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 twodimensional artwork by DSU students, faculty, staff, alumni, and regional high school students. Digital archives of the magazine are available at dickinsonstate.edu/impressions.
©2020 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.
2020 Impression Staff Student Editors: RJ Dobbins Dia Pottinger Marissa Schatz Austin Stockert
Faculty Advisor: Martin McGoey
Table of Contents Fiction False Face…………………………………………………………………..…... 2 DSU 2nd Place Fiction—Catherine Ivesdal Birthday Boy...………………………………………………………………… 14 Matther Buettner Surprise Attack at the Two-Bit………………………………………………..17 DSU 1st Place Fiction—Hailey Entze
Nonfiction Mined-over Matter: On Touring Minnesota’s Soudan Iron Mine……….29 Margaret Barnhart Humble Housing……………………………………………………………...34 DSU 1st Place Nonfiction—Mariah McLaughlin
Photography Pecking Order..………………………………………………………………………. 41 Hailey Entze Collapse……...……………………………………………………………….. ………42 Jennifer Stika Line of Sight…………………………………………………………………………...43 DSU 1st Place Photography—Jennifer Stika Made of Glass…………………………………………………………………………44 High School 1st Place Visual—Abigail Hodell Mormon Row………………………………………………………………………….45 Hailey Entze A Night in Venice…………………………………………………………………….46 Austin Stockert
Ateliers…………………………………………………………………………………47 Austin Stockert Zayed Mosque………………………………………………………………………...48 Eric Brown Bird in the Plaza………………………………………………………………………49 DSU 2nd Place Photography—Emily Suwyn Ten Minutes in the Colossuem……………………………………………………...50 Emily Suwyn Burano…………………………………………………………………………………51 Austin Stockert Abandoned……………………………………………………………………………52 Hailey Entze At the End of Country Roads………………………………………………………..53 Hailey Entze
Photography Canale di Venezia…………………………………………………………………….54 Austin Stockert Orvieto…………………………………………………………………………………55 Austin Stockert Pure Innocence………………………………………………………………………..56 LaRae Skachenko Skogafoss………………………………………………………………………………57 Jennifer Stika
Poetry A Cajun Tale, Part 2…………………………………………………………………..59 Debora Dragseth and Steven Doherty Secret Reunion………………………………………………………………………...60 Eric Brown July 23………………………………………………………………………………….60 Lara Carlson McGoey A Mother’s Presence………………………………………………………………….61 DSU 2nd Place Poetry—Sarah Griffis Over the Edge…………………………………………………………………………61
Greyson Kadrmas Flyer……………………………………………………………………………………62 High School 1st Place Writing—Greyson Kadrmas The Final Goodbye……………………………………………………………………63 Mariah McLaughlin
Poetry Every Life is Ivy………………………………………………………………………64 Sarah Griffis The Orchard…………………………………………………………………………...64 Greyson Kadrmas Rainshadow…………………………………………………………………………...65 Debora Dragseth Tacoma, the View……………………………………………………………………..66 DSU 1st Place Poetry—Amanda D’Aniello The Storefront is Burning…………………………………………………………….67 Amanda D’Aniello Smoke Break…………………………………………………………………………..68 Amanda D’Aniello
Addictions……………………………………………………………………………..69 Noah Smyle
Art We the People…………………………………………………………………….Cover ChristiAnna Schmidt Morning Ride…………………………………………………………………………71 DSU 1st Place Art—Elizabeth Widmer Sunset Beauty…………………………………………………………………………72 DSU 2nd Place Art—Dessiree Harmon Together We Stand…………………………………………………………………...73 High School 1st Place—ChristiAnna Schmidt Old Friends……………………………………………………………………………74 Elizabeth Widmer Hands…………………………………………………………………………………..75 Tasia Horning
Edgar’s Midnight Feast………………………………………………………………76 Dessiree Harmon Tripps…………………………………………………………………………………77 Tasia Horning
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
False Face
“Rain is calls for dancing.” “Rain calls for bad driving,” I argued, seeing that ugly gray and feeling a throb in my gut. Another two hours on the road and the sky was threatening hard rain, massive globs that spill across the windshield faster than the wipers can handle. Taking an airy breath, Millie swung herself around a pole that held up the neon sign that urged us to stop. Her fingertips slipped ever so slightly, propelling her body forward, but she took it in her stride. “’Singing in the rain!’” she bellowed. No one was around for her dazzling one-woman show except for me. “’Just singing in the rain. What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again!” I stuffed my hands in my pockets, uncertain of which one kept my keys hostage. “More like irritated again,” I argued under my breath. It wasn’t much of a comeback. In fact, its status as a comeback could be argued easily. “Come on, Roxie. We’re gonna be late.” "Oh," Millie tsked. “Roxie is from Chicago. I was singing-” “Millie.” If I wasn’t so tired, I would have screamed her name. “I don’t care. Let’s just get in the car and get to the motel. I am sick and I am tired, and I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.” We didn’t speak as we climbed into the car and sat down in our respective seats. For once, no point was made on my part about the necessity of wearing a seatbelt, and Millie drew up no arms when I switched on a country station.
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
Not that my younger half-sister and I spoke much to begin with. We by no means had a bad relationship, but there just wasn’t any common ground for us to start from. Millie thought it was lame that we had to spend time together just because the same man was responsible for making us. To Millie, I was just her dull older half-brother, product of his father’s first wife who’d died. I wasn’t anything that mattered in the grand scope of her life. In fact, I couldn’t say if Millie even considered me part of her life. We saw each other every Easter and that was it. That was why neither of us saw it coming when Dad requested that I drive Millie to our cousin Fred’s wedding. Dad and Millie’s mom, Jule, were already at Uncle Garret’s house. They’d left two days earlier to help with wedding prep, leaving me with a musically obsessed preteen for three whole days. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t even sure how old Millie was. I always simply referred to her as a preteen. In my defense, she only ever called me old, so we were even. “Dad said you were bringing a date to the wedding.” Sighing, frustrated by the memory, I retorted, “He said the same thing about you.” “Steiner,” she huffed, in no mood for joking. It was Millie; of course, she would be interested in her big half-brother getting a date. Maybe that was one of the only times Millie would ever be interested in me. As I said, she was a preteen. She lived for that stuff. “I was gonna bring my date,” I admitted, “but Dad told me not to.”
“Why not?” Millie whined. Too bad Dad couldn’t have shared her enthusiasm. “Cause my date wasn’t someone Daddy Dearest approved of.” I turned up the heat, hoping for an end to this talk, but Millie seemed to be in awe. Her eyes were the size of the fifty-cent pieces I used to collect. “What?”
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
She blinked, leaning over the console to better examine me like a bug under a microscope. “You did something Dad disapproves of?” She giggled like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Yeah, right! Steiner, you’re a card!” We went over a bump so elevated that Millie slipped off her chair a bit and hit her knee on the lower part of the dash. She hissed at it—like that would really make the car sorry— and promised she was fine. Not like I asked, but she said it anyway. “That’s karma for sticking your nose in my business,” I sassed. “Steiner, what did we hit?” Millie murmured, the teasing gone from her voice. She sat up and nervously pressed the cloth of her frumpy skirt to her knees. Narrowing my eyes, I assured her it was just a lump of dirt or something. So few people traveled this road. They were bound to be a bit rough. “No, that felt... big.” Shrugging, I offered up, “It was a big lump of dirt?” That wasn’t good enough for her. “Stop the car,” Millie begged. I did and waited patiently for her to access the flashlight on her phone and venture out into the cloudy evening. It was late enough that the world was made of shadows, but I didn’t think the flashlight was really necessary. Two minutes later, Millie was sliding back into the car. Her hand was shaking as she clicked the door shut and actually buckled up. Her phone sat in her lap, illuminating the inside of the car into a dull, gray blur. “It was a tumbleweed tangled up with another tumbleweed,” she whispered, face to her lap. “That’s all?” I asked without looking at her. The snarkiness in my voice was unintended, but it was there, and it was all Millie seemed to hear. I wasn’t angry, just a bit irritated. The stop was for nothing. All it did was soothe some of Millie’s uncalled for paranoia. My half-sister huffed. “Don’t make fun of me! Mom has just started letting me watch scary movies. I thought we’d rolled over a dead body or something.”
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
I’d been working out Millie’s age in my head and had come up with fourteen, but then I started wondering if it was actually closer to twelve. When she was born, I’d been away at school the entirety of her mother’s pregnancy and the first two years of Millie’s life. I moved back home at fifteen, and by then Dad had completely discarded any semblance of a relationship we had. While it seemed Mille had this image in her head of me being brilliant and untouchable, Dad saw the exact opposite. Millie thought just because I had a good job and didn’t fight with Dad the way she did, that meant I was the favorite. I wondered if she realized I hated my job. I wondered if she realized the reason I didn’t fight with Dad was because I didn’t talk to him. I wondered if she realized Dad had no favorite. “I’m not making fun of you,” I promised sheepishly. “Sorry. Just tired. My brain is all over the place.” She snorted. “Like your life?” “Exactly like my life.” At that point, I decided it was best to just agree with Millie. After all, it wasn’t a lie. A good job didn’t automatically equal a perfect life. If my life was perfect, I would’ve had a third person in that car right then. “You know,” Millie giggled, “same actually.” “And your mom has just started letting you watch horror movies?” “PG-13, my dude! I just turned thirteen. I can’t watch R yet, though.”
“Oh my god, your mom! Dad always let me watch whatever I wanted, and my mom didn’t care. I grew up on Freddy Krueger.” Millie didn’t have her face turned towards me, but I knew she was rolling her eyes. “And look how well that turned out.”
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
“It turned out alright. My movie-going habits didn’t make me who I am today.” “Then what did?” That was a good question. What did make me who I was? What made me have the feelings I had? Was there anything anyone could have done to change me? I bet Dad thought the same things. He was desperate enough to do just about anything to make sure I maintained that image of a perfect son he paraded around. Too bad he’d never have the real thing. He’d have to settle for a mask. To my surprise, Millie started laughing again. “My, my! So serious, Steiner!” she cooed, throwing her head back dramatically. The brunette portion of her hair, the left side, fell in front of one eye, leaving a single green orb on display.
“Millie,” I trilled, “so immature.” I turned up the radio to tune out any further conversation. We’d hit a brick wall going one hundred and my head was stinging. Ten miles down the road, when Millie got sick of Top 40 Country, she plugged a headphone in one ear, the right one facing the window, and then started humming without a care in the world. Or so I thought. “Tell me about your Juliet.” “My who?” “Your date. The one Dad doesn’t like.” I paused. I considered. I decided.
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
“Well, Juliet is actually Julian,” I said quickly, acting without remorse... or acting as though I had no remorse. My half-sister hummed thoughtfully, bobbing her head to the music only she heard. “We met in college. Dating is new, but I’ve sort of known him for a while. Like, knew of him.” “Is he tan?” “Of all the questions...” But I smiled. And then I was laughing, and Millie grinned with both sets of teeth, explaining that she seriously wanted to know. Apparently, I needed someone to offset my ghostliness. “He’s tan. Cuban. His grandmother moved here ages ago because, in AJ’s words, heck with communism!” Millie raised an invisible goblet. “Heck with communism!” she agreed, and I wondered if she knew what communism even was. And, if she knew, did she know that Cuba was a communist territory of the United States? And, if she knew, did she even care? So many things. I didn’t know so many things about my only halfsibling, and I felt like she knew even less about me. All Millie knew was what Dad told her and, from what I’d gathered, that’s all a load of crap. I’d never wanted a younger sibling, but that didn’t mean I had to be so indifferent towards the one I did have. It wasn’t Millie’s fault that she happened to be born so soon after my mom died, so soon after he married her mom. It wasn’t her fault there was so much animosity in our family. That was Dad. All Dad. Maybe a little me, but I shouldn’t be blamed for being myself. That was why I swallowed hard and turned the radio down. “What’s up with you and musicals?” I asked. “What?” she responded, the smile on her face twitching, but never once dropped.
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
“We talked about my love.” The word felt strange on my tongue. I’d never used the word love when talking about, or to, AJ before. It was weird but it wasn’t wrong. “Now I wanna talk about yours.” “Ooh!” Millie burst, hands in the air. “Where should I begin?”
And, as painful as it was, we bonded. We talked about musicals and what high school is like and whether Alexander Hamilton should have been president or not and whether it was worth moving to Norway for free college. That last one was in relation to Millie’s future, not my past. We got to the motel late. I didn’t bother calling Dad to let him know we were in. There was a voicemail on my phone I saw when I laid down in my queen-sized bed across the room from Millie, but I was too beaten down to check it. Millie stayed up for a little watching TV. She had on one of the billion sitcoms about friends living in New York, and the fake audience laughter lulled me into a beautiful sleep. I’d forgotten about the voicemail when I woke up. Millie was a bit of a chore to wake up and get ready that morning, but I managed to do it. She put on her own make-up in the mirror. Unlike every other girl I knew, she didn’t take that long. It was a five-minute ordeal and then she was ready to go. My half-sister was wearing a simple purple dress that went down past her knees along with a pair of fancy flip-flops and a flower in her hair. I wore a casual button-up with some slacks. My hair was a mess to deal with, so I just pulled it back into a tiny ponytail. Dad would complain, but I couldn’t really care less. Man-ponies were back in style. He would have to deal with it. It was when Millie and I were pulling up to the park where the wedding was being hosted that I finally realized something was up. No one was at the park. We checked all around and found remnants of a wedding party having been by; there were a few stacked chairs here, some flowers there, and a couple tables were set up near the picnic tables provided by the park. That was it.
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
I whipped out my phone. “What the actual hell?” I growled, angrily texting Dad to ask where everybody was. No answer. “Did Dad call you at all?” Mille looked confused, but I knew better. It was more likely for Dad to have called Millie rather than me. However, that was a dead-end. She had no calls or texts on her phone. “Do you think something happened?” she asked. Rather awkwardly, I set my arms around her shoulders. My little sister looked genuinely worried and I really didn’t like that. I’d never been good with hysterical people. “They probably just had to reschedule or decided to have the wedding somewhere else,” I assured her. After some searching, I found Uncle Garret’s number stored away in my phone and called him up. Four rings later, he answered, sounding rather stiff. “Hey, Uncle Garret! Uh, Millie and I are at Sycamore Park and no one’s here? Did we get the wrong park?” “Steiner, didn’t you get the message I left you?” was all Uncle Garret responded with. I thought for a moment, the voicemail finally being recalled. It had completely slipped my mind. “Are you still at the park? I can come and get you and Millie.” “No, I’ll drive us wherever you need us to go.” “Don’t come to my house. Do you remember where Ollie and Lena’s Café is?” he grumbled, and I heard shuffling in the background. The sound wasn’t that of paper, but something heavier. I told him I did. We went there every time we visited Uncle Garret when I was a kid. Ollie and Lena’s had the most amazing chocolate milkshakes. “Meet me there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Millie asked about a million questions as I loaded her back into the car. I kept trying to tell her I had no answers, but she didn’t listen. To be honest, I didn’t think she actually wanted me to say anything. She wanted to fill the car with noise so she could focus on her own voice instead of the voices in her head.
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
Ollie and Lena’s was a brick café in the downtown area of Dad and Uncle Garret’s hometown. It had been there since my grandmother had moved to town back in the thirties, and she told me when I was little that the taste of the food never changed. The place stayed in the family; the cook that made Grandma’s food was the original, the cook that made Dad and Uncle Garret’s food was their daughter, and the cook that was in the kitchen when Millie and I showed up was, I assumed, her son. We got a booth in the back since we were allowed to seat ourselves even though we realized that might make it hard for Uncle Garret to find us. The waitress gave us each a water glass, a menu, and a smile before dashing off to serve a group of elderly gentlemen. Uncle Garret made good on his promise and was there not two minutes after Millie and I had sat down. My little sister didn’t speak while we pretended to look over the menu. I tried to make conversation, joking about how Fred’s wife had probably gotten cold feet or something, but that got old fast. And it didn’t explain why Uncle Garret was meeting us and not Dad. “Did you listen to the message?” Uncle Garret asked as he sat down. He was five years older than our Dad with salt-and-pepper hair and one of those faces that told of far too many shaves. I shook my head. “No. Sorry. What exactly was in the voicemail, first of all, and second“Your dad is in custody.” I didn’t ask what for. Right when Uncle Garret said that, I knew. Millie was the one who had to ask. It was the little girl to my left who nearly fell out of the booth, face full of tears, and demanded to be told what had happened to our father. “He couldn’t have done anything so bad that he was arrested! Someone messed up, right? It’s all a mistake?”
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
But it wasn’t, and Uncle Garret had to explain the situation to her. It was all too familiar for me. I didn’t even blink an eye while he told us that Jule, Millie’s mom, was dead. Dad and Jule had been in their motel room. They both went to sleep, but only Dad woke up. “Wait,” I interrupted Uncle Garret at this part, eyes narrowed. “How’d she die?” Maybe it was insensitive for me to have been the one to ask, but I had to know. That was the one part that actually caught me off-guard. “Overdose,” Uncle Garret said, awkwardly ruffling his hair. It was just as overgrown as my own. “Your dad said she’d just taken too many sleeping pills. He said it was her own fault.” “Mom doesn’t take sleeping pills.” Millie seemed to choke the words out. Her hands were trembling on her lap beneath the table. If we were closer, I would have leaned over and hugged her. A better brother would have done it anyway. I didn’t. I simply patted her on the arm, like a fifth cousin would do. “And she didn’t have any in her bag, and neither did your father,” Uncle Garret continued, growing increasingly fidgety. Our uncle had always been that way. He was a nervous man who worked in accounting. Due to that, I’d expected he’d be better at giving people bad news. Then again, a bad credit score is much different than a dead stepmother. “Where’d the pills come from then?” “There was an unmarked bottle in your father’s suitcase. When authorities asked, he claimed Jule had taken it and placed it in his case.” He shrugged at Millie helplessly. “Obviously, that didn’t exactly hold up well.”
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
In other words, Dad did it. And I wasn’t sure why Uncle Garret was so surprised. He knew the truth about my mom’s death. Everyone did. We just never had the proof. When I was a child, my mother died in a house fire. I’d been there at the time. Dad and Mom had gotten into an all-out fight because Dad wanted to buy a newer, nicer house, but Mom said we couldn’t afford it. He retorted that we couldn’t afford a nicer house, but we could afford all those trips to the chiropractor she took for her back. I wasn’t sure what his argument was there because Mom had injured her back at work severely and was down from work for over a month. Those visits were legitimately necessary. The night after the fight, Dad got me out of bed, placed me in the car, and went back inside. He came back out a few minutes later with two bags. We went to a motel and, the next morning, Dad got a call that our house had burned down. Something to do with the stove. Mom was dead. And Dad was able to buy a brand-new house. “Were they arguing yesterday?” I sighed after an extended silence. One shoulder raised, Uncle Garret nodded. “About what?” “Some trip. Your dad wanted to go to Europe for a month and Jule said it wasn’t a practical thing to do. They both have... had... work and Millie has school,” he explained, gesturing unnecessarily to my little sister. She coughed hysterically, reaching for her sweating water glass. “Jule wasn’t even really angry at your father. She was just confused as to why he wanted to do it.” “Well, he certainly won’t get to now,” I pointed out, arms crossed.
“My mom...” Millie turned to me. My little sister wiped her eyes, shaking. “Steiner.” With a stiff arm, I pulled her against my side and hugged her tight. “He did the same thing to my mom,” I offered up, chin against the top of her head. “I don’t know if that makes this any better, but you’re not alone here.”
Ivesdal || Impressions 2020
And that was why I was the way I was. It wasn’t the fact that Dad let me watch horror movies growing up. No, it was the fact that my mom had died because my dad wanted a new house. It was the fact that I always knew the truth, but I couldn’t do anything about it. It was the fact that Dad had gotten so fed up with me dangling in his face that I knew that he actually sent me away for school just to get a break from me. It was the fact that I had to watch him marry some poor lady and know that, eventually, this would happen. Maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe not. Guess I will never know. And I can finally stop torturing myself about it. Or, if I can't, at least I won't be alone with it... because Millie is right where I am now. We finally have something else in common.
Buettner || Impressions 2020
Birthday Boy
Life was different before France. We were just boys then. Living the life of boys at play, dreaming of bright futures and glories to be won. Then it all changed. After the war we were different. Life was different. Mother died a year after we enlisted. Most likely from worry. Sid, my youngest brother, took it the hardest. He was mother’s favorite. Her baby. That’s one thing Harry and I would never have more of than Sid, Mother’s love. He would always be her baby. The day we left, she didn’t cry for me and Harry. I knew that. She was only crying for her baby. Harry and I were different. We had grown up fast. My father was still around then, and he made sure that we knew how to be men. He died in a factory accident when I was eleven, Harry was twelve. Sid was seven and still every bit his mother’s baby. Dad died, and Sid never grew up. Not until France. Not until the trenches. Harry and I had enlisted because we wanted to serve our country. Sid enlisted because he didn’t want to be left behind. Mother had pleaded with him not to go, but he had been a child for long enough. Had Harry and I known then what we know now, we would have refused to take him. But we didn’t, and so we did, and Sid never came back from France. At least not the Sid that loved to sit next to Mother on Sunday as she read stories. Not the Sid that loved watching birds and singing in the choir. Not the Sid that wrote poems and picked flowers. No, we lost that Sid in the trenches, to sounds of gunfire and explosions, to the screams of boys that, like him had been babies. We lost that Sid beneath the thousands of bodies. Beneath the weight of just trying to hold on for one more day.
Buettner || Impressions 2020
Sid no longer talks about anything beautiful or right in this world. Now, Sid bars the door, never sleeps near windows, and keeps a loaded revolver next to his bed. Now, he screams in the night and wakes the neighbors. Now, he cries when he drinks and sees Germans hiding everywhere. Sid no longer dreams of long walks with pretty girls and holding hands at the theater. Now he dreams of crawling through the cold mud in the dark with a bayonet in his hand. He dreams of contorted bodies and mangled faces. He dreams of the unwelcome taste of blood and smoke on his lips. After we got back from France, I took a job at the steel mill. Sid couldn’t hold a job. He had a few, but he would start to see Germans or hear explosions and end up taking cover, shouting at colleagues and customers. I tried to get him a job at the steel mill, but the foreman said that Sid couldn’t be trusted, and he couldn’t have someone getting hurt on his watch because Sid lost it. So, I went to visit Sid every week. He took up residence in Mother and Father’s old house. It was purchased in full, so I could keep up with the rest. I gave Sid what I could and tried my best to find him a task now and then to keep him busy. Anything to keep his mind away from France. Every Sunday I would visit. I think I picked Sunday because it was the day he missed Mother most. The day when he seemed more like he used to be. He was waiting for me like usual, his back to the wall, taking an occasional peak out the window from behind a small opening he made in the drapes. I never knocked. Never had to. Sid would open the door a crack as I approached and hurry me inside, taking a final panic-stricken survey of the street from end to end to make sure that no Germans had followed me. He never answers the door without his revolver in hand. “How’s everything?” I asked him, pulling at the fingers of my glove, working to remove it.
Buettner || Impressions 2020
“Did you see her out there?” Sid asked ignoring my question or perhaps not hearing. He placed the revolver on a small round table beneath the window next to an empty bottle of gin and proceeded to bar the door.
“Who?” I asked “Mother,” he replied, his eyes glistening with a twinkle of childlike wonder. “She said she would make sure to bring me a carrot cake. She never forgets. It’s my favorite.” “Carrot cake?” “Right, carrot cake. And cream. For my party.” We hadn’t celebrated birthdays since France. They probably should have meant more to us, but they didn’t. Not much did. Not anymore. But today it mattered to Sid. It wouldn’t be the last time I forgot his birthday. And it wouldn’t be the last time he saw our mother like she was when we were boys, standing in the street, walking toward the house with a cake in hand. Nor would it be the last time he saw those Germans in the trenches. And those things that no one should ever have to see, the things we’ll never leave behind. The things we brought back from France. “Yes, that’s right, Brother… carrot cake. I can taste it already.”
Entze || Impressions 2020
Surprise Attack at the Two-Bit
The underside of a bar is quite possibly the cleanest spot in the whole place. No hard wads of gum stuck underneath it. The wood is all smooth from generations of bartenders running their hands across it. Even the floor is cleaner on this side. I can see the reddish-brown bricks without the sheen of spilt beer all over them. In fact, this side of the bar might be my new favorite spot in The Two-Bit Bar. Not to mention it makes a great hiding place from the guy I went on a date with a few weeks ago and never talked to again. “Hey Winn, still doing alright down there?” Hank, my favorite bartender peers down at me. I give him a thumbs up, “Having a great time. Think you guys could put a few pillows down here for next time? Maybe move the TV a little lower so I don’t have to crane my neck?” “If you would stop dating idiots I wouldn’t have to,” he says, his low rumbling voice almost drowned out as someone screeches “Sweet Caroline” over at the karaoke set up. We blink at each other a few times, both knowing it’s unlikely I’ll ever stop dating idiots, before he turns back to the bar. I do see his thick, gray mustache twitch up though, concealing a smile. A minute later a Jack and Coke hovers in front of my face. I accept it gratefully and slide a few bills above my head onto the counter.
Entze || Impressions 2020
My phone chimes from deep inside my purse. With the rim of my cup clenched between my teeth, I dig around for it. My best friend Reese’s picture lights up the screen followed by a text: “I think he still thinks you’re in the bathroom, no sign of him leaving anytime soon.” Jiminy Crickets. I knew I shouldn’t have gone on that date. Free food, drinks and a mildly interesting conversation sounds good at first, but then it’s days later, he’s telling people you’re his girlfriend even though you haven’t spoken to him since, and shockingly, the food isn’t worth it anymore. I wad my jacket up, stick it behind my back, and get comfortable. I’m sipping my drink, eyes glued to the basketball game on the TV on the back wall when a head materializes above me. I stifle a scream and almost shoot whiskey and Coke out my nose.
Wouldn’t it just be easier to tell him you never want to see him again and to forget you exist?” my friend Dean asks. “What would be easier is you going away. You’re going to give away my hiding spot!” I hiss at him. He hands me a napkin and I wipe at the spot on my shirt where my drink splashed on it. It’s really Dean’s fault that I’m down here in the first place. If he hadn’t pushed me to come out tonight, I could be living in the sweet bliss of denial. Telling myself I would never have to see Sean again and denying I ever knew him at all. “Winn, please. This is ridiculous.” Dean rolls his eyes. His blonde, flowing, golden retriever-esque hair bouncing as he shakes his head.
Entze || Impressions 2020
“You know what’s ridiculous?” I ask, and start ticking things off on my fingers, “Pollution, is ridiculous. Global warming is ridiculous. Calling golf a sport, is ridiculous. What I’m doing is not ridiculous.” I dramatically take a long sip of my drink and stare back at him, challenging him to argue with me. Dean narrows his eyes at me, huffs out a, “Fine” then disappears back across the counter. Where I can only assume, he’s going to continue to drink until he’s brave enough to talk to the girl he’s been yammering on about for ages, the whole reason he insisted we go out tonight. Stupid Angela with her long, dark, glossy hair and her bright, straight toothed smile, and her sparkly blue eyes. I bet she orders white wine so that if she spills it, it just disappears. I cast a glance down at the tiny amber colored stain on my shirt. Angela and I are two very different people. About thirty minutes later I’m still curled under the bar and on my second drink. Reese has been sending me updates on Sean’s whereabouts. So far, it’s only been a play by play of where he walks in the bar. He has to know I’m not in the bathroom anymore, right? Maybe he thinks I’m sick, when what really happened was that I saw him, panicked, and dove under the bar. For some reason Hank never even questioned it. Should that be concerning? That I’m such good friends with the bartender that he lets me hide behind his bar for almost an hour? Maybe I need to find a hobby, or at the very least another bar. My phone buzzes again and I scramble to swipe the screen: “He’s headed for the door! I think you can come out now,” Reese says.
Entze || Impressions 2020
In a fit of excitement, I sit straight up and smack my head on the bar. Hank leans back to look at me. I wave him off and gather my things. I’m about to stand up when I have a moment of uncertainty. What if she’s mistaken and he’s still here? I throw my purse over my shoulder, guzzle the last of my drink, and start crawling on my hands and knees to the edge of the bar. Hopefully Reese is somewhere nearby and can let me know if it’s all clear. Once around the bar the only familiar face I see is Dean, who is so engrossed in whatever Angela the Great is saying that a basketball could hit him in the face and he wouldn’t notice. Reese is across the room chatting up some guy I recognize from my history class, but it only takes a few seconds of me wildly waving my hand in the air for her to see me. She scans the bar then shoots me a thumbs up.
“Well Hank, it’s been fun,” I say, getting up and dusting off, “Wish I could say I can’t wait for next time, but I hope this never happens again.” He grunts, mumbles, “You and me both,” under his breath, and goes back to pouring some bright green colored shots for a bachelorette party. Free at last I don’t know what to do with myself. Dean’s tied up with the next Miss Texas, Reese is holding her own with a group of people from her English class, and the cute guy I saw when we first got here is nowhere in sight. Given that I don’t want to be ignored while in the presence of Dean’s Most-Beautiful-Girl-In-The-World, and that I don’t know anyone else well enough to crash their conversation, I settle on Reese.
Entze || Impressions 2020
When I arrive, she pulls me into a bone crushing hug and introduces me to the others as “The youngest person in Havershaw County to ever eat thirteen pies at the County Fair.” A fact I never thought would be used to introduce me to a group of strangers. They stare at me with blank expressions. Finally, a girl wearing a shirt that says, “Lucky Party Shirt” on it, squints at me, “Wait a second, aren’t you dating Joe’s roommate?” Joe? Who’s Joe? I filter through the names and faces in my head, trying to find a match for Joe. “You’re right!” A guy with incredibly pale blonde hair says, “Joe said he never shuts up about you.” Another girl laughs at an obnoxiously high pitch, “You’re right, Joe was just complaining today about how many pictures of you Sean has hung on the fridge.” She glares at me while she’s talking. If she could shoot tiny bullets out of her eyes I’m sure she would have peppered me by now. Especially since rage froze me in place the minute Sean’s name was mentioned. Reese chokes on her drink. The guy next to her whacks her on the back a few times, as if that would help. “I’m sorry, did you say…Sean?” she rasps. Party Shirt Girl, Ghost Boy, and Spiteful Witch nod in unison. “Yeah, you’re Winifred Jones, right?” Now it’s my turn to choke. Not only did he tell people we were dating, hung pictures of me on his fridge, that I don’t even want to know how or where he got them, but he also used my full name when telling people about me? Who does that? Only my grandmother calls me Winifred, and that’s only because I’m her namesake.
Entze || Impressions 2020
I must have said this out loud because Reese mumbles back, “Serial killers who want to wear your skin like a cape, probably.” Suddenly the karaoke microphone screeches. At the same time, I look up to find Dean rushing toward us. I don’t know what’s going on, but if it tore Dean from the clutches of a future Victoria’s Secret model it must be Earth shattering. In my head I’m preparing for a tornado. Maybe an earthquake. Even a nuclear bomb. But none of those compare to the truth. By the time Dean reaches us, panting and slightly sweaty, or maybe just covered in spilled drinks after shoving through so many people, a finger is tapping the microphone. “Hello?” a male voice says, “Can you all hear me?” The crowd answers with a jovial “Yes!”, a sign that the night has passed a point of no return. If no one gets annoyed when someone asks, over a microphone, if everyone can hear them, we’ve stayed too long. Somewhere, deep in my gut, I know what’s about to come and that it won’t be good. For some reason fear keeps me rooted where I am. Same with Dean and Reese who have turned into statues next to me. “Well, if you don’t mind there’s something I have to do.” “Winnie,” Dean leans over, using the nickname only he and my family are allowed to use, “Maybe it’s too late to tell you this, but Sean came back inside from a vape break, saw you, and told me he’s got something very important to tell you.” Reese makes a noise like she’s being strangled, then says, “What if he proposes?”
Entze || Impressions 2020
“I knew you should have left the country immediately after that date,” Dean growls. I stay silent. The crowd in front of me parts, like they somehow know this is directed at me. There’s Sean up on stage, cast in an orange glow under the cheap bar spotlights. His hair is a mess, like usual, and he looks uncomfortable. “Winifred Jones are you out there?” he scans the crowd. Party Shirt girl turns around and looks at me like “Isn’t this so great?” while Ghost Boy starts waving his arms to draw Sean’s attention. My full name brings me back down to earth. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing, that everyone will know my name is really Winifred, or Sean creating this scene. “I think it’s time to go,” I turn to Dean and Reese who spring into action. Dean grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward the door, Reese creates a path by pretending she’s going to puke. Sean is still up on stage calling my name. He’s starting to sound a little desperate. We’re almost to the front door when Ghost Boy manages to catch Sean’s eye. The girl that glared at me shouts, “She’s over here Sean, trying to leave!” clear as day. Screw you Spiteful Witch, I knew you’d be the end of me. “Winn! Wait! Someone stop her!” Sean shouts into the mic, sending feedback screeching through the building. Everyone covers their ears, but the people around us still manage to form a blockade in front of the door. They’re all smiling at me like they think they’re about to be a part of a real-life Hallmark movie.
Entze || Impressions 2020
Dean, Reese, and I have no choice but to freeze in our tracks. Slowly, we turn around. Someone has climbed up a barstool and turned one of the spotlights. It now shines straight into our eyes. Every face in the bar is turned in our direction. I offer a feeble wave. “Ahh there she is,” Sean beams at me from the stage. “Winn, this song’s for you. You know why,” he says with a wink. The opening chords of “I Want to Know What Love Is” blare through the speakers. I can hear Reese’s teeth grinding together above the music. Dean starts jabbing elbows into the people behind him, taking them out one after another. Meanwhile, Sean, clueless to the ruthless take down of his impromptu army, continues to sing. He’s gotten to the chorus now, only he’s changed the words to “Now I know what live is-Winifred showed me.” I want to crawl in a hole. Maybe die. Maybe crawl into the hole and then die. Overall, death would be preferable to this. Dean has made a significant gap in the wall and Reese is shouting, “Get out of my way or I will make myself throw up on you.” The bar however, is eating Sean up. A few girls wipe at their eyes. Some guys in the back have turned their phone flashlights on and wave them through the air. Sean gets down off the stage and makes his way towards us. The crowd parts further. They even drag tables and chairs out of the way for him. Reese’s English gang almost take out Spiteful Witch, who’s still trying to set me on fire with her eyes, as they pull their table off to the side. Sean’s really feeling the song now; using dramatic hand motions and closing his eyes as he gets closer.
Entze || Impressions 2020
Reese and Dean have made nice headway. Reese stands by the door, ready to hold it open once we make a run for it. Dean’s arm is around me, “On the count of three we run, got it?” he asks. I nod and brace myself, but it’s too late. At the same moment Dean gets to three, Sean’s directly in front of us, singing into my face. He ends the song by belting out “Winifred showed me!” accompanied by his fist raised in the air. As the last chords fade out, the Two-Bit is completely silent. Sean stares at me, his eyes searching my face. He smiles uncertainly. Dean and I look back and forth from each other to Sean. My mind is blank. Literally no thoughts going on up there. Dean’s head is still snapping between Sean, me, and the rest of the bar. I open my mouth, to say what, I’m not entirely sure, I just can’t take this eerie silence anymore. Before I can spout some incoherent babble, Dean whips back to face me, pulls me closer and kisses me. In that moment I realize why I go through boyfriends faster than my smaller self went through all those pies at the county fair. The one who checks all the boxes has been right in front of me the whole time. Dean is sweet and thoughtful, funny and outgoing. He’s everything I could ever want. Unfortunately, he also drags me out to bars and hits on other girls. Pure instinct mixed with the knowledge that I may be in love with my best friend causes me to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him back. Then, just as abruptly as it started, he pulls back and turns to Sean. Sean looks like someone just cut out his heart, jumped up and down on it, then kicked it into a lake.
Entze || Impressions 2020
The bar is stunned into silence, they stare at us, clearly confused. Afterall, wasn’t Sean the one singing to me? Dean sticks his hand in Sean’s direction. Sean, who’s as shocked as everyone else, shakes it. Dean flashes him a charming smile and says, “Hey man, thanks for doing that for me. You loved it didn’t you babe?” They turn to me. It takes me a second to realize “babe” equals me. I blink a few times to regain composure. Then, finally catching on, I grab Dean’s arm and stare adoringly up at him, which at this point isn’t even a lie. “You did this for me?” I squeal, “How romantic! I love it!” The bar goers erupt into applause, buying into our lie. A few people in the back whistle, and as Dean rushes us out the door, held open by a still shocked Reese, I hear one girl sob, “That was so beautiful, why do things like this never happen to me?”
We’re speed walking up the street to my and Reese’s apartment when I suddenly remember the reason we were out and stop. Reese and Dean almost trip when they realize I’m not following anymore. “Winnie, come on, what if he comes looking for you? We gotta go!” Dean pleads. “But what about Angela? You’ve been waiting to ask her out for months. I just ruined it for you!” Personally, the thought doesn’t make me too upset, but I know how excited he was when he saw her tonight. Dean sighs and makes his way back to me, slinging his arm around my shoulders, “Winn, Angela may look like a Greek Goddess—” “Wow, don’t hold back.”
Entze || Impressions 2020
“But,” he shoots me a look that says I should probably shut up, “hanging out with her is about as interesting as talking to a blade of grass.” I bite back a smile. We resume our walk, Reese already a block ahead of us. “Besides,” Dean continues, “there’s this girl in my Biology Lab that I’ve been thinking about asking out. She wants to be a marine biologist so she’s gotta’ be more interesting than Angela.” My jaw clenches together so hard I hear it pop. Always the best friend, never the girlfriend is quickly becoming my life motto.
Barnhart || Impressions 2020
Mined-Over Matter: on Touring Minnesota’s Soudan Iron Mine
On the coldest August day in Minnesota’s recorded history, I stood in line as a fierce northwest wind whipped down the southern slopes of Minnesota’s Iron Range. My hard hat felt snug, like pressure bands around my head. Layers of clothing had little effect against the unseasonal blast of arctic wind. Like those around me, I actually looked forward to the constant temperature of fifty degrees one-half mile below the land surface. Shivering, I couldn’t help thinking about the power of the wind. Gales are nothing new to Midwesterners. We’ve seen roofs ripped off buildings, trees felled, and swaths of destruction cut through grassy fields—all handiwork of the wind. Eying the enormous steel framework at the mine’s entrance and its massive pulley system, I wondered how long they had withstood the pummeling of wind, and, more importantly, how much longer they would stand. Suppose that framework twisted and buckled while we were under the earth— would we be able to get back out again? Descent into a mine is not for the claustrophobic. We squeezed ourselves into an enclosed cage, chuckling nervously when the pulley began to lower the car on cables that clanked, rattled, and screeched. Masking my own anxiety with a show of bravado, I had to concentrate hard to suppress the grave thoughts that come when one is lowered into the bowels of the earth. I tried not to remember stories of mining disasters or million-to-one shot vacation catastrophes, the rare and dreaded lotteries some unlucky souls win.
Barnhart || Impressions 2020
The car moved slowly at first, descending at an angle toward the main cavern. Half a mile isn’t much of a distance horizontally, but vertically is daunting, particularly when we began to pick up speed. Facing us at the front of the car, a tour guide calmly called our attention to the small window just over her shoulder. Every few seconds the window flashed with light as we passed electrically lit levels of the mine. Finally, at the twenty-seventh level, our cage clanked to a halt. Relieved to emerge from the sarcophagus-like cage, we met yet another guide, a professorial young man in miner’s garb who led us to open tramcars. “Keep hands and elbows inside the cars at all times,” he warned. “The passage is narrow, and the tram moves rapidly. We don’t want anyone to lose a limb. By the way, if you look carefully, you might see a few pretty good-sized bats hanging from the ceiling.” Dim, electric lights barely lit the tunnel, and, though I looked carefully, I couldn’t see any “good-sized” dark creatures clinging to the ceiling. In my worm’s eye view of this underground world, I saw only the rough-carved texture of the walls and a few chiroptophobic people in the tramcar with their hands covering their hard-hatted heads. After a few heart-jarring jolts and turns, the tram ride ended, and we made our way to a narrow, circular staircase. Descending cautiously, we soon found ourselves in a huge chamber, also dimly lit, where miner-mannequins stood or crouched in permanent poses with the tools of their trade: sledgehammers, chisels, drills, and dynamite.
Here we learned that the early miners came to work each day with a specific number of candles, their only source of light. The mining enterprise did not supply these candles; workers themselves had to pay for them. In order not to use up the candles too quickly, miners took turns
Barnhart || Impressions 2020
leading the way into the mine. The leader lit one of his candles, while the others followed him, groping their way along the tunnel walls until they reached the working chamber. There each miner labored by the light of his own candles; the workday ended when their last candle had nearly burned out. Then in darkness they groped their way back through the passages to the cage that would lift them out of the mine. As is typical in any cave or mine tour, our guide showed us what absolute darkness looks like. He flicked the switch, wrapping us in impenetrable blackness, unable to distinguish a shadow or a shape blacker than black. I am one who feels the emotional effect of sunlight deprivation after only a few gray, overcast days. What must it have been like for the men who spent most of their adult lives working in this mine? For much of the year, in the dark of early morning, they entered the greater darkness of the mine, working eight, ten, or twelve hours until at quitting time they exited the mine into twilight or night. “Can you guess what condition eventually afflicted most of the miners?” our guide asked, and of course we all thought, “Poor vision.” “Loss of hearing,” he answered his own question. In the days before OSHA required safety devices and protectors, the miners endured piercing clangs of sledges and drills against rock and the deafening blasts of dynamite. A few might have suffered injuries from explosions or from a misdirected hammer blow to a chisel. Unlike coal miners in other parts of the country, iron-ore miners did not suffer from black lung, nor did they fear a cave-in. “Just take a look,” the guide explained. “Solid rock all around you. This ceiling—these walls—simply can’t collapse.”
Barnhart || Impressions 2020
We also learned that the miners generally liked their jobs, that they were paid very well for the times, and that they were dismayed when the mine ultimately closed. It simply became too costly for the corporations to compete with other iron sources in other regions. Today, the mine is part of Minnesota’s State Park System. Several times a day, tourists don hard hats and descend into the earth carrying cameras instead of candles and digital devices instead of dynamite. The Soudan Iron Mine is also the site of a physics laboratory. At select times, tourists may visit the lab on level six, where—shielded from cosmic rays by one-half mile of rock—physicists conduct sensitive experiments. According to Minnesota Department of Natural Resources, the experiments include cryogenic dark matter research and main injector neutrino oscillation research. The goal is to detect dark matter particles other than neutrinos and to measure the mass of neutrinos, particles smaller than the nuclei of an atom. Dark matter is, of course, mass in the universe that cannot be detected from the light it emits or fails to emit. So we have been told. The whole concept is dark matter to me, and I still fail to see the light regarding these experiments and what the physicists hope to learn from them. I simply enjoyed knowing that this laboratory exists, and I appreciate the irony in this former iron mine where scientists search for something that apparently gives no evidence of its being. What better place to search for the cosmic matter of darkness of the universe than in the darkness within this tiny planet in a tiny solar system of a tiny galaxy in that massive universe?
Barnhart || Impressions 2020
When we finally left the mine, the wind still raged, lopping a few hefty limbs from the trees in the surrounding woods. The steel structure housing the pulley system stood, seemingly indestructible. Apparently, it takes a force other than nature to shut down an iron mine. Enlightened at least a little about mines and matter, we emerged at last into the irongray light of a cold August afternoon.
McLaughlin || Impressions 2020
Humble Housing
Howling winds blow straight through the cracks in the worn boards, making an eerie whistle. The only light peeking through the holes where there was once a roof is that of a star, shining brighter than the others. What was a beautiful dusting of white earlier today has turned into a violent pelting of massive snowflakes sharp enough to cut through skin and draw tiny drops of blood. The miniature blades pummel against aged and worn paint, pulling more and more off as the day goes on. There was once a time when these walls did more than take a beating from the whirlwind that is encompassing the land.
Back when the wood was strong and the red paint new, life would begin and end in this nearly sacred place. Years ago, Joe kept his own child here, sitting in the corner in a bassinet with a mobile gently dangling over the top. The baby was only a few months old when the snow began to melt into the ground, signaling the beginning of the season. Joe would have to make his bed in the same space the animals slept for fear of issues during birth or mothers refusing their babies. The corner was well-suited to handle the baby, so there was a small place where the straw and hay were cleared and the bassinet sat. When the baby moved restlessly, ewes would ramble over, seeing if they could get a closer look at the squirming infant. Curious as to what was going on and what the sounds meant, they nuzzled him, creating a smile and a pure giggle that escaped the little swaddled child before the lambs bleated, which caused the ewes to go take care of their own babies.
McLaughlin || Impressions 2020
On the days that winter did not want to give up its icy grasp, the sheep had to huddle together, making room for the cattle to come inside and get shelter, too. They were rowdy at first, pushing the chains and gates that confined them. A few nimble, yet precise, movements from Joe would have the animals calmed down and eating fresh hay and chewing their cud. Soon the only sound to be heard was the soft rustle of straw as the lambs moved from place to place, trying to find a suitable bed as the sun painted the sky outside a scarlet shade as it set with snow coming down in the wind. The only light in the building flickered on a second after the switch was flipped. Joe had been awakened by the bellowing of a heifer who had separated herself off from the rest of the herd. He knew who she was instantly, a show animal they liked to call Willow. The gate rattled as he went to open it, trying to cause as little disturbance as possible to the other animals so as to not awaken and alert the whole herd. Tentatively, he walked over to the heifer and saw that there was only one leg coming. Knowing he had to intervene, Joe quickly grabbed the worn-out blue rope halter his daughter had used to halter break the animal for FFA show competitions and began to lead the mother-to-be to the head chute in the corner of the barn opposite of the bassinet. Closing the heifer in the pen that held the old head chute was a challenge because she was starting to get worked up and the calf would have a harder time coming into the world if she was worked up. Joe decided to take a momentary break and go peek in the bassinet where his own child lay swaddled up and sleeping. When he looked at the infant, all Joe could see was how one day he would teach his son to care for the land and the animals as his father before him had, and passing down the family name, brand, and eventually the farm itself. A second bellow pulled Joe out of his plans for the future. Looking back at Willow, who was now laying down, Joe decided to try to pull the second leg out. He coaxed her into a standing position and led her down the alleyway and to
McLaughlin || Impressions 2020
the head chute. He locked her in and tied her face up so she couldn’t hurt herself. There was only one glove left so Joe slipped his hand in and grabbed a piece of twine to hold the tail up while he was helping the heifer. Slowly, he fished around for the calf’s other leg. Once he found it, he started guiding it out. Hopefully, the hard part was over. He untied her tail and head, unlocking the chute and letting her sit in the pen, hoping for her to have the rest of the calf naturally. Joe knew it was best to walk away so he didn’t scare the heifer, but she was so tame from being shown that he just pulled up a chair by the bassinet and stayed awake to ensure everything was going okay. The calf was born in just under an hour. Joe kept his distance, but remained watchful of the new mother, knowing the battle may have just started. She started to sniff the air, looked right at Joe, and pawed the straw, which let him know to keep his distance. Joe took that as a good sign and watched the storm rage on outside. Eventually, he walked over to his own baby and fell asleep on the chair by the bassinet.
The sun peeked over the horizon and saturated the sky with tones of pink and orange. Only one calf had been born during the night, which was good considering how tough the storm would have made the birth if the calf would have been born outside and unprotected. Joe looked across the barn and noticed the heifer was awake and wandering the pen, looking for food no doubt. He grabbed the pitchfork and some fresh hay, bringing it to the pair. When he got closer, he realized the calf still looked gaunt and weak. Joe knew better than to try to get in the pen with the mom, considering how she had acted the night before. He coaxed her back into the chute but didn’t tie her up this time, just separating her and her baby. Standing with one leg on either side of the calf, Joe reached down and tried to pick it up. The baby barely stood up, still on weak legs, and not knowing how to work them. He continued to support the calf and helped it walk over to the mother, unlocking the bottom part of the chute, allowing the calf access to drink from her. As the calf reached his head out to try to drink, the heifer kicked her back leg out, coming into contact
McLaughlin || Impressions 2020
with the calf. This fast movement only reinforced what Joe already figured. The calf had not drunk and therefore hadn’t gotten the colostrum it needed. Knowing that the calf needed the colostrum as soon as possible, Joe once again reached for the twine and tied her back leg to the back of the chute as well as squeezing the chute as far closed as it would go, forcing her to allow the calf access. Once again, the already weakened calf tried to drink, only to have the heifer get her leg loose and kick the calf multiple times. It was in that moment Joe knew the calf needed more human intervention than what he was giving. He took the heifer out of the chute and placed her with the other cattle, keeping the calf separate. Joe ran to the house with a bottle in hand and let the warm water start running in the sink while he found the dry powder mix of colostrum. He held the bottle under the water until it was nearly full, then dumped the warm water into an empty ice cream bucket. Grabbing a whisk to help mix, he poured the colostrum into the water. Once the liquid turned into a pale white, he poured it back into the bottle and attached the nipple, running back out into the barn. The calf had laid down already, too weak to stand on its own. Joe walked over and the newborn tried to stand up and make noise, searching for its mother. The calf crawled and backed itself into the corner where Joe tried to get it to drink from the warm bottle. The calf didn’t know what to do and turned its face every way except where the bottle was, not unlike what Joe’s own child would do sometimes. But Joe knew that he had to get the calf to drink so he grabbed its face and put the bottle right there, rubbing on the calf’s neck to get it to swallow the colostrum. After a handful of seconds, the calf caught on to how to drink and that it was getting food, so the calf started to drink on its own. Once the bottle was finished, Joe took it away, but the calf was still looking for more, so it followed Joe around, still on unsteady legs.
McLaughlin || Impressions 2020
After a handful of steps, Joe realized that the calf was following him so he kneeled down. The calf practically fell on top of him and Joe just sat there, holding the new baby. There was no more colostrum to be had. Joe just had to cross his fingers and hope he got there in time. Joe decided to sit there with the newborn and comfort it, since the mother was not going to.
The sun reached high in the sky and Joe still sat in the barn with the calf. His wife had come in for a while to feed their baby, change its diaper, and listen to the story of the night before. As the baby finished eating, Joe decided to try one more time to get the mom to take the calf. With the help of his wife, they once again brought the heifer into the chute and allowed the calf to eat. With the shake of her body, she got her leg out and kicked the calf another time. The calf fell instantly. Closing the chute and bringing the calf away from Willow, Joe sat on the ground, holding the calf. The newborn was still breathing but it was shallow breaths. Joe pleaded with the newborn to survive. As he looked into the animal’s weak eyes, he knew it was just a matter of time, but he refused to let the calf die alone. Joe sat on the dirt floor covered in the straw that had been strewn around the barn by the animals, holding the dying calf in one arm and his own baby in the other, until the sun disappeared over the horizon once again and the calf succumbed to its injuries. Knowing it would not only break his daughter’s heart to know what her heifer had done, but also torn up about the calf, Joe knew he would have to break the news to his family what Willow had done. Joe stood up and brushed the straw off his pants, reaching for his own child. Walking out of the barn, he turned the light off, allowing the setting sun to cast his shadow through the open barn door. Looking at the baby, Joe said, “Maybe the next one will make it, maybe the next one will be okay.” Unknowing of what stories the walls of the old building holds, a young girl stands in the doorway of the barn and notices how the holes in the roof allow
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in just enough light from the stars that there is a small shadow cast by her side. Venturing in, she concludes this was once a barn that held many animals, but by the size of the square pens and corrals, they must have been different kinds. The longer she looks around on her adventure in the old barn, the more curious she becomes about what has happened there. Who built it, and why it looks the way it does. Running back to her parents, she begins to ask questions to her father who had long ago lay in the bassinet in the corner. The more stories that came pouring from her father, the more she understood what it meant to be a rancher. A dilapidated barn is not just a decoration for the landscape. Long ago, it was a building of pride that encompassed people’s livelihoods. The strength of the walls sheltered animals and people alike from the bitter bite of winter. Life can be brought into this world through barns as well as making its last farewell, no matter how much one might try to stave off death.
Entze || Impressions 2020
Pecking Order
Stika || Impressions 2020
Collapse
Stika || Impressions 2020
Line of Sight
Hodell || Impressions 2020
Made of Glass
Entze || Impressions 2020
Mormon Row
Stockert || Impressions 2020
A Night in Venice
Stockert || Impressions 2020
Ateliers
Brown || Impressions 2020
Zayed Mosque
Suwyn || Impressions 2020
Bird in the Plaza
Suwyn || Impressions 2020
Ten Minutes in the Colosseum
Stockert || Impressions 2020
Burano
Entze || Impressions 2020
Abandoned
Entze || Impressions 2020
At the End of Country Roads
Stockert || Impressions 2020
Canale Di Venezia
Stockert || Impressions 2020
Orvieto
Skachenko || Impressions 2020
Pure Innocence
Stika || Impressions 2020
Skogafoss
Poetry || Impressions 2020 A Cajun Tale, Part II By Debora Dragseth and Steven Doherty Dusty black hair, eyes misty with tears, Rosamund haunts the Bourbon Street nights, Regret and pain she holds too dear For a Delta girl’s dream of big city lights. She remembers that smoky, sacred night. Her body merged with lover, Lew York, His shiny slick hair, oh, his appetite, A man for whom she took the wrong fork.
She breathes one last time the dark humid air And snakes her way down to Pontchartrain’s arms. Cool and murky, it welcomes her there. “Come, come Rosamund, what could be the harm?”
York’s suit was black, smelling salty and cool. She imagined a future, a bond, a renewal. Her heels clicked brightly on the cobblestone. Her heart was so full, her lover so cruel. His shiny black chariot’s hum drowned out. The sad muffled cries of her bayou song. He drove away—like a thief, he pulled out. Her perfect life of bright skylines was gone. Photo by Debora Dragseth
Poetry || Impressions 2020 Secret Reunion by Eric Brown On roadways bathed in lunar candlelight and azure mists, a single car embarks; the worn and antique console’s orange hue illuminates, just dim enough to view the stars among the canopy of dark until the destination lies in sight. A darkened window’s curtain barricade ignites in glowing incandescent blooms as breaks intone and lovers rush with haste to kiss, to grin, to pull in by the waist; their pulses thunder hard in whispered volumes as they perform their silent serenade.
July 23 by Lara Carlson McGoey delicious July heat, bursting yellow blooms clutched in hands and on lapels, bangs wilt against bare foreheads, yes, as the sun beats down, we meet at the silver maple tree. eighteen trunks stand as witness to our words— Yes. our forefathers and mothers attended: Brontë, Žižek, Whitman, Bly. you wrote your soul onto mine, yes. “love is not a noun but a verb,” you said. my love changes form as the years go by, so I loved you, I love you still, I will love you. I said yes. the hottest day of summer has been seared into my being. many summers later, my mind wanders to the words through which we found immortality. and I said yes. dust blankets the photo album in a soft, opaque film thereby freezing that scorching day in time. timeless, time less when I said yes I will Yes.
Poetry || Impressions 2020
A Mother’s Presence by Sarah Griffis Her perfume commands my childhood. Elegant and strong. Drifting through my memories. Back to days of carelessness. Long summer days with no end. Easy winter nights with no obligations. Clatter in the kitchen. Picture books and lullabies. All in the past. All in a mother’s sheltered embrace. Over the Edge by Greyson Kadrmas
I have failed time and time again. I failed mom, dad, my brother, and sisters. I failed myself. Again and again. This time? I'm gonna make it right. I climbed my way up onto the old hickory bridge. I threw the first leg over the tottering rail. Creak. Crack. Moan and groan. The bridge spoke in a soft, yet cautious tone. "Don't you go jumping boy, them waves will pull you down." I let the words sink in before hitting my head. Just another one of them thoughts. Just another screw up. Again. The other leg came over the rails, and I looked down. Creak. Crack. Moan and groan. The water spoke to me in a soft, yet delightful tone. "Come play come play! It's been so long since anyone has come to play." I smiled as the tears dripped from my eyes, my hair blowing behind. Creak. Crack. Moan and groan. Slipped. Flipped. Splished, splashed. Sunk.
Kadrmas || Impressions 2020
Flyer by Greyson Kadrmas
Imagination was the only thing keeping him alive. When he closed his eyes, He felt like he could thrive. But as all good things Come and slow, He realized he had to go. An angel spread his wings that night, And for the last time He closed his eyes And decided to take flight.
McLaughlin || Impressions 2020
The Final Goodbye by Mariah McLaughlin Emotions stick in my throat as you amble over. Silently, you tell me it’ll be okay. Forcing my body to stand, I follow the stone footsteps before me. Yearling steer #68- Name: Chuck You walk into the trailer and a tear manifests. The gate slams home, shattering my heart. Final weight- 1157 pounds “Be strong. You are a rancher. Toughen up.” Finished on ration hot in corn and peas Animal or not, eyes contain a window for souls. Ours burst with love and friendship. Tears flow over, knowing the story ends here. Slaughter- Sept. 27, 2017 I lift my hands to dry my cheeks. Time to walk away. Move on. Never to forget, for it will happen again. “Be strong. You are a rancher. Toughen up.”
Poetry || Impressions 2020 Every Life Is Ivy by Sarah Griffis Slowly reaching out across the world, Starting as a single leaf, A single pale stem Peaking timidly out from the warm earth, Gaining confidence and perspective At a nearly indistinguishable rate Until one day you find yourself Bursting from your ceramic pot. Lush dark green vines That climb over every surface. Each vine its own story. Each leaf its own memory. The Orchard by Greyson Kadrmas I wanted to lie down in the orchard and let it hold me. I just sat out there and thought of how much I completely and absolutely hated it. For years now, I’d kept these things inside a box, buried in the orchard. I kept a collection of my writings. ... We had never spoke of this, and I felt a shiver pass over me. “I remember you were yelling at each other.” “The day he died, he was “cleaning out the closet.” In the silence that followed, I considered saying, “I take it back.“ The reality set in, like it always did. “Sitting alone on the back steps, I had caused it, that when I’d lifted the gun, the sound had torn through the room and gouged out our hearts.“ For a moment everything got still and quiet, as if the wind had died and the birds had stopped flying.
Dragseth || Impressions 2020 Rainshadow by Debora Dragseth Inimical, thirsty and dry. No mystery here why her denizens roam. With sleepy indifference, I watch the dirt dance. The rain shadow has called me home.
*Author’s Note: The Rocky Mountains and the Cascade Range cast a massive rain shadow across the Great Plains causing the climate of the grasslands to be semiarid—a place where evaporation normally exceeds precipitation. Unlike the gypsy scholar she claims, or had thought she wanted to be, the writer has quietly returned to the vast prairie she once so vociferously left behind.
D’Aniello || Impressions 2020
Tacoma, the View by Amanda D’Aniello Last night, she was gorgeous. Slow flashing red, boats skimming the surface, wet wind. I was covered in goosebumps before we had finished. This morning, the putrid sound of gulls. Evergreens struggle to meet, missing narrowly their widest branches. Remember when she was young, still, and covered in green? No one here but ferns, moss, fish that jump, scared off now. Squirrels skitter down trees, turned fences, searching for seeds or diving into compost. I’m put off by the smell of the tide here, not home.
D’Aniello || Impressions 2020
The Storefront Is Burning by Amanda D’Aniello By the time it was really tense, the whole family was huddled in the snow watching flames thaw the road. Dad huddled us here to watch. He pushes us together, closer. Everything I need Is right in front of me: Burning, and pushing atoms, stubborn Into complex somethings. Let it burn. Carbonic Ash will settle in place of the structures Placed before us, there is nothing we Need against cold, but fire. Nothing against the cold, but fire.
D’Aniello || Impressions 2020
Smoke Break by Amanda D’Aniello A distant neighbor (How can that be?) Is tuning her cello So the backyard sounds Like a car alarm disco song. One moment it plucks And twangs the next. It reverbs like Nothing is knowable. Planes fly overhead and pollen swims past the porch light. There’s saltwater in the air And everyone is dripping With lonely anticipation Holiday weekend. Too Much time. Some light sneaks over fence and fog one stoop to another to another over there, another smoker soaking in the chords.
Smyle || Impressions 2020 addictions by Noah Smyle you’re addicted to the nicotine, the pills, the idea of hurting yourself. i don’t like this side of you— the drunk side. the addiction that you have, it’s hurting you. you might not see it, but i do, and i’ve watched you go down this dark path— this path that’s killing you. your lungs are dying, your body’s shutting down. i want to help you, but i need you to let me in. i could stage an intervention, but we’ve tried that before. i want you to get better, but you can’t if you don’t let me help. i know that you smoke to numb the pain. you drink to forget. you inject this poison into your body through a needle. you’re not you anymore. i can see that you’re sad even while you’re drunk. i can see you’re angry even while you’re high, but let’s face it, it’s not helping. this has gone on too long and i’m tired of seeing you like this. i love you. i’m coming in.
Widmer || Impressions 2020
Morning Ride
Harmon || Impressions 2020
Sunset Beauty
Schmidt || Impressions 2020
Together We Stand
Widmer || Impressions 2020
Old Friends
Horning || Impressions 2020
Hands
Harmon || Impressions 2020
Edgar’s Midnight Feast
Horning || Impressions 2020
Tripps
Author Bios || Impressions 2020
Author Bios Teaching at DSU since 1992, Margaret Barnhart leaves her DSU career this spring--not entirely by choice. It is fitting that she contribute to this last issue of Impressions, which goes on what is hoped to be temporary hiatus (as it has done before). Why fitting? Margaret co-edited (and contributed to) the very first issue of Impressions, the title she herself suggested. Eric Brown was born in Bremerton, WA, and holds a BA from Montana State University in Mechanical Engineering. A constant traveler for work (and sometimes pleasure), he has been blessed by the enduring support of his loving wife as he pursues his creative interests and a refreshing pint. He will be graduating from Dickinson State in May 2020 with a degree in Geology. Lara Carlson McGoey is an English instructor at DSU. Her areas of scholarly interest are 18th and 19th century British literature, TESOL, gender studies, and film studies. Though she was never much of a creative writer, she is currently inspired to experiment with poetry. Amanda D'Aniello is a senior at Dickinson State University majoring in Political Science Pre-Law with a minor in Writing. Dr. Debora Dragseth, Professor of Management, School of Business and Entrepreneurship and Dr. Steven Doherty, Professor of Political Science and Chair, Department of Social Science at Dickinson State University, Dickinson, ND, have long collaborated on creative work. “A Cajun Tale: Part Two� is their second in a series of Cajun Tales.
Author Bios || Impressions 2020
Hailey Entze is a senior English-Creative Writing major and a Graphic Design and Art Minor from Golden Valley, North Dakota. She started writing stories at a very young age and even did her own illustrations. After graduation in Spring 2020, Entze plans to pursue a job in the graphic design field and work on becoming a Young Adult author. Sarah Griffis is a Creative Writing major from Anaconda, Montana. She has always loved to read and write in all different styles. Her future plans center around traveling the world and becoming a sports journalist. Dessiree Harmon is a freshman at Dickinson State University. Her major is Art and minors are in Graphic Design and Entrepreneurship. Art has been a part of her life since she was two years old. Dessiree has many plans for the future, one of which is owning her own bakery/ coffee shop and art gallery. Abigail Hodell is a 16 year old photographer from South Heart, ND. She has been taking pictures ever since she was around 11 years old. Photography will always have a special place in her life. Tasia Horning is a senior at Beulah High School in Beulah, ND. She has been in art since middle school. She has used art as a way of letting out her emotions and expressing herself. She will continue to study art throughout college. Greyson Kadrmas is a senior at Dickinson High School. He's been writing poetry since the age of ten. After graduating from high school, he plans on moving to Minnesota to pursue a degree in psychology.
Author Bios || Impressions 2020
Mariah McLaughlin is from Beulah, ND and a student at DSU studying for a degree in Ag. Sales and Service as well as a certificate in Farm and Ranch Management. ChristiAnna Schmidt is a senior at Beulah High School. She enjoys creating art, especially with graphite and watercolor. When she is not drawing or painting, she likes to listen to music, read novels, play volleyball, ride horses, and watch movies. Jennifer Stika is an Art major/Graphic Design minor originally from Milwaukee, WI. She has pursued photography both as a hobby and professionally for several years. Her favorite subjects are landscapes and wildlife. She plans on having a career combining her love of photography and graphic design. LaRae Skachenko is in her senior year at DSU. She will have her BA in Psychology with a minor in Sociology. Photography and writing are passions she follows in her spare time, and she hopes to continue to pursue both long after her college days. Noah Smyle is a 15 year old who has been writing poetry since he was about 10. Austin Stockert is a senior majoring in 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.
Author Bios || Impressions 2020
Emily Suwyn is a University Studies major expecting to graduate in 2021. She enjoys all art forms and has been thankful for all the art classes that have been available to in her time at DSU.
Elizabeth Widmer is a Nursing Major expecting to graduate in 2024. She enjoys nature and creating new things. Her hobbies are running, hiking, painting, horse riding, reading, and spending time with friends and family. Her favorite classes are all sciences and anything having to do with art.
Margaret Barnhart Eric Brown Lara Carlson McGoey Amanda D'Aniello Debora Dragseth Steven Doherty Hailey Entze Sarah Griffis Dessiree Harmon Abigail Hodell Tasia Horning Greyson Kadrmas Mariah McLaughlin ChristiAnna Schmidt Jennifer Stika LaRae Skachenko Noah Smyle Austin Stockert Emily Suwyn Elizabeth Widmer