was riding my tricycle up and down our front sidewalk when I heard clanks and knocks around the back of the house.

I recognized them as daddy sounds and rode up the driveway to investigate.

“Watchya doin’?”

“Just tinkering, Gail.”

“Can I help?” He always found something for me to do.

He had a way of making jobs like holding a flashlight for him under the hood of our Buick feel like the most important job in the world. “What’s all that wood for?”

Scraps of two-by-fours and plywood from previous household projects rested in a haphazard pile next to the garage.

“I thought I’d build a house.”

“Don’t you like the house we’ve got?”

“I love our house. It’s the best place for you and Thomas and Mommy and me.”

“So why do you want to build another one?”

“Well, I think you’re big enough to have your own house.”

No matter how many questions I asked, he always had an answer for me. “What do you think of that?”

“I like being in the house with you and Mommy and Thomas. I don’t want to be by myself in a big house.”

“Right now, you like playing house in the playroom downstairs, but with another little brother . . .”

33

Loveland || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

“Or sister!”

“Or sister on the way, I thought you might like to play house in one that’s just your size.” He crouched down to my level. His honey brown eyes sparkled with the excitement of a fresh idea. “Would you like that?”

I smiled and fell into his chest. Weekend work stains spotted his faded jeans and white t-shirt, but they smelled laundry fresh. He grabbed me under my arms, and then I was up in the air. One big toss and he planted my feet on the ground. “Okay, sweetheart, where would you like your new house?”

We worked our way around the modest backyard of cut grass and neglected fence lines. Patches of dirt underlined a handful of ash and lilacs. He studied each new possible building location as if he were about to build a queen’s castle.

He pointed out the pros and cons. He knelt down to check out the view, and looked up to see if any branches, birds, or wires would cause any future problems. “Location, location, location,” he’d say. Some spots were too close to the fence or the garden.

Others were too close to or too far from the house.

Finally, we chose the perfect spot. The ground was flat enough to give me a good floor, and there was enough shade to keep it from getting too hot, but the sun would still shine in the front windows. The spot was near the neighbor’s wood fence that was as tall as my dad was. I liked the spot because I could see Mom’s tulips and snapdragons alongside our house, and it was far enough away to offer me some independence while still allowing my mom to see me out the kitchen window.

He gathered up most of the wood, and I carried his hammer.

Then he grabbed his handsaw and nails. I picked up the smaller pieces of wood, which I promptly dropped. Something sharp hurt my hand, and my crying got his attention.

“Let me see,” he said, and he examined my hand. “Yep, you’ve got a sliver. You’ll be alright.”

My sobs found new vigor as if the sliver had turned into a 34

Impressions 2018 || Loveland

|| Impressions 2018

dagger. The faucets of my eyes opened from a dribble to a gush pouring down my cheeks.

“Let’s go inside, and I’ll take it out.”

I sat whimpering on the bathroom counter while he worked like a surgeon with a sewing needle and tweezers. I held my hand still as I watched him use one small tool then the other.

He put the needle to the sliver, trying to get it to where the tweezers could grab it. I cried louder.

“I’m not hurting you; it’s the sliver that’s hurting. I’m trying to get it out.”

My mom called from the kitchen where she was setting lunch out on the table. “Martin, you shouldn’t let her handle wood without gloves.”

“It’s just a sliver. She’ll live.”

“How is she supposed to learn how to take care of herself if you don’t show her how? She wouldn’t be crying right now if you had made her wear gloves.”

“Her hands won’t toughen up if she wears gloves.” He gave me a wink and a nod.

“She’s a little girl. She doesn’t need tough hands,” my mother called back.

But I wanted tough hands just like my dad’s. Then I could work all day with him and not have to get any slivers or blisters.

When we sat down for lunch, I pecked at my crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam on Wonder Bread.

“I don’t know why you insist on building her a playhouse.

She’d get along just fine without one.”

“Every little girl ought to have a playhouse.”

“We can’t afford it.”

35

Loveland || Impressions 2018

Impressions 2018 ||

“I’m making it out of scraps. It won’t cost anything.”

“It’ll need upkeep, and she’ll want all the little things to make it pretty like paint and curtains. We’re barely paying all the bills as it is.”

For a long time I didn’t know who these “Bill” guys were, but I didn’t like them very much. They were always upsetting Mom and Dad. “I can get most of that from leftovers at work. What that doesn’t cover can’t be much, but even if it means making a few sacrifices, I’m going to make sure she has everything I can possibly give her.”

I had heard that word, “sacrifices,” at church when they told us about Jesus. And even though I didn’t understand what he was talking about, what he said made me feel special and important. In talking about me he used a word I had only heard when adults talked about Jesus.

After lunch, he took me back outside and we started building my playhouse.

My focus turns from the simple past back to the not-sosimple present. If I were to get up right now and look out the kitchen window, I would see that playhouse still standing in the backyard. He’s remodeled it a few times over the years so my kids and then my grandkids could play in it.

He is snoring, and I don’t want to wake him. I want to hold on to this moment and make it last as long as I can.

Because when he wakes up, everything will change. I sit here watching him, ignoring the Adirondack Manor Home brochures I’ve placed on the coffee table.

36

Nonfiction Contents High School 2nd Place Writing Winner The Beginning Rose Bateman........................... 38 Plates of Blessing and Journeys of the Heart

Annika Plummer....................... 42

Nostalgia Spillover

Allison Hert............................... 48

Impressions 2018 || Bateman

HIGH SCHOOL 2ND PLACE WRITING WINNER

THE BEGINNING Rose Bateman

“This is not the final chapter.” This is what I remind myself, standing here on this stage.

Carnegie Hall. This stage, the world-renowned stage that every musician wants to stand on at some point in his or her life. The concert hall I have dreamed of singing in since I was a kid. It’s not as big as I had imagined it. Still, it’s packed.

There’s a warm gold glow on the red velvet seats. Lights shine from the tiers, all focused on the stage. All shining on me. It’s a far cry from the little concert hall in Minot, North Dakota, where I grew up. I look out, trying to imprint this image on my mind. I never want to forget it.

Our director enters the stage and stands in front of the choir. We all lift our music and watch her. I try to remember everything my voice teacher ever taught me. The piano plays, then we begin to sing.

We moved to North Dakota when I was just a little kid. We lived in a small house just out of town and went to a tiny country school ten miles into the middle of nowhere. My childhood was filled with all of the shenanigans my older brothers could come up with. We slept under the stars and chased snakes across the yard, dreaming of what our lives would be like when we grew up.

I wanted to be famous. Whether I was an actress, comedian, dancer, or singer, it didn’t matter to me. I just 39

Bateman || Impressions 2018

wanted to get out of North Dakota. I just wanted my name in lights. I wanted people to see just how amazing I could be.

No one saw that. No one would be my friend. No one told me how beautiful and talented I was. All they told me was that I was awkward, ugly, and weird. I started to believe them.

I made friends with the trees and rocks in our backyard. Talking to a tree was easy, and it didn’t mind when I ran around the yard, singing my heart out. There was a fountain of music flowing from my heart, and the only one who ever knew it was me.

The summer after seventh grade changed my life. I fell in love with the cello, absolutely, hopelessly in love; I knew that I had to play it. I couldn’t understand this unexpected revelation, why it ripped me apart to see a cello I didn’t own or hear a tune I couldn’t play. I told my parents that I wanted to play the cello. When they looked up the price, they sighed and asked me how I would get the money. A mere three thousand dollars made them give up hope. We were living paycheck to paycheck, and I learned early on that money was enough to keep you from your dreams.

I waited for seven long months, with no hope and no help.

It was almost Christmas, and I wasn’t any closer to playing the cello. Then, on Christmas Eve, the doorbell rang. I stood speechless as a stranger gave me a big, black cello case. Inside was a beautiful, brand new cello, just for me. I didn’t know who had given it to me; all I had was a little note that said, “Music helps us draw nearer to God than perhaps any other thing except prayer.” The cello was a Christmas miracle.

Just three years later, I became one of the youngest members of the local symphony. I knew that I was in way over my head, but still I was determined that no matter what, I was going to play in the symphony. The first rehearsal was the scariest night of my life. I felt like a thistle in a garden of roses. I was a kid in a professional symphony. I couldn’t play the music and I knew it. Midway through the rehearsal, we were given a break, and I soon found myself huddled in a corner behind a curtain. I could faintly hear the symphony rehearsing in another room, and I knew that I should be with 40

Impressions 2018 || Bateman

them. Instead, I cried. Come on, I said to myself. You’re a big girl. Big girls don’t cry… Well, this one does. I couldn’t play the music. I didn’t belong in this symphony. I was too young, too inexperienced. It was impossible.

Still, I had to hold on to hope. The principal cellist believed in me, and so did my cello teacher. I knew I had to believe in myself, too. By the time the first concert came around, I still couldn’t play the music, and I had to sit it out. But I did play in the next concert, the Christmas concert. I stood next to my cello teacher on the stage as the audience applauded. It had been hard, but I had done it. I wondered what else I could do.

The very next day I directed a children’s choir in concert.

It was by far the hardest thing I had ever done, even harder than playing in the symphony. There were times when I had no idea how I could teach children who were only a few years younger than me. Then, after all the worry and painful lessons, I stood before the choir as they sang so beautifully. I began to love doing hard things.

Six months later, a letter came. I was invited to audition for an international choir that would be performing at Carnegie Hall. It was only a couple weeks until the audition tape was due, and I was already so busy—not to mention the trip was very expensive. I remembered how hard it had been to find a cello all those years ago, and I remembered all the difficult things I had done. So I practiced all I could and sent in that recording. Three months later I got the answer; I had been accepted. I was going to sing at Carnegie Hall.

Plans for my trip to Carnegie started to fall together perfectly. A paycheck would come at just the right time, or a conflict miraculously resolved itself. At first, I didn’t tell many people, but soon the local news station was interviewing me.

They interviewed my voice teacher, too, and we were on the ten o’clock news. After that, the newspaper got in touch with me. My name was a headline two times in one week. Friends gave me newspaper clippings and strangers stopped me in the grocery store, asking if I was “That girl who’s going to New York.” Donations flooded in, and the trip was completely paid 41

Bateman || Impressions 2018

for. Once the plane tickets were booked, it started to become real to me.

Finally, it was time to go. I set off on an adventure with the love of friends, teachers, and family. As soon as the plane lifted off the ground I wanted to shout for joy. It felt like my spirit was leaping inside of me.

It’s our final piece. We’re all tired, but the wild applause bolsters me. Our director smiles then gestures to her head and her heart. I remember what she said to us yesterday: “I don’t think it’s by chance that God placed this instrument—the voice—right between the head and heart. We smile at her. The piano begins to play, and we sing, “Warm summer sun, shine brightly here…”

The hall is filled with our voices; the sound is so beautiful!

I try to sing from my heart. Near the end of the song, the girls around me all lift their hands to the heavens. I lift my hands together and look up at the circle of lights shining from the ceiling. It must be a halo.

“Thank you, God!” I cry in my mind, the music lifting me ever higher. “Thank you so very, very much!” My throat locks and I stand here, tears streaming down my face, silently praising the God who made me.

Then all our hands come down. “Good night, dear heart, good night.” I think of everyone I ever loved. Everyone who helped me become the woman I am today—my family, my teachers, my friends. I think of my sweetheart, how I hope he will be my future. I have so many people to love. “Good night.”

The audience erupts. Everyone is standing. How wonderful it feels to get a standing ovation in Carnegie Hall! I lift my hands once more to the halo above me, tears running down my face. Now I know that I can do anything. This is not the end of the story; it is only the beginning.

42

Impressions 2018 || Plummer

PLATES OF BLESSING AND JOURNEYS OF THE HEART Annika Plummer

There are times when life changes so quickly, it makes your breath catch in your chest and drops you to your knees in an instant. You feel you can’t take another step, much less get up, and that everything is constricting around you until you are ready to burst with the pain. For me, that time was January 25, 2012, when my husband of two and a half years passed away.

While Tyler did have a heart condition, he never let it limit himself. At nineteen, he was diagnosed with acute viral myocarditis and barely made it to the hospital in time. But he was a fighter, and he pulled through that incident and stepped forward into a new life, never expressing a “why me” attitude.

One glance at Tyler revealed that he was very slim, he was a fan of plaid polyester-blend shirts, he wore Wranglers, and he had an amazing smile and aura about him that made people feel at ease.

Ten years passed without incident, and with Tyler’s cando spirit, one could pretend that his health was just fine. He had a successful job as an accountant and was building on his dream: forty acres of land just outside city limits for a place to spend time training his horses and to relax doing the things he loved when he was off from work. But on a hot August day in 2008, our family realized again how fragile life can be. On the gravel in front of the garage that his family was helping him build, Tyler collapsed. Through the heroic efforts of his uncle, dad, and cousin (who performed CPR on him until the local ambulance arrived), Tyler’s life was spared. I was the one to call 911, and I remember how scared I was at that moment.

43

Plummer || Impressions 2018

The doctors said Tyler had suffered sudden cardiac death (death!), but the quick response of his family saved his life. He was given an implantable cardioverter defibrillator and once again, life was restarted.

Looking back, it’s amazing how easy it was to believe everything was okay because Tyler made it seem fine, even great some days. But God has an ultimate purpose for everyone, and even if we scream at the world that life is unfair, He holds us all in His hands and determines our course in life.

On January 25, 2012, God decided He needed Tyler’s quiet, gentle spirit, quick wit, smile, and laughter up in Heaven. On that gut-wrenching day, and the long, lonely days that followed, it seemed that nothing could be okay. Tyler was only thirtythree when he passed away; I was only twenty-nine, and we had only been married for two and a half years. We had looked forward to living our whole lives together, and it was so hard to think that it had all been stripped away.

I don’t know how it is for other widows or widowers, but I dreaded the twenty-fifth day of each month. It seemed like such a sick anniversary, one that you couldn’t help but remember, despite not wanting to. Once a month, every month, the reminder was like opening a new wound each time.

While I knew that dreading a day was irrational, I couldn’t help myself. And with each passing month, I wondered how on earth I could have made it yet another thirty days.

On the four-month anniversary, I was driving to work and got pulled over. As I was driving to the side of the road to wait for the officer to approach my window, it hit me that the day was an anniversary, and by the time the officer got to my car, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I guess Tyler wanted to send me a message that I needed to slow down! He’d told me for years that I was going to be pulled over there if I didn’t slow down.

Guess I learned that lesson from above.

Even the month anniversaries, while difficult, cannot compare to the half-year and year anniversaries. There is something about those days that tugs at your heart more than others.

44

Impressions 2018 || Plummer

On the eve of the six-month anniversary, I was standing in my kitchen thinking about the next day. My mom had been making weekly 140-mile round-trip treks to see me for lunch since Tyler had gone to Heaven. I knew she was coming and thought I would make her a sweet treat.

Anyone who knows me, even a little, understands that I love to bake. It’s a release for me, one where I can focus on something else rather than reality. Maybe it’s the aromas from the oven; maybe it’s the cathartic circles of my wooden spoon in a bowl, but baking just makes me happier. That night, I thought I would try a new recipe: sour cream lemon cookies.

I have long been known to give plates of goodies to friends and neighbors. But as I was baking those cookies that night, an idea struck me and overpowered my heart. Maybe, on a day that would make my heart break again, I could make someone else happy. This thought got me through the night and into the next day, the dreaded six-month anniversary.

My folks have always been in the “find a friend” category of people. They aren’t afraid of talking to strangers and love to strike up conversations with people they don’t know. Tyler wasn’t always a fan of “find a friend” nights. But he would do anything for my mom, and I knew he would approve of my idea to bless people on this anniversary.

When my mom pulled up that day in her beat-up Oldsmobile, I told her that I had a plan for her afternoon.

“Mom,” I said, “today you are tasked with giving five Plates of Blessing to people you don’t know. I don’t care who you give them to, but I want you to bless five different people today in honor of Tyler. The sixth plate you can take home to Dad so he can also participate in this day of blessing. Go out and tell me later who you were able to bless today. These six plates will bless six different people – one blessing for each month Tyler has been in Heaven.”

Mom set out that day to find her five. She was so excited to take part in something that was bigger than herself. First, a lucky construction worker got a hug and a plate of cookies.

Next, the gals who run the local Christian bookstore, Faith Expressions, got a blessing. The third person she blessed was 45

Plummer || Impressions 2018

weeding her garden, so Mom stopped and helped for a while.

Mom then went into the Arc Aid, the local thrift store, to bless the volunteer behind the counter. The fifth plate of blessing, the last one of Mom’s to give away, however, must have been orchestrated directly from the heavens.

The last plate of blessing sat on the seat next to her, and Mom planned to bring it to the local radio station. Tyler loved old country-western music, Don Williams and the like, and Mom thought it would be nice to bring the plate to the local radio personnel. But as she was driving around looking for the radio station, she spotted a lady sweeping her porch and felt led to give her the last plate of blessing.

No parking was available near this woman’s house, but it seemed to Mom that she was meant to go there. There was no logical explanation, just that the woman with the broom was who she needed to meet. Every time I think of this, I get chills because that lovely lady had just lost her husband and was having a really rough day. My mom’s visit to her that day was just what she needed; God knew that a hug and a plate of cookies was going to be a balm to her soul. Mom came back and told me, “Annika, she kept touching me saying: ‘Are you an angel or messenger of God?’” With each passing hour, day, week, and month, emotions do relax a bit, and I find myself smiling. On that day, I felt that I was a small part in a very powerful event.

Tyler was an amazing person, and as the months went by, I was reminded of that time and time again. Through the donation of his corneas, Tyler was able to give two people the gift of sight. At the time, I thought that was such a small thing.

How much of an impact could the donation of just his eyes be to someone? God gently reminded me that the donation of Tyler’s eyes was very important to those people. Our Lions Eye Bank in Bismarck, North Dakota, called and asked if our family would like to remember Tyler’s gift of sight with a floragraph in the Rose Parade. Little did I know, this event would make a major impact on my heart.

Tyler was chosen to be honored with a floragraph, North Dakota’s first, as he embodied the spirit of donations. When 46

Impressions 2018 || Plummer

he was nineteen and was first struck with the heart virus, Tyler saw a sign at the Ronald McDonald House that said, “Don’t take your organs to Heaven. Heaven knows we need them here.” He felt very strongly about donation, and through the gift of his sight, we were able to honor his wish and bless others. I watched the Rose Parade eagerly that day for the Donate Life float christened “Journeys of the Heart” for the 2013 parade. It was a very powerful moment as I saw Tyler’s floragraph pop up briefly on my television screen. Once again, Tyler was showing that there was more to life – that others could be helped even in the midst of our sorrow.

On the one-year anniversary, my mom once again made the trip to Dickinson to see me. This time, the blessings were doubled—twelve Plates of Blessing to give out to unsuspecting people across town. This time, a gal at my favorite local coffee shop, The Brew, got one of the plates. Mom also stopped a lady in the Herberger’s parking lot, found a guy unloading hay, caught a lady entering the grocery store, and went into the local used book store to pass on another blessing.

With each new friend, mom told the story of my loss and how I wanted to bless others on this very special day–one I usually only referred to as the day my husband went to Heaven. Not the day that he died, but the day that he went on to live a new life in Heaven. The biggest blessing of the oneyear anniversary was one lady that Mom met in a parking lot.

She took Mom’s hands and sent a prayer up to Heaven for our family’s continued healing.

It is easy to see how this small idea blossomed into a grander blessing, mostly for myself and my family. I am so proud to think that in some small way, I have had a hand in blessing others.

With each new day, there are new blessings. One day, I was able to pick up the three daffodil bouquets I had purchased benefitting the American Cancer Society. As I had already been given a set of the beautiful, cheery yellow flowers myself, I knew that today I could bless three others. The first, I gave to a friend who has stood beside me, supported me, and encouraged me through the year of firsts. I gave the second to my friends at Faith Expressions who have prayed for me all 47

Plummer || Impressions 2018

year long. I was having a hard time deciding to whom I should give my third and final bouquet. My co-worker suggested that I give it to the next person who walked in the door. I work as a secretary for the Dickinson State University Department of Agriculture and Technical Studies, and my first thought was that one of the students in our program would be the first to walk through the front door. But I was pleasantly surprised that I could play “find a friend” today and bless a complete stranger with a bouquet of flowers.

No, that day wasn’t an “anniversary” of any kind. It was a normal day – the day before spring. That day was barely twenty degrees with a twenty-mile-per-hour wind, so blessing someone with bright, colorful flowers was a blessing in and of itself.

Baking and giving away plates of treats may not be feasible in other areas. People in North Dakota are generally welcoming and trusting. But a card in the mail, an inspiring message on a Post-It note, a smile on a gray day – no matter how small it is, can be a blessing to someone. You may know the person you are blessing or you may not, but God can use you to make someone’s day brighter, to spread a message of hope.

Six years have passed since my husband went to Heaven.

Each year, I continue the Plates of Blessing tradition. Each year, we are blessed in unique ways through this small act of kindness. The heart must take many journeys through life – some fraught with pain and sorrow, others with sunshine and happy tears. If the journey is one of pain, we may say, “I can’t do this.” But, as my dad would always tell me growing up, “Knock the ‘t’ out of ‘can’t’.” You CAN get through anything with the support, love, and compassion of the people who surround you. You can bless others even when it seems that hope isn’t possible. Ultimately, you can be a messenger of God’s hope through small, everyday blessings.

48

Impressions 2018 || Hert

NOSTALGIA SPILLOVER Allison Hert

When I was a little girl, starting at about five years old, I looked forward to my parents telling me when we would be going to our family cabin for that year. When I knew we would soon be heading west to the Gallatin National Forest, I could just envision us loading up the pickup with food, sleeping bags, comfortable cabin clothes, and the dogs, of course. I couldn’t wait to make it to the small town of Big Timber, MT, where we made our last civilized stop to get any extra food or drinks, and I occasionally got to add to my collection of rocks and agates. Before we set off into the mountains without internet, cellular services, or any other luxuries, we remembered to check on the dogs. They sat comfortably in a kennel in the bed of the pickup and faced the hard wind for a couple of hours, but because they knew from sights and scents that we were headed to the mountains, they remained undisturbed and fairly content. Once we were ready to finish our trek to the family cabin on the Boulder River, we drove through town for a couple minutes before turning onto a dirt road that seemed to stretch for a multitude of miles. For a little less than an hour, we followed the road, but due to divots in the dirt and slowly passing other campers on the narrow path, it seemed like forever.

All of those things stayed the same for many years, and most of these events stayed true through my teens and now into my early twenties. The homestretch of the trip passes slowly no matter what age I am. The more we make the trip throughout the years, the more familiarities grow. I have 49

Hert || Impressions 2018

developed strong senses for what are now some of my favorite things. I find that I can eventually close my eyes and still see the background all around me by the smell of whispering pines and wildflowers. I can now pave in my mind the curves and twists of the road by the ins and outs of the radio stations, and I know the bodies of water we pass by the briskness in the air that nips at my face. It always feels nice to be in a familiar place, but I can never keep my eyes closed for long, because I would be holding myself back from witnessing the true beauty that can only be seen in all its majesty with two eyes.

Passing by ponds with clear waters, beautifully built cabins and houses, and the intricate work of nature throughout the mountains make it easy to feel like there was nothing else in the world to worry about. It’s almost as if each of the millions of trees were handpicked and placed by Mother Nature, or a god, or whatever people choose to believe in; and I, too, was handpicked and placed on this road with the ones I love, to enjoy the good things in this world.

As I grew and continued to make the trip to the cabin, it became a trip of nostalgia; all while I came to the realization that not all good fortune coincides with monetary success.

After time took a toll on me in the best way possible and changed my outlook on the crawl to the cabin, I began to enjoy the trip to the cabin just as much as I enjoyed arriving and staying at the cabin.

After the climb up the mountain, right before a small bridge that crosses the river, we took a left turn onto a gravel path. This path led to the small and homey cabin. The cabin was built in 1939. My great-grandfather has had it in the family ever since I can remember, and everything has always remained the same. Though the cabin was old, it was built for quality and has barely aged over the years. The many people that have come and gone through this place would all agree that this log-style cabin with red detailing has more character than many of the other places they have visited. As we pull into the designated parking area, which is just a cleared off pathway by the creek a few feet from the cabin, we can finally 50

Impressions 2018 || Hert

hop out for a stretch of the legs and a breath of mountain air.

We usually meet my grandparents Curt and Hope here, as we try to make the trip up together once or twice a year. My Papa Curt visits the cabin often on his own, as his father has shared and tended to this cabin all his life. Although our beloved Papa Jere, Curt’s father, has passed, he instilled in us all a love for the outdoors and a love for that land. Sitting just a few yards from the rushing Boulder River, the cozy cabin holds many memories for us.

Several friends have joined us on our mini vacations to the cabin, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t worry about how my friends would handle the no-cell-service lifestyle. What I found, though, is that the general demeanor of the place is something everyone is blown away by, and that people can really get lost in thought. I’ve also found that the friends who agree to take time out of their busy schedules and make the trip with me to visit the cabin are some of my dearest friends.

Not only do we create stronger bonds than before, but also we sincerely enjoy each other’s company without staring at a cell phone or television screen. There hasn’t been a friend that I’ve taken to the cabin that hasn’t enjoyed his or her time there, or that hasn’t requested to go back as soon as possible. I feel blessed to be able to share this sacred place with the people closest to me in my life.

There are many reasons why the cabin will always be near and dear to my heart, but what I am most recently thankful for is noticing how my role as the youngest at the cabin has changed over the years. When I was little, I enjoyed playing in my plastic play cabin that sits next to the area where we have campfires, carefully coiling spray cheese on Ritz crackers for my father, riding on the back of the four-wheeler to the top of the mountain to look at the lake, trying to out-fish my father with my Mickey Mouse fishing pole, and many other fun and silly things along those lines. The roles changed in my teenage years, as I was beginning to grow into a woman and have bigger responsibilities. Now, I enjoy taking walks while talking about life with my mother, Susan, and grandmother, 51

Hert || Impressions 2018

Hope; helping prepare meals throughout the day, which fills the house with mouth-watering aromas; and staying cozy inside on the rainy or snowy days with the women of the cabin as we wait for the men to return from fishing. Though there are a few more things that have changed along with my role at the cabin, there are certain things that always remain the same, and even though change is good, I am eternally grateful for the consistency that remains. When I was young, as I have grown, and while I continue to mature, these few things have always been a priority in staying the same: picking wildflowers by the creek to fill all the little old glass vases for my grandma to put in the cabin, taking my father and Papa Curt beers as needed while I crack one for myself, sitting in lawn chairs with my toes in the cold river water as everyone fishes for brown or rainbow trout, and falling into a trance from the beauty we are all surrounded by. The mini vacations that take place at the cabin are not only good for learning the beauty of what is there, but also for marinating your thoughts and realizing the many other things that life must offer. The role that I look forward to, but probably won’t have for a while, is the role I will take on when I become a wife and a mother.

I sometimes think of the day when I will be able to bring my significant other and our children to the cabin. I know my role will change as I will look after them and show them all the things I enjoyed as a child. I will make sure they are fed and dressed appropriately for the weather, and they will probably push me to the point where I will wish to have a few more drinks of wine, too. Most of all, I look forward to instilling in my kids what it is to have proper fun and enjoy the little, beautiful things about life—being able to enjoy and have fun in nature. With all the new technologies and advances today, I can’t imagine the things kids will be into when that time comes, if that even happens. I do hope to have kids, though, and be able to sit back with my husband as we stay in our steady roles as parents and witness how the roles for our kids form and change over their years to come. This has also been an important life lesson in the sense that we should learn to enjoy our roles as they change in our lives.

52

Impressions 2018 || Hert

I see contrasts in the way things are in this world and I enjoy both sides. As I’ve gotten older and been to cities, I enjoy looking up and admiring the buildings stories above me and finding beauty in the handiwork of the people that placed them before me. On the other hand, my rural upbringing has taught me to enjoy looking up at the trees in the same kind of way. Both things built for the benefit of the people, providing things we need to get through this life. The buildings provide a place to live and work, and the trees provide air and life. All are crucial to us. Knowing the differences and admiring them for what they truly are is when the balance of it all makes sense.

As our roles change along with the world we live in, I’ve been blessed to have been given the lessons I received during trips up to the cabin. While my roles change as a person, student, athlete, and whatever else life will throw my way, I have learned to find the good in them as well as appreciate them; there is meaning to all that enters my life. I have also been fortunate to learn to remain true to who I am and how I was raised, as well as seeing the world for what it is and picking out the good in everything I can.

Though each trip to the cabin must end, I know that whether it is a few extra pounds, life lessons, or utter contentment with the world if even for a minute, I always have something to take home with me. I wave goodbye to my grandparents and hope to see them again soon, as they have provided our family with so much to be thankful for. I then wave goodbye to the pines and wildflowers, which too, go through changes and role reversals at times, and I thank them for their words of wisdom throughout the trip. They are much older and wiser than I am, and they have watched me grow into the young woman I am, a lot like parents. I look forward to paying them a much-needed visit this year, but until then, I will try to hold on to their previous wisdom, and spread it wherever I go.

53

|| Impressions 2018

5454

Poetry Contents DSU 1st Place Aspirin with Water at the First Hint of Pain Christine Hetzel.................... 56 DSU 2nd Place Secret Maker Hailey Entze........................ 57 High School 1st Place Writing Winner Cityscape Shelby Kanski...................... 59 Next Morning, Diminishing

Amanda D’Aniello................ 60

The Chase

Debora Dragseth.................. 61

When We Were Monsters

Abigail Petersen................... 62

Sweats: A Narrative

Cody Sattler......................... 63

Who Survived a Knife in the Neck? Amanda D’Aniello................ 68 This Is Not Your Home

Rose Bateman...................... 70

The Deconstruction of a Home

Megan Dailey....................... 72

P.T.S.-D?

Shelby Kanski...................... 74

Snowdrops and Strings

Daphne Hunt....................... 76

The Shibboleth

Christine Hetzel.................... 79

On My Bed

MaKenna Duray................... 80

Thirteen Reasons

Rose Bateman...................... 82

Martyr

Shelby Kanski...................... 84

Games

MaKenna Duray................... 86

Lotus Feet

Amanda D’Aniello................ 88

When True Simplicity Is Gained

Christine Hetzel.................... 90

Impressions 2018 || Hetzel

DSU 1ST PLACE WINNER

ASPIRIN WITH WATER AT THE FIRST HINT OF PAIN Christine Hetzel

I was a flower once unfolding through the night smiling demurely in the light but flowers rot those sweet petals curling brown that smile wrinkling gray I’ve hung upside down in my closet trying to hold onto that semblance of beauty Why did I ever think cutting myself off at the knees was a good idea

57

Entze || Impressions 2018

DSU 2ND PLACE WINNER

SECRET MAKER Hailey Entze

Like a panther, the inky night stealthily unfurls itself across the town, waiting, till the time is right, to snake its way along the ground.

Wisping. Winding. Twirling. Twisting.

It curls through alleys, and across the tracks, Climbs up street lights, and slides down backs, It seeps through buildings and peeks through cracks, Finds them all in a vulnerable pack.

Wisping. Winding. Twirling. Twisting.

They pay no attention, don’t feel the air thickening while the night stays, waiting, for them to wander, into the shadows, where it preys.

Spinning. Singing. Whirling. Wishing.

It snarls hair and fills up lungs, Gives newfound strength to cautious tongues.

They’ve had enough, but still it comes.

It’s not their fault, it seeks the young.

Wisping. Winding. Twirling. Twisting.

58

Impressions 2018 || Entze

As quickly as the night arrived it slinks away before the dawn.

Waiting, ‘till the weekend revives the actions that it counts upon.

Wisping. Winding. Twirling. Twisting.

The morning comes, and no one remembers, what they did after the night entered.

Or maybe they’re just good pretenders; keeping the secrets, the night rendered.

Shushing. Spying. Waiting. Whispering.

59

Kanski || Impressions 2018

HIGH SCHOOL 1ST PLACE WRITING WINNER

CITYSCAPE Shelby Kanski

Smoke clouds my vision until only gray remains.

Where did all the color go?

Surrounded by those who have succumbed to the vast void of uncertainty, I crave the comfort of home.

Making it on my own is not what my reality was supposed to be.

Can somebody help me?

I’m lost and I need to find my way home

before the smoke consumes all of me and only gray remains.

60

Impressions 2018 || D’Aniello

NEXT MORNING, DIMINISHING Amanda D’Aniello

I was told the first thing to do is open your shades.

Somehow, the sun soothes, but it won’t do so swiftly.

Every day you must open your shades, but there’s Nothing beautiful out there, just more houses, cars, Things to be enclosed in. I showed up clothed. Bundled against arctic, I hadn’t known to fear yet, anything else. The day collapsed upon realizing: after the shades, it was all up to me.

The first night was sleepless and filled with fits. I gasp myself awake. First, shades, then coffee, a shower, the Tart clean of brushed teeth. I remember acidity striking The mouth, then confusion. I went home without knowing What had come out. A soreness of jaw, luckily nothing Came about. The second day collapsed, accidentally, in the courtyard, by the enormous blue bins. I met no one.

Next morning, acidity hits stomach and I’m rejecting Replacing food to the thought of a crumb. Coffee is love, and departure. Warmth cupped in hand is more than any thing I could possibly have swallowed. The day ends.

This one hasn’t collapsed, just groans long into the night.

I dropped him off an entirely separate, no longer in love, person.

Every valve has sealed with muscle-clenching precision.

There’s an awakeness, again, I forgot to turn.

Eternity is a morning. If you open your shades, there’s no end.

61

Dragseth || Impressions 2018

THE CHASE Debora Dragseth

I bought a small collar, brown leather, stiff, It fit firmly then, with grommets to grow: Unbridled chasing, he filled his days with Grasshoppers, gold leaves, then white falling snow.

Soon we were partners, the puppy was gone.

I taught him to hunt; for which he was bred.

Perceptive and swift and whang leather strong: To the fields, he begged. I’d leave my warm bed.

Our final hunt, a lingering day.

I cradle him close, pull a porcupine’s quill.

Pick your enemies wisely, his eyes seem to say.

Our beards are gray, yet he teaches me still.

Will I know when it’s time? I stroke his head.

The chase will be over: The ashes spread.

62

Impressions 2018 || Petersen

WHEN WE WERE MONSTERS Abigail Petersen

was ours to behold, her raw beauty our playground.

It was the year we ran away, letting grass pull us close in the cool autumn air.

You told me to be patient.

The crow never pounces unless ready.

At night we watched the stars kiss the sky goodnight in a last attempt to save them.

We ate walnuts in trees and berries in caves to escape hunger.

We let waterfalls wash the dirt off our backs and under our fingernails.

We saw people from our little hill live life as normal.

Wanted signs littered the streets searching for our faces.

We were monsters in their eyes, but free in ours.

For once, the world 63

Sattler || Impressions 2018

SWEATS: A NARRATIVE Cody Sattler

Picture this.

There I am, grinding away Working myself into a frenzy For the perfect guy.

I see them all the time coming and going, taking as they please, Paying a fraction of what one of us is worth.

For what?

I see the ladies around me Roasting to death to make themselves perfect for that special guy.

I won’t do that.

Mama always told me it doesn’t pay to get All worked up because I’ll just ruin my make-up.

Then it happens.

One day the guy of my dreams Walks in like he owns The place.

He talks to the lady behind The desk.

Asks, “What’s good around here?”

Cocky son of a bitch.

She points to me.

I can’t hear what he says, the noise behind me Drowns him out.

I turn around and am about to chew one of the other gals A new one when one of them shouts my name and says 64

Impressions 2018 || Sattler

Picture this.

There I am, grinding away Working myself into a frenzy For the perfect guy.

I see them all the time coming and going, taking as they please, Paying a fraction of what one of us is worth.

For what?

I see the ladies around me Roasting to death to make themselves perfect for that special guy.

I won’t do that.

Mama always told me it doesn’t pay to get All worked up because I’ll just ruin my make-up.

Then it happens.

One day the guy of my dreams Walks in like he owns The place.

He talks to the lady behind The desk.

Asks, “What’s good around here?”

Cocky son of a bitch.

She points to me.

I can’t hear what he says, the noise behind me Drowns him out.

I turn around and am about to chew one of the other gals A new one when one of them shouts my name and says I have five minutes.

But I’m ready in three.

In a flash, I’m on the counter.

The lady who talked me up On one side, The man whom I’ll spend my life with 65

Sattler || Impressions 2018

On the other.

“That’ll be $5.74, please,” She says.

Five dollars!

Are you fucking kidding me!

I. AM. WORTH. WAY. MORE Than five fucking dollars!

He hands the money over my head as if shaming me, But I can’t say anything until the deed is done.

Cara Fey, The gal who was talking me up Hands him a receipt and some change.

“Keep it,” he says.

And then swoops me up in his arms without a word.

He opens the door to his car with one arm while balancing me in the other, Strong guy, I think to myself.

He sets me down on the seat next to him as he gets situated before starting the car.

He kisses me. A deep, long, passionate kiss. As if to drink me in.

After a long moment, He sets me back down on the seat And says, “That shit hit the spot,” before putting the car in reverse.

I don’t hear another word from him.

We’re on the drive To god knows where, and even though I can feel the AC, My skin feels clammy.

I worry about my clothes sticking tightly to my form, And by the look in his eyes He doesn’t seem to mind.

Bastard.

We get to an office, 66

Impressions 2018 || Sattler

And he sweeps me out of the front seat so fast It makes my innards swish around like slush.

And before I have time to regain my bearings, we’re in the building and he’s Speeding past cubicles.

Somebody stops him and points at me before saying, “Where’s mine, dude?”

“Sorry, they were fresh out.”

I am shocked that he could so blatantly lie to this person’s face.

There were plenty of us to go around.

About the time I’m ready to give this guy a piece of my mind We’re on the move again.

He reaches a cubicle and sets me on the counter before sitting down in a desk chair I’m nervous.

I can feel the sweat running down my side.

Did I not make a good first impression?

Was I too pushy?

Does he know the way I think about him?

How just his breath makes my brain fog up with desire?

The anticipation is killing me.

What started it out as a cold sweat Has turned into rage.

I am screaming at him For him to pay attention to me To listen to my needs and not just let me waste away while he works.

But my words fall on deaf ears, and before I know it, I am drenched in perspiration.

He turns to me.

“Fucking heat,” he mutters, “let me grab a towel.”

It’s only after he leaves that I realize I have left a pool on his desk.

I feel a liquid desire pooling in me.

67

Sattler || Impressions 2018

I just want him to latch on, Suck me dry, Only after I have fulfilled him will my life be complete.

But I can hear my momma’s voice in my head Yelling at me because I ruined my mascara.

Because my clothes are so soaked they are literally falling from me.

She tells me to cover myself up, but I feel as if I might fall asleep in the mid-afternoon heat.

He shows up and wraps me gently in brown towels before mopping up the mess.

I’m sobbing now, getting the towels wet with my tears.

He puts his mouth to mine and kisses.

Breathes me in, and the ice in my heart melts into my stomach.

The desire in me builds, and I want him to rip this towel off me and treat me like a real lady.

But as he pulls away and sets me back down on the towels, I find myself feeling empty inside.

With nothing but cold rage to fill the void.

68

Impressions 2018 || D’Aniello

WHO SURVIVED A KNIFE IN THE NECK? Amanda D’Aniello

The best I could do to Get a grip Was to enslave the women in my head, Their neuroticism flying like neutrinos Ripping my atoms apart.

That shit is like sugar, And I am the weakest junkie.

Flicking packets against my cup, Clinging to dirty water coffee sobriety, I’m not afraid to say I miss No one and nothing and my family Makes my hair fall out in patches, And living alone gives me muscle knots.

I’m not better off with you, Just distracted.

I’ve been sewing patches to my oilfield Jacket, I picked up from some near-dead Christian women running a charity Out of a warehouse, pretending I didn’t mean to prick Myself in the process. What I’m trying to say, Bloody Needle, is I’m chafing in this life, Like a dry condom in an unimpressed chick.

69

D’Aniello || Impressions 2018

Too often, I’m an unimpressed chick.

Sometimes, I’m underwhelming chicks.

To my credit, she never demanded an answer. Never questioned me.

Beating fists like she’d beat the world From herself, if she could.

Instead, gave herself bruises.

70

Impressions 2018 || Bateman

THIS IS NOT YOUR HOME Rose Bateman

You made my heart your living room You threw your keys up on the shelf Propped your feet up on the couch Unpacked some boxes, left others closed I became your reluctant landlord But there you were, with your picture On the cracked and battered walls So beautiful You filled the halls with music I began to love that you were here And I hated when you were gone Sitting here by the rainy window, listening to Debussy and the sound of your voice How I loved that voice How I loved to love But soon that voice turned bitter You were gone for far too long Waltzed in with your muddy shoes Left me to clean it up Your beautiful eyes turned dark and cold When did you lose your smile?

You finally unpacked those boxes Of thorny crowns and ugly secrets I didn’t want them there 71

Bateman || Impressions 2018

And all the words I couldn’t say Burned at the back of my throat Till finally I spoke You didn’t like the words I said Stomping, pounding, punching walls You broke my heart from the inside out So I kicked you out I was wrong about you But you were wrong about me I am not a child I am not fragile And most of all I am not yours I HATE YOU! You thought you could throw a tantrum Make me change who I am You dangled goodbye in front of my face Not thinking I’d do what’s best for me I took back the keys Kicked you to the curb with all your crap And I took back my heart I took back my heart And I still love you, But this is not your home anymore

72

Impressions 2018 || Dailey

THE DECONSTRUCTION OF A HOME Megan Dailey

I worry about them.

When we first met – was it really 16 years ago? – they put a couch in the palm of my hand.

We spent many evenings there, the five of us.

Talking. Playing games. Laughing.

But now the laughter is fading, and I can’t hold everyone in one hand anymore.

They’ve spread out to different corners, stretching me thin, tearing apart my own heart: home.

I once made a deal with a tree – I promised to catch it if it fell, so long as it fell on me.

It crushed Amy’s room (though I made sure she wasn’t in there), and I gently scooped her closer to her sister so they shared a room again.

But we don’t have as much fun as we used to.

They used to tear down my walls with imagination, but now I fear I may be suffocating them.

73

Dailey || Impressions 2018

Then I made a deal with a water pipe – I promised to hold it if it cried, so long as it cried on me.

It poured out tears into my arms.

Together we filled up the guestroom.

I thought it would make Mr. Reyan move back into his wife’s room, but he moved to a hotel instead.

All I want is my heart to beat again.

I simply want to be a home.

I didn’t mean to do more damage, but it seems to be something I can’t help.

Can you blame me?

74

Impressions 2018 || Kanski

P.T.S.–D? Shelby Kanski

Can I compare an event in a seventeen-year-old’s life to Post Traumatic Stress?

No, not PTSD because the “D” stands for disorder.

I don’t have that.

I encounter stress when I least expect it – creeping up on my thoughts at the sink, in the car, or as I stare at a blank sheet of paper.

“It” happened a long time back – enough time for me to forget, forgive, and move on.

But I find the sinking feeling pulling at the edges of my mind until I’m dragged back.

Analyzing, overanalyzing, and wishing for the stain to be lifted from my thoughts.

The unpleasantness I feel is heightened by the stress, anxiety, and worst of all: The questions.

They – it – won’t leave.

I dismiss it as just another painful and embarrassing event.

There’s not enough damage to warrant a disorder, but the Post Traumatic Stress remains.

It’s not as potent as some cases, but isn’t a bullfrog still a frog?

75

Kanski || Impressions 2018

And I’m no doctor – I never claimed to be.

However, aren’t my ponderings justified?

All I want is for the plume of smoke to release its haunting on my daily thoughts and become a distant memory, not a constant nightmare of something that at first seemed trivial.

Time heals all wounds, but what if there was never a wound in the first place?

Does time heal that, too?

Maybe this is just a prolonged rambling of a tormented teenager.

I understand that explanation, too.

I also understand that there’s more than the eye could ever see.

I’m left with the question: What’s my diagnosis?

76

Impressions 2018 || Hunt

SNOWDROPS AND STRINGS Daphne Hunt

By definition, love is a mixture of chemicals— But is chemistry really the only thing responsible for that crave?

A Chinese proverb theorizes there are instead strings Rather than serotonin, adrenaline, and dopamine, consisting of Red, frail nothings that connect two individual beings.

At the core of every cell is pure energy, That even today scientists don’t know what, exactly, it could be.

(They do say that it’s stardust, quite possibly maybe.)

Every adult heart has about 37.2 billion cells, and every center has that same vitality; Do strands connect one core of one person to another core of a different person?

Heart to heart, united together by red threads that can’t be seen?

Or, is it a natural attraction because of quadrillion-year-old interactions Between two unwittingly precise, particular particulates While the stars were being forged and the big bang was in process?

That could be the invention of the idea around soul mates.

That very notion must have been in motion to lead me to you.

Bittersweet, salty shards of your soul slipped out through a pair of piercing blue eyes As you told me that you had a thorn in your heart, From the rose that once there resided.

Apologies that hesitated in your throat dammed the rest of your thoughts, Thoughts that I’d give a penny to cherish and hold, Thoughts of the past and old, pictures within your mind eternally confined, 77

Hunt || Impressions 2018

Defined as things you’d rather hide instead of confide in me.

Your rose was a sharp one that wilted and died painfully slow, Each petal cupping a part of your world.

I watched your slow destruction, your internal demise, from afar Because you locked your pain away to be able to continue in your day-to-day death.

It tore me up to watch this happen to you, so I gave you part of my heart to replace the shredded pieces left over from yours, And with that, love bloomed.

I made sure I didn’t plant a rose, but instead a snowdrop, So you wouldn’t get hurt nearly as bad as it grew.

No thorns would puncture you; no dull, constant pain to live with.

Just gentle leaves to cradle and lull.

It wasn’t like a rose kind of love; It wasn’t idyllic for everyone; It wasn’t flashy or loud or from a fairy-tale book, But what we had went beyond looks, It was for us, about us, not for some other someone.

Our flower was soft and beautiful, And turned our red, ugly lives into calmed purples and blues.

What started out as one purple and blue string soon multiplied, pulling closer our centers of energy.

Our roots grew as entwined as our legs in the bed we share every night, Where we wouldn’t sleep, just take long blinks.

The closer we became the worse our lovely knot got, only tangling our threads more.

The rhythm we lived our lives to slowly came to be in sync, Pulsing to the beats of our hearts.

I don’t think it was a conscious decision, To grow a garden with you made entirely of snowdrops and strings and energy, But I don’t regret a thing.

78

Impressions 2018 || Hunt

I’d be honored to say I was next to you as that particular particulate When the stars forged this utter perfection known as your being, And created the interactions that would later lead to you and me becoming we.

79

Hetzel || Impressions 2018

THE SHIBBOLETH Christine Hetzel

I never knew parsley to be dangerous nor green to be sanguine until the Shibboleth spoke.

A foreign monster living in a closet I didn’t know, he turned man against man, and captured women by the tongue.

Parsley, bucket, shield and friend.

He said, “Repeat after me.”

A hidden monster lurking in a place close to home, he whispered murder into hating ears: Butter, rye bread, and cheese.

He said, “Repeat after me.”

Hungrily.

Author’s Note: “Call the shibboleth, call it out into your alien homeland” (Paul Celan, translated by Michael Hamburger). Shibboleths are words or phrases whose pronunciation by specific groups can be used to identify individuals belonging to that group. This quote, as an epigraph for Pam Bernard’s poem “Shibboleth,” introduced me to the history of shibboleths used during genocides.

80

Impressions 2018 || Duray

ON MY BED MaKenna Duray

It was on my bed, during our first date.

We went back to my place, after dinner and a movie.

Typical, I know.

Watching stupid Facebook videos, about a girl who couldn’t dance.

I melted into his arms.

I felt so serene.

He kissed my forehead with a sinister smile.

He drew me in closer, into his large frame.

Ran his hands through my hair.

His heavy breathing, and the rhythmic beating of his heart lulled me to sleep.

I was startled awake with a grunt, and the sudden jerk of my body.

81

Duray || Impressions 2018

On top of me now, closing in.

With a burst of energy that was almost superhuman, I fought with all I had.

Pain seared through my skin as his hand impacted with my face.

I couldn’t think.

I couldn’t breathe.

Inside me.

Panic fills me.

This is not typical, I know.

Who would do this to me?

On my bed.

On my first date.

82

Impressions 2018 || Bateman

THIRTEEN REASONS Rose Bateman

Here I am So tired of trying To live Darkness closing in I need an escape But how can I explain To those I love How can I tell them?

Well here it is, These are my thirteen reasons why…

I have to keep living.

One: my pets need me...

I don’t have pets, but that’s something people always say So I thought it’d be okay.

Two: I need to turn in that paper I worked hard on.

Three: Because my room is messy, and I don’t want to leave it that way.

Four: I actually really like to sing.

Five: Someday, someone will love me enough to marry me.

Six: My friends need me to lift them up when they are weary.

Seven: Because a couple of strangers gave me a cello, I don’t want that gift to go to waste.

Eight: Sometimes life is beautiful.

Nine: I still want to see Berlin.

Ten: My students need me to show them that they can keep living, too, when life gets hard.

Eleven: If I weren’t here, my family would fall apart.

83

Bateman || Impressions 2018

Twelve: Because he loves me.

Thirteen: Because I am a fighter.

I fought from the beginning To breathe my first breath, and take my first steps I’ve fought for a place in my little world Where I never seemed to fit in I fought to have my freedom From a dark chain of abuse Nine years old screaming GET OFF ME! And who was it who said I needed therapy?

That’s right: me.

Because I knew what was best for me I fought to catch up with musicians With every single thing in their favor pushed farther than I could have believed I fought to stay in the place I love I fought endlessly for who I love, too this is my last stand this is my fight song this is my “hallelujah, Lord” I’m STILL STANDING! I ain’t got long to stay here I’ve got a whole world just waiting for me And I’m gonna take it by storm!

And when I’m feeling down Like there’s nothing worth it in the world All I have to do is remember My thirteen reasons why And keep living

84

Impressions 2018 || Kanski

MARTYR Shelby Kanski

Because I love you: I shelter you from the onslaught of emotional abuse the world pitches.

Instead of holding your hand, my body is used as a shield to block all the rage and pain directed at you.

Because I love you: You run carefree, with no clue that I’m always five paces behind you, a shadow that looms to protect, taking the brunt of everything evil that wants to taint your innocent disposition.

Because I love you: Slowly, my being starts to dwindle and crack under the constant pressure of bearing the weight of what should be your pain.

I know that sheltering you won’t help you in the long run, but I’m a prisoner shackled inside my own body that refuses to let you experience what it’s like to feel so helpless against uncontrollable tribulations.

Because I love you: I will keep you safe until my last dying breath, which rapidly catches up to me because what is supposed to be your ache, is slowly crushing me from the inside out.

You’re not ready to experience the world as it truly is without rose-colored lenses.

85

Kanski || Impressions 2018

Because I love you: I let the winds of fate carry away my weary body.

The realm of all things wicked and corrupt is now yours to endure, but I wouldn’t change for one second what I did, because I love you.

86

Impressions 2018 || Duray

GAMES MaKenna Duray

I pictured you this way, with mascara running down your face.

You’d be screaming and writhing, with no escape.

You’re scratchingbitingrippingand tearingat my skin and my clothes.

Make this a game for me.

Fulfill every dream, every desire I had for you.

And to add to the thrill: you can’t get away from me.

You’ll never be able to get the blood stains, out of your mattress cover.

Your red teary eyes and red cheeks, are the last things I see before I go to sleep.

87

Duray || Impressions 2018

My hands on your neck, and the feeling of my sweat dripping on your chest are the last things you feel, before you close your eyes.

There will be no rotting away for me.

No cells, no bars, no courts.

Freedom calls my name, while your fears will have you wrapped in chains.

I pictured you this way.

With me locked in your memory.

For days and days to come.

You will never escape.

It was just a game.

88

Impressions 2018 || D’Aniello

LOTUS FEET Amanda D’Aniello

I can’t cry on you at 3 a.m., because I know you’ll be there for me.

Soft and warm and understanding, it hits square in my jaw, and I wake again to nothing, at no particular time of night. Just my own heavy, and another nighttime nothing to think of all day.

Rough in the palm of my hand I dig the half-melon seeds, two fingers pulling gently it’s innards which detach and run sticky, sweet. Thumb to wrist. You’ve been thumbing my wrist all night trying to get me to open up.

I can’t help that I am clenched constantly. Wish I could loosen the knots in my neck or my grip.

The best I can do is a gentle drift. Like us, the leaves chase themselves ‘round the smoker’s section.

Again, tugging bloodied panties from the fold, you can see why I can trust you to keep begging my 89

D’Aniello || Impressions 2018

attention. I know I must bend myself into just the right origami rose to fit your potted vase by the window, which becomes a rabbit hole.

I am just sparing myself these last drops of sunset.

90

Impressions 2018 || Hetzel

WHEN TRUE SIMPLICITY IS GAINED Christine Hetzel

I’ve pondered this past year some sort of alchemist’s dream: turning loneliness into tranquility.

After washing the dishes and airing out my divorce, I ventured into the twilight To find the black-capped buds of allium Like the ones in my mother’s garden.

But they found me first And watched warily as I folded my own clothes And tucked in the corners of my bed.

91

|| Impressions 2018

9292

2-D Art Contents Cover Art Centenial Hawk

Debora Dragseth

DSU 1st Place 2-D Art Winner Bane

Mariah Marsh....................... 94

DSU 2nd Place 2-D Art Winner Vertebra

Maclyn Hauck...................... 95

High School 1st Place Visual Winner Gazing Nicole Ferebee...................... 96 Dark Sea

Nicole Ferebee...................... 97

Freckles

Alexis Bohl........................... 98

Seeing Blue

Nicole Ferebee...................... 99

Impressions 2018 || Marsh

DSU 1ST PLACE 2-D ART WINNER

BANE Mariah Marsh

Acrylic on 18”x 24” Streched Canvas

95

Hauck || Impressions 2018

DSU 2ND PLACE 2-D ART WINNER

VERTEBRA Maclyn Hauck

Charcoal on 15”x18” paper.

96

Impressions 2018 || Ferebee

HIGH SCHOOL 1ST PLACE 2-D ART WINNER

GAZING Nicole Ferebee

Graphite Pencil on 8” x 10.5” Sketch Paper

97

Ferebee || Impressions 2018

DARK SEA Nicole Ferebee

White Charcoal on 12”x 9” Black Paper

98

Impressions 2018 || Bohl

FRECKLES Alexis Bohl

Ink and Colored Pencil on 8.5” x 11” sketch paper

99

Ferebee || Impressions 2018

SEEING BLUE Nicole Ferebee

Colored Pencil on 12”x 9” sketch paper

100

Photography Contents DSU 1st Place Photography Winner Calm Before The Storm Austin Stockert....................... 102 DSU 2nd Place Photography Winner An Hour In Chicago Emily Suwyn.......................... 103 High School 2nd Place Visual Winner Jacks’s Back Lakota Mollohan..................... 104 Three Buttes in Winter Sunshine Annika Plummer..................... 105 Ace

Gabriella Beck......................... 106

Stars

Rose Bateman......................... 107

Bee-yonce

Austin Stockert....................... 108

The Red Sea

Dhia Rzig................................ 109

Bubbles in Central Park

Emily Suwyn.......................... 110

Deep Serentiy

Gabriella Beck......................... 111

Light Up My World

Austin Stockert....................... 112

Sims Creek Crocuses at Sunset

Annika Plummer..................... 113

Wrinkles of Time

Dale Dolechek......................... 114

Dark Eyed Junco

Austin Stockert....................... 115

The Drum Beat Carries On

Briana Dolechek...................... 116

Neon

Dhia Rzig................................ 117

Impressions 2018 || Stockert

DSU 1ST PLACE PHOTOGRAPHY WINNER

CALM BEFORE THE STORM Austin Stockert

103

Suwyn || Impressions 2018

DSU 2ND PLACE PHOTOGRAPHY WINNER

AN HOUR IN CHICAGO Emily Suwyn

104

Impressions 2018 || Mollohan

HIGH SCHOOL 2ND PLACE VISUAL WINNER

JACK’S BACK Lakota Mollohan

105

Plummer || Impressions 2018

THREE BUTTES IN WINTER SUNSHINE Annika Plummer

106

Impressions 2018 || Beck

ACE Gabriella Beck

107

Bateman || Impressions 2018

STARS Rose Bateman

108

Impressions 2018 || Stockert

BEE-YONCE Austin Stockert

109

Rzig|| Impressions 2018

THE RED SEA Dhia Rzig

110

Impressions 2018 || Suwyn

BUBBLES IN CENTRAL PARK Emily Suwyn

111

Beck|| Impressions 2018

DEEP SERENITY Gabriella Beck

112

Impressions 2018 || Stockert

LIGHT UP MY WORLD Austin Stockert

113

Plummer || Impressions 2018

SIMS CREEK CROCUSES AT SUNSET Annika Plummer

114

Impressions 2018 || Dolechek

WRINKLES OF TIME Dale Dolechek

115

Stockert || Impressions 2018

DARK EYED JUNCO Austin Stockert

116

Impressions 2018 || Dolechek

THE DRUM BEAT CARRIES ON Brianna Dolechek

117

Rzig || Impressions 2018

NEON Dhia Rzig

118

Author Bios

Impressions 2018 || Author Bios

AUTHOR BIOS

Margaret Barnhart has been a professor at Dickinson State University since 1992. She is the author of the novel Under the Twisted Cross and the memoir Home for Supper. She enjoys writing in several genres: fiction, poetry, and creative non-fiction.

Rose Bateman is a senior at South Prairie High School in Minot, North Dakota. She plans to attend Minot State University this fall pursuing a degree in music education. She loves anything involving art, especially music. She is a member of the Minot Symphony Orchestra and the student director of the Western Plains Children’s Choir. Rose believes that if a person works hard enough, they can achieve anything they want to.

Gabriella Beck is a Dickinson State University sophomore, majoring in nursing. As a striving photographer, she is looking to make an impact on each individual through each photo she takes. Her dream is to work for National Geographic or run an Instagram account to support her photography professionally.

Alexis Bohl is a freshman psychology major with a minor in art from Dickinson State University. She has been drawing for as long as she can remember, but she started taking art classes at eleven. When she graduates, she plans on continuing her education with graduate school as well as attending a Ph.D. 121

Author Bios || Impressions 2018

program with University of North Dakota.

Megan Dailey is a creative writing major, coaching minor, set to graduate this spring from Dickinson State University. After graduation, she plans to move to Oregon and use her writing education to pursue a career in social work and hopefully coach high school and/or junior high jumping events for a local track program.

Amanda D’Aniello is a sophomore at Dickinson State University, double majoring in creative writing and political science. She was born and raised in Connecticut, where she began writing as a hobby. She plans to graduate in 2020 and continue her education post-grad.

Marytta Davis is a senior at Belle Fourche High School in Belle Fourche, South Dakota. She has been writing since she was about eight years old. Her work consists mostly of short stories, but she has always wanted to write a book. She has plans to graduate this spring and has been accepted to attend Maranatha Baptist University with a major in criminal justice as well as a double minor in physiology and English literature.

Briana Dolechek is a senior at Dickinson State University and has lived in Dickinson her entire life. Currently, she is enjoying her final semester of school student teaching in Killdeer, ND. She will graduate in May with a K – 12 art education degree and psychology minor. Following graduation, she plans to teach art to students in North Dakota.

A 1981 Dickinson State University (DSU) business administration graduate, Dale Dolechek worked thirty-three years in retail grocery management before becoming an employee at DSU. He is a Custodial Team Leader for Facility Operations at the university and has worked in Scott Gym and Weinbergen Gym the past four years. Dale purchased his first camera at age 122

Impressions 2018 || Author Bios

fourteen with money earned from his paper route.

Debora Dragseth is a business professor at the School of Business and Entrepreneurship at Dickinson State University.

She has undergraduate degrees in business and English literature from Dakota State University, an M.B.A. from the University of South Dakota and a Ph.D. from the University of Nebraska. She is a national-award-winning business journalist.

Makenna Duray is an eighteen-year-old attending Kindred High School in Kindred, North Dakota. She has been writing poetry since she was ten years old and has been published nine times in the last four years. She plans on attending Minnesota State University Moorhead for English education with a minor in sculpture ceramics.

Hailey Entze is a sophomore at Dickinson State University, majoring in English-creative writing with a minor in graphic design. After graduating in 2020, she plans to find a job in graphic design while writing young-adult novels in her free time.

Nicole Ferebee is a freshman at Beulah High School in Beulah, North Dakota. She has always loved drawing and is enjoying her first year in art classes.

Maclyn Hauck grew up in Belle Fourche, South Dakota. She is a senior attending Dickinson State University on an academic and rodeo scholarship with a major in art entrepreneurship and minors in entrepreneurship and business administration.

Maclyn has been creating art since she was little, but she has recently discovered her passion for drawing and photography.

Allison Hert is a communications major at Dickinson State University. She plays volleyball and will be going into her 123

Author Bios || Impressions 2018

senior year next fall. Her writing minor has allowed her to come to enjoy writing creative non-fiction.

Christine Hetzel is a senior at Dickinson State University studying office administration and writing. She has been writing fiction and poetry since she was in elementary school.

She plans to graduate in 2018.

Daphne Hunt is a senior at Dufur High School in Dufur, Oregon with aspirations to become a reconstructive surgeon. She writes and draws in her free time, needing the creativity in her life to serve as an outlet.

Shelby Kanski is a senior from South Heart High School in South Heart, North Dakota. She has been writing poetry ever since she attended a creative writing camp four years ago.

Shelby plans to attend the University of Rhode Island in the fall to major in fashion merchandising and business.

Salena Loveland is a senior at Dickinson State University.

She will graduate in the spring of 2019 with a major in English-creative writing and minors in graphic design and communication. Her fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in Impressions 2017. She plans to pursue a career that utilizes her writing and editing skills. Find out more about her at SalenaLoveland.com.

In 2016, Mariah Marsh graduated from Mandan High School in Mandan, North Dakota and is now a sophomore pursuing a degree in nursing at Dickinson State University. Her interests are in hockey, softball, and painting. She painted Bane her senior year of high school to depict a sense of evil for a “Good Versus Evil� scene at her school. She has been painting for as long as she can remember, and she has won three art shows, so far.

124

Impressions 2018 || Author Bios

Lakota Mollohan is a senior at Kindred High School in Kindred, North Dakota. She is part of the KHS Arts Club, FFA, golf, and band. She took most of these photographs in Glenco, Illinois and at the Chicago Botanical Gardens.

Kamryn Morrison is a freshman at South Prairie High School in Minot, North Dakota, and she has been creating stories, poems, and songs long before she learned to write or read.

She loves the arts with all of her heart and uses her passion for music as a motivation in writing. After high school, she plans to attend conservatory and make her love of all things music more than just a hobby. Kamryn is currently working on an untitled novel she hopes to complete during her journey through high school.

Trent Myran is the Assistant Director of Facility Operations at Dickinson State University. He earned his Bachelor of Arts degree in history from Dickinson State University in 1996.

He met his wife, Lisa, while attending classes. They have two sons, Tanner and Hunter. He is a student of western history before 1900.

Abigail Petersen is a junior in high school. She’s been writing short stories and poetry since middle school. She plans to become a psychologist when she graduates.

Annika G. Plummer is the Administrative Secretary of the Dickinson State University Department of Agriculture and Technical Studies. She is an amateur photographer and spends her summer weekends taking pictures at amateur rodeos.

She is also a self-published author. She published The Apple Story in 2016 and The Felt Heart in 2017. She is a current Rural Leadership North Dakota Class VIII participant and also participates in the local Sons of Norway and the Loose Threads Quilt Guild out of Hebron, North Dakota. Ms. Plummer enjoys baking treats for the students in the Ag Department in her spare time.

125

Author Bios || Impressions 2018

Dhia Elhaq Rzig is an exchange student at Dickinson State University, majoring in computer science. He plans to go back to his home country of Tunisia next year and eventually graduate in 2020 to be a software engineer and start his own company. While he always had a passion for photography, it has only surfaced this school year as he discovered the beauty of the US. Cody Sattler is a senior at Dickinson State University graduating in May of 2018 with a bachelor of science in computer technology management. He is a part time novelist and an amateur phone photographer who spends most days reading and planning on the future.

Austin Stockert is a sophomore computer technology management major with a minor in graphic design at Dickinson State University. He was born and raised in Dickinson, North Dakota. Photography has always been a part of his life, but after taking a photography class in high school, it developed into more of a passion.

Emily Suwyn is an elementary education major at Dickinson State University who plans to home school her daughter after graduation.

126

Impressions 2018

Featuring Margaret Barnhart * Rose Bateman * Gabriella Beck Alexis Bohl * Megan Dailey * Marytta Davis Briana Dolechek * Dale Dolechek * Debora Dragseth Makenna Duray * Hailey Entze * Nicole Ferebee Maclyn Hauck * Allison Hert * Christine Hetzel Daphne Hunt * Shelby Kanski * Salena Loveland Mariah Marsh * Lakota Mollohan * Kamryn Morrison Trent Myran * Abigail Petersen * Annika Plummer Dhia Rzig * Cody Sattler * Austin Stockert Emily Suwyn

DickinsonState.edu/Impressions