MWV Vol. 13 2011-2012 by Gilbert Castellanos

MIDDLEWESTERN VOICE

ABOUT MiddleWestern Voice is the Elmhurst College art, literature, and music journal. All material is current work of Elmhurst College students. Selection is done blindly to ensure objectivity. The journal encourages the celebration of artistic talent on campus and the union of students, faculty, and the community of patrons of the arts. COVER COMPETITION The MiddleWestern Voice cover art is competetitively selected from student art submissions. All material is judged blindly by the Art Department Faculty. The cover competition is funded by the Elmhurst College Art Department. THE CARL H. CARLSON CONTEST The Carl H. Carlson Contest is a literary competition open to all Elmhurst College students. The Carl H. Carlson prize is awarded to the finalists of the MiddleWestern Voice creative writing contest. Students whose works are selected are printed in the journal with the permission of the Elmhurst College English Department. The contest is judged by the English Department Faculty. GRATITUDE Many thanks to persons on and off campus who have supported the MiddleWestern Voice, including the Elmhurst College Art, English, and Music Departments; President Alan Ray; VPAA and Dean of the Faculty Alzada Tipton; Geoff Sciacca; Janice Tuck-Lively; Tim Hayes; and Steve Kittay and Creekside Printing. Additional thanks to SGA for their gracious patronage and the hardworking staff of MWV. MiddleWestern Voice is sponsored by the Elmhurst College Student Activities Fund. NAMESAKE Ursula Niebuhr wrote the postlude of Remembering Reinhold Niebuhr, a collection of letters her husband had sent her throughout their marriage. It was she who named his â&#x20AC;&#x153;middlewestern voiceâ&#x20AC;? -- the voice behind his thoughts on humanity that he shared with a universal audience. For her it was a reference to the place from which Niebuhr had come, and in recognition of his having something to say, MiddleWestern Voice is a culmination of orgins and perspectives that come from this place at this time.

TABLE OF CONTENTS MWV

About. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i Staff. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

ART

Gil Castellanos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8, 70 Angela Cichosz. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Megan Cline. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21,37 Maxwell Cooper. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38, 55 Danielle Dobies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7, 29 Rebeccah Foust. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Jeremy Foy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19, 43 Randi Holt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 9 Bennett Johnson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13, 59 Leona Liu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Hannah Manacchio. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7, 70 Jacqueline Neidhardt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Chris Ocweija. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23, 24 Heather Pederson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Nicole Reichel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Jonathan Reiman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Jackie Rickards. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Sarah Schauf. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20, 38 Erin Strong. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49, 50 Griffin Thorne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Katheryn Traub. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54, 70

FICTION

A Little Bit of Agony for You........ . . . . . . . . . . 45 Existence Precedes Essence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Morning Has Broken. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 My Sheila Mae...............................65 Puzzle Pieces.................................56 She Escapes..................................25 Visions of Johanna. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

POETRY

10/20/11 Age 18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Art Project. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Cigarette Smoke and Mints. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Through the Basement Door......... . . . . . . . . . 39 Turner Rd. and Pinecroft Dr......... . . . . . . . . . . 44 Vacancy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

FEATURE STORIES

Austaras. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Carlson Contest Winner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Cover Artist. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Skunk Hallow Gallery. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

MUSIC

Musicicans.......................... ..........61 Track list. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

iii

NICHOLAS SMITH

Carlson Contest Honorable Mention - Fiction Sometimes life is hard to want. It’s hard to touch. It’s like diamonds in a glass box. The glass is smeared and you can only look through the fingerprints. But I didn’t forget you. I just lost my way a little. Like a mouse crawling into a hole for the winter but forgetting to come out. Take a moment to watch the New York subway or even better go to Chicago and sit on the El. Look at the bums outside the stations. The one’s pissing beneath the stairs. I always thought I was different but there was something about them. Something I could relate to. And then I realized it was like me and you. They’re just lost in another hole they got caught up in, picking at the madness, trying to get out. At least it was that way for me. You were always worse off, but who’s to judge? Maybe you were just born that way. The universe has a cruel sense of logic and it will catch up to me the same as you. Tonight’s a night like any other. The stars gleam dully in the sky. The streetlights dance beneath the window and the people below are like old actors in a hand-reeled film. They walk real fast and then slow and occasionally lose control. I look out my window from the eighth floor of the Chelsea Hotel. The curtains are half closed and I sit on my bed sipping a bottle of Jameson. I’ve had nights like this before. The whiskey flows and it’s hard to stop before it’s gone and I call room service for more. My manager sets limits but I promise them compensation and they get it for me anyway. I take a baggie out of my pocket and pour some coke onto the table. I draw out thin lines with a credit card and look at my reflection on the TV. My 28 year old eyes are caving and my nose is crooked. My face is wan and my dark hair blends with the LCD. I figure that by the time I get to the show, it should be wearing off. I worry about coming down. Worry stays

“Sometimes life is hard to want.” with me a moment but I squash it. My nostrils suck up the powder into my brain. When you snort coke or most things, it all starts up in the back of your head. The tingly warmth and chemicals wrangle up your feelings and shoot white heat down the back of your neck. My face is numb and I like it. I like the way it feels shooting in the back of my head. It feels like hot iron dust. It feels like crystalline death. A few moments and I collect myself. I rub my gums and think about you and that time we figured out space travel. We burned our lips sucking glass pipes and sailed gracefully towards the moon. You were a space jet. I was a rocket. You said it was cold out there. You said you couldn’t feel anything. You said it was dark. Life was nothing. I told you that you were wrong. Warmth had to be hiding somewhere. It would be there if we looked hard enough. It was on the dark side of the moon. If we were righteous we could get there. But you never stopped. You kept on going and now I want nothing but to be with you. I snort another line but it doesn’t take. I snort compulsively from the bag and my nose starts bleeding. I grab a Kleenex and take out the coke that coagulates with the blood in the Kleenex and swallow it. I take more into my nose. All I can think of is your face and your body, how limp it was and all the blood.

You looked happy for the first time as scarlet swirled with water. Your happiness swallowed me and I jumped in the tub with you and disappeared. I take more into my nose. All I can think of is your face and body—limp in the tub—arms descending into blood and water. You looked happy for the first time. Your happiness swallowed me and I jumped in the tub with you and disappeared. My manager comes in. He talks to me and I answer but I don’t know what I am saying. For a moment I think that I will not be able to go on. That I should take off his black top-hat and give him a kiss and say it’s over. I want to die. But I come to my senses. I take a dose of Irish medicine and then shatter the bottle against the wall. I can feel the acid kicking in. I wonder if it’s too much for me. I tell my manager that after Dylan no one can play music. I just repackage his stuff with depressive lyrics. It’s not even worth playing that bullshit. My manager eyes me and he says, You’ve changed. I say, Really? No shit. I put on my blue and purple flannel shirt. I mean it he says. He grabs his Amish beard and says, You used to be nice. You’ve always been fucked up. But at least you used to be nice. Now you’re just

obscene. He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his sweaty black hair and looks at me with his bold blue eyes. They’re always sweet— feminine even—but he still can be an ass. Get up and put yourself together. I’ve seen you do shows in worse shape than this, he says. He brushes off my shirt. Ever since Johanna died--. Fuck you. Shut up. Ok. Just fucking get ready. It’s my ass not yours. Alright, alright, I say. I assure him that I’m ok and get off the bed where I am sitting. I want to smash his head in, but get myself going. My manager throws me in the limousine and I pour myself a whiskey soda. The driver speeds and I look outside in the hazy street. I see you sitting on a bench and you look at me with eyes of blue fire. Blue blood runs down your breasts from your mouth and for a second I hear you call me. You say that I want you. I need you. That we can be nothing together and disappear in an orgasm of death. You reach out to me and fall over—disappearing into the ground like a hologram. I’m late to the venue. The opening act is already half done and I can hear them playing as I enter the dressing room. They’re playing swampy blues. Even before I enter my band is mad. Frankie leans into me with her small tattooed arms and says, Fuck you, and tells me if I miss rehearsal again she’ll quit. She’s got long, fiery hair. Her green eyes flash at me. They look like dragon fire. I tell her that it’s my problem not hers. It’s hard enough to get here anyway. It’ll be all right. She shakes her head and says, You really don’t get it, do you? What? I say. She looks at me and looks away. I have trouble trying to concentrate. You’re a fucking idiot, she says. She laughs painfully and a crooked smile forms on her face. You know for all the shit you have, you are by real fucking far the most selfish person I know. She bumps into the stool next to her as she walks up to the mirror. She hurriedly puts on more mascara and I come up behind her and put my hands on her shoulders. Don’t do me like this, I say. I can’t have you hate me.

I don’t hate you. I’m just mad at you. I kiss her on the cheek. She smears peacock eye shadow on her face and leaves for the stage. I stay behind. I miss her before she goes. I think of her pale French face. She used to like me. She would have fucked me. She would have had my hand before you. I can feel your cold judgment behind me. I don’t dare turn around and face you. I look into the mirror and notice the mess of outfits to the right of me. The Jameson’s still unopened on the counter; a mirror’s sitting next to it waiting for me to string it up and down with coke. As I cut up lines I think about the dream I had of you and my future last night. I was walking through a cathedral and you were there at the end hovering over a pool of black water. The walls were purple and dark and blue and I knew I had to get to you. I just had to get to you and I did, but only once I’d drowned in the black water. I look into the rafters as we go on stage. I see some gargoyles on the beams. They aren’t really gargoyles but the kind of angels that don’t have homes and hide in sad places. They glow in purple and white. They keep to themselves but if you’re lonely enough and have enough of a heart to listen, they treat you nice. I start playing acoustic and notice that the gargoyles are singing along. They moan harmony to my first song. It’s a sad ballad, moody and otherworldy like early Radiohead, and with them it sounds like some kind of heaven. As they cry and moan along, the song gets to me and I feel the music again. It soothes me and moves through me. It brings my heart to life. For some reason I start to think of you and your funeral. When I played your favorite song—Visions of Johanna. You were there in the coffin in front of me. I took you and wrapped you up in a thought and squeezed you out into ink and orange juice over the crowd. It was a finite chorus. A promenade of death. I finish the concert with a song I wrote earlier today. I finger pick my acoustic in bleak Appalachian fashion and roll my lips through fragile tones. It’s a minor funeral romp. It takes me to the place where you lie and you rise from your grave. Like in Ezekiel, your bones are sewed together and I am with you face to face, but only for a second, then you’re gone— you fall apart—and I’m left all alone. I’m alone

and dead for miles. I step out of the concert and see that people are waiting for me. I try to get away but they catch up and circle around me. They expect something. They want gold to start pouring down on me or a Godlight to illuminate me from the sky. I sign a few kids’ shirts and push them away, but this girl, Charlie, stays with me. She follows me through the alley and joins me at my bus. She has brown hair, raccoon eyes, a feisty mouth, and chipmunk cheeks. She wears faded jeans and a gray long-sleeve shirt. The overall affect is charming but she looks like the kind of girl that would suck me off for a buck fifty in back of a movie theatre. I think that she’s a dancer but I can’t tell and don’t question. I tell her that I got to go—I’m meeting a friend for a drink. I don’t tell her I’m drinking to get back to you. She says she wants to get a picture with me. I say, Fine. But do it quick. She puts her arm around my neck and takes out her cell phone. Here, she says. She scoots towards me and the camera flashes. It blinds me and her hair glows red afterword. Her skin flashes like blue chrome. I take out my flask and finish off the last few gulps. She runs her black nail-polished fingers through her hair. Give me your address and I’ll catch up with you, I say. I really got to go. The drugs are kicking in. I’m not leaving you so easily, she says. She grabs my arm. Fuck you, I think to myself. I’ll stay with you for awhile, she says. That’s what I fear. She drags me forward and I watch the neon lights shiver through the city streets. Everyone’s in stop motion and New Yorkers with multi-color grins pass by. I look up to the top of the buildings and they seem to be falling in on me. They’re cold and dark and ominous. I start to feel snow blowing up from the ground beneath me. I say to Charlie, Are you sure you’re not cold? It might snow. You’re not even wearing a jacket. I’m perfect, she says. Trust me. She takes my hand and drags me toward some complex. As we go in the lobby, she turns towards

me and says, So how long are you staying here? Through tomorrow, I say. I’m going to some benefit for save the whales or some shit like that but it has to do with people. I start sweating and wonder if she notices. She says she’s got a special place to take me and she likes a man who does charity work. Yeah, I say. She’s too happy. She should be miserable. She takes me into the elevator. As we go up, I roll up a dollar bill and sneak some coke from the gram and a half left. I ask her where we’re going. She says to her apartment and then to a special place. I’m tired of hearing about this special place. We go into her apartment and I see it’s a college atmosphere. There’s beer pong clones all around the living room. The bookshelf in the far corner of the room looks just like the one I used to have. I walk towards it and past the overflow of beer-cupped people to see what is on it. As I lean in to find the authors, the letters start scrambling in front of me and I have trouble concentrating. I give up and go back out in the hall. You join me and wrap your arms around my neck— your cold breath on my lips. You draw your hand through my hair like a cemetery breeze. You say in a whisper, It’s almost over. These are the last moments. Treasure them but you need to come back to me. I picture you at the end at the funeral. They put a mask of make-up on you and covered your arms with a long sleeve dress. You never wore a dress, but you did then and all I could think of is the blue lips underneath, your naked body stilled, and water so cold and red as I jumped in the tub to shake you back to life. Soon Charlie comes back to me with a bottle of Svedka and a rolled up red-velvet blanket. We leave the party and take the stairs up to the roof. I say, Who the fuck were those people? Just some friends of my roomates, she says. I don’t like them, I say. I don’t either, she says. Charlie and I spread out the blanket on the roof and sit down. The sky is dripping white paint. It gets in my eyes and burns. I feel like I’m stuck in the glow of white angels. Charlie grabs my thigh and says, I got

“Don’t be another Cobain.” some bud; do you want some? I shake my head yes. I sit up and she packs us a bowl in a purple steamroller. The bud is smothered in THC crystals and brown hairs. We start toking. As I take a hit, I see you standing on the ledge of the roof—walking across it like a balance beam. You wink at me. You say, It’s ok. I’m not looking. Say good-bye. I start coughing and it hurts. My asthma is bad today. She takes a hit and coughs. It’s some really dank bud. She looks at me with marijuana puffed eyes and a silly grin. She says, So I don’t know if you know this, or have figured it out yet, but I’m your biggest fan. Well, thanks, I guess. She’s coming on real hard. She tells me that I am so sympathetic and what I write is so true and the words and the expressions and the way it navigates her soul—its transcendant. I tell her that she is nice. She says, That’s all? I pause a moment. I tell her that she’s beautiful and that if I had words to say then all of them would go to her but I don’t so I’ll hold them in until some day when she needs

them most. She says, That’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me. I say, That’s sad. She closes her eyes. I don’t have a boyfriend you know and I’m bisexual, she says. She puts her hands behind her head and lies back on the blanket. I heard you say that you’re bi too. I don’t respond. She rolls over closer to me and puts her hand on my chest. Black nail polish leaks off her fingernails and onto my shirt. I really think you’re handsome, she says. She takes a gulp from the Svedka and passes it to me. I know, I say. I’m trying to figure out a way out of here, but it seems impossible. I take a drink from the bottle. She puts her long leg over my waist and leans in for a kiss, but I deny her. She tries again and I acquiesce. We make out. I let her stay on me until I can’t take it anymore. I find her repulsive because she reminds me of you. I push her off of me. Hey! What’s wrong? she says. Pause. It’s Johanna, isn’t it? I don’t want to do that with you

now. But, I’m perfect for you. You may not see it yet, but you need someone to care for you after— her… and I’ll do it. I can give you everything you want. I’ll even let you be with other people. She starts unzipping my pants. No, I say. Her eyes look possessed. Like a smut camera’s lens. I grab her wrist and accidently push up her sleeve. There are many parallel red cuts going up her arm. You cut, I say. Yes, she says. But I’m trying to stop. I look back at you and you smile and say, See. You know she’s not for you. I say to Charlie, You can’t do that. Nothing is bad enough to do that. What do you know? she says. I used to do it. I show her my scars. She gets a devilish grin on her face and says, See! We really were made for each other. No. You can’t think like that. I used to think like that. That was probably the problem. What? Have you gotten oh so holy and too good for a fellow fuckup? she says. I don’t respond. I look away.

It’s about that girl that killed herself—Johanna, isn’t it? What do you know! How do you know about her, anyway? I’ve spent a bit too much time reading about you, she says. She giggles and smiles sheepishly. I look at her face and something in her eyes catches my attention. For some reason her eyes flash and reflect me. They look at me with sympathy. I say, Have you ever felt like the world is just so fake and like a painting that you could reach out and touch it and it would jiggle? What? she says. She puts her hand on my thigh, sits up and faces me. I don’t understand? I wish I could just cut a hole in the sky. I feel like that’s the only way to get back to her. I had everything and now she’s gone on a spaceflight to nowhere and I can never catch up with her. I can never reach her even if I die. Now, I just keep trying to get higher and higher until God or the Sun immolates me and I fall like ashes to earth never knowing I existed. You’re not thinking about suicide are you? It’s not suicide if you never existed. It’s just a trip to another

thoughtless world. No, she says hitting me. No. You can’t. Don’t do it. What? I say. I look in her eyes again. They’re concerned and bloodshot. You just have to stay here. You’re too talented. Don’t be another Cobain. Don’t be a cliché. Remember your song? Don’t kill yourself like those cowards do. Isn’t that what you said? Those lyrics. The ones that talk about how you wish you were dead, the earth and even reality doesn’t exist, but if you can hold on for friends and family, that’s all you need and it’s enough. That kept me alive through high school. You owe it to me, to them to stay alive. It’d be too mean to kill yourself. Johanna was mean to me, I say. But I don’t blame her. That’s not what I mean… I care if you’re here and can be there for you. Do you know how arrogant you sound? You don’t even know me. Yeah I do. As much as anyone. I know your lyrics and I know they’re true. If they are true than so are you and I know that truth. I take a second to close my eyes and picture you. I can see your

smile, the summer breeze of your black hair, the snow and how cute you looked bundled up in gobs of winter clothing. I see your naked body, your fragile form, the little breasts, and all of the life underneath your gray eyes. You were so much, but yet you would want me to forget you. I look at you and you turn away. You jump off the ledge and disappear. You know you’re just a replacement, I say to her. I don’t mean that badly, I just think its true. She pauses a minute. I can handle that, she says to me. She puts her hand on my shoulder. I wish I had already met you. I wish that too, she says. Can I lie my head on your lap awhile without you trying to jump on me again? Yeah. I lie down. Her thigh is warm against my ear.

HANNAH MANOCCHIO “IT’S A BOOTY TRAP!” & “THIS IS THE MEN’S ROOM”

DANIELLE DOBIES “THEY LOOK LIKE ANTS”

GILL CASTELLANOS “TWELTH NIGHT”

JACQUELINE NEIDHARDT “UNTITLED THREE”

JACQUELINE NEIDHARDT “UNTITLED TWO”

Carlson Contest 1st Place - Poetry

Cigarette Smoke & Mints He used to sneak smokes in the backyard when he got bored of family parties.

It took me eighteen years to realize that when I breathed him in, it was his stale cigarette smoke that filled my lungs.

I always thought it was his love that left me light-headed. He etched a different part of his life story in every birthday card. It wasn’t until I turned sixteen and the cards began speaking of him holding me for the first time that I finally understood what the random bits of narrative added up to. By then, the rest of his story was sitting somewhere in a landfill. Now, I keep every card afraid to throw away any more of his story. He complains that he can’t get a break that the nurses wake him every two hours to make sure he’s still breathing. I remind him that he tells me it’s better to be safe than sorry. “And you only get one chance to apologize,” he laughs. I remember his half-written story sitting in a box in my closet, close my eyes and whisper softly, “Grandpa, I’m sorry.” He assumes I am apologizing for God and the stroke his body has endured, for the nurses who won’t let him sleep. I pop a mint in my mouth as I turn to leave. Every holiday he gives me a bag of them so that maybe I won’t bite my nails. I pray that mints and cigarette smoke will help me remember the rest of his story, always warning, always wise.

Emily Darow

RED COLLAR AN INTERVIEW WITH THE COVER ARTIST, GRIFFIN THORNE Every year, the Elmhurst College Art Department votes on the art submissions to choose a cover piece for the magazine. This year’s winner was Griffin Thorne’s digital collage “Red Collar.” Griffin is a freshman from Sleepy Hollow, Illinois and is working towards getting his Bachelor of Fine Arts. Did you do this piece for class or on your own time? If for class, what class and what was the assignment? This piece was for Art Software with Mrs. Foley, which was an awesome class. The assignment was to use Photoshop to create a “protest collage,” protesting an important worldly issue. What inspired you for this piece? Well, I decided to make a collage about the business of war and profiting from murder. It’s something that I find wrong on a very fundamental level. My usual style is a very gross, bold form of cartooning; and I wanted to see if that style could translate from ink and watercolor to something like a photo collage. Where does the title “Red Collar” derive from? I was thinking of the terms “blue collar” and “white collar,” and in my mind these “white collar” business men wake up in the morning, put on a suit and tie, and go to work in a corporate office that deals in weapons. Their white collars are stained red. Was this piece part of a series or a standalone? It was a standalone, as most of my art is. I tend to have single concepts or ideas and express them fully in one piece. Was the color scheme you chose intentional? If so, why? Um, not in particularly. I just Google’d phrases like “hideous plaid suit,” or “Abrams tank” and picked ones

that looked like they’d fit. I did some minimal filtering/effects and slapped ‘em in. What direction do you think your art will take you? I’m not sure yet! I figure I have a few years to get on that track. My dream as an artist is to work as an illustrator for the snowboard industry, maybe doing graphics, posters, clothes, etc. Ultimately, I just hope that I can become the best artist I possibly can be, and a few important people will like my style and my ideas.

GRIFFIN THORNE

GRIFFIN THORNE “TUPAC SHAKUR”

JACKIE RICKARDS “E.C.HOCKEY LOGO”

BENNETT JOHNSON “THE ELASTIC PATIENT”

existence precedes essence

catherine eves

look in the mirror. I hate my body. I hate my face. I like my face. I like my face if I turn it this way. The other way I have a double chin and I’m sorry that some people have to see it. I like my face. I have a nice nose. Let’s make it stand out with a ring. Let’s let the whole world see my thick, full lashes. Now, let’s hide myself behind thick, wide-rimmed glasses. Let’s love what I put on my face. Let’s feel shitty for what I put on my face; silly and contrived. Let’s now feel shitty for wearing makeup. Let’s feel shitty for not wearing makeup and not being girly enough. Let’s define myself. Let’s define myself as an individual in my society. Let’s overanalyze, repudiate, use third person to leave a healthy distance from myself and my thoughts, let’s not take too much responsibility, let’s not act like we care too much. Let’s say something really witty and snarky, let’s give ourselves a pat on the back for another smart remark. Let’s feel like complete shit for saying that. With every whirlwind thought through my mind, I completely adhere to the definition of ambivalence. My thoughts are an unhealthy combination of passion and indifference. I see each side of every situation so clearly, and understand their basic points; I connect with both sides and hate having to choose. I am erratic; with me, you will have to put up with tangents, irrelevancies, contradictions, and a lot of things that don’t make sense. Lately, I am defined by loss. I do not want to be defined by loss. This isn’t me, don’t feel sorry for me. Wait, I want someone to feel sorry for me; I want someone to see that I’m hurting. I want to talk about it. I absolutely do not want to talk about it. I’m sad. I don’t feel anything. I don’t know.

“ Let’s go to your funeral. I didn’t know what to wear. I was going to wear that black corduroy but it’s July so will I be too hot? Well, I am. The front row of chairs are covered in a fake, green velvet material. I do not want to sit on the dusty velvet chairs. I imagine the years of dried sweat and mud probably matted to the fibers. The following rows of seating are plastic folding chairs, a polyester white covering trying to hide the ugliness of the structure. I make my way to the fourth row but my family shoots me questioning looks and rapid hand motions, so I sigh in discomfort and make my way to the front row of accursed velvet and sit. While the guy is talking, I am staring a little to the left of him, at a leafy bush, and his shoes. The sun glinting off them is literally shining directly in my eyes. My sunglasses are doing their best to shield my light-colored irises but it is so bright. I imagine my face to be a blank slate, half of it shielded by dark black lenses, mouth in a firm, straight line, appearing to look directly in the eyes of the man. He washes my Dad’s shop windows. Why is he standing in front of everyone delivering your eulogy? What are his credentials? While I ponder these irrelevant questions, I imagine people looking at me, imagining a delicate tear poised on my bottom lashes, being so strong, fighting off tears, my eyeballs quivering in anguish. In reality, my eyes are clear and dry and hard and mean. I am struggling to gauge my thoughts. I am trying to decipher why I am not feeling much of anything at all. Except tired and sweaty. Should I try and cry? I’d really rather not. At the end of the speech with a wrap-up of Shakespeare-something they thought you would like, but doesn’t matter now--we stand and people immediately grasp at my shoulders for warm hugs. But you know how much I hate hugs. They make me feel sick, they do not allow for any personal space, the smell of the person hugging me invades my nostrils, their voice and breath are hot and soft in my ear, they hold on for too long, they are trying to share the grief, I am suffocating. I entertain the idea of grabbing my friend and stealthily making our way out of the service, to avoid the hugs and the repetitive chorus of where are you going to school? down to a nice leafy tree where we can sit and relax and be away from arms that have this insufferable need to hold. I just want to be alone and relax and think about the warm sun caressing my skin, maybe a breeze fluttering coolly over my body, like a pair of embracing, motherly arms. I just want to be alone, away from the chatter. Wait, someone come with me, don’t leave me alone to my thoughts.

am ambivalent. I don’t want to feel, and I don’t, but I don’t understand it, and I feel guilty, and I wish I could understand it, and I would take sadness to replace this emptiness, but at the same time I don’t really care. Eventually, the shock wears off and the pain swims toward me. But I stifle it as much as possible. Sometimes, I’m taken off guard. Rare moments will catch me, and I will be shocked by the flood tearing throughout my system. I am at the bottom of a well, gasping for breath. I don’t comprehend what’s happening to me. I am harassed with emotion. I can’t tell if it’s fabricated or if it’s real. I wonder if I’m just crying to cry, and I feel like complete shit. I feel like a fake. So I hide myself. And, yet, I lay myself out for all to see. There are so many parts of me. Each part hidden at one time or another but all revealed at some point to whomever may be watching. I am honest and loud. I want to be heard. Sometimes I wish I could just shut up, and people would pay me no mind. Don’t look at me. Listen to me; I have something to say. Everything I do or think makes it’s way to sorrow. Sorrow is one of the rawest emotions, allowing for some passion. That is my life now. That is what I think about innumerable amounts of times every hour. Sometimes I forget, but it is always there. The ache is physical, it takes my breath away. Before it, I prided myself on my adept introspection, understanding my thoughts and being able to read people and their personalities so well. Now, I am lost. I don’t know what I am feeling or why I am feeling a certain way. When I am sad, I don’t know what it is stemming from or why that emotion occurred at that particular time. It is confusing and ugly and uncomfortable, but at the same time, I really don’t care. I don’t know. Do I? Let’s dwell too much on the negative. Let’s point out the faults of everything around me. Let’s be cynical. Let’s be the caterpillar in the buttermilk. But let’s try and find joy in a lot of things. I hate everything, but I love so much. And it is this that I don’t ever talk about. I never talk or write about what I love, I just stick with the constant stream of negative, seemingly-dire complaints. I love the sun and warmth; I love talking to people I connect with; I love my two dogs--one small and annoying and astonishingly cute, and the other middle-aged and regal and the sweetest, most sincere dog you will ever see. I appreciate nostalgia. But I am not an optimistic person. My minutes and months don’t tie up into neat, little knots. I love what I love, and I hate a lot. I think I hate more than I actually do. I feel nothing at all, but at the same time, I feel so much. I don’t understand myself. I’m really trying. Am I?

“ Let’s over-analyze, repudiate, use third person to leave a healthy distance from myself and my thoughts, let’s not take too much responsibility, let’s not act like we care too much.”

HEATHER PEDERSON “BACKBONE”

LEONA LIU “UNTITLED”

JEREMY FOY “GREEN SPIKED MONSTER”

SARAH SCHAUF “JOURNEY OUT OF NOWHERE #4”

MEGAN CLINE “FOR MY SISTER”

art project

She sits miles away. Across the table. Eyes wide. Focused. Lost. Working on her little project. An art project. Creating beauty with beauty. Dedication. Passion. Safety and security with each touch of the brush to page. Brush to page. Rose petals fall from the table. Just as they do everyday. She stirs. Acts as if she will catch them this time. Just once. But she lets them go. Crashing with delicacy as they hit the floor. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hit rock bottom, now. Like her roses. Only her beautiful art remains. With safety. And security. Brush to page. Brush to page. Continuing on forever more. As I sit miles away. Across the table. Watching what is and what could have been slip from the table. Like the beautiful rose petals. She doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see me. But I see what lies beneath the pretty paints and shitty strokes. As she works on her little project. I see the sadness in her eyes as a single tear falls onto the beautiful petal. Pushing it its limit as it falls to the ground. I see the look of fear and guilt in her eyes as she concentrates on the craft. I see the depths of depression setting in with each blink, each shaking of her hand as she continues to paint. But she will never know that I felt her pain, smelt her sorrow, tasted her trials. Watched her bleed. As she continues to sit. Miles away. Across the table. Delicately dangerous. Working on her little project. An art project.

maggie potter 22

CHRIS OCWIEJA “RAGING BULL”

A MARTIN SCORSESE PICTURE

STARRING

ROBERT DE NIRO CATHY MORIARTY AND JOE PESCI A ROBERT

CHARTOFF - IRWIN WINKLER PRODUCTION LA MOTTA WITH JOSEPH CARTER AND PETER SAVAGE SCREENPLAY BY PAUL SCHRADER AND MARDIK MARTIN DIRECTED BY MARTIN SCORSESE BASED ON THE BOOK BY JAKE

CHRIS OCWIEJA “TAXI DRIVER”

IN EVERY CITY, THERE’S A NOBODY WHO DREAMS OF BEING SOMEBODY

A MARTIN SCORSESE PICTURE

STARRING ROBERT

DE NIRO

COLUMBIA PICTURES PRESENTS A BILL / PHILLIPS PRODUCTION FOSTER ALBERT BROOKS HARVEY KEITEL LEONARD HARRIS PETER BOYLE AND CYBILL SHEPHERD WRITTEN BY PAUL SCHRADER DIRECTED BY MARTIN SCORSESE

ALSO STARRING JODY

She

Escapes She doesn’t complain. She is 62 years old, and she is too tired. She is forced out of bed in the morning by my dad, who farts and belches his way to the bathroom. She hobbles out of the bedroom on cold, stiff, arthritic knees. She winces as the dogs bark at her from the bottom of the stairs; she yells “Shut up!” at them, and thus wakes me up. She takes two ginger steps down each stair – but the stairs creak anyway, upsetting the dogs’ sensitive ears. She endures additional barking. She bends down occasionally to scoop up the clumps of dog fur that have accumulated on the wood. She picked up some yesterday, too. She will pick up more tomorrow. She eventually gets to the kitchen, where she lets the dogs outside through the back door. But she knows one of our dogs can’t hold it all night. She heads to the dining room to confront the steamy, gooey pile of shit. She cleans it up, then hears me turn on the shower. So she washes her hand with a wipey-dipe; if she uses the faucet, she will be responsible for shooting me in the face with ice water. Maybe she is tempted by the thought… She listens to my dad pound his way down each stair. She watches him wearily enter the kitchen and take the Mini-Wheats out of the pantry, a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer, and the milk from the fridge. She watches him eat, and reminds him to close the lid on the grill before it rains today. “Uuuuunnnghhyeahyeah” she deciphers from his mumbles. She watches him put everything away and leave. She listens as he opens and closes the garage door on his way to work. Then she listens to me pound my way down each stair. She watches me wearily enter the kitchen and take the Mini-Wheats out of the pantry, a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer, and the milk from the fridge. She watches me eat, and reminds me that I have a doctor’s appointment today after school. “Uuuuunnnghhfuckwhatever” she deciphers from my mumbles. She watches me put everything away and leave. She listens as I open and close the garage door on my way to school. She tells me about her day when I get home

Michael Mclellan

from my doctor’s appointment. She went to Jewel immediately after we left. She bought my sister vegan foods that she knows my sister will probably throw away after they’re more than a day old. Still, she will drive up to Beloit College tomorrow to give Lauren the food anyway – she sees me nod mechanically as I dissect the grocery bags, then continues to recount her adventures: After grocery shopping, she went to Kohl’s to return the new clothes my sister didn’t want on the last trip to Beloit. So she bought more clothes. She will take them to Wisconsin with the food. She hopes that my sister will like them better. Then she came home. She did the bills. She played a game of Spider Solitaire. She did the laundry. She played a game of Spider Solitaire. She did the vacuuming. She played a game of Spider Solitaire. She did – “Mooooooom!” I wail in interruption, “Why’d ja buy the chocolate chunk granola bars? Do you want me to get fat and die!?” “I’m so sorry honey,” she responds, with just an ounce of sarcasm. “I’ll get you the raisin ones the next time I go to Jewel.” She knows I’m just being dramatic. She sees me smile, and she laughs a little. But she laughs nervously and forcefully – her face does not lift at all as she laughs, and her dark brown eyes remain cold and lifeless. She is either masking her annoyance at my teasing, or else she is masking her guilt, and really does feel bad about buying the wrong granola bars. It’s probably both. She continues to tell me about her day. Where was she? Oh yeah: the Halloween decorations! She put them up. The orange wreath with the dancing ghosts, the mini-skeleton dude in the black cape, the anthropomorphic faux-pumpkin candles – they now adorn our living room, smiling at us with a chilly autumn sentimentality – they are her friends, and when I ask her where she got the skeleton dude, she says she got him at Target – their presence creates another world for her, one where she basks in the glow of childhood leaf piles, pumpkin pies, and other miscellaneous nostalgias. The wreath envelopes her – it invites her to dance with the ghosts, to free herself from her physical constraints, to

imagine a place where – “Fucking hell, Mom, why do you even bother?” I chide once more in interruption. “What, is it to please Lauren when she comes home from school?” “I knew I’d get chastised for doing it,” she finally complains, tsking harshly. “I put them up for me.” Then she gets a phone call from my dad. “Uh-huh, Uh-huh” she repeats over and over again to him. She knows the routine. She knows he will tell her that he’s on his way home, and she knows he will ask her what’s for dinner. “Sausage and onions,” she tells him. “Oh, and thanks for closing the grill. NOT!” And she hangs up. She hears me laugh, rolls her eyes, and says, “I’m too old for this shit,” not realizing she’s quoting Danny Glover. She begins making dinner. But first she feeds the dogs. She lets them outside. She cleans up a piss spot on the carpet. Then she begins making dinner. She takes out the sausage. She takes out the onions. She chops the sausage. She eats a piece. She chops the rest of the sausage. She throws it all in the pan. Then she grabs the bag of onions. She chops an onion. She wipes her eyes a little, and then she chops an onion. She eats a piece of onion, perhaps thinking it’s a piece of sausage. She chops the last onion. She throws it all in the pan. She brings the pan to the stove, adds olive oil and seasoning, and begins cooking the sausage and onions. She sighs and leaves the kitchen, probably to go play a game of Spider Solitaire. She calls us down later for dinner. She begins eating with us. She remembers! Dancing with the Stars is on tonight! She has recorded it, but she turns on the kitchen television to watch it live. The dress sparkles under the lights – the tuxedo shines a brilliant black – the two forms collide and tangle amidst the violins and percussions, churning into a sweet and sour dish of unmitigated decadence – she salivates a little, and the hair on the back of her neck rises. As she stares through the screen, the lines on her face dissipate, and her thinning, graying hair seems to darken – her eyes brighten and widen, every pixel of the spectacle reflected in her pupils – she is a schoolgirl at her first dance. All too soon, the music fades and the two forms disentangle and bow together – screams pierce the former grace – a longing for an encore, the affirmation of the beauty – “Aiiiiieeeeeeee!” my dad squeals mockingly before he farts. She glares at him as he ends his imitation of the crowd and feigns a guilty look. “Now, now, Dad,” I tell him, “I’m sure these fans represent the brightest minds America has to offer.” She watches us both break down laughing. She’s had enough.

“You know,” she begins shakily, pointing her finger at my dad, “I don’t mock you for watching your stupid House Hunters show, or your stupid Charlie Rose.” Then she points her shaky finger at me, “And I don’t mock you for playing your stupid video game things.” She grabs the remote and turns off the television. She takes an angry bite of sausage that makes us gulp. She doesn’t get any more grief from us. She is not bitter. She does not hate us. She does not bemoan her responsibilities, nor does she regret the direction of her life. Nor is she old-fashioned. She does not mind that we think Dancing with the Stars is the downfall of modern civilization. She does not mind that her brothers think her Honda Fit is too small and foreign. She does not mind that neither my sister nor I ever want to give her grandchildren. She is not beholden to the ideals of the past. But, she is also not an island. She is not above what others think of her. She is not above dreaming of better. She is not above supplementing her reality with superficialities. She is no different, in the ways that matter, from anyone else. She cleans up the table. She washes a dish. She washes a dish. She washes another fucking dish. She gets impatient, and half-washes the last dish. She throws all the dirty forks and knives in the dish washer. She goes to play a game of Spider Solitaire, but then remembers that my dad has gone into his den to watch Charlie Rose, and that I’ve gone upstairs to murder prostitutes in Grand Theft Auto. She knows her day is done now; she can be left alone to do what she wants. She goes to the living room, sits down on her recliner, and turns on the television. She groans in mild pain as the cat jumps up on her, kneads her stomach, and curls up in a ball. She doesn’t complain. She just lets the cat go to sleep, and then she starts the recording of Dancing with the Stars. I come down for a late night snack, and notice the schoolgirl in her recliner. I don’t interrupt her this time: A new dress sparkles under pink light. A new dark suit shines. The two forms move about the stage, combining and separating, rotating around one another. They move quickly and with grace – no arthritis to inhibit them – and she imagines herself in the dress – the spectators watching her – applauding her – appreciating her dancing and her beauty. She imagines this as she settles into her over-stuffed recliner, warmed by the furry ball, and overlooked by her smiling ghosts, skeleton dude, and anthropomorphic pumpkin candles. She basks in it all, before she struggles up the stairs and crawls into bed.

SKUNK HALLOW GALLERY ELMHURST STUDENTS TURN THEIR APARTMENT INTO AN ART GALLERY

Think of a stereotypical college apartment: IKEA futon, posters taped to plaster walls, textbooks laying facedown on empty pizza boxes. Elmhurst senior Danielle Dobies’ apartment is anything but typical. Along with roommates Allison Nault and Valerie Wesley, she’s transformed her college home into Skunk Hollow Gallery, an independent art space exhibiting works from fellow students, alums and faculty. Since last year, the apartment’s hosted gallery nights with community members showing up to discuss the artsy side of campus life—or even to take part in an interactive art project, like a chalk board

recorded into a stop-animation video with each frame drawn by a different guest. Some nights even have themes—a Black and White night had visitors matching the artwork in appropriately colorless ensembles. As you walk up the rickety wooden stairs to the third balcony, laughter and conversation spill out the open screen door. Silhouettes move in the windows, and a few college kids loiter on the balcony. Inside the apartment, walls are pinned with paintings, drawings and prints. Sculptures top coffee tables or cast shadows in corners, and the dining room table’s covered in potluck treats. The gallery shows that with some effort and creativity, any space can turn into art.

DANIELLE DOBIES “OBSERVING THE WEAVER BIRD”

ANGELA CICHOSZ “SNOWTHROWER”

REBECCAH FOUST “SELF PORTRAIT”

MORNING HAS BROKEN NICHOLAS SMITH Carlson Contest 2nd Place - Fiction

As a child, whenever my parents drove me through suburbia at night, I’d look in all the houses with the lights on and picture myself in other people’s living rooms. I’d gaze in on other families with warm tranquil laughter, fireplaces and bookcases, and easy chairs, and think what a wonderful world they must live in. I imagined myself being in their families and bathing in their orange light. I imagined myself being happy and appreciated for my actions. I think of this as my sister drives me back from Hazelton. She says something about how she loves me and trusts me and all that bullshit and I pretend to pay attention while looking out the window for a new house to live in. The more I look, the more it feels like everything I learned in rehab is falling off behind me. The steps I worked, the hundreds of pages treatment packets, the counseling, the countless hours of meditation with exhippies, all of that is gone; and as I travel past the yellow blips of lampposts in the moonless night, I feel like I am on the edge of the universe and there is nothing on the other side. When we get to my sister’s apartment, I’m nervous. I start to get out of my skin. My sister draws me a bath of hot water and plays me music in the other room. Over the sound of the washing machine and the neighbors arguing upstairs, I start to hear her singing. Her sweet voice rings out an old Gaelic hxymn. “Morning has broken like the first morning / Blackbird has spoken like the first bird.” It’s tacky but meaningful. It fills me with bright patience. Patience I don’t have. For a moment I feel like an asshole at the foot of Christ. I try to sleep, but I don’t. I get out of my covers in the morning and a deep chill runs through my body. All the fears of last night shudder through me and I wrap myself up in a blanket. They feel just as near as last night— even nearer. I’ve hardly slept an hour, but it feels like I’m wide awake. I go over to the living room, open up the window, and look outside. I see thick rain boiling against the street and steam rising from the sewers. Lonely dilapidated houses and crumbling brick apartments lay naked across the street. White, red, and yellow light spill out over the street like oil paint from the streetlights and cars passing by. I make a plea to the city. I make a plea to the broken bricks and to the wet and

crumbling stone. I ask if it will show me what to do now that I’m out of rehab. I’m completely bewildered. I wait, but it doesn’t respond. I close the window and take a seat at my sister’s piano. I try to write a song. It comes out slow and tepid. It’s Lightning Hawkins speed blues. I howl about how at 25, I’m still looking for mother’s breast. I’m a child crying in a basinet rolling down the river like Moses. Usually, I can take all my distorted feelings and spew them out a mournful tune. Today that isn’t working. I close the piano lid and press my head into my hands. I think about lying in graves with corpses. Thinking about fucking death makes me happy. It’s pleasurable to think of myself in a tub full of blood. My mind starts scaring me. I stand up from the bench and start pacing. I decide it’ll be better if I have some cigarettes. I quit in rehab, but I need them now. I look at the Icon beside the door that Natassya gave my sister and I remember the way Natassya used to smile and look at it with infinity in her eyes. It’s Mother Mary, the virgin, all wrapped up with gold. As she looks at me, I grab my red and yellow checkered hoody from the coatrack. Nattasya was the closest I ever got to heaven. She had the moon and the stars in her arms. I wonder if she still talks to my sister. I go out into the hall and on the way to the stairs I bump into a woman coming out of her apartment. I try to say “Sorry,” but it doesn’t come out. I have a strange wish she would grab me and kiss me and take me

into her apartment but I can’t even speak a word to her. She apologizes and greets me with a smile. “Hello,” she says. Her long red hair and angular Elvin features are charismatic and fragile. She seems like she’s from a different, more beautiful world. I know I’ve seen her, but I don’t know where. It takes a moment, but then I remember she drove my sister up to Hazelton back in April, to visit me halfway through my stay at rehab. “Hi,” I whisper. I want to hit on her, but I can’t think of what to say. Everything about her feels unreal. I start to speak, but there’s nothing—nothing in my head. “I’m a friend of Sarah’s.” she says. “We’ve met before, right? I’m part of her satellite group from St. Luke’s Episcopal.” The satellite group is my sister’s attempt to “move rich suburbia to the poor and break down cultural boundaries.” It’s a load of idealistic, triumphalistic bullshit. The red-head squints. The emeralds between her thick eyelashes study me. “Oh, you’re her brother from Hazelton. I remember.” She shakes my hand. The fluorescent lightbulbs start buzzing overhead. I feel like I’m looking on her and myself from the back of an auditorium. Yeah,” I say to her. “I’m Paul.” I try and think of something to say about her red v-neck sweater or blue-jeans or something, but I can’t. I wonder what she thinks about me. That I’m shy? That I’m ugly? That my sister’s wasting time trying to fix me again? That I’m a major fuck-up? Or that she’s glad to see me? She probably thinks I’m a fuck up. “It’s good to see you,” she says. I try to lasso in the compliment, but to no avail.

“The more I look, the more it feels like everything I learned in rehab is falling off behind me.” She looks me directly in the eyes and smiles. I look away. I wait a moment and then study her body. It’s as pale and pert as an 18 year old girl though she must be 26 or 27. I wish I could die in her arms. “It’s nice to see you too,” I say. I still can’t look her in the eyes and I can’t think of anything to say. I just stand there drooling over her preciousness. “So,” I say. She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to say something more. Her eyebrows raise and her lips pucker. I wish I could figure out what it is she wants, but I’m baffled. She starts biting her nails and says, “Well, it’s good to see you.” I wonder if she’s anxious. “I should be over for Bible Study tonight—that Sarah’s having,” she says. “Maybe I’ll see you there?” Natassya used to bite her nails when she was nervous. “Maybe,” I say. “I got to go. I’m running late,” she says. She starts walking toward the stairs and I hope she doesn’t notice my awkward statuetteness. I tap my foot and wonder if her breasts have the same kind of perkiness as Natassya’s did—they look like it—where they could bounce up out of her bra; her hair is the same length and wavy—flowing three inches down her breast. It’s hard not to think of Natassya when there’s someone like this in front of me. I think of her warm caresses; the way the world’s problems slid off me when she was by my side. How in her arms, between her legs, in the pale light of her pitiful love I felt ok with my sadness. I felt like a sick shadow beside a full moon. She lit me up and let me deal with the sickness. I still miss her though. Even if the ending was so bad. She ended it like a cold hearted bitch. She stood over me in the emergency room while I was recovering from the OD. She stayed silent biting her nails like they were the devil. I’d been dead two minutes and all she could say was, “I wish you well, but I can’t take this anymore. I’d rather not have to worry if you’re dead or alive. I’d rather not know if you’re dead.” She smeared her runny mascara across her cheek, squeezed my hand, and left.

I never talked to her again. I try to push the thought away. It’s really sharp. I try to focus on the red-head instead. I think about how her red pubic hair would invigorate me. The way her pale breasts and light pink nipples would bounce back and forth and back and forth until I dove off the edge into a cold white sea of god.  I take a step toward the stairs, ready to leave for the store, but I notice the red-head’s keys are still in her doorknob. I grab them and contemplate running after her, but realize she’s out of reach. How immoral would it be to sneak into her apartment and look around a little? It wouldn’t be good but it’s very easy to see something as right as long as it doesn’t hurt anybody. I could sneak into her room and see what kind of clothes she wears, what kind of underwear and lingerie. That’s not so bad, right? I could peruse her movie collection. I could see her music too and learn what makes her happy and what makes her tick. I could lie in her bed awhile and pretend to be with her. To feel my body wrapped up in her pure white skin and the incense of roses dreaming about how she will save me. For a moment the whole world stops and it is just me and the keys. I see them in front of me, in my hand, and try to not take them, but trying is not enough. I stick them in the doorknob and think about whether I should go in now or wait for later. I could go down the block to the corner and get a pack of Reds, but that might be long enough for the red-head to come back and catch me. I decide to go right in. I open the door. “Hello,” I say to the empty space. The lights are off in the living room and it looks like nothing has been touched for awhile. The brown leather couch has big cushions and her TV set is a 32” to 35” inch LCD. I hone in on the cherry entertainment center beneath and shuffle through her movies. Most are romantic comedies, but classics like The Tree Of Life and Annie Hall are in the mix too. She even has Mallick’s The New World and if she likes Mallick that much, I figure she probably has enough artsiness in her to be comfortable with an asshole critic like me. I turn left towards the kitchen and think about whether or not I should go looking through her cabinets and fridge. Her fake-marble counter tops are bare except a loaf of wheat bread and a block of knifes. I decide to dodge the kitchen and go for the bathroom. I figure I might be able to learn more about her. When I walk in, I open the medicine cabinet above the sink and realize that

the last time I did this was when I stole Percocet from my grandmother. She had them in her cabinet and wasn’t using them for her cancer so I thought I’d help myself to them. It wasn’t until recently in rehab it occurred to me how base an action this was. I look in the cabinet and on the top shelf are a few prescription bottles. One’s Protonics which I don’t know what it does and the other two are Lexapro and Ativan. Lexapro is a powerful anti-depressant and Ativan is like Xanax-light—a benzodiazepine prescribed for anxiety or panic attacks. For a moment I am torn between whether or not I should sneak a few pills out of the Ativan bottle. I didn’t come here wanting to get high, but the longer I stand in front of the cabinet with the pills at eye level, the more I crave the warm sweet repose of a benzodiazepine high. I can remember the deep blue ocean, the mania and the dreamlike wonder where you can touch reality and it will ripple. With a few drinks, it’s as warm as a blanket of myrrh. I’ve done this before with success— break into a medicine cabinet and pretend it never happened. But I don’t know if I can do that anymore. Death is most addicts’ bottom and I don’t want to go there. I have watched many good men die refusing to admit there was anything wrong with anything they were doing to themselves. I stand still for a moment and take the orange bottle into my hand. I feel like it’s trying to open itself. I push with all my mind to put it away but I can’t. I wait and wait and before I let the darkness consume me—I break down and pray. I pray the way AA taught me to. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change / Courage to change the things I can / And the wisdom to know the difference.” I address an unknown entity, I mumble to

a vague absent spirit and somehow something changes in me. I still want it, but I don’t need it. I set down the bottle in the cabinet and quickly shut the door. I try to concentrate on something else and head toward the red-heads bedroom. I see that there are two in the apartment, just like my sister’s, but I head towards the one at the end of the hall with the light on. The door is ajar and I think I hear something coming from inside but I can’t tell what it is. I figure it is the neighbor’s upstairs. I grab the door and push it open and find a naked woman inside getting dressed that I have never seen before. Her panties are at her feet and she’s pulling them up when she takes notice of me. She screams and tries to hop into the panties but falls over in the process. I try to backtrack out of the room, but I trip over a shoe. “What are you doing here? Get out!” she says. I wrestle the red-heads keys out of my pocket and toss them her way as she pulls her panties up over her bush. “Iwasjustgoingtoreturnthekeysandcameinsorrybye!” I feel my insides drop as I turn around and run out of the apartment, open the door to my sister’s apartment, and lock myself inside. Oh shit! Oh Shit! Oh Shit! You Fucking Idiot! I go straight to my room and frantically start packing my things for jail. When you are arrested, they only let you keep what you have on so I put on three layers of clothes—boxers, shorts, jeans, shirts, sweatshirt, everything. I look out the window for the cops. I see the flooded street and hear sirens. I keep looking and looking. Oh shit. Oh Shit. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. You’re so fucking stupid! I’m not even good enough to make it one day. I can’t make it ONE FUCKING DAY! I sit down on my bed and think about killing myself, but end up just waiting for my humiliation. Five minutes pass. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. And then I realize the police aren’t coming. I don’t know what happened. But the cops aren’t coming. I start to wonder if the roommate told the red-head or the red-head told my sister yet. I go back up to the window and look at the apartment building across the street. My adrenaline is still going

hard. The people in the couple lighted windows look almost as lost as me. There’s an old woman hunched over, looking out her window like a half taxidermy Raven. Another middle-aged woman is watching TV. She has to be three hundred pounds and hasn’t got up and made anything of herself for years—or so I assume. I lie down in bed after half an hour knowing that the police would already have come if they had been called. I just have to wait to see if my sister finds out. I’m afraid Sarah already knows. My sister knocks on my door and says, “Paul? Are you in there?” When I don’t respond, she comes in and I pretend to be asleep. I feel the light from the hall slanting over my eyes. She hovers over me for a long moment. I can smell her perfume and I wonder what she’s thinking. I figure she would tell me if she knew. I open my eyes to the dark when she leaves. I wake up to several women talking and laughing in the living room. It sounds like a dozen ladies with jovial glass shattering laughter. I listen and try to figure out what they’re saying, but it’s hard to tell. I think I hear “prayer” and “I meditated on”—but nothing about me or what happened. I hope to God their not talking about me. I try to wait out their conversation but I can’t. I put on my headphones and listen to Nirvana’s In Utero. Just when I start to think my sister and her friends will leave me alone tonight, I hear another knock on my door. This time I feel like I have no choice but to answer it. “Yes?” I say. My sister opens the door in her work clothes—a black pantsuit and pink blouse. “Sorry to wake you up. I know you need rest—I couldn’t sleep either last night—but I was wondering if you wanted to come out and meet my Bible

study group. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you if they could come over earlier, but you were sleeping… Anyway, they’d like to hear you play piano. Em said what a good singer you are and Michelle said she’d like to hear you too.” My sister is hard to say no to with her big doeeyes—as blue as Madonna’s herself— and her thin pouty lips. I fear that this is all one big excuse to get me into the living room where everyone can confront me, but I decide I don’t have a choice. I roll out of bed and tell my sister I’ll be out in a minute. I take off my extra layers of clothes and wonder for a second what I should wear but I just put on blue jeans and a white t-shirt. I don’t care if they see my tattoos. I try to forget all my nerves and trudge slowly into the living room. Everyone says hello and smiles. I sit down at the piano and look at Em who’s sitting to my left. She’s my sister’s childhood best friend. She smiles and runs her hand through her shiny blond hair and says, “How are you, Paul?” She is handsome, small, and young. She wears a brown leather jacket and has the look of a woman who wants to be masculine, but constantly effeminizes herself in the attempt. “I’m ok,” I say. I sigh. I’m afraid to say anything else lest they tell me what I’ve done. I look at the red-head and she’s smiling. To the right of the red-head is the roommate I violated. She’s smiling too. Neither of them have any anger or reproach on their faces. I think the redhead is the girl, Michelle, that my sister mentioned. I turn and look over the rest of the women and wonder what I should say to them. There’s about ten all together. I wonder if I should say, “Hi” or just sit

“It’s pleasurable to think of myself in a tub full of blood.” there. I’m too afraid. I decide to just sit there. After a moment of silence, Michelle stands up and looks at me. She says, “Well, Paul. It’s great to have you here. We’ve heard a lot about you. Your sister’s such a gem and I’m sure it will be great to have you here too.” Her roommate stands up too. “Yeah. Sorry I only got to meet you in passing earlier. But, I’m so glad you found the keys to our apartment. It would have been awful if someone from the street got their hands on them.” She steps toward me and hugs me after Michelle. My chest knots up and my eyes burn. “Yeah.” I try to speak, but I have no words. I want to cry, but I stop myself. I pull the tears back in. I look at the Icon of Mary on the wall and feel like the gold around her is invading my chest and my eyes. I look at the rest of the bible study group. A few look like they’re from the neighborhood. They look happy. Maybe the missionary work is working. I want to say to the roommate, “No. No. No. What the hell are you doing! You should crucify me!” But I don’t. I look at the piano in front of me. The keys—black and white. The maple sheen of the wood. I think about the way it plays and the warmth. The way it can draw you into a better world and pour warmth into dead bodies. I wonder if that’s the kind of warmth they think they’re treating me with. It’s unnatural and feels like bleach but I let in as much as possible. It makes me feel a part of the circle. I’m not the same, but we can touch—like flames flickering between souls—we are connected with light. I feel like I can hold on a little longer. I ask the group, “What do you want me to play?” I have a feeling, but I leave it up to them. Maybe I can make a sacrifice. “How about ‘Morning Has Broken?’” says my sister. She makes a pouty face. “Please? If it’s not too religious?” I look at her and then I look back at the piano and say, “Ok”. I focus on the notes and and the song. All the rest disappears. I am able to thank the moment for its generosity, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what my sister is getting at—maybe that’s the first step of hope.

MEGAN CLINE “FRANKLY MY DEAR, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN”

SARAH SCHAUF “ONE-EYED WILLIE”

MAXWELL COOPER “THAT MODEL THAT EVERYONE LIKED”

Carlson Contest Honorable Mention - Poetry

THROUGH THE BASMENT DOOR Nathan Dunlap

One such child, no, a child’s child, yet still, a child’s child’s children, yes, running rampant, owning their future, though ownership of time not yet discernible; trouble, oh what a word of the mortal mind, defined in discomfort or simple lack of pleasure; they, led by example of their preceding infantile parentage, hold-fast nothing that does not or will not greet their lonely eyes with instant gratification, though now sitting, a feeble attempt at existence, a reiteration of their under-developed predecessors, they state boldly in platitudes, lacking research, beseeched by their own pleasure receptors, leading an asceticism, rooted in deprivation of thought, unknowingly rendering themselves helpless in their generation away from “natural” or “supernatural” realms, to strive for a physical world, easily in-sight and materially tangible, herein, they “save” themselves from their own empathy, traded out for active apathy, in which it has been stated that they wish to cite the unseen, though, their own blind sight the causation for perceived bliss, insomuch, one seer sees, doer does, thinker thinks, teacher teaches, by this a combination of all is, as history hold apparent, not wholly fit for our world, maybe the world in which the child of children dwell, yet some way or another, one such generation, with reference to what history offers, showing one such child, or child’s child, or even child’s child’s children’s child is capable, one sees time will be escorted out the back or front door, the side, front, or rear windows, or even cascaded down the uneven staircase, past the cracked, falsely mounted railing, through the basement door to be locked in the ice box in an attempted preservation, yet inevitably laid waste, because one such child, or child’s child, or even child’s child’s children’s child cannot keep what they do not own, for spending time equates to the purchasing power of one child, a reiteration of their own infantile parentage, whose monetary expenditures have been entirely supplied via the borrowed measure, and when all out of money, should have taken refuge in an amount greater than that borrowed during their state of spending, so as to aptly reimburse the lending party in order to not end in bankruptcy; as will be learned, our lives are, when put into existence, laid down as collateral to ensure payment is made when all time is spent, though even still, as still as possible seemingly, the reiteration of this infantile parentage, was, is, and will remain to be a concerted insult to what, or whom created us.

UNDER THE ABYSMAL LIGHT AN INTERVIEW WITH AMBIENT METAL BAND, AUSTARAS What is the meaning behind your band’s name? Austaras (spelled Auštaras in Lithuanian), is the name of a Baltic wind deity. We chose this name because of the importance of the forces of nature in our lives, and the belief that humanity’s current rate of expansion and consumption has bred a culture of destruction and abuse of our natural environment. We find some inspiration from pre-Christian European ways of faith and thought as well. What was your recording experience like? So far we have recorded and released one EP, and are currently writing for our first full length. Honestly, our recording experience was somewhat of a headache. After finding a lineup that we thought was stable, we began recording in the Gretsch Studio at Elmhurst College in April 2010. We had to finish additional recording that summer, but in the process, parted ways with both our vocalist/bassist and engineer/producer. It was a very tough time for the band, but luckily a friend stepped into fill the vocalist/bassist’s shoes and we re-recorded certain parts of the record in January 2011. A good friend and fellow musician from Germany offered to mix and master the record, for which we are extremely grateful. Though the recording process dragged on longer than we would have liked, in end we are very proud of the results. What are your influences? Each member has a different musical background. Therefore, Austaras as a whole draws inspiration from many genres of music. In the beginning, Becker and Hill were very influenced by metal bands such as Opeth, Enslaved, Wolves in the Throne Room, Agalloch, Isis,

and progressive rocks bands such as Spirit, Porcupine Tree, Focus, and Camel. New bands such as Lantlôs and Panopticon inspire us to push the limits of what metal music can be and classic bands like Iron Maiden and Pink Floyd remind us of our past and how we came to be where we are today. What is your goal as a band? Our goal is to release quality music that

can make a difference in a personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life, just as all of the above artists have influenced our lives. Eventually, we want to be able to play for many different audiences all over the world. As of now, we have written the concept and two thirds of the music and lyrics for our upcoming record. We have no plans set in stone yet pertaining to a means or medium of release, but are hoping to have everything recorded by the end of this summer. How did Austaras came together as a group? The band was formed in 2008 shortly after Becker and Hill met and discovered their playing styles and influences meshed very well. Hansen was added in 2009, and Kuhn in 2010. Their presence in the lineup completed Austaras, and has only helped the band grow. All four members are motivated by a desire to create beautiful, powerful music that caters to and inspires strong emotions. Our music is a reflection of our triumphs, frustrations, dreams, fears and how we see the world around us.

JEREMY FOY “BLUE CREEPY CRAWLERS”

Here I sit, Moonlight lit, Upon that lamppost. Bugs ﬂy by; Cicadas cry— I love the silence. No one’s near. Mind’s all clear But it will not last. The dawn arises. There’s no surprises-I feel that fear again.

Lose my balance It’s always a challenge To find my way down again. But feet hit the ground Oh, the rising sounds Of buzzing bodies. And here I stand With jobs at hand Unwilling to start again. But close my eyes To feel that disguise Wrap all around me. Racing thoughts quit As my mind sits, Upon that lamppost once more.

Teresa Falsone

A Little Bit of

Agony For You

Carlson Contest 1st Place - Fiction

Megan Kirby

Fit the First Simon brings home dead people’s things. A set of blue-and-white teacups, a brass bank shaped like a lion. He works for a company that sorts through the houses of the recently deceased. It’s delicate work. We’ve inherited almost everything in our apartment, from the glass-fronted bookshelf to the potted plant Simon calls Jules Ferne. When he gets home, I’m sitting on the loveseat waiting for him. Usually, I hate waiting for him. It makes me feel like some desperate golden retriever thumping my tail by the door. But today, I cannot think of one other thing to do. He kisses my forehead and his lips linger for a second like he’s checking for fever. “I brought you something,” he says, digging in his jacket to pull out a slim rectangle wrapped in brown paper. I open it slowly. A little book bound in red cloth, its binding brittle in old age. Curling golden letters down the spine read The Hunting of the Snark: An agony in eight fits. “This one’s a nonsense poem,” he says. “A long one.” I laugh, because it’s such a Simon book, nothing I would willingly pick for myself. There’s an inscription on the inside cover: To Martha, A little bit of agony for you. From John, 1926 What a clever little note. I wonder if John and Martha were in love. I wonder if they’re dead now. Just like that, I start crying. Simon stares, shocked, then moves to sit next to me and wrap his arm around my shoulders. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs. “What is it?” We are not a crying couple. I don’t think he’s ever seen me cry. But now, I can’t stop. I can’t answer him.

Because how can I explain that I spent all afternoon wandering the apartment alone, running my fingers over everything—our wrought-iron headboard, our grey lace curtains, our salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like little elephants—surrounded by only dead people’s things. Fit the Second I fell in love with Simon because we fill the gaps in each other’s bookcases. He loves fantasy and science fiction, magical realism and meandering poetry. I like strong, solid prose, the classics, books reassuring in their mirror of reality. In our five years together, we’ve had arguments over everything from our chosen brand of coffee to the use of semi-colons. But this is one argument we’ve never had. “You didn’t want a baby,” Simon says. “We didn’t have a baby. I don’t understand what’s wrong. It’s good news, right? Less complicated this way.” “I thought it’d be my choice,” I say. “I thought I’d make my decision, and I’d deal with whatever doubts or guilt came along with it.” He looks across the kitchen table blankly. The overhead light flickers. “There’s no baby, Mary. There never was. How can we mourn something that was never there?” I understand the implications of what he’s saying: how can I grieve for something I never wanted in the first place? Though he’s silent, one of his familiar lines passes between us: Mary, Mary, quite contrary. But I don’t want the opposite this time. I never wanted a baby, then or now. My throat clenches when I swallow. “Tell me how to feel,” I say, though I know it’s impossible. I don’t want to make any more decisions. I know it’s immature and even selfish, but I want him to write step-bystep directions for me to follow. Because the last time I made up my mind, I could see the hurt in his eyes when I told him I couldn’t keep it, that I’d made the appointment. He wanted that baby, but he never argued. He let

me make the choice. My hands spread limp over the table. He reaches over and covers them with his own. “Nothing really happened. Nothing’s different. We can just go on with our lives.” It didn’t really matter if I made the right or wrong choice. In the end, it wasn’t up to either of us.

Fit the Third Working at the admissions of a community college I never attended feels a lot like working for the tourism bureau of a country I’ve never visited. Today, I don’t want to be at work. I cannot be at work—if I spend ten more minutes in my cubicle I’ll scrape the skin off my hands. I force myself to vomit loudly in the admissions office bathroom, then I stumble obviously back to my desk with my mascara running. My boss floats worriedly outside my cubicle. “Okay, hon?” She can fake maternal instincts when necessary. I tell her weakly, valiantly that I’m fine, don’t worry about me, no, I’m behind on my work and I can’t afford to take the day off. When she kindly, gently, vehemently tells me to get out of the office, I hang my head in mock defeat. Then my purse is on my shoulder and I’m striding towards the door, and I’m in my car driving too fast, and I’m back in the apartment with its lazy afternoon silence. I lay on the loveseat telling myself to sleep, but really I watch the shadows shift and grow across the living room floor. The way the light folds around me, so golden, so safe.

I read a few more lines, but nothing makes sense. “Why did you give me this?” I accuse. “You knew I wouldn’t like it.” His eyebrows shoot up. “I thought,” he says slowly, “that something different might help you get out of your head. Might be a relief.” I blink at him. “Well, you were wrong,” I say as I stand to leave the room. Why did he think this ridiculous poem would help me? Even as a kid, I never read kid’s books, probably because I never liked to think of myself as a child. My birth came a year after the death of the older brother I’d never know. I recognize it now as the last desperate grasp of aging trying to resume life after Max, snatched by pneumonia at ten years old. They must have realized their mistake as soon as I was born: they couldn’t look at me without seeing him. I learned that when I acted my age, their eyes clouded over with Max’s ghost. But when I acted like an adult, they could look at me, speak to me, treat me like someone separate and purposeful beyond my dead brother. I found refuge in ordered, logical words. Austen, London, Hemingway. I grew into a stern young girl bent over with the weight of the books clutched to her chest. I have never doubted my parents’ love. We all have to find ways to survive. Simon grew up with five brothers and sisters. He used to talk, occasionally, about wanting kids. I’ve always been honest with him. He wants to care for things. I want to be cared for.

Fit the Fourth I puzzle over Snark at the kitchen table, with Simon next to me balancing his checkbook. It’s like reading a foreign language. I bump and scrape along. As far as I can tell, there’s a group of men on a boat hunting for something called a Snark. But I don’t understand why their hunting group includes a baker, a banker and a beaver. I don’t care about anyone on that damn boat. It’s all like some bad joke no one will explain to me. Finally, I get so frustrated that I whirl on Simon. “Half of these words aren’t real!” I seethe. “And they’re all hunting for this Snark, but I still have no idea what it is!” Simon glances up from his figures. He looks tired, but he smiles. “You can’t read it for every word. You have to read it as a whole, blanks and all, and let the meaning fill itself in.”

Fit the Fifth I read Snark in the bathtub, drying my fingers on a washcloth draped over the side before turning each page. As the bathwater cools, I run my hand absently down my body. My flat stomach, solid and predictable. I’ve always prided myself in knowing my body, its tides and its tendencies. I never took a pregnancy test. I didn’t think I needed to. First, the botched week of birth control, then the broken condom. Then one, two, three weeks past the red circle on the calendar, the day I expected to start my period. I laid in bed and felt a cluster of cells swelling inside me. Every breath, every bite of food was no longer just for me. I was not ready to give myself up. I was naïve, then. I thought my body would warn me when something was wrong. I thought I could

trust it.

My hand presses hard to my stomach, sending ripples over the tepid bathwater. I tense my abdomen, grinding my palm into the knot of muscle. I know, now, how easily I can be fooled into accepting familiarity as predictability. Fit the Sixth I have one photograph of Max. When I cannot sleep, I creep out of bed and find it tucked between the heavy pages of my childhood copy of Little Women like a dried flower. It’s springtime in the picture, and he is nine years old. In a year, he will be dead. He’s on a playground swing, at the top of the arc—that moment of glorious inertia, the instant between the ascent and the descent. I like to see him in this moment. Flat and frozen, smiling, oblivious. Golden-haired and young. I owe my life to his death, and I realize now how important it is to remember where you came from. Fit the Seventh The first time the doctor said “hysterical pregnancy” I thought he meant we were funny, like the players in some dark comedy. Then I thought he meant I was hysterical—screaming, pulling out my hair—but that couldn’t be right because I was just sitting there cold and silent and small. Then Simon was next to me smiling, brushing my bangs off my face to kiss my forehead, and when he said “Thank you so much, doctor, that’s good news,” I understood. I’d been feeling the baby shift inside of me, though I knew it was too early for that sort of thing. But every little twitch made me feel like peeling my skin off. The night before my appointment, Simon climbed into bed next to me and slid his hand over my stomach. I wondered if he could feel it fluttering. And for just a moment, I tried to love the thing inside me. I tried to love it for Simon, because his hand was so gentle, because I knew how badly he wanted it even if he’d drive me to the clinic tomorrow without a word of protest. I tried to love it, too. Because he wanted it so much, and I only wanted to get rid of it. But I would only love Simon, and try to love myself. Good news, great news. I wasn’t pregnant. I never had been. Great news, fantastic news, that my mind was so sick it could trick my whole body. That I was softly, silently going insane. That I was empty. I never wanted a child. But now I can’t stop

thinking of all the babies there never were. And all the babies that were, and then weren’t. And all the babies I’ll never have. Maybe I thought and wished and prayed so hard for that baby inside me to go away that I made it disappear. But as I call in sick to work again today and spend the whole day trailing from room to room in my dirty pajamas, tracing my fingers over dusty windowsills and uneven rows of books in this apartment full of other people’s things, I feel like I’m the one who’s vanishing. Fit the Eighth I go to bed early with a mug of chamomile and give Snark one more try. I guess I owe it to Simon. I try to read it fluidly, with the complicated nonsense bits more like a yield sign than a red octagon; I slow down cautiously, but I don’t stop. After I finish a few sections, I’m surprised. Once I stop getting bogged down in the technicalities of it all, the plot is simple and actually funny. Simon comes to bed when I’m on the last page, and he rolls with his back to me. We lay in silence for a few minutes, then I turn to the back of his neck. “I think I understand better now.” “Hmm?” “Everyone’s hunting for this Snark… But no one knows what it is, or how to catch it…” Simon’s quiet, but I know he’s listening. “And one guy’s really determined, but he’s scared too, because his uncle warned him…” I leaf through the book for the right passage. “But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, if your Snark be a Boojum, for then you will softly and suddenly vanish away and never be met with again.” I put the book back on the bedside table and click the lamp off. We lay not quite touching. Then Simon says “What the hell is a Boojum?” and I laugh because I have no idea. Then he says, quieter, “What do you think a Snark is?” I think for a minute. “At first I thought it was some sort of bird, but…” I scoot closer to him. “Now, I think it’s just an idea. Like peace, or God, or happiness. Something different for everyone. That keeps changing. Something you can’t just throw a net around and capture forever.” I spoon up behind him and hold on tight, anchoring us for just a moment. And as much as I want to trap this sudden calm and clarity, like a photograph pressed between heavy pages, I know to just let it wash over us. Slowly and suddenly, a moment worth vanishing for.

ERIN STRONG “SELF-IMAGE”

ERIN STRONG “DEATH”

THE WRITE ONE AN INTERVIEW WITH CARLSON CONTEST WINNER, EMILY DAROW Emily Darow must be doing something right—for the second year in a row, she’s won the top poetry prize for the faculty-juried Carlson Contest. Now a sophomore at Elmhurst, Emily took the time to sit down with us and share her thoughts on inspiration, craft, and the power of writing. How do you find inspiration for your poetry? My inspiration comes from a lot of different places, but usually it’s from something that happens in my life or more often, something someone says to me that sparks some thought. What specifically inspired Cigarette Smoke and Mints? The inspiration for Cigarette Smoke and Mints came after my grandpa had a stroke. Like I said, usually things that happen in my life spark thought. After he had the stroke I thought a lot about it. For me, writing out those thoughts was the easiest way to deal with it. What advice would you give to other college students writing poetry? My advice for any other college poets would be to write daily and write about what you know. The more you write the better your chances are of writing something decent. Some days I’ll write a piece, reread it, and think to myself, “Wow, that’s bad.” But the more you write the better your chances are of writing something amazing! I’ve also found that some of my “best” poems are about things that have actually happened to me or people I know. How did you first start writing poetry? I’ve always loved to read and have had this ongoing fascination with language, specifically writing. I will randomly find notebooks with my elementary school scribbles of silly stories or ideas for stories, but my senior year of high school was when my writing obsession really took off. I took a Creative Writing class that literally changed

my life. It opened my eyes to all the possibilities that writing offers, from entering contests like the Carlson to figuring out ways to translate my emotions in a way that others can understand. I’ve been writing almost daily ever since. How did it feel to win the Carlson Contest for the second year running? Winning the Carlson contest means a lot. When I took second last year, Dr. Wiginton sent me an email saying something along the lines of “It isn’t often that creative writing gets acknowledged, but it’s always exciting when it does” and it really is true. You can write and write and write all day, but to have your work acknowledged, especially by the staff at Elmhurst really makes me proud. Where do you hope to go with your writing in the future? I have always wanted to send my work in to a professional poetry magazine or publishing company to see what they think of it. Maybe someday I will actually get up the guts to do that, but for now I’m just going to keep writing for the love of writing.

EMILY DAROW

10.20.11 AGE 18 Hell My specter is a dandy Top hat coat tails and all a cane with a jewel at its head to shine when he’s grown dull

My specter is a nursemaid her gingham skirts flare full she helps Missy dress in the morning light her skin awash with coal At night they float above my bed bulging eyes wide open aglow sitting watching for sudden movements so they can follow wherever we go Around the Corner When my baby comes home from work I can feel him in my blood his blood, boiling hot as the sun running through his veins melting, I can feel it alone standing in the kitchen at the stove him behind me at the table as he waits for dinner, at the edge of hunger, satisfied a gnawing sharp hunger of empty bones silverware’s grind on chintz everything gone, scraping satisfied peaceful still, milk drunk and warm. Coffee Satisfied. Hell My nursemaid walks in shuffles Silently trailing on the street Like the devil in a double The first of me you’ll meet Her body is denial Though her sustenance is sweet She bakes the whole world pies in the morning light That I for her image can’t eat

Around the Corner We own the night and I relax Desert after coffee and the music plays trip hop salt on my shoulders and nothing else on top me on his mind and he sleeps for a while because it’s still light, summer time enough for a walk but then CNN and BBC so we decide to stay in he of the serious eyes and my eyes serious too we leave the windows open for when we grow hot incapacitated hot delirious green lights on dark skin painting the sky Hell The dandy is a fearful sight His mouth a lacquered red In fear and anger, a virulent buck He traces my lover’s tread Posturing all day on corners Never supplying his family with bread This specter lives his life in public scorn To be hung from a tree when he’s dead Hell is Around the Corner Because our house is haunted Between us, he and I, Specters become the dominant force While our own is just implied

Imani Banks

KATHERYN TRAUB “HAIR SWEET HAIR”

JONATHAN REIMAN “LADY OF THE MIST”

MAXWELL COOPER “GUY LAYING DOWN”

puzzle pieces Haleigh Yonish

When I was four years old, I was invited to a princess party. All of the girls showed up at Chloe Lupo’s house wearing extravagant costumes. Their moms had spent hours playing “dress up” with their human dolls, curling their hair and applying bright makeup as best as they could while the little girls squirmed with anticipation. Each of the princesses shuffled with their mothers’ oversized shoes into the Lupo’s Floridian ranch, their dresses fluffed-up with varying shades of pink, looking like cartoon cupcakes with animated, sparkling eyes, each of them so eager to inspect the others and decide who had come to the fête with the best ensemble. When the doorbell rang and Chloe’s tall, tan mother opened the door for me, the room fell silent. I was met with confused looks and blank stares as each of the miniature princesses and their suburban mothers tried to decide what to make of me. For Chloe Lupo’s princess-themed fifth birthday party, I had dressed up like a house cat. I made a grand entrance, meowing and crawling on my hands and knees. My mom, just like the other girls’ mothers, had helped me with my outfit and makeup but she had used her eyeliner not to accentuate my large, green eyes, but to draw whiskers on my pale, freckled cheeks. Instead of a tiara, I had on large, black cat ears worn with a black leotard, and a raised tail attached at my waist followed me into the room. Not taking anyone’s social cues of surprise and discomfort, I continued to act like a cat, refraining from normal speech, and instead responding to questions like, “Would you like a drink?” with short meows. Chloe, my best friend, made me her royal pet, and I trailed behind her, hissing at her guests; in simpler times, making someone laugh was enough to earn the title of “best.”

I batted at her and the other girls, circling at their feet the way my own kitten, Tigger, did when he was hungry or wanted attention. Eventually, after their shock wore off, the tiny princesses played games with me, laughing at my dedication to the feline role. Their moms, not sharing their daughters’ amusement, hovered around, whispering to each other. “Well, she is a little weird, isn’t she?” “Definitely strange. Who willingly lets their child act like that at a social gathering?” “It is odd… And bad parenting, if you ask me. You know, they aren’t even from around here… I heard her dad grew up, fatherless, in the slums of New York.” “Pity, pity…” My own mother stood on the sidelines of the party, overseeing me with a bright smile. She heard, saw, and felt the unease from the other mothers but only laughed, encouraging my fluffy-animal façade. My mother understood the situation with the suburban ladies better than I could, but I still felt something forced about her joy as I pranced around like a kitten. She was proud of me. She loved me in a different way than the other moms who pushed their daughters to do better, to be better. Regardless of who she was, she did not want me to come out a carbon copy of herself; I was going to be my own person, and she would do anything to give me that opportunity. Maybe it was the guilt. When I was born, I was diagnosed with a rare kidney disease. I underwent several experimental procedures, and my trips to the hospital were frequent. The cause of the disease was

“For Chloe Lupo’s princess-themed fifth birthday party, I had dressed up like a house cat.” unclear, but when several other newborns in the same neighborhood as me began to get sick, develop mental illness, and eventually die, questions were raised about the power plant puffing hazardous chemicals into the humid air. Was the haven they had chosen to safely raise their children the cause of their youngest’s illness? In the year’s to come, this guilt would twist them enough that they would move more north to escape the possibility of future endangerment. Despite their worry, with each morning that I opened my eyes, my parents thanked their god for my continued existence. Unaware of how long I would be with them or if I could remain a healthy, happy child, they encouraged me to blossom in the ways I was able. While my older sister went out on bike rides with the other neighborhood kids, I was confined to the house, too sick to carry out any amount of physical activity for more than a couple of minutes. I took medications regularly, each of them bogging me down with excess fatigue. Stephanie Rose, my sister, could escape from the cookie-cutter houses with trips to Disneyworld and the beach, but I was always left behind to entertain myself while aged babysitters and neighbors snoozed on our leather couches until the rest of the Yonish family returned. The hours spent alone caused my imagination to sprout in unusual ways. My parents never really bought me many toys, so I made dolls that were drawn and cut from paper or scrapped together with string and clothespins, their little houses then carefully constructed with Home Depot paint samples and empty Kleenex boxes. I called every housefly “Roxy,” convinced that the buzzing pest was my dear friend with whom I could share all of my little, childish secrets. When I stayed home from school on sick days, I watched movies like Batman and Indiana Jones through the foggy lenses of swim goggles strapped to my small head. And, at a princess-themed birthday party, I wore cat ears and a cat tail. “Because I like them.” When I entered into school, I learned to keep my strange habits at a manageable level. I was still eccentric and odd in a way that caused even kindergarteners to turn their heads in confusion, but I was bubbling with anticipation to get to know others, and I was quick to introduce myself to my new peers. Although enthralled, I wasn’t used to extensive interaction outside of my immediate family, so I tended to observe the other sticky-handed

youths rather than divulge much about myself. When I missed school, no one really asked, and I kept my life of hospital beds and IVs to myself. Still, I was lonely. But, I learned how to fake it. I played with those girls all day, meowing, pawing, and giggling until my stomach hurt. I ate cake with them, clapped while Chloe opened her presents, and laughed at their jokes even when I didn’t quite understand them. I was content with being an odd house cat, but, deep, down inside, I longed to be a sparkling princess. They were all so beautiful, with their thick hair piled on their pretty heads and glowing, golden cheeks, and I was like a small ghost, hovering behind him and feeding off their light and their energy. It was like every princess at that birthday party represented something that I would never be: a perfectly sculpted puzzle piece that slid into part of a big picture. I felt like the piece the assembly line robots punched out wrong - the one that had too much cardboard hanging off the edges. Sure, I could wedge myself into their get-togethers and their sleepovers, and I could blend in well enough with the other pieces to make the glossy, ornate picture, but I would always be sticking up at odd ends and folding in my rough edges to make room for others. As my mom drove me home that night, she drove with the windows down and the music turned up loud for her to sing along to. With the thick, glass windows rolled down in the car door, the humidity was able to seep into our gray Jetta, and I could feel it my limbs start to become sticky. I slid the cat ears off and rested my head against the soft part of the door, clicking the locks back and forth with my index finger. I suddenly became aware of my mom’s voice growing louder. I looked over and saw her hand turning the volume knob higher and higher. There were moments of gold And there were flashes of light There were things we’d never do again But then they’d always seemed right Her hazel eyes looked expectantly at me from above the frames of her large, dark glasses. She continued with the song, practically yelling the words while she kept time by banging on her steering wheel. I waited for a couple of seconds, watching her put on a solo show, before I smiled and belted with her. “Baby, baby, baby!” We drove around the block a few times, letting the CD loop through while we sang the strange, love-themed songs that made no sense to me, but they were passionate and alive. I was passionate and alive, feeling

the high voices of the pop star, my mother, and myself run through me, shaking my insides. I wasn’t pretending anymore; there wasn’t anyone to impress. When we arrived home, the kitchen smelled like spices, and my father already had pasta cooking on the stove. “I figured you girls would be hungry – these suburban women don’t really know how to cook,” he said, his nostrils flaring from both humor and a little bit of disdain. My sister walked in to meet us, her brown arms clutching a wideeyed cat who was trying his best to escape. She held him out for me to grab, and I did so, delicately scooping him like a baby. “He’s so weird,” she said to me, climbing up one of the wooden stools to view my father’s Italian dishes. I looked into his eyes, which were large and green like my own, and smiled. When we picked out Tigger that summer, he was the only kitten who didn’t come out to play. While my mom and sister socialized with the other, noisy kittens for sale, I had sat patiently on the kitchen floor, waiting for him to dislodge himself from the space between the refrigerator and the wall. He was still scared now, but he seemed to be getting better with people. He just needed a little more time.

“When I missed school, no one really asked, and I kept my life of hospital beds and IVs to myself.”

RANDI HOLT “SUMMERTIME”

BENNETT JOHNSON “RUNNING FROM SOCIETY”

The man in the hospital window heard his daughter die in a car crash from some forty thousand miles away. They found her hairclips somewhere in the wreckage, shipped them to his house so he could keep her memory alive. He wears them in his own hair, despite what strangers say. His goldfish died the day before he was going to clean the tank but some things take precedent over others, like ordering flowers to line the church aisles. Nothing went right the day of her funeral. too many people, not enough time to say goodbye. The man in the hospital window volunteers his time wiping tears off the floor so no one else slips in their misery. He turns off all the T.V.s in the place So people facing their own diaster donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to hear of a world filled with even more sorrow. Tomorrow he will die on the same highway she did. No one will ask why he was some forty thousand miles away, Carrying nothing but a dustpan. No one will take his vacant position. The floors will stay wet, The T.V.s always on.

Emily Darow

SOUND OFF ABOUT THE MUSICIANS FEATURED ON THE MWV SOUNDTRACK AUSTARAS Austaras was formed by J. Becker and S. Hill in autumn 2008, upon meeting at Elmhurst College. The duo realized that a common compositional style was shared and began composing works influenced by many metal sub-genreas, progressive, and ambient music. In 2009 after meeting fellow EC student Adam Hansen, and T. Kuhn, an IIT student, the band recorded in Gretsch Recording Studio on campus. As of summer 2011 they have released their debut EP ‘Under the Abysmal Light’, and have been playing a number of live shows in the Chicago area with internationally acclaimed bands. Moving into 2012, they are working on new material that plans to showcase an evolution from their debut by use of new elements, sounds, and ideas that will coalesce into the first Austaras full-length. STEPHAN CARLSON Stephan entered college as a Vocal Performance and Music Education Major. He began composing music his sophomore year (late 2009), and it quickly became a very important aspect of his life. Stephan’s first piece of choral literature, a piece for a twelve part choir called “Dominus Primae Lucis Est”, was performed in the spring of 2010

at a high school in his hometown of Rockford, Illinois (Boylan Highschool). He continued to study and compose, the theoretical courses in music always ended up his favorites. Eventually, in the fall of 2011 (the precipice of his senior year of college), Stephan could no longer deny who or what he was. He changed his major to Music Composition, and began studying composition formally that fall. Prior to this, Stephan had had no formal training in composition. The piece selected by MWV, the Vulture, was the result of his very first experiment with composition. FANTASTIC MAMMALS Fantastic Mammals carry their element of surprise beyond the stage with cutting-edge music packaging and marketing; keeping things fresh with their ongoing album “Over Age” and their swanky shotglasses. Fantastic Mammals sophomore album “Dueling Protocats” is slated for an early 2012 release. THE FUCKERS Formed in the summer of 2011, The Fuckers are breaking into the Chicago punk scene at full force. Despite being a young band, they have already released a full length album and an EP, and have shared the stage with high profile acts like The Dwarves, Social Distortion, and WOrld/Inferno. The Fuckers are always looking for a good time whenever and wherever they can get it! I KILLED EVERYONE Formed in June 2008 by Addison, Illinois’ I Killed Everyone blends a style of Melodic Death Metal so crushing and impacting one could feel the anger and hostility within the music. Each song tells a story of it’s own focusing on topics such as homicide, abolition, and a point of view from an atypical mind. Be on the

lookout for I Killed Everyone in your area. Make sure you help promote them by, Purchasing merchandise at shows or online, Come to shows and have a good time, and listen to their tunes. KIM SCHAEFER Once described by saying “you sing like an Angel, but play like the Devil,” Kim Schaefer aims to write beautiful songs that cut. Drawing from influences like Johnny Cash, Brandi Carlile and more, Kim crafts folk/indiepop songs you’re sure to enjoy. Kim has been playing guitar and writing songs for almost 10 years. In that time, she has played at venues like the Beat Kitchen, Subterranean, Uncommon Ground, Fitzgerald’s, and others around Chicagoland. Kim has one EP, Holy Roller, currently on iTunes and other sites and hopes to record music this summer for a fall release. LORDS OF THE DRUNKEN PIRATE CREW In the year 2011, a mighty wave rose up from ‘neath the blue oceans and upon that wave came a scourge of the seas, the drunkest pirates ever to sail! The pirates had set forth on an epic quest to drink booze and plun-

der booty from everyone they came across! They christened their crew the Lords of the Drunken Pirate Crew. If ye happen to come across these pirates three, for a spot of ale, a jug of rum, and mayhaps some booty from your private stock, they’ll play ye some tales of battles and the adventures which piracy brings! So grab your noodles, grab your hooks, and your peg-legs and get ready to jig and fight, because these pirates be takin’ ye by storm! YARRRR!!! VALLEY FEVER Formed at the tail-end of 2010 in Orland Park, Valley Fever has seen several line-up changes revolve around founding members Jason Maska (guitar), Chris Massura (vocals/guitar), and Mike Murphy (bass). The current roster took shape in November 2011, when Matt Faleni joined on drums. An energetic, pop-punk band with alternative tendencies, Valley Fever already has one EP under their belts and a strong desire to pick up where they left off. Drawing strong influences and similarities to Yellowcard, Green Day, Blink-182, and Taking Back Sunday; the sky is the limit for us. Be on the look out for a new release later on in 2012. I KILLED EVERYONE

LORDS OF THE DRUNKEN PIRATE CREW

VALLEY FEVER

MIDDLEWESTERN VOICE CHOSE TO CONTINUE THE TRADITION OF HAVING A “GREEN” MUSIC SECTION. DOWNLOAD THIS YEAR’S AWESOME MWV SOUND TRACK AT MIDDLEWESTERNVOICE.COM 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Stephan Carlson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Vulture Kim Schaefer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Take My Picture Fantastic Mammals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dueling Protocats The Fuckers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wagon Wheel Lords of the Drunken Pirate Crew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Grit, Steel, and Fury Austaras . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Spirit Farewell I Killed Everyone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dead Peasants Valley Fever . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . You’re Gonna Be Texas Toast (Runaway)

MY SHEILA MAE

Mm Mw MICHELLE PETERSEN

I never figured out how to tie my shoes. All that twisting and pulling of shoelaces was just something I never understood – like freeform jazz, or Jesus. Mama always tried convincing me that that sort of little stuff in life never defined a person. After all, Ol’ Blue Eyes Sinatra never learned how to read sheet music, and look where he ended up. But nothing really ever came easily to me. As a kid, when everyone was out for recess kicking around woodchips and climbing the monkey bars, I sat alone on the blacktop in my Velcro Clydes, my short blonde hair combed perfectly to the side. I’d be backed up against the worn brick building with my knees tucked into my chest, counting the hairs on my arms, thinking about the old lady next door to our house who died, and worrying that someone might come over and try to talk to me. That’s probably what concerned me the most – and still does. The thing is, looking someone in the eye and talking normal is something else I never figured out how to do. I know that there’s probably a lot about me that’s not right, that I can’t do well. But I’m only like that sometimes. Most of the time, I don’t feel that way at all. I’m ordinary, just like everyone else. And I think that’s why my girl Sheila Mae and I have been going strong and steady since we met at Sal’s Diner. We’re perfect together, and with her, I’m a normal, regular guy. Mama helped me move into my one bedroom apartment on the other side of Norwalk, Connecticut after dad died. It was the first time I’d been out on my own in 30 years, on account of the fact that Mama liked me home with her so she could keep an eye on me to make sure I was eating right, and not wasting too much time daydreaming or writing in my small, leather bound journal that I always hid in the back

pocket of my pants for safe keeping. Mama hated to see me write. I could go at it for hours without stopping, and she always said that doing too much writing and not enough sleeping was unhealthy, which is a real shame, because I know it’s not. She was always bothering me to see what I was writing about, but it’s really nobody’s business. The great Fred Astaire never let anyone see his writing, and I wasn’t about to share mine, either. I was always reassuring her that life’s too short – I’ll sleep all she wants me to when I’m dead. “This’ll be good for ya,” she said, carrying cardboard boxes full of starch white boxer briefs, greasy cooking pans and laundry detergent to my new place on the 4th floor. It took me hours to pack everything up just right – which I enjoyed. The apartment was smaller than the basement of Mama’s house I used to live in. That meant less space to have to worry about doing something with, and I was glad. I was a busy man, and wouldn’t have had the time to figure out what to do with it. The walls were bleached from floor to ceiling, and the champagne carpeting looked new, except for a small purple stain by the windows in the living room that must’ve been either spilt cranberry juice or cabernet. I’d have to clean that. The apartment was bland, as if the people that lived there before me were allergic to color, and I felt like I was moving into one of those ugly waiting rooms they have at the doctor’s office. To be honest, I didn’t know how much good this whole “living on my own” thing would do me. My job wiping down tables at Sal’s Diner was all I’d been able to manage on my own, and having my own place seemed a bit steep. But that’s what guys do when they’re my age. They work and live by themselves, and now I had my own

place that I was about to share with Sheila Mae – though Mama didn’t know it yet – and that’s all I cared about. I loved my Sheila Mae. And I knew she loved me. Mama set the last moving box on the floor in the living room next to the stain, and turned around to look at me, brushing her short curls out of her face and smiling like she used to when Dad was alive. I felt her gaze, but I couldn’t meet her eyes. My mind was busy. I was staring through her, thinking about living on my own and wishing that Sheila Mae was there with me. I was always better off when she was around. “You know I’ll be right down the road if you need me, Charles,” Mama said, looking at me carefully, as if she were worried I couldn’t handle being on my own. I laughed loudly at her comment.

Free. I went to the bedroom and started unpacking my clothes and folding them perfectly in the drawers of my new bedroom dresser. Messy drawers just meant laziness, and I was anything but lazy. It was dark outside by the time I finished sizing and organizing my underwear drawer. Before moving on to the next box, I pulled my journal out of my back pocket and leaned against the nightstand, tracing the front cover of the book with my right hand, and thinking about my girl. Sheila Mae moved in that evening. All she brought with her were two bright purple suitcases and a cedar coffee table that had a chip in the leg – the kind of coffee tables that couples use. As soon as she came in, she gave me a hug and a long kiss on the lips. She must have known how much I missed her. I held her in my arms the way I’d

hung her floral printed dresses and skirts up in the closet behind the bedroom door. She began putting her clothes in the dresser drawers alongside mine, and I watched her carefully to be sure she didn’t ruffle anything that I spent all afternoon perfecting. Women always had too much clothing – I never understood that. Sometimes it frustrated me, but I knew better than to say anything. It had been two whole days since I had least seen her, and I didn’t want to start arguing. I watched the way she moved about the apartment in her red crocheted sweater, fixing the curtains and making the bed. Sheila Mae could mesmerize me for hours. And she did. That’s exactly how it was when we first met. She came into the diner one day while I was working, and sat in my section on purpose just so she could talk to me. Sheila Mae was always talking. In

“I wasn’t much for talking with other people, but Sheila Mae could capture me like a song, and I could be with her for hours.” I could handle anything – she just needed to trust me. She stepped over to straighten the collar of my button down, and her touch startled me. Her hands were cold against my neck and she smelled like too many cigarettes and a lot of cheap perfume – as if she had just stepped out of a Jackie Gleason film. “Don’t forget about your appointment next week with Dr. Reed. Anything at all you just give me a call, okay? I love you.” “Yeah,” I forced out, wringing my hands and hoping she’d stop touching me. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and closed the door behind her, her black, plastic heels clicking down the hall and out of the building. I was finally alone. Alone in my quiet, motherless new home.

seen it done on TV, and forced a smile. I was never good at expressing how I really felt, but Sheila Mae never judged me if I laughed when I should have cried, or got angry about something small. She was good to me that way. I couldn’t help but stare at her wavy, honey blonde hair and the way it fell fully on her delicate shoulders, her shiny teeth and the dimples that sank into her face when she smiled at me. It was a moment that Hollywood couldn’t have written any better. I helped her carry everything inside, and we chose a place for the coffee table – in the living room right in front of the couch. She knew I’d like it there because I’m a traditional kind of guy. The normal, original type. She brought her things into the bedroom and

fact, she might’ve been the one that asked me out – I can never remember things like that. I wasn’t much for talking with other people, but Sheila Mae could capture me like a song, and I could be with her for hours. After fixing up the apartment, she went to the kitchen and started making dinner. It would be our first meal together in our new place. She talked to me about her day off from work at the bank in town while she steamed rice and put chicken breasts in the oven, and I sat at the table staring at the way her almond shaped blue eyes dazzled beneath the fluorescent kitchen lights, slowly turning glassy throughout the night from laughing and drinking too much red wine. After dinner, we went to bed and

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talked about us, and all the moments we were going to have together from that point forward. I told Sheila Mae that we had to keep it a secret from Mama that she would be living here with me – Mama was the traditional type, too, and wouldn’t be too happy if she found out. She told me how thankful she was that she’d met me that day at the diner when she came in for a quick cup of coffee, and we kissed each other to sleep. The next morning, I woke up starved and had no time to eat before work. I had a long day of bussing tables at Sal’s ahead of me, and I couldn’t wait for my shift to be over so I could go home. I was exhausted, and dealing with people at the diner was not something I felt I could handle that day. I pushed through the day, letting my mind drift, and avoiding eye contact with people whenever possible. I secretly hoped my girl would come in, but she never did. And I was sad. My shift ended, I was tired, and my hands were damp and sticky from 10 hours of dipping rags in a bucket of gray dishwater – but I sure did make those tables and countertops shine. I punched out, and walked slowly along the gravel roadway in my worn out slip-ons, up to my apartment complex with my hands shoved deep inside the pockets of my slacks – the way Gene Kelly used to do it. It was always better to walk this way. If people couldn’t see your hands, they wouldn’t talk to you or question where you’ve been. They’d know you were busy getting someplace. I stared down at my feet and held my breath every time someone walked past me, hoping that the world would just let me be. I felt the weight of my journal in my back pocket, and hoped Mama hadn’t stopped by while I was out. I needed to get home. I needed to get home to Sheila Mae. I walked in the apartment to the smell of blueberry waffles

and cinnamon coffee. Pans were clanging in the kitchen, and the sound bothered me. The Channel 12 News hummed on the TV in the living room, too. I hated listening to the news. It was filled with too much stuff that nobody wanted to hear about, and it made me feel even more uneasy and suspicious of the world. I walked in and flicked the TV off. Only 30 seconds home from work, and I was already getting upset. I closed my eyes and slowly counted to 10 like I learned from Dr. Reed, and when I turned around and walked toward the kitchen, Sheila Mae had already set the dinner table – complete with candles and silverware – and was setting a plate of steaming, fluffy waffles and maple syrup on the new tablecloth. Breakfast for dinner was my favorite – she always knew exactly how to fill me up and calm me down. I sat in the chair next to her. We ate our fill, and she talked about her day. Always talking. I hardly ever told her about work – what was there to say about bussing tables, anyway? We left the mess, and moved to the couch to watch I Love Lucy reruns under the blankets. She ran her hand through my hair the way I loved her to, her hands gentle and warm. I finally opened up to her and told her a bit about my day at Sal’s, and how much I was hoping she would have stopped by for something to eat so I could have seen her. She knew how much I loved seeing her at work. She was the only person I cared to see in public. But she never showed. I asked her why she hadn’t been by, but she didn’t say a word. All charm and sparkle and good reason locked up tight inside her as she stared at the glowing television screen. Silent. I hated when she ignored my questions, as much as I hated clanging pans in the kitchen and the Channel 12 News. I shut my eyes and quickly fell asleep, my

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head still resting on her lap. I woke up the next morning alone on the couch, and with a headache I don’t even think Frank Morgan could have fixed if he were the wizard himself. I opened the blinds slowly and peered out at the apartment complex courtyard, which was damp from the silent rain that must’ve fallen during the night. I was glad I didn’t hear the rain – I’ve never been good with storms of any kind, and I would have been embarrassed in front of Sheila Mae if I would have had a meltdown. The rusted window screen was dripping and soggy, and the sun was shining so brightly I could have lost myself in it. I showered quickly, put on my work uniform and slip-ons, and combed my hair neatly to one side. Sheila Mae had gone – probably to work – and she must’ve cleaned up before heading out. I loved her even more for being so considerate, for being everything I needed her to be. I decided it best to forgive her for not answering my question last night – my heart felt like it might burst if I didn’t. I picked up my keys and shuffled down the road to Sal’s, eyes on the ground, hands in my pockets, thoughts still going back to her. As soon as I opened the glass door and stepped inside Sal’s, I saw her – all 5 foot 7 inches of her. She was sitting up at the breakfast bar in tight dark blue jeans and a yellow t-shirt, her golden hair glistening, resting easy on her shoulders. She held a mug of coffee between her manicured hands and blew on it daintily, a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of her. Beautiful. My heart was jammed so far up in my throat I thought I’d suffocate, or throw up, or both. She came to see me today. A smile crept to my lips. I forced myself to walk over to her, wringing my hands, trying to warm them up and dry them

out. I sat down on the barstool next to her, studying her intensely. She looked a little different this morning than I remembered. Her hair wasn’t as much honey blonde as it was brown, and it didn’t curl or bounce as easily as the night before. Her fingernail polish was violet, not red, and she wore a silver ring on her index finger that I had never seen before. I studied her, smiling, waiting for her to acknowledge me. She took a hesitant sip of her coffee and glanced at me out of the corner of her eye before turning fully to the side to face me on the stool beside her. “Good morning–” she paused, smiling beautifully at me. She didn’t have any dimples today. Her eyes seemed to shift down briefly at the gold, plastic nametag I wore on the chest of my work apron, then back up at me. Maybe keeping eye contact made her nervous sometimes, too, like me. “— Charlie, can I get a new knife? This one fell on the floor.” “Yeah,” I said. I stood up from the stool, and froze. By the time she extended the dirty utensil out to me, I remembered my journal in my back pocket, and the contents I kept inside the book jacket: a small gold and jade studded earring she’d lost one sunny, Thursday afternoon while she’d been having coffee with another man in booth 5 near the windows; a used napkin she’d left behind that was stained with magenta and rose-colored lipstick, shade #247 at the Macy’s makeup counter, her favorite; a handful of photographs I’d been able to snap of her whenever she’d come into Sal’s for a late lunch or dinner; a small lock of her hair I managed to clip off the day I bumped into her while carrying a load of dirty glasses and dishes to the back of the kitchen; and countless love letters I’d written her, but never had the courage to send.

I began thinking about the memories – the memories that smothered the pages of my journal in black and blue ink: that one cold, winter night when she came home from work so exhausted that she could barely walk, so I made us dinner and we sat on the couch together and fell asleep by the fireplace; the time we had a picnic in the park underneath the willow trees, and once we ate our fill of oranges and pretzels, made love behind the bushes so no one would see; the day I was terribly sick and couldn’t get out of bed, and she took extra care of me and loved me, like she always had. Like she always would. I pressed my right palm into my temple and massaged it slowly, staring at her. My headache was worse. My Sheila Mae and the one sitting in front of me was the exact same person – I was sure of it. I was normal, and normal people get easily confused sometimes – mixed up. It was fine. People make mistakes. She looked at me, trying to get my attention, but I was lost. She gently waved her hand in front of my face, smiling kindly at me. “Um, excuse me,” she said patiently. “My knife?” I blinked several times, gawking at her face. I studied her features as I reached over the counter and gave her a new set of utensils. She hesitated, but thanked me – her voice more raspy than I remembered. Before long, she started talking to me. She began explaining how she was waiting for a friend of hers to meet her for breakfast. Her voice sang to me amidst the sounds of clanking plates and loud, senseless chatter from the customers. I never understood how people could spend so much time talking about nothing. If you ask me, the world is full of nothing, and talking doesn’t get anyone anywhere. But here I was with Sheila Mae, doing

the same thing. And for a moment, everything was completely normal. I was normal. I forgot what I had been thinking about. I stared at her face once more as her lips moved, and I reached back and rested my hand on the back pocket of my pants, feeling for my journal, smiling at her. I winked at her a Dean Martin wink. The Sheila Mae in front of me was my Sheila Mae, and I couldn’t wait to get home and find out what memories we’d be making together tonight.

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