Impressions 2019

Featuring

Holly Disch • Steven Doherty • Debora Dragseth Donal Ehli • Hailey Entze • Nicole Ferebee Alexus Foss • Caoilainn Gray • Emily Gregg Megan Guenther • Maclyn Hauck • Eden Jackson Olivia Lawerence • Salena Loveland John McDonough • Suzanna Moberg

Literary and Art Magazine

Impressions Literary and Art Magazine

Margaret Barnhart • Shawnte Crenshaw

Dickinson State University

Impressions 2019

Impressions

Margeret Nordberg • Clay Olson Sarah Olson • Abigail Peterson • Abigail Rossow Rachel Selle • Julianne Skaff • Austin Stockert Emily Suwyn • Grace Volk • Emily Wenning

DickinsonState.edu/Impressions

Volume X X XI, 2019

ChristiAnna Schmidt • Elizabeth Schuh

Volume XXXI, 2019

Impressions Literary and Art Magazine Dickinson State University Volume XXXI, 2019

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. © 2019 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: Aquilla by ChristiAnna Schimdt (12x18) Cover and Internal Design: Kayla Heckaman and Ethan Goss-Dickie Typefaces: Elephant, Book Antiqua, Franklin Gothic Publication 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.

2019 IMPRESSIONS STAFF

Student Editors Richard Bond Matthew Buettner Amanda D’Aniello Hailey Entze Hannah Rebsom Nathan Zent

Design Team Kayla Heckaman Ethan Goss-Dickie

Faculty Advisors Martin McGoey Darla Hueske

Editors’ Welcome The opportunity to be published in Impressions gives writers, photographers, and artists the challenge of creating something that is both universal and contemporary. It is hard to determine what will be accepted from year-to-year because each year brings new editors and judges with their own tastes and preferences together to complete the publication. Therefore, like all literary magazines, a submitter has to be okay with rejection and should not take it personally, but rather should use the rejection as a learning opportunity to improve the quality of their work.

The 2019 class of Literary Publications is pleased to present the 31st edition of Impressions. The process of putting together was both taxing and rewarding. The Literary Publications class was divided into selection committees covering submissions in creative nonfiction, poetry, fiction, photography, and 2-D art. Creating Impressions also gave us the opportunity to do some copyediting of pieces we selected as well as layout design as we put the publication together. Impressions gives the opportunity for writers, photographers, and artists to submit original unpublished work. The submitter has the right to publish their work elsewhere after Impressions.

It gave us great pleasure to put together Impressions. It was enjoyable to select submissions and advocate for why we felt certain pieces should be included in this edition. The Impressions staff encourages the people whose entries were chosen for this year to keep up the great work in your respective fields. To those who submitted but were not chosen, we would encourage you to keep improving your creative skills and consider submitting another piece for consideration for next year. — The Editors

Table of Content Fiction Margaret Nordberg ......................................................................... 12

DSU 1st Place Award - The Dancer

Grace Volk ........................................................................................ 14

High School 2nd Place Writing Award - The Joy We Give

Mararet Barnhart ........................................................................... 19 A Swan Song Donald Ehli........................................................................................ 23

Where Are They Who Have Gone Before Us

Megan Guenther .............................................................................. 25 Eternal Love Hailey Entze....................................................................................... 29

Breaking Up 101

Salena Loveland ............................................................................... 35 The Sentinel

Nonfiction Rachel Selle...................................................................................... 38

High School 1st Place Writing Award - Wildflower

Clay Olson ......................................................................................... 40

Passion

Sarah Olson...................................................................................... 42

My Last Christmas

Photography Maclyn Hauck .................................................................................. 48

DSU 1st Place Award - Shadow Dog

Colored Sunset Steven’s Luck Wood Texture Salena Loveland ............................................................................... 52

DSU 2nd Place Award - Irish Costal Sunset

Irish Hills Abigail Rossow................................................................................. 54

Cactus

Red Flower

Austin Stockert................................................................................ 56

35mm Film

Buzz off

Fairview

Mountain Grown

Noteworthy

Scrat

Emily Suwyn........................................................................................ 62 Finding Them

Line

Eden Jackson .................................................................................... 85 Voodoo Woman (Located with Poetry)

Poetry E. C. Schuh ............................................................................... 66

DSU 1st Place Award - The Lavender Lady

Kitchen Tiles Suzanna Moberg .............................................................................. 68

DSU 2nd Place Award - Grandma’s Hands

John McDonough .............................................................................. 69 The Tusks of an Irish Boar Scary Stories to Read in the Dark Opening Night Olivia Lawrance ............................................................................... 72 Wasp Tomb When to Look for Funnel Clouds Green River Reservoir Hailey Entze ...................................................................................... 75

Badlands Ministries

Nowheresville, North Dakota Donald Ehil........................................................................................ 77

Epitaph

Caoilainn Gray ................................................................................... 78 Don’t Judge Abigail Peterson............................................................................... 80 The Herb Healer Shawnte Crenshaw ....................................................................... 82 The Woman Who Lost Debora Dragseth and Steven Doherty .............................................. 84 A Cajun Tale Julianne Skaff ................................................................................. 86

MASK

Art Holly Disch ...................................................................................... 88

DSU 1st Place Award - Rainy Day Page 1 and 2

Emily Wenning .................................................................................. 90

High School Visual Art Winner - Serenity

Nicole Ferebee ................................................................................. 91 SOMBER Alexus Foss ..................................................................................... 92

Ferdinand

Peonies Emily Gregg .................................................................................... 94

Midnight Pomegranate

First Day of Autumn ChristiAnna Schimdt ........................................................................ 96 Aquilla (on cover) Flare Spirit of Flame

Other Author and Artist Biographies ......................................................... 100

Fiction

Impressions 2019 || Nordberg DSU 1st Place Fiction Winner

The Dancer Margaret Nordberg It was a normal Monday morning in Mrs. Stevens’s class. The class was reading quietly at their desks, except for Julia. There’s something not right about that girl, Mrs. Stevens thought to herself.

Julia was twirling at her desk; you could hear the slight swish swish of her dress against her tights. At least she was reading, this time.

“Miss Lynne, please sit down!” Mrs. Stevens said sternly. The classroom erupted into giggles as Julia sat with a thud into her seat.

“Sorry, Mrs. Stevens,” Julia meekly replied. Even as she apologized, Julia’s feet were tapping on the floor.

When Julia got home from school, she could hear her mother on the phone. She quietly walked towards the living room. Her mother’s voice was becoming clearer with every step.

“Yes, Mrs. Stevens. I understand what you are saying. But what exactly am I supposed to do? Do you think Julia is any calmer at home? She’s worse. She is moving all the time,” Mrs. Lynne said into the phone. Julia stopped at the cracked living room door, realizing Mrs. Stevens called mother to talk about her.

I wonder if I’m in trouble again, Julia thought to herself as she watched Mrs. Lynne write something onto a piece of paper.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stevens, I’ll call him right away.” With that, Mrs. Lynne hung up the phone. Julia watched as her mother dropped her head into her hands. Julia heard her mother sigh and say, “Why can’t she be normal?”

Julia, feeling guilty, tiptoed away from the living room door.

The next morning Mrs. Lynne woke up Julia.

“Get dressed, no need to put your school uniform on, we’re going to a special doctor.” With that, Mrs. Lynne left Julia’s room.

Julia stretched, arms up, fingers pointed to the headboard, toes pointed towards the door. Julia rolled out of bed and started to tap tap tap across the floor towards her dresser. While opening her dresser, she noticed the dust moving in the sunlight. They looked like they were dancing The Nutcracker.

“Julia! Are you ready yet?” yelled Mrs. Lynne from downstairs.

“Almost,” Julia responded, feeling guilty for daydreaming again. She grabbed her tights and a jumper. As she was getting

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Nordberg || Impressions 2019

dressed, she heard music coming from outside her window.

Looking outside she saw the neighbor girl playing with toys. Julia started dancing while putting on her clothes.

“Julia! We’re late! Let’s go!”

“Yes, mother!” Julia hopped out her bedroom door, putting on her shoes as she went.

“What was taking you so long?” questioned her mother.

“Well, you see, the dust was dancing in the sunlight –“ “The dust was dancing?” Mrs. Lynne interrupted Julia. “Dust does NOT dance. I wish you would stop talking nonsense.”

Julia hung her head.

“When we get there, you will sit still. I don’t care how you do it, whether you sit on your hands, bite your cheek or what. But you will NOT move.” Julia’s mother hissed into Julia’s ear as they got to the doctor’s office.

Mrs. Lynne ushered Julia to the chair farthest from the door, pushing her to sit. The chair had a straight back, so Julia couldn’t slouch. She decided to sit on her hands, remembering her mother’s words. Julia stared at the oak-paneled walls. She could see dancers in the wood grain; they seemed to dance to the hum of her mother and the doctor talking. Julia’s head started to bob and weave along with the dancers, that is until her mother pinched her thigh. Julia sat up straight, music gone from her head.

“Julia, I’ve listened to all these things your mother has told me; I need to speak to her privately. Wait here, please, we won’t be very long.”

With that, the doctor ushered her mother out the door. Before he closed the door, he stopped and twisted the knob of the radio.

Out of the speakers came “Ten Cents a Dance” by Ruth Etting.

Julia couldn’t help it; her shoulders started to sway. Her feet took a mind of their own, tapping along with the song. Before long, Julia was up out of her seat. Twirling, arms up, dancing with an invisible man.

What Julia didn’t know was that outside the not quite closed door were the doctor and her mother, watching her.

“There’s nothing wrong with Julia, Mrs. Lynne. Enroll her in dance,” whispered the doctor, “let her dance.”

With the doctor’s words echoing in her head, Mrs. Lynne did what he suggested. Julia’s teachers noticed an immediate change.

Julia was able to sit at her desk, not disrupting the other students.

After Julia graduated, she found the doctor. As she was thanking him for fixing her, he told her, “There was nothing wrong with you; you had to move so you could think. Dancing was already there; I just helped your mom see it better.”

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Impressions 2019 || Volk

High School 1st Place Writing Winner

The Joy We Give Grace Volk Mr. Martin pushed his walker all the way from the cafeteria to his room. The halls were crowded with residents’ families who came to visit them during the holiday. A fellow resident named Eve, who wanted him to meet her children, stopped him in the hallway. Mr. Martin had already met her children three times prior that day but was too courteous to say anything as Eve suffered from dementia. Still, as he was trying to escape to his room, carolers were blocking the passageway he needed to get through. Yet still, his walker got stuck on some streamers in the hallway before his room. He was out of breath by the time he opened the door to his living space.

A couple more times up and down this place, and I won’t have any hair left, he thought.

Of course, the only hair he had left were a few gray ones on the crown of his head. He was not necessarily in bad shape for a man in his nineties. His heart was in good condition, and his mind was healthy. The only thing was that he needed a walker to get from place to place. However, Mr. Martin was a resilient resident. He refused assistance whenever he could. The staff called him “Stubborn Steve,” Steven being his first name.

He sat down in his rocking chair that creaked every time he leaned back. He looked at the calendar. It was Christmas Eve, one night away from his least favorite holiday. He did not always dislike Christmas. It was his favorite holiday to spend with the kids and Susan. But when Susan passed away two years prior, on December the twentieth, so close to Christmas, it was hard for him to find joy in the season again. To make matters worse, his kids stopped visiting after her death. So, alone and cold, Mr. Martin sat in front of the window, looking at the falling snow, to the building across the street.

Alone in the dark a light flickered on and off in a single window. Intrigued, Mr. Martin struggled to reach the tassels on his lamp and pulled them twice, on and off. The light in the

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Volk || Impressions 2019

window copied him. He smiled. He flicked the light on and off three times, then four. The light copied him. He chuckled, getting the slightest joy out of the interaction.

The building across the street Steven Martin stared at was an orphanage and flicking the lamp on and off was a curious little eight-year-old girl.

The girl sighed in delight and wondered who was in that window one story down and across the alleyway. She too did not enjoy the Christmas season. Adoptions soared during this time of year, and every Christmas many of her friends and playmates were adopted, but she was not. It seemed to her that she would never get adopted, and Christmas was a reminder of this. With every year that passed, her hope of getting a family decreased.

“Susan, stop playing with the light,” one of her three roommates said.

The room where the light had been was now dark, and no one was stirring. The old man had gone to bed. She turned off her lamp once and for all, snuggled into her blankets, and fell asleep.

Later the next day as Susan was waking up, snowflakes, so big she could see their unique and intricate patterns, fell gently upon the ground. Her roommates were downstairs opening presents they had gotten for one another, leaving little Susan all alone. She looked over at the window where the light flickered the night before. She remembered an older girl (who was once an orphan as well but later was adopted at the age of sixteen) telling her the building was a care home for the elderly. When Susan asked what “elderly” meant, the girl verified, “old people.” Then Susan understood.

“So, they don’t know who their parents are, either? Is that where people who don’t get adopted go?” Susan asked.

“No, no,” the girl said. “They just need help doing the things they aren’t able to do anymore.”

Susan thought back to that conversation and that girl. She was the closest thing to an older sister she had had, always looking out for her. She came back every so often to the orphanage but not nearly enough.

Maybe the person in the window doesn’t have any visitors, either, she thought. I’ll go over and say hi. I’ll bring hot chocolate. Hopefully he

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Impressions 2019 || Volk isn’t allergic.

She put on her purple oversized coat with a broken zipper and yellow mittens. All she needed to do was take two cups of hot chocolate the overseer Ms. Minna made every year and sneak out the back door without anyone noticing. Easy enough, she thought.

She tiptoed down the stairs and around the living room where the girls and the overseers were. Then continued to the kitchen where sugar cookies shaped like reindeer and homemade hot chocolate were laid out. She reached over the tall table and took two cups of steaming hot chocolate, nearly spilling the second cup.

“Phewh,” she sighed.

Susan snuck out the back kitchen door. She took a right, which led her to the alleyway. She looked at the window where the light had been Christmas Eve. The window frame was green, but all the other windows were painted gray.

She took a left at the sidewalk and headed up the stairs of the building. When she got inside, nurses were walking around, and the lobby was busy with visitors. Susan stopped to admire the Christmas decorations hung up on the walls and dangling from the ceiling. Her eyes turned to the nativity scene on the table located in the center of the room. She admired its beauty, how happy the family looked. She looked up again with her big green eyes at the chaotic place. It was clear she would have to find the room on her own. Susan was incredibly smart for her age. She got all A’s in school without trying. She could handle getting to the room on her own.

I made it this far on my own. I can’t turn back now, she convinced herself.

She remembered where the room was located in correlation from where she saw it in the alleyway. She started down a long, less crowded hallway. There was an elevator at the end and she took it until it reached the third floor. She got out and started walking up and down the hall, looking at all the rooms that were across from where she lived. Susan stopped at room 343. The door was open, and she saw an old man sitting behind a window, a green-framed window. She knew she was in the right place. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

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Volk || Impressions 2019 He snapped his head around to the door. Small Susan was standing in the doorway with her long black, curly hair and oversized coat.

“Hello, I think you might know me… I can’t explain it, but it felt right to come and visit you.” She flashed a smile and her cheeks became red. She was so nervous she forgot to introduce herself, but Mr. Martin thought she was adorable rather than peculiar. Susan walked over to him and handed him the hot chocolate.

“Now what’s this? Hot cocoa I see. Thank you so very much.”

He took a sip. “It’s a little cold, but still good,” he chuckled. “That’s perfectly all right, but why don’t you tell me your name and why you are walking around all alone, without your parents.”

“My name’s Susan.”

“What a delightful name! That was my wife’s name, you know.”

It was the first time he had heard and used the name without feeling sadness or regret.

“And I live right over there,” she said and crawled onto his lap and pointed at her window.

His blue eyes widened and a grin stretched across his wrinkly face.

“The one with the light? Are you the one who played with me yesterday?”

She giggled.

“Well, it is nice to meet you, little lady,” and he extended his hand to hers. “Does anyone know you’re here? Will they be looking for you?”

“Well…no, but they won’t notice I’m gone. Oh please, please, please don’t make me go back. Let me stay. Please, please, pleasssseee—” “All right, all right. Just for a little while. But you must go back soon.” He did not want the little girl to leave either. Susan jumped off his lap and pointed to a picture hanging from the wall, “Is this your wife?”

“Yes, that’s my Susan.”

“And these are your kids?”

“Yes.” “Where are they today?”

“They don’t come around very often anymore, not since

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Impressions 2019 || Volk

Susan passed…”

“My family doesn’t come to see me either.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Susan looked down at the floor.

“I have something I’d like to show you. Come over here.”

They walked to the side of the room where a table stood.

Beads were spread out across the top of the desk, a tall lamp was placed beside it, and a pair of spectacles were laid to the left.

“I used to be a jeweler back in my day. I still put things together from time to time, and I have something I would like to give you.”

He took out a key from his pocket and opened the drawer underneath the desk. Susan could not believe what she was seeing.

Organized inside were jewels of all kinds: diamonds, rubies, pearls, and more.

He pulled out a silver-chained necklace with a locket shaped like a heart attached to it.

“Merry Christmas, my dear.”

She gave him a big hug, “Thank you so much, Sir.” “But don’t forget the greatest gift of all, the gift you gave me today. That gift is love. Don’t ever stop loving, Susie.”

She nodded. It was time for her to go. With a promise she would return soon, (this time with permission) she gave him another hug and went out the door.

The love that Mr. Martin had been shown that day opened his heart to loving others. He realized he could not control reality, but one thing he could control was his attitude. Instead of growing bitter, he decided to become better. He called each one of his children, asked how they were doing and forgave them. He felt at peace.

Later that night he looked out the window before going to bed. The lamp in Susan’s window blinked twice. Her silhouette was waving in the shadows.

“Goodnight, Susan.” he said, and pulled the tassels of his lamp twice.

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Barnhart || Impressions 2019

A Swan Song Margaret Barnhart Frederick Swan attended a funeral for the first time at the age of seventeen. He’d led quite a blessed life to that point, having experienced few losses, and only trifling ones at that. He’d lost weight while on a healthy diet; he’d once lost the left half of his favorite pair of running shoes, and he started to lose hair—thanks to an inherited gene for androgenic alopecia. Naturally, there had been losses of appetite, interest, and teen-privileges along the way, but none of these had prepared him for the loss of his paternal grandmother. Not until Nana’s funeral had Frederick Swan learned the intensity of grief, the depth of emotional pain, and the fact that he was at his core a hypersensitive person when it came to funeral rituals and witnessing other people’s anguish.

He wept at Nana’s funeral more than anyone else in attendance, sobbing to the point where people began to look askance at him.

Uncomfortable, some backed away, and a few whispered to one another with hands cupped around their mouths.

“Look how he misses her,” one murmured approval.

“Why the show?” another questioned.

“Maybe he feels guilty about something,” a conspiracy theorist theorized.

At that first funeral, Frederick hurt more deeply than he’d ever hurt before. Worse than his own grief, however, was seeing the agony of others. His father’s tears and trembling lips practically ripped Frederick Swan’s heart asunder. When one of the aunts threw herself upon the casket just before the pallbearers hoisted it into the back of the hearse, Frederick nearly fainted with empathic pain.

As Frederick Swan grew older, he learned that grievous losses accrue the longer one lives. The number of funerals he felt obliged to attend increased each year. He thought that, with time, he would become inured to the rituals of grief, that his eyes would no longer water, his throat no longer tighten and close, and his chest no longer heave with sobs. That proved not to be the case.

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Impressions 2019 || Barnhart It didn’t even matter who the deceased was: a close relative, a casual friend or neighbor, a co-worker, a mere acquaintance, even a community leader whom Frederick never liked very much. No matter whose funeral he attended, he sniffled, sobbed, and gasped for breath, making such a show that it seemed he must be a professional mourner.

The funeral and burial rituals usually concluded with a catered lunch or potluck smorgasbord. Even these weighed heavy in Frederick’s heart. He heard the hum of conversations without listening to them. Recognizing people’s desperate need to find something to smile or laugh about or to try to fill an aching emptiness with food and fellowship, he invariably teared up again, further reddening his already tear-swollen eyes. People began to invent nicknames for him: the Unmanly Mourner, Weepy McFeely, Town Crier, and the Sobber Baron.

Frederick Swan eventually found ways to rein his hypersensitivity, at least a little. Never looking at the bereaved family members helped. Focusing on something other than the funeral service or the presence of a casket or urn helped a little as well. Instead of reading the funeral flyers’ obituaries and poignant verses, he concentrated on the names of the deceased persons and tried to create appropriate anagrams for their epitaphs: timber roller for Robert Miller, a distant cousin who’d worked for decades at a lumber yard; a hand neatens for Anne Hanstead, a local beautician who had moonlighted as a professional organizer; and his favorite to date, scratch the hit for Chris Hatchett, a one-time softball teammate. In spite of ongoing efforts at emotional control, however, he continued to be an emotional wreck during and after funerals.

In Frederick Swan’s forty-seventh year, close family friend Lottie S. Nixon succumbed suddenly to sepsis. Frederick not only needed to attend the funeral, but also to participate in the ritual as reader of a Scriptural passage. He practiced the reading for hours.

He practiced breathing, visualizing happy events, remembering funny stories—anything he could think of to help him control his grief. At the next-to-last minute, he sought the aid of a hypnotist, even though he felt the man was a charlatan.

The morning of the funeral, Frederick Swan rose before daybreak and dressed in his dark bedroom. Between slurps of coffee in the dimly lit kitchen, he practiced the reading again.

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Barnhart || Impressions 2019 Just before leaving for the service, he steadied his nerves with a small snifter of brandy, then another for good measure, and just one more in case the first two lacked potency. Feeling relatively tranquil, he left home and drove without incident to the church where the funeral service would take place.

Frederick Swan did his best to avoid eye contact with the bereaved family members, and he would not look at the coffin.

Instead, he focused upon a knot in the wood of the church pew in front of him. Rather than listen to the moving songs sung by a small choir, he concentrated once again on creating anagram epitaphs for poor Lottie: lost in no exit, no text in soil, and even better—o silent toxin. Soon, the time for his role in the funeral rite arrived. With eyes half-closed, Frederick Swan walked toward the lectern at the front of the church and unfolded his creased copy of the reading.

In a wavering voice, Frederick began to read: “From Romans 8: For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Halfway through the sentence, Frederick Swan realized that he had not actually said the word “convinced.” Rather, he had uttered “conceived.” Too awkward to start again, he continued, hoping no one had noticed.

His misspoken word, however, affected him in a most unusual way. He felt at first slightly amused. Before the end of the reading, he had to force himself to try not smiling. When he returned to his seat, Frederick Swan hid his face with his hands so that others would not see his grin. He swallowed twice, somewhat recovering his somber nature, and stretched his legs as far in front of him as the pew allowed. That’s when he noticed his shoes. He gasped.

How had he not noticed before that he wore one black shoe and one brown? Suddenly Frederick Swan fought a heady urge to laugh. He held his breath, dug his fingernails into his thigh, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The urge still tugged at him. He swallowed a slight yelp, annoying the people near him. His shoulders shook and his eyes watered. The unexpected hilarity roiled within him, and he knew it would take something monumental to suppress it. He tried to focus on

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Impressions 2019 || Barnhart word-play again, this time anagramming his own name: Dr. Winker’s Café and screwed far kin. Concentration calmed him somewhat until a more fitting phrase came to him: Fred’s in a wreck. Unfortunately, the too-close-to-true anagram tickled him, and laughter burst out with a snort. He tried pinching his nose.

That hurt. He pinched harder, his shoulders still shaking. He pinched harder still, startled to feel a snap between his fingers.

Good heavens, he realized, his grin turning to a grimace, I’ve broken my own nose!

Unsuccessful at hiding his red puffy eyes and purple swollen nose, Frederick Swan disappeared quickly after the funeral, eschewing the fellowship meal. None of the other mourners at the lunch appeared to have noticed Frederick’s one brown and one black shoe. No one wondered if he were “convinced” or why he had been “conceived.” Almost everyone, however, remarked on his crowning bereavement achievement to date.

Ironically, the Unmanly Mourner never again blubbered at a funeral. Neither did he laugh. Saddle-nose deformity, a condition resulting from disintegration of dead cartilage due to a broken nose, allowed nasal bacteria to enter Frederick Swan’s brain and spinal cord. This resulted in a serious infection: meningitis. The very next funeral Frederick Swan attended was his own. Poor Frederick Swan: a wreck, friends.

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Ehli || Impressions 2019

Where A re They Who H ave Gone Before Us Donald Ehli An Excerpt I hear the river below murmuring hoarsely over the stones. What dost thou, O river, to me? Thou bringest back the memory of the past.1 And in my Baba’s2 time—may God give her peace—when she was a small girl, such a thing was taken for a sign of the Chort3 —may we be spared his wiles. And only a Molfar4 might come to dig up white lilacs when they grew—by the Chort’s will—in the farmyards, and on the paths where the cattle went down to the rivers to drink—sprinkling holy water and prayers about their roots and the holes he tore them from, because Judas Iscariot, the betrayer of Our Lord, hanged himself on a lilac, which grew white with shame, and ever after, to touch a white lilac was to be driven mad.

Yet Sergei Alexeyevich, the tavern-keeper’s son, Sergei Alexeyevich, who was tall and broad-shouldered and strong.

Who had even white teeth, and thick black hair that curled, and sea-green eyes. Sergei Alexeyevich, who wore shiny black boots and spurs and a fine red shirt, who looked so handsome riding his black stallion, Taras5 —which his father could afford to give him. Sergei Alexeyevich, with whom all the girls of the village had been in love. Sergei Alexeyevich mocked such an idea, and always, in the spring, plucked white lilac sprigs, and wore them in the soldier’s cap he had been given by a hussar friend of his father.

And whenever Sergei Alexeyevich passed, the old women of the village clutched their shawls close, crossed themselves and made the sign against the evil eye, and the old men said the tavern-keeper should put more thought and many more birch 1 From Fragments of Ancient Poetry by James Macpherson (17361796).

2 Ukrainian. Баба. Grandmother.

3 Чорт. The Devil.

4 мольфа́р. An adept at folk magic.

5 Taras Bulba (Tара́с Бу́льбаa), a heroic Cossack created by Nicolai Gogol (1809-1852).

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Impressions 2019 || Ehli

switches into the proper education of his son. But the tavern-keeper, Alexei Ivanovich6 , only laughed, and Sergei Alexeyevich continued to wear white lilac in his cap in the spring, and the old women continued to cross themselves, and the old men to buy vodka and kvass and to sit at the rough tables in the tavern and complain—but not too loudly—and to say, ominously, ‘One day, it will all come to an end, and then you will see something.’

In time, Sergei Alexeyevich became a man and went away to be a soldier, and returned with a sword that had killed many Frenchmen and put the fear of God and the Tsar into them, and then the girls of the village were even more in love with him, and the young boys followed at his heels like puppies, and he inherited the tavern, which prospered, and the young men and the old men would come into it to buy vodka and kvass7 from him and to hear him tell of strange, far-off places, frightful battles, glorious victories and heroic death. Sergei Alexeyevich bought land with his money, and serfs in that village and in villages many versts8 abroad, and married and fathered eleven children—nine of them sons—and all of them—but one—survived to give him grandchildren—who gave him great-grandchildren—and who saw him grow old, white-haired, and blind, until early one spring he died peacefully in his chair, and was buried in the churchyard with white lilacs planted, by his will, about his headstone.

Why was he not driven mad? Why did Sergei Alexeyevich live so long, with land and serfs and great-grandchildren, I asked, when white lilac is wicked, and he had especially mocked it by picking it and wearing it in his soldier’s cap?

My Baba said that she had asked this very question of her own Baba, and that her Baba had crossed herself and made the sign against the Chort, and had said that Sergei Alexeyevich was not driven mad when he picked the white lilacs because he already belonged to the Chort—his soul and his body—to the Chort, who protects his own—until the Day of Judgment, when the Creator of the Universe will seize the Chort by his tail and whirl him about His head, and drown him, like an unwanted kitten, in the Lake of Darkness.

6 The tavern-keeper and his son are Russian, not Ukrainian.

7 A low-alcohol-content ‘beer’ made from fermented rye bread, sometimes flavored with berries or herbs.

8 Singular: Verst. An old Russian land measurement (1.067 kilometers).

24

Guenther || Impressions 2019

Eternal Love Megan Guenther Monday, June 27 Your birthday. I woke up this morning, and it hit me all over again, this wave of pain crashing over me, squeezing the breath from my chest. How could you have done this to me? Didn’t you realize how much this would hurt me? How much pain this would cause everyone? Remember last year, at your birthday party?

How I smeared cake on your face, and you laughed, with your head thrown back and your eyes sparkling with life? How, after the party, you told me you hoped you could spend every birthday like that, with me? Remember? That’s what hurts the most: the memories. Us, together. You, laughing. Remember how your mom cried because you were moving out the next day, the day after you turned eighteen? Today it’s been nineteen years since the day you were born. But you’re still eighteen. Happy Birthday, Derek Montgomery.

Thursday, June 30 Jenny told me I should write here, in this journal she gave me.

Jenny’s the therapist. The shrink. She’s the one who started this whole “writing about my feelings” thing. She thinks it’ll help with my “grieving process.” That’s what she said as she handed me this little book, “This should help with your grieving process.” They’re making me see her because they don’t want me to do something stupid. They don’t want me to end up like you. They don’t want me to do what you did. Why? Why did you do what you did?

Tuesday, July 5 Yesterday was the Fourth, our nation’s birthday. We watched the fireworks with your parents. Remember how much you loved watching fireworks? How you’d grin as they exploded into hundreds of tiny, brightly colored sparks before dying out and falling harmlessly to the ground? This year you weren’t there. Could you still see them? Your parents were there. They asked how I’m doing. I said it’s hard, doesn’t seem to be getting any easier. Your mom said, “Does it ever?” and teared up. I said, “Brenda, it’s going to. It’s got to. It will. I promise.” But I don’t know. Sometimes I think she’s right. It’s not getting any easier, at least, not yet. It’s been almost six months, but the pain is still fresh.

I’ll begin to feel slightly better, like maybe I should get up and

25

Impressions 2019 || Guenther shower, then go for a walk or play with the dogs. Then a memory will come in, sweeping over me, like how at your funeral, your mom wouldn’t let them close the casket, just touched your hands and cried and cried, and your dad had to pull her away, but he was crying, too, and how could you do that to them? And then I’ll start crying again, those huge, gasping sobs, and Mom will come running up the stairs, and she’ll hold me, and rock me, and we’ll cry together, and I won’t get up after all. But I’m making progress.

The past month hasn’t been quite as bad. I’m finally able to get up and deal with the pain of losing you.

Friday, July 7 Today was kind of a gray day. I feel like the world has lost its luster, like the only thing bright anymore are the memories I have of us. Remember how much you loved those hand soaps that were always next to the bathroom sink? How you practically rejoiced every time one was used up, because you couldn’t wait for the next new, delicious scent? Remember how you’d wash your hands for, like, five minutes straight every time a new one was set out, and blow foamy soap bubbles at me just to make me laugh? How you’d proclaim each new bottle to be your favorite scent ever, hands down, no contest, then ask me what else I had in the cupboard? Do you remember how I’d pretend to get mad when you’d run the water forever while you wasted soap to try to prove how much you loved it? I remember. I set a new bottle out this morning after the last one was gone. As I placed it next to the sink, I thought of you. Before I knew it, I was crying, and washing my hands over and over with the new soap, trying somehow, to scrub you back to me.

Wednesday, July 12 Our three-year anniversary. Three years ago, today, you asked me to be your girlfriend. It really wasn’t a surprise, though, because we’d been friends for over two years. You were so shy, it was completely endearing. You had roses, two of them, and said, “Jodi, will you be my girlfriend?” Just like that. I looked at you, this tall boy with sunshine blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and shy smile, and I said, “Yes, Derek, I’ll be your girlfriend.” Your whole face lit up, just like the sun, as bright as your hair, as clear as your eyes. You looked so happy then, like your whole life was finally complete. So, what went wrong? How could your life have gotten so bad you couldn’t live in it anymore? Nothing’s ever that bad, Derek. What made you want to die? Weren’t you thinking?

Didn’t you understand how much everyone loved you? How much I loved you? I still do. I still love you, Derek, and I miss you, too, more than I ever thought was humanly possible, with an

26

Guenther || Impressions 2019 intensity that threatens to tear me apart. I saw your grave today.

I almost didn’t, but I went. Today I repaid the gift that was given to me three years ago today. I’m sure the lawn maintenance will eventually take them away, but for right now, those two red roses are lying across your heart.

Monday, July 17 Your mom stopped by today. We talked for a long time, at least two hours, maybe more. To tell the truth, we’re both mad at you.

You left us, with no explanation. Didn’t you know how selfish that was? To just decide one day that you can’t handle life anymore, and then, without telling anyone anything, take matters into your own hands? Couldn’t you have at least tried to tell someone what was going on? What was going on? You could have told me. You knew that, right? I would have listened. And, Derek, if there was anything I could have done, anything at all, I would have done it. What could I have done differently? I would do anything to have you back, even if it’s only to say goodbye. Then I could have closure. For a while, there was hope that maybe it was murder, as awful as that sounds. At least we might have had someone to blame, someone to direct our anger and grief toward. But then they determined the cause of death to be suicide, and we’re left with no one to blame but ourselves. You used to be the one to comfort me when I was miserable. Now you’re the reason for my misery.

Saturday, August 15 It’s been nearly a month since I’ve written in here, and Jenny’s getting concerned. I believe her words were, “I’m getting concerned about you, Jodi.” But after that last entry, I just haven’t felt like writing. As grieved as I am, as we all are, I’m still angry with you. Derek, how could you have done that? What possessed you to leave me here, when you knew how much I needed you?

How could you leave me when you knew how much I loved you?

Didn’t you know how much I love you?

Thursday, August 27 The strangest thing happened to me last week. I was walking along the path by the river, when, out of nowhere, this jogger ran right into me. Turns out, he knew you, and because of your friendship knew me from a distance, even though we had never met before. I didn’t know him, but then that’s not surprising, since you seemed to pick up friends like some people pick up pennies on the sidewalk. You were never looking for them, they were just there, and you’d find them. He had heard about what happened,

27

Impressions 2019 || Guenther

and after extending his condolences, offered to buy me coffee as an apology for “bulldozing” me. His name is Isaac, and he seems sweet. Not anything compared to you, but sweet all the same.

Sunday, August 30 I met Isaac for coffee again this morning. He offered to take me to see your grave, which might seem like a weird suggestion for a date, but he’s very understanding about the relationship I had with you, and I love that about him. I agreed to go, and so we went to the cemetery even though it was cold today, and windy.

We were staring down at your headstone in silence when he said, “I feel like he’d be okay with this,” then he clarified, “with us.” He paused, before asking hesitantly, “Are you okay with us?” I didn’t have to think twice before I hugged him so tightly the cold didn’t matter anymore. Derek, I do hope you are okay with this. It’s hard, but I think I’m beginning to move on. Your family is. Brenda says that, to her mixed relief and dismay, it is actually getting easier. And it’s true. Despite how I felt earlier, right after you died, I’m starting to find the happy in life again.

I will always miss you, Derek, and I will always love you, too.

The grief and pain will never totally go away, and I don’t want it to. But it will diminish, as it should. I doubt we’ll ever know what made you take your life, but, Derek, I’m not mad at you anymore. It was your decision, and though I was angry, the anger was mainly directed at myself for not realizing anything. For not understanding. Your actions were thoughtless and caused so much anguish for those who love you, but we’re healing. It’s slow, and it has left deep scars, but I think we’ll be okay in the long run.

I really do.

Friday, September 4 Jenny told me in our last session that she thinks I’ve progressed enough to stop writing in here if I wish. So, if this is goodbye, then I thank you. I may not have you anymore, but I’ll always have the memories. Thank you for all of them: the good times, the bad times, and the ugly times that have made me stronger. You’ll always have a special place in my heart. Rest in peace, Derek Montgomery.

28

Entze || Impressions 2019

Breaking Up 101 Hailey Entze My palms sweat in my lap. Liv, my best friend struts in behind the maître d’. She’s thrown on a pair of dark aviator sunglasses that make her look like she should be flying a fighter jet, not helping me escape a breakup. She says something to the host. He nods and leads her to a table directly in front of me. As soon as he walks away, she gives me a goofy grin and a thumbs-up.

I hold up my phone and jab a finger at it. She digs around in her purse for a good minute before she finds hers and holds it up.

What’s with the sunglasses? My fingers fly across the screen.

You said I could wear a disguise!

I meant a hat or a scarf, not Top Gun! We look up at each other. She sticks her tongue out at me.

When I asked her to accompany me in case I chickened out when breaking up with Patrick, she said she would only do it if she got to pick the restaurant and wear a disguise. Thinking she meant a baseball hat or a headscarf, I stupidly agreed. Now here I sit, having a silent, mime fight with Iceman in a hole-in- the-wall, family-owned Italian restaurant.

I’m half way out of my seat, about to go take the sunglasses off myself when Patrick walks in. I slam back down and Liv plants a menu in front of her face. Her blonde ponytail the only thing visible from over the top.

Patrick grins and waves when he sees me.

I can’t help but feel bad as he and his sweater vest make their way over. He probably just thinks this is a normal date. Just Jess and Patrick, out for lunch on this gorgeous spring Saturday. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, the tulips are blooming, meanwhile I’m about to bury our relationship six feet under.

Well, whatever this is between us. We’ve only been together for a couple weeks. In that span he’s sent flowers to my work four times, surprised me for lunch twice, and sent me countless “Thinking of You!” texts. It would be sweet and enduring if I also

29

Impressions 2019 || Entze thought about him seven million times a day. However, I don’t, and I think that’s the source of our problems.

Safe to say that I feel nothing but exhaustion when he kisses my cheek before he sits down.

“You look positively beautiful today.”

I try not to give him a doubtful look. Yeah, I’m sure my faded jeans, old t-shirt with a hole in the hem, and my dark hair up in the same bun I slept in last night make me a real stunner.

Liv drops her menu enough for me to see her over his shoulder. She pulls the sunglasses down her nose and rolls her eyes, then pretends to retch over the side of the table. Livvie always thought that he was oddly proper. “You’re supposed to be dating a twenty-one-year-old American, not some ninetysomething British man,” she’d scoff.

Now I study him while he drones on about something that happened in his accounting class this morning. He’s put just a little too much product in his hair again; pasted his curls into submission so that they lay almost flat against his head. His glasses magnify his eyes by about two sizes, and his long lashes almost hit the lenses when he blinks.

Honestly, what even drew me to him in the first place? Sure, he’s a nice guy. Smart, successful, loves Jesus and dogs, tips well at restaurants, and thinks that I single handedly keep the world spinning on its axis. Despite all that, something just doesn’t click.

I never feel that spark around him, the one that makes me feel like I’m going to puke (in a good way) at the very sight of him and can’t get enough of being in his presence. Lately it seems like I can’t get away from him fast enough.

The fact that he’s completely and utterly dull doesn’t help his case either.

Something he says finally catches my attention. “Wait,” I hold up a hand. He smiles at me and grabs it out of the air to sandwich in between his. “Can you go back to that last thing you said?”

Still smiling he nods, “I said, I want you to meet my parents.

I’ve been looking up plane tickets to Arizona and they’re not that expensive. I figured we could go down on a weekend we both have off.”

I almost swallow my tongue. Livvie’s banging herself in the head with her menu. Did he say he wanted me to meet his parents? His parents?! We’ve only been together for two weeks! I

30

Entze || Impressions 2019 don’t want to meet anyone’s parents after two weeks. Once I dated a guy for a whole year and never even knew if he had a family or just sprouted out of the earth.

Panic settles in. The appetite I had when I stepped into this random restaurant vanishes. Smells of garlic and rosemary that had my mouth watering before now make my stomach roll.I’m staring at him, trying to figure out what on God’s green earth gave him the idea that I would want to meet his parents and how to tell him that I respectfully decline now and forever, but am coming up with nothing. Thankfully our waiter, a scrawny high school kid finally shows up to take our drink orders.

Patrick doesn’t let go of my hand, the waiter looks at us uncomfortably. Me too, kid, me too. “I’ll have a water,” Patrick says. When I say nothing, since I’m still in shock at Patrick and his audacity, he says uncertainly, “She’ll have a water, too?” They’re both staring at me like maybe I’ve gone dumb. Blinking, I nod at them. The kid gives me one more odd look and slumps away.

As soon as he’s gone, Patrick’s grin is back to me. My hand is starting to sweat under the heat of his. Lovely.

“So,” he asks with such hope, “what do you think?”

Carefully I retract my hand. “Um, what do I think?” I glance over his shoulder at Liv. She’s written, End him, on a napkin in bold, black marker and holds it up.

I try to focus back on Patrick, but Livvie’s trying to write something else on the napkin, and my eyes keep flicking over his shoulder. He gives me a confused look and starts to turn around.

Quickly I grab his hand and squeeze it, maybe a little too hard.

He snaps back around in his seat. “I think!” I practically shout at him. An old lady in the booth to our right gives me a sharp look. I whisper an apology to her and continue, quieter this time, “I think we need to have a talk.”

To anyone else this would be the kiss of death. This phrase has let significant others around the world know that their relationship has run its course. It communicates what people don’t want to say out loud. It’s a “we’re done, over, adios, sayonara, I-hope-we-neversee-each-other-again” kind of phrase that most people understand before the whole thing even leaves their partner’s mouth.

Not Patrick. He’s still smiling at me with that same dopey expression he had when he said he wanted me to MEET HIS PARENTS.

31

Impressions 2019 || Entze My mouth opens.

“Here you go.”

Crap.

The waiter sets my water down in front of me. “Are you ready to order?” His eyes flick between us and he fiddles with the cap on his pen.

“Can we have just a few more moments?” Patrick says, picking up his menu. Meanwhile I suck down half of my water. The waiter gives me a shocked look, but nods and scampers away.

To his credit, Patrick does study the menu. Little does he know that we won’t be here long enough to enjoy a meal. Before he can get too excited about the thought of cheesy ravioli or meatballs the size of his head, I push his menu down.

“Oh right!” he grins at me, “You wanted to talk about something.”

He reaches out and places his hand over mine. His thumb absentmindedly rubs across my knuckles. With a tight smile, I slide my hands away to sit safely in my lap. “Well, Patrick,” I gulp and meet his eyes. He’s looking at me like I just found the cure for cancer. Okay, so no eye contact.

In my peripherals Livvie mimes ripping off a band-aid. I try to remember what the website I looked up earlier, How to Breakup with Someone You’re Not Really Dating, said to do in this situation.

Normally I don’t turn to the world wide web for relationship advice, but I didn’t know what else to do. This was a brand-new situation for me, and I was at a loss. The article I found was actually very helpful and said the key to making a clean break was to place the blame on yourself. Use phrases like, “I’m just not ready for a relationship,” or “I have trouble committing,” or “I’m not in a good place right now.” Which let’s be honest, all of the above are true in my case.

The silence stretches on for an uncomfortably long time. Don’t be a wimp, Jess, just get it over with, I think. Another deep breath and it all comes out in a steady stream.

“Idon’tthinkweshouldseeeachotheranymore.” I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s strong enough that it flutters the only two hairs on his forehead that he hasn’t suffocated with gel.

That was virtually painless. Immediately my appetite is back.

My stomach grumbles at the sight of the free breadsticks the waiter dropped off with our waters.

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Entze || Impressions 2019 Pat sits back in his chair, stunned. He scratches his head, pulls at his collar, looks around the room. I smile at him sympathetically because this looks like it really shook him to his core, and start packing my things. The website said to make a quick getaway after the fact. Maybe I should text Liv to stick some breadsticks in her purse before she leaves.

I’m throwing my phone in my bag and searching for my car keys when he says, “Why? Did I do something wrong?” Patrick pushes his glasses up on his nose and sniffs. Is it just me or do his eyes look a little watery?

My smile freezes in place. If he cries, I swear…

Liv’s shoving a breadstick in her mouth behind his head.

Her eyes widen at me, the hand with the half breadstick makes a slashing movement across her throat. Get out, now, she mouths.

She’s practically standing. Her arms spin in the direction of the door like she’s motioning a little league baseball player to head for home.

“Uh,” I shoot her another quick glance, before focusing back on Patrick, “No, no it’s just-I’m not—” My mind scrambles to remember what the website said.

“I’m not ready to be in a relationship right now.”

His eyes light up and he lunges at me across the table. I slide back in my chair, pushing it until it’s teetering on the back legs. I meet eyes with the old lady that glared at me earlier and we share the same “excuse me what’s happening” expression.

“That’s fine!” Patrick exclaims, “I’m willing to wait!”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Liv starts choking behind us and pretends to search for something under the table when he glances at her. He focuses back on me with slightly crazy eyes.

“No, no! That’s not necessary!” I put up my hands in an attempt to ward him off.

“Jess, really, I’ll do anything, I just want to be with you!”

I don’t even know what to say at this point. Usually I just slowly drift away, and the guys accept it. One day I’m there and before they know it, they haven’t seen or heard of me for weeks.

This is what I get for trying to do a decent thing and breakup with someone in person. He turns all “let’s work it out.”

Honestly, I’m tempted to just get up and run away, and I never run.

33

Impressions 2019 || Entze

The old lady leans toward me “Honey, do you need me to call someone?” This time she glares at Patrick. He’s finally sat down, but his leg is shaking under the table and I can pretty much hear the brain waves he’s sending me. They’re saying please don’t leave, please meet my parents, please have my children.

A jingling comes from my purse. It takes me a second to realize it’s my phone. I frantically dig through my bag, throwing things on the table as I search for it. LIV. I look around and find her crouched by the host’s stand, aviators on and partially hidden behind a very annoyed looking maître d’.

“Sorry, I gotta –” Pat looks like he’s about to say something again, but I cut him off, “Hello?!”

“Oh god, just get up and run. Tell him you’re sorry and hope that he finds someone as equally boring as himself and then get out.” She hangs up and starts apologizing to the stern maître d’.

I don’t even bother with shoving my things back in my bag. I gather them in my arms instead and am out of my seat a second later. Patrick still looks confused, “So,” by now everyone in the restaurant is looking at us. I clear my throat, “Well, it’s been fun. I gotta go. Haveagoodlife.”

With that I blast out. Behind me Patrick shouts out, “Jess!” but I just keep speed walking to the door. Past the waiter, who almost drops the three drinks he’s carrying, past the host who yells something incoherent in Italian, probably about how I’m never welcome back, and past Liv who’s holding the door open for me.

Unfortunately, I’m in such a hurry to get out that I don’t see the person trying to come in the restaurant.

“Oof.” Everything in my arms goes clattering to the floor and out the door onto the sidewalk.

We say, “I’m sorry” in unison and squat down to pick it all up.

“Here you go,” they’re holding out my wallet, dorm keys, and a pack of gum. My eyes follow their outstretched hand up their muscular arm, over the collar of their gray quarter zip, to the most striking green eyes I’ve ever seen.

We blink at each other.

A gorgeous smile. “Hi. I’m Luke.”

Maybe I’m ready to be in a relationship after all.

34

L oveland || Impressions 2019

The Sentinel Salena Loveland It stands there, still. Watching. Waiting. Solitary. No one knows how long it’s been there, but everyone knows it’s there. The Cadillac with the small horse trailer it was pulling along the top of the hill stopped one day and never started again. Now, frequent travelers of the nearby Wyoming highway use it as a steadfast beacon to track their progress.

The family could only afford one vehicle. They needed something large enough to carry all of them into town with room to spare for all the supplies they’d have to bring home with them.

The ranch, however, required a truck to haul tools and tow the horse trailer. There was simply no way the whole family could ride the forty miles into town in a pick-up, so they decided on the sturdy Cadillac still in its prime. It was a little more expensive than some of the other cars, but it had the room and the power they needed.

For years, the car was the one steadfast machine they could always count on. In the middle of forty-below-zero winters, it roared to life. For countless summers, it drove hundreds of miles crisscrossing the region to deliver kids and horses to rodeos and county fairs. It escorted teenagers on first dates to drive-in movies and charioted them to proms. It hauled mom’s bolts of fabric and dad’s toolboxes.

One by one, the family disappeared. Some moved away, others died. Then there was only one. The Cadillac started a little slower now and used a little oil. And even though newer vehicles had appeared on the ranch, it was always the one the family preferred.

One last job, though it didn’t know it at the time. He led the young mare into the small horse trailer he had hitched to the car.

It was a short drive, only twenty minutes or so. Atop the hill was a view of the whole valley. The railroad ran about one hundred yards below. He stopped the Cadillac and just sat for a while, taking in the peace and quiet of the Wyoming countryside. The car’s trunk bounced up as the mare backed out of the trailer.

It stands there, still. Watching the valley. Waiting for him to return from his ride. A solitary sentinel on the hill.

35

NonFiction

Impressions 2019 || Selle

High School 1st Place Writing Winner

Wildflower Rachel Selle I loathe the smell of flowers. One whiff and my eyes clamp shut with the flood of memories rising quickly below me, engulfing my toes, making its way to my knees and sloshing just below my chin as I flail in its chaos. Its current takes me back to eight years ago when my hair was shorter and my clothes were brighter.

My feet stomped quickly in a race to answer the door first.

To my disappointment, my mom beat me to it. I slouched against the door trying to make out the figures that stood behind it.

“What did she do this time?” my mom joked as two police officers crowded into the room, which felt heavier as my mom dismissed me downstairs with my older brother and sister.

Worry lingered through our racing minds. My oldest sister, Shaundra, wasn’t in the room. I grew impatient as I pictured her confined behind steel bars. This would be the day of her graduation from high school. She couldn’t miss that. We were all in a daze as we tried to make out the muffled voices from upstairs. I smiled with relief as I heard my mom’s laughter. We were snapped out of our trance when we were invited upstairs.

The moment my mom’s face came into view, I realized that she hadn’t been laughing. She’d been bawling. Her eyes, glazed and bloodshot, broke their gaze, falling to the floor in defeat. We sat down on the couch, uneasy as their pitiful eyes tried to speak.

The police suddenly appeared frail as they fidgeted a pamphlet in their hands, avoiding our desperate stare. Breaking the silence, occasionally interrupted by my mom’s sobbing, one of them spoke. “These are the times in our career that are by far the most difficult. Shaundra died in a car accident at 5:30 this morning.” My heart dropped, as did tears among all of our faces.

I’d never lost anyone, so death hadn’t crossed my mind, but when it did, I didn’t second guess it. There was no denial nor bargaining.

Only heartache. Wailing filled the room. The strength my mom had attempted to build up was shattered. She came to wrap her

38

Selle || Impressions 2019

arms around me, holding me tight, making me cry harder. I struggled to breathe under the sobbing. The pamphlet, worn from the officer’s fidgeting, was placed into my mom’s quivering hands.

They discreetly mentioned funeral planning, making this all seem painfully real.

The suffocating smell of flowers filled the dimly lit room, illuminating a glossy casket, swallowed by a swarm of beautiful flowers. As if any number of flowers could compare to the single wildflower picked from the meadow too soon, now shriveled and lifeless, left to decompose, now a damaged image of what once was. “Remember what you’re about to see may not look the way you remember her,” said my mom as she held me closer. She walked me down the row of aisles, and I strode hesitantly, bracing myself for impact. Then it hit me. Only the wave hit me from behind, pushing me closer to the unfamiliar girl before me. Skin tinted yellow and loose gave me chills. Despite their attempts to make her look herself, they couldn’t contain her beauty.

The way her blue eyes shocked those who caught a glimpse.

How her smile was addicting enough to inspire anyone to do anything they could to see it again. How her style so perfectly matched her unique, fearless soul. The way she so effortlessly brought happiness to those in her life and through her changed to be more like her. Her mouth was tragically sealed shut as the heavens were now roaring with her powerful voice.

To this day, I prefer wild flowers not to be picked but to be admired. Conserving its beauty for as long as the elements allow.

To this day, I never hesitate to demand a seatbelt. To this day, I make the most of my youth. To this day, I feel content knowing she’d made it to heaven. And to this day, I smile knowing I got the chance to know her at all.

39

Impressions 2019 || Olson

Passion Clay Olson The sound of shoes squeaking, rims rattling, and nets swishing pumps more blood through me than my heart does. The pure adrenaline of bringing a town to its feet is unfathomable to those who have never done it. Those people will say that it’s meaningless. But in my world, it’s not. It gives me a chance to be more than I could ever be. It gives me the chance to be loved by a community. Something as simple as putting a ball through a hoop makes a nobody into a somebody.

I was confused, dazed, and unsure about what I was going to become. Anxiety and depression slowly crept up, gnawing at my ankles, trying to pull me down onto a path of regret. All I’ve done seemed to be pointless. There had to be something missing in my life. Something had to happen for me to realize something I didn’t know. I had to be something, not just a withered shell of a once happy, energetic young boy. That something was right in front of my eyes, and all I needed to do was turn the channel.

“What a slam by Blake Griffin for the Los Angeles Clippers!” said the broadcaster. I was instantly hooked. That perfect time I turned to channel 24, a man in bright red threw a ball down a hoop in the most spectacular fashion. The crowd erupted into a cheer that was so loud I felt the vibrations shaking the ground. Again and again, he would run down the floor and do unimaginable things with a shiny, orange ball.

Again and again, he would make sixty-thousand people jump on their feet and yell at the peak of their voices. I wanted to be that guy on my ten-inch box TV. Being that I was only ten years old at the time, I couldn’t jump four feet and dunk. It was physically impossible, but I worked on my game. I worked every day, hours on end. If I wasn’t going to dunk, I was going to do something to make thrill shoot through the audience’s veins. Day in, and day out, I slowly got better. Years went by with heartbreak, stress, homework, and responsibilities, but basketball always stayed. My losses and stress all dispersed after time, but that dull brown ball never left my side. It was becoming who I was,

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Olson || Impressions 2019

becoming my paradise, becoming my escape. Who knew a ball, twice the size of my hand, was going to be what got me through most of my hardships in life?

Sports are not useless. They mean something to someone, as books may with another, and automobiles with someone else.

Putting a ball inside a hoop brings people together and unites them as one. With today’s society, it honestly seems that that unity is lost. The news shares more criminals and tragedies than heroes and miracles. Those heroes are always on the sports segment of the broadcast. Sports turn people who have no affiliation with each other into friends solely because they like the same sports team. Isn’t that truly a miracle? If they didn’t show their interest in a team, they might bump shoulders and call each other a dirty name and continue on with their day. Isn’t that truly a tragedy?

Whatever it may be, books, movies, sports, any hobby, it means something. Let it be more than a something. Let it be unity. Unity of a people, family, or oneself.

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Impressions 2019 || Olson

My L ast Christmas Sarah Olson The moment my eyes flickered open, I shot straight up in bed.

Excitement flooded my veins and I sprang off of my mattress.

Peering over the top bunk, I watched as my sister, Mika, rolled around in her blankets and snored like a chainsaw. Most days, as I was the household alarm clock, she was awoken to a sing-song voice and sweet words. Unfortunately for her, I had no patience for it today. Instead, I whipped the cozy blankets away and tossed them to the cold, damp floor.

“Get ready.”

Ecstatic thoughts whirled their way around in my head during my sprint to the bathroom. Overestimating my coordination, I tried to comb my hair and brush my teeth simultaneously to save on precious time. When I eventually made my journey back to our room, Mika was already trudging up the stairs with sleepy Natasha close behind her.

The three of us tiptoed into Joshua’s room and woke him too.

He described his vivid shark-attack dream as we struggled to get him dressed in a striped shirt and khakis with a baby blue clip-on tie. I tried to listen and pay attention to his broken speech, but my heart raced with anticipation. Creeping into my mom’s room, we were careful to keep the door from creaking since none of us were prepared for the guaranteed chaos if her icky boyfriend were to wake up. I tiptoed to my mom’s bedside and nudged her arm a few times. Her arm rose and waved us away before she rolled over to fall back asleep. She promised. A sharp pang of anger stung my heart and worked its way to my throat as I shook her arm again, this time aggressively.

“Mommy, you said you would drive us,” Tasha whispered, peering at our mother through her little girl tears.

The disappointment filling my heart invaded my mind which raced with thoughts of running away. How far could I go? The air around us became heavy and bitter. Even Mika, the oldest sister, had lost her hard-earned maturity in that moment. She dropped

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Olson || Impressions 2019

her gaze to the floor and hid the tears flowing down her puffy cheeks. Ten more minutes brought a loud sigh and the everyday scowl I will never forget before my mother stood up and slipped her boots on. We headed out the door in a tight row behind our mom, who was strutting shamelessly in her oversized, cow print nightgown.

The bald tires of the minivan came to a sliding stop on a cracked parking spot in front of a blue apartment complex. We hopped out onto the sidewalk and broke off in a race through the snow, skipping the “heartfelt goodbyes” to our mother. Joshua gripped my sweaty hand, supporting his weight with it and limping down the hall. When taking more than a couple steps, it never took long for exhaustion to work into his features, twisting his face to look older than he should. Mika scooped him up in both arms and hauled him effortlessly up the staircase. She pretended not to notice as Joshua’s cast, which was three times the width of his leg and stretched from his toes to his hip, scraped against her arm when shifting his body weight side to sidle up the steps.

After reaching the hollow, wood door with the rusty six, Tasha knocked heavily on it and tapped her shoes impatiently on the tiny doormat. A children’s hour (thirty seconds in real time) passed before the door finally swung open. We all flew forward at once, hugging our dad in a big pile. Mika shot me a look after we let go and I searched my mind for a reason until I picked it out. When Dad rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his fingertips, his watch slid down his skinny arm and met his elbow. When I noticed it, I was positive that my heart had leapt up into my throat and would never come back down. The utter lie of relief washed over my face when Dad chuckled and leaned down to kiss us on our heads.

“Can we open presents now?” Tasha squealed and clapped her hands together. Dad grinned and shook his head.

“Not yet, we haven’t eaten.” We trailed behind him to the tiny apartment kitchen and popped some toaster strudels in the toaster.

While Dad poured a glass of water and rattled his pills, loud, breathy whispers about him fluttered around the table.

The dim street lamp was the only light shining in the window; we had watched the last Christmas movie on our list and mugs were emptied again and again (Dad decided we needed to try hot chocolate since mom would never waste money on it.) The credits

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Impressions 2019 || Olson droned over the screen, and we snuck impatient glances up at Dad. I was sure that ages had passed before he wandered back to his bedroom and dragged two big red sacks in front of us. To this day, I’ve never seen anyone with such a proud smile. What was left of his golden hair was pushed back from his face, and his wrinkles gathered under his eyes. Giggles surrounded the tiny green tree on the coffee table while we waited. Dad read names and nicknames out loud, occasionally interrupting himself with a hoarse cough, and passed gifts around the circle until we each had a mound of presents in our lap.

Once the first bag was empty, we got the “green light” to open them, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of the bag. The sharp corners of a box bulged out the sides of it. Did he forget about it? No way he could miss it, it was huge. Maybe it wasn’t for us. Why would he put it in our bag then? A ginormous gift like that had to be something amazing. Apparently Tasha noticed, too, because she pointed a chubby finger at it.

“Mine?” she asked him. Dad only shook his head in slow motion, a smirk fighting its way to his lips.

“Open your presents.”

One by one, we ripped open the best presents we’d ever seen, quickly forgetting about the box. Among our new riches: tons of toys, new shoes, new clothes, and most importantly toys. Since when was Christmas like this? I remember years of opening pajamas and a few books from the local toy drive, but what was this all about?

Wrapping paper confetti littered the carpet in bits of Santa’s beard and pieces of Rudolph’s face. We not-so-graciously tore into cardboard and plastic, excited to free our treasures from their cells. After a few minutes, Dad sat up straight and ruffled Josh’s hair before walking to the neglected box.

A quick confirmation nod from Josh, and Dad yanked away the sack, revealing shiny, gold, cursive letters that read “Polar Express.” I saw a light in my daddy’s eyes that I had never seen before. Pride. Over a toy train? I flashed a quick smile for my dad and retreated to the wonders of the new toy collection beside me.

After a few minutes of begging from Josh, I put the track pieces together around the Christmas tree, just like they do in our

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Olson || Impressions 2019 favorite movie, and we played with the train’s remote for a few hours before passing out on the couches and floor. That Christmas had been a scene straight out of a cheesy Hallmark movie: mugs of hot cocoa, candy canes, personally engraved ornaments to hang on the tree, a toy train puffing around, wrapping paper strewn about, a quiet snow in the windows, and children snoozing in their fuzzy new pajamas. My dad gave all his effort (and money, I had worried) to gift us with our first and last Christmas.

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Photography

Impressions 2019 || Hauck DSU 1st Place Photography Award

Shadow Dog Maclyn Hauck

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Hauck || Impressions 2019

Colored Sunset

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Impressions 2019 || Hauck

Steven’s Luck Maclyn Hauck

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Hauck || Impressions 2019

Wood Texture

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Impressions 2019 || Loveland

DSU Photography 2nd Place Award

Irish Costal Sunset

Salena Loveland

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Loveland || Impressions 2019

Irish Hills

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Impressions 2019 || Rossow

Cactus Abigail Rossow

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Rossow || Impressions 2019

Red Flower

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Impressions 2019 || Stockert

35mm Film Austin Stockert

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Stockert || Impressions 2019

Buzz Off

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Impressions 2019 || Stockert

Fairview Austin Stockert

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Stockert || Impressions 2019

Mountain Grown

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Impressions 2019 || Stockert

Noteworthy Austin Stockert

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Stockert || Impressions 2019

Scrat

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Impressions 2019 || Suwyn

Finding Them Emily Suwyn

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Suwyn || Impressions 2019

Line

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Poetry

Impressions 2019 || Schuh

DSU 1st Place Poetry Winner

The Lavender Lady Elizabeth Schuh Sometimes I go to Christian Addicts Anonymous even though I’m not Christian, where we all begin by introducing ourselves, because when even heroin junkies tell you they don’t understand why you do what you do, you realize traditional venues just won’t cut it.

But here, we meet in a coffee shop, or sometimes the pizzeria.

And it’s nice.

We talk about the patterns of behavior, The pickled grooves in our minds; the way we had to die in order to become alive; people here are addicted to food, and sex, puking, cocaine, blood, and alcohol.

And we talk about the consummation of lives and the things that I knew made me an addict before any psychologist ever came through with the groundbreaking news That what is could be – a diagnosis, theoretical, for me.

One day a woman asked me with incredulity, “You’re beautiful. Why aren’t you happy?”

Now and then when I look in the mirror.

I wonder about what she said; and I think about the friend I had, who was ten times more beautiful than me, and who blew her pretty face off with a .38 special.

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Schuh || Impressions 2019

Kitchen Tiles A second cigarette; And I stole the third when you dropped it on the kitchen floor tiles.

I put it in a drawer for later.

I watch as you run your hand across your temple.

Oh, but the grays and charcoals are in disarray from your lips to the flat curls at the nape of your neck.

Cold wind nestled there.

And self-pity molded into the clay of your brow.

A fourth cigarette; and the third, I brushed aside with my foot.

Oh, it’s there on your brow; matted like plaster.

But I look at you and already know that I already forgive you.

I slip it in a drawer for later.

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Impressions 2019 || Moberg

DSU 2nd Place Poetry Winner

Grandma’s Hands

Suzanna Moberg There’s something about a grandma’s hands; rough and sweet with tender fingers for baking and sewing, but stern palms for shushing and church-behaving massages and back scratches while watching sweet movies, and always available for reaching into even the highest cookie jars.

There’s something about a grandma’s hands; holding a Bible and teaching about prayer, holding a hymnal and singing without care There’s something about a grandma’s hands baking a cake and lighting a candle, holding you tight when it’s dark and you’re scared.

There’s something about a grandma’s hands You don’t realize it then, but you know when she’s gone There’s something special about a grandma’s hands.

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McDonough || Impressions 2019

The Tusks of an Irish Boar John McDonough There is a wild boar on my family crest and late at night he speaks

my name The crest is above my bed My bed is next to the window The window faces east In the morning sun I can hear him gnashing his teeth and praying

for moonlight He tells me my name is like a thrown whiskey bottle He tells me my name is like an Irish Elk He tells me my family was driven out of Ireland like so many snakes That we hit Boston like the rock that killed the dinosaurs Sure enough, I leave craters on bedsheets across New England Like my father and his father He tells me I’ll never find a mattress that doesn’t feel like Irish bedrock.

The boar’s eyes sing me “Scotland the Brave,” but only because it is

the only bagpipe song I know This crest is like a dressing room curtain, and it is the only thing

keeping the world from seeing that my hands are knives,

and the floor is lava That I can’t stand in one place or touch my own face because of it One night, I swear on accident, I carved my own name and a map of

Ireland on my wife’s back I awoke to the boar screaming in Gaelic that she was not the first.

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Impressions 2019 || McDonough

Scary Stories to Read in the Dark John McDonough Everyone sort of knows that ghosts are just Emotions that float around the house Turning things over Exposing the ring of dust around the Vases Emptying out the underwear drawer This house is filled with ghosts Dad is dead But someone is pulling the heating bill out of the trash Mom is pushing up daisies But the plants keep getting water.

You don’t love me anymore But there is a light on in the bedroom in case you come back.

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McDonough || Impressions 2019

Opening Night My favorite part about going to the movies is all the red Red everywhere Curtains, and Seats, and Faces Waiting outside in the cold Even the EXIT sign is red But red in a way that says This is where the red stops It turns every night into opening night Every movie turns to Star Wars until it starts Close your eyes and the ticket taker isn’t putting himself through

college anymore He is a gumball machine, so put your hand out The Cherry Coke costs eight dollars, but the cup is free So is the company, if you go alone I love the red because of the brevity of it all I love the red because it tears the room in half This is the night the Death Star stays blown up This is the night you get what you paid for This is the night Jason stays dead You go home happy, and get a full night’s sleep.

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Impressions 2019 || Lawrance

Wasp Tomb Olivia Lawrance A fly died on our windowsill the other day one hand raised. we a family of fig eaters, could not bring ourselves to remove the body from the windowsill could not bring ourselves to mourn him the way we mourn the babies born right before winter sets in struggling to find corners of warmth. their mother who eats their father who feeds them fruit flies and sunshine and who dies just outside of our hallway window we winter-over, digging fingers into figs scooping the meat out of soft kiwis mourning the hard and small berries we have left the way we coat everything in vinegar.

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Lawrance || Impressions 2019

When to Look for Funnel Clouds Hail or no hail the edges of the storm. it is always where there is rain but no rain it is where the lightning reaches for you sideways crooked it is never where you’re standing it is always where you’re standing, cast in pale green light.

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Impressions 2019 || Lawrance

Green River Reservoir Olivia Lawrance The town was not called green river the town was not underwater until one day it was the town was not called green river and neither, really, was the river but suddenly it was a place where we sunk our weary bodies down a place where we could all float there did not used to be islands suddenly, there were islands and no traffic stops or church suddenly a boy cried out in the night and then was quiet if frogs were like parrots, they would carry his voice in their throat.

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Entze || Impressions 2019

Badlands Ministries Hailey Entze Our hearts live here.

Here where we walk up the butte, July heat causing sweat to drip down our spines, clay crumbling beneath our sandaled feet, All to stare in wonder, once we reach the top, over trees of green and a cerulean sky.

Here where voices of children, laughing, shouting, singing, bounce off sun-drenched buttes.

Where campfire smoke drifts to our noses, Smelling of s’more’s and prayers and summertime.

Here where muddy river water is our favorite swimming hole.

The current pulling us along, our feet slipping in the metallic sludge. that later will become our war paint.

Here where the Friday Night Lights, are for our infamous Musical appearances.

For Cowboy Lyle and Sheriff Bear.

For the songs of Dakota we know by heart, and sitting front row.

Here where we come to teach, But end up learning.

Where we are ourselves.

Our crazy, faithful, sleep-deprived, best selves.

Here where we became family.

Here where our hearts live.

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Impressions 2019 || Entze

Nowheresville, North Dakota Hailey Entze I am from beat-up boots, From Copenhagen-worn Wrangler pockets and dusty Resistols.

I am from the Knife River Valley, A strong, ever-changing current of muddy waters.

From the cottonwoods,

Whose seeds spin through the air,

sticking to my childhood skin, still damp from the sprinkler.

I am from branding irons, smoke, and rope burns.

Dally-wrapped saddle horns and quick-witted neighbors.

From long sun-drenched days ending with

dirt clinging deep in every crevice of my face,

hands coated in mud, blood, manure, and hair.

I am from long, cold winters.

Crispy air, stabbing my lungs like icicles with every breath.

From sweltering summer fields.

Radio blasting Top 40 over

a roaring tractor engine and clanking rake teeth.

I am from the middle of nowhere, invisible on any map.

From gravel roads twisting like veins

Through a hidden western wonderland,

leading me home.

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Ehli || Impressions 2019

Epitah Donald Ehli When the yellow sun roils red, o, mayfly, even Pi comes to its end.

Utrum autem hoc verum sit vel non iudicet studiosus. 1   1 Whether this be true or not the studious will judge. Latin quotation from John Peckham, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1279-1292.

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Impressions 2019 || Gray

Don’t Judge Caoilainn Gray Today I can be your ally, your loving friend.

And the day after that? All good things must come to an end.

Tomorrow, things will go as they are.

I will surrender, and you will be our next rising star.

Surrender to what you may ask?

The cover up that we use, the mask.

Because the real you is way too real for the public, and where it begins? The popular kids, in school.

We learn from a young age that paying big for big brands is what defines “cool.”

We learn the same for going behind our elders to our friend to rip

a JUUL. Next thing you know, your social status becomes a contest.

Who gets the most likes, who tries to be best dressed.

Those big brands for quite the big buck, Nike, Adidas, Converse, Reebok.

Those painful, obnoxious, seventy-dollar shoes that let you win.

But you have to keep going until the whole school is your twin.

Those stupid sweats with the stripes that make you all into the same stupid prototypes.

Yeah, that’s fun. Let’s all wear the exact same disguise, and reject the people who think otherwise.

You poke fun at the boy in third period who cried.

Because he’s supposed to be manly, right?

Because it’s not like you care, every night, he goes home to a nowhere.

To a family that don’t bother to give him things like footwear or healthcare.

Every day for him is a living nightmare.

All he wants is someone to care about his welfare.

And you dare compare him and his disrepair to the fair life that you

have been given!

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Gray || Impressions 2019

The girl you gossiped about because she was with a social worker, it’s not like she already has an eating disorder.

She was taken from her mom who’s a hoarder.

And it was the final court order and that worker flipped everything out of order for her.

That boy you caught smoking outside, that’s his only escape when all he wants to do is hide.

He is tied to two different jobs just to provide for the family that his dad brushed aside.

He tries his best to keep his family supplied with basic needs to keep

them fortified.

His tears dried up a long time ago by the bedside of a mom, who died to keep his pride.

All things aside, his one downside was that one little box on the inside of his pocket.

And you dare to deny him a spot on the football team, as you

collide with him in the hall.

He’s trying his best not to find himself walking cold and alone alongside a countryside road to nowhere in particular. And you? You’re not helping him at all.

The woman you cut in line at the grocery store, little did you know she’s an exhausted mother of four.

She’s a sophomore in college barely making a living wage.

She’s barely middle-aged and her children are in that

developmental stage when they really need her.

But you don’t care, do you?

How are you supposed to know? All of these things are things that you cannot fix or undo.

But you forget to remember that words hurt and actions stay.

Even the smallest little thing, can force somebody’s life to fade to gray.

The life you’ve been given is truly a gift.

A life where you don’t have to thrift or work a night shift.

You come home to food on your plate and a roof on your head.

So be grateful for the life you’ve been given before you get yourself in a fight in the street and wind up dead.

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Impressions 2019 || Petersen

The Herb Healer Abigail Petersen It started early, that gift of hers.

The ability to find the perfect herbs.

To steep them slowly, carefully; smoke trailing up her chimney.

Villagers came from all the valleys for her to treat their maladies.

She worked quickly on all they wanted, never taking a day for granted.

Tirelessly healing.

One day, the young woman needed a break.

She packed her bags and gave them the shake.

Her mother had called and needed her there, and the villagers couldn’t compare, for a mother in need is a more urgent deed.

The people gathered in front of her home, waiting for her return, but when she didn’t show, the tension started to grow.

Some older women started to talk, and when they started, they just couldn’t stop.

“I bet she’s pregnant and without a man.”

“I bet she’s diseased or should be banned!”

The chatty women continued on until all the town sang the same song.

“She probably ran away to escape our wrath.

She knew we’d burn her and give her a fire bath!”

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Petersen || Impressions 2019

Far away, the young herb healer worked, and soon her mother didn’t hurt.

She begged and she pleaded for the young woman to stay, but she told her mother she’d been away.

Her people would be missing her, she was sure.

She packed up her bags and headed home.

Along those roads she would roam, making the long journey to see her friends.

When she got home, the village was in a roar.

They grabbed pitchforks and fire and stormed her door.

For the young girl had left them and might transform into a beast, or a witch, at least.

She answered them calmly, trying to be timely.

They ignored her cries and yelled “Off with her head!”

The villagers dragged her to the fire bed.

They grabbed the torches and coal.

Her flesh burned up quickly, and her screams the wind stole.

As her skin fell off, she reached out a hand, begging for anyone to stand.

But no one stood up, so the young girl burned to a stump.

The earth yelled in agony while watching this tragedy.

The villagers started to die, and the others began to cry, for the only person to save them was now dead.

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Impressions 2019 || Crenshaw

The Woman Who Lost Shawnte Crenshaw To falter sorrow in crimson’s bleak ear, let be gone today, and never come near.

Push on pure agony, yet we hold strong, mock us purely because we have had to wait so long.

To wed and bear child as God permits, sanctified in your safety, yet I’m at my wits.

Lonesome betrayal evokes treacherous thought.

To be a woman, to plead, God knows how much I’ve fought.

Given light upon a new day, yet nothing has changed, a part of me missing, now becoming so estranged.

Given two hearts, blessed be to come, yet this miracle only happens for a chosen some.

Pain that is worth holding within me, your tiny heart, ‘til the Lord decided it was best for us to part.

Given the chance, I pray every day, that with hope and faith I would have my way.

Given suffrage and purpose, I will patiently wait, to have you return before it gets too late.

I had dreams for you, sweet little of mine, yet the heavens thought that’s best where you would shine.

We picked out a name, guessed who you would be, ‘til sharp pains of horror shot right through me.

I wept for you, tears drowning my hope.

I knew it was happening, I planned how I’d cope.

Words became absent for those around me, They knew yet they were blind to see.

I became a walking disease, the woman who lost.

I smiled on anyway, even though it came with a cost.

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Crenshaw || Impressions 2019

There’s emptiness of darkness, an unfinished painting, My emotions bending, snapping, ever daunting.

Support goes amiss, as if it never happened, like you never were, I go back and look at photos, at memories, just to be sure.

Life keeps on passing, wasted time treads on by, I must keep going as I relinquish with a sigh.

To carry this baggage of woe and a heart-breaking tune, yet continue living as if you weren’t taken too soon.

Many of us hide in the shadows of day, given one voice, I would stand up and say, “More women than you know carry loss within their heart, we hold ourselves tall, given that gracious motherhood had been ripped apart.”

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Impressions 2019 || Dragseth and Doherty

A Cajun Tale Debora Dragseth and Steven Doherty Lew Orleans. His name, a curse.

Could ever a mother have done any worse?

How could he woo a voodoo queen, Who would take his name: Mrs. Lew Orleans?

The Big Easy streets, where Lew held sway.

A prowler by night. A scoundrel by day.

One night he caught her, that sweet Rosamond.

She scoffed at his name and all hope was gone.

His heart and soul so full of pain, Lew slipped down to Pontchartrain.

In the dark water bayou, he left no trace.

A beaten man who had lost the race.

A moss-covered cross, for a man of few means, Is all that remains of Lew Orleans.

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Jackson || Impressions 2019

Voodoo Woman Accompanies “A Cajun Tale”

Eden Jackson

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Impressions 2019 || Skaff

Mask Julianne Skaff I put it on every day It goes with everything I wear It’s plain and blends in with the rest You’ll never know who’s behind it, even if you guessed.

No one ever questions it They all stare with blank, stale faces It’s accepted but not with warm, welcoming embraces.

Everyone else wears it, too It’s how we like to hide Trying to keep away from what we feel inside.

Those who don’t have it are considered lost Those who oppose it are considered insane But those who have it are tied down in chains.

I take it off when I’m alone I tuck it underneath my bed just to keep it close It’s not something I have to have, it’s just what I chose.

I don’t want anyone to know who I really am They could never love the girl behind it They would only push her aside Just as we all do with our feelings inside.

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Art

Impressions 2019 || Disch

DSU 1st Place Artwork Winner

Rainy Day Holly Disch

8x11 Watercolor and Pencil

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Disch || Impressions 2019

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Impressions 2019 || Wenning High School 1st Place Visual Winner

Serenity Emily Wenning

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Ferebee || Impressions 2019

SOMBER Nicole Ferebee

8x10 Ink

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Impressions 2019 || Foss

Ferdinand Alexus Foss

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Foss || Impressions 2019

Peonies

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Impressions 2019 || Gregg

Midnight Pomegranate Emily Gregg

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Gregg || Impressions 2019

First Day of Autumn

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Impressions 2019 || Schmidt

Flare ChristiAnna Schmidt

9x12

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Schmidt || Impressions 2019

Spirit of Flame

18x14

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Author and Artist Biographies

Impressions 2019 || Author and Artist Biographies

Margaret M. Barnhart teaches writing and literature at Dickinson State University. Her poems, short stories, and essays have been featured in several regional small presses, and an excerpt appeared in one nationally-released anthology: Leaning into the Wind (Houghton Mifflin, 1997). In 2010, Margaret published the historic novel Under the Twisted Cross, based upon her father’s experience as a POW in Germany during World War II. Margaret resides in Dickinson with her husband Pat, and she continues to write short stories and essays.

Shawnte Crenshaw is a 27 year-old mom to a 5 year-old daughter.

She is a full time student at DSU and also works two jobs in the ER at Saint Alexius, and on campus at the Stoxen Library. Her passions include reading many forms of literature including poetry, and writing.

Holly Disch

is a fine arts student at DSU with a fondness for illustrations and comic book art; her preferred mediums are watercolors, colored pencil, and ink.

Dr. Doherty

Dr. Dragseth

are longtime faculty members and friends at Dickinson State University. Dr. Steven Doherty is the chair of the Department of Social Science and Dr. Debora Dragseth is a faculty member in the School of Business and Entrepreneurship.

The two often collaborate on artistic ventures. and

Donald W. Ehli

is an Adjunct Lecturer of Communications at DSU. He is employed at the Chateau de Morès State Historic Site as a guide and in History Alive! where he portrays A. T. Packard, Editor of the Bad Lands Cow Boy (1884-1887) and Felix Gollnick, a German immigrant who worked for the Marquis de Morès on his short-lived Medora-Deadwood Stage Line.

Hailey Entze

is an English-Creative Writing major at DSU from Golden Valley, North Dakota. After graduating in 2020 she hopes to become a graphic design artist while working on writing Young Adult novels.

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Author and Artist Biographies || Impressions 2019

Caoilainn Gray is a high school student, born in Belgrade, Montana, and raised in her hometown of Spearfish, South Dakota. Her passions include writing, creating art and cooking. She has always found a passion in today’s Civil Rights Movement, too, and starting very recently, she has taken to writing poetry as a form of protest towards the things she thinks are wrong with the world.

Emily Gregg

is a freshman at DSU majoring in Psychology and minoring in Fine Arts.

Megan Guenther is from New Salem, ND, and she is a senior in high school. She originally wrote “Eternal Love” when she was a freshman, but she was too shy send it anywhere. She is very grateful for this opportunity. Maclyn Hauck is a senior at DSU from Belle Fourche, South Dakota. She is a Graphic Design and Business Major.

In her free time she enjoys riding horses, reading, taking photos, and creating art. Once Maclyn graduates she hopes to find a job close to home.

Olivia Lawrance

graduated with her MFA in poetry in the spring of 2016. She currently works at DSU as the Tutoring Center Coordinator. Her work has also appeared in Salon by Honeybee Press, and Mikrokosmos.

Salena Loveland

is from Worland, Wyoming and is currently a senior English major on the creative writing track at Dickinson State University. She loves that stories in any form—movies, books, art, poetry, music—have the magical ability to take us into other worlds and make us feel the entire range of emotions. After graduating this May, Salena plans to earn an MFA and later a PhD in creative writing.

John McDonough is a New England transplant living in Dickinson, North Dakota, where he works for DSU as a recruiter. He lives with his wife, two dogs, and a lizard: John Jr. He enjoys fossil hunting, smoking cigars, and playing disk golf. His poetic inspirations include Sid Vicious, Roberto Clemente, and CM Punk.

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Impressions 2019 || Author and Artist Biographies

Suzanna Moberg

is an English Education major from Dickinson, North Dakota. She enjoyed writing short stories as a young kid and was re-introduced to creative writing when she took a course at DSU. She plans to graduate in the spring of 2020 and begin her teaching career.

Margaret Nordberg,

also called Meg, is a DSU Freshman. She spends her time on campus in the Trio Lab when she is not in class or doing events for SOTA.

Clay Olson is a junior at Beulah High School.

Sarah Olson grew up in five towns in North Dakota. She is a high school student from Beulah, ND, and has participated in speech, basketball, drama, and art club.

Abigail Petersen

is a senior at Ashley High School. She enjoys reading books and studying for her EMT license. She works three jobs as an EMR, CNA, and store clerk. She plans to study at UND for a career in Medicine.

Abigail Rossow

is a fourteen-year-old freshman from Zeeland High School. Her only hobby is photography, and she has attended IMC for digital photography. She has a Canon 50D camera and she loves it.

ChristiAnna Schmidt is a junior at Beulah High School. She enjoys creating art, especially using oil paint and graphite. Some of her favorite subjects to illustrate are flowers, animals and portraits.

E. C. Schuh of Grand Rapids, Minnesota, graduates with a BA in history from Dickinson State University in May of 2019 with the intention of continuing graduate studies in American history and specializing in Lincolnania. Her poetic influences are Carl Sandburg and Charles Bukowski.

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Author and Artist Biographies || Impressions 2019

Rachel Selle is a high school student from Beulah, ND.

Her life has always been an assortment of ways to express herself through creativity, whether that be writing or art. Her passion for the visual arts has pushed her to take every opportunity to guide herself into a career in illustration. She hae taken on the challenge of growing more comfortable with sharing her works with others.

Julianne Skaff is originally from Florida but graduated high school in South Heart, North Dakota. She is currently a Composite Music Education Major at DSU. Julianne is actively involved in all of the music ensembles on campus, as well as Cru, Agriculture club, theatre, and is the president of the National Association for Music Education club. She writes poems on the side during her free time.

Austin Stockert

is a junior 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 DSU who aspires to home school her children when she graduates in 2020.

Grace Volk is a senior at Saint Mary’s Central High School. She is involved in cheer and many other activities including Science Club, SM Messenger (school newspaper), Saints for Life, National Honor Society, Leo Lions (Service Club), and Art Club. Upon graduation, she will attend University of Mary studying English with a minor in philosophy and emphasis in pre-law.

Emily Wenning

is a junior at Beulah High School. She has been taking art classes for the past five years and loves to experiment with paint and other mediums.

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