Images 2018: Confessions by Images Magazine

Fort Lewis College’s Journal of Writing & Art – Spring 2018

‘Smelter’ Zack Studtman

About Images Magazine is Fort Lewis Collegeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s journal of writing and art for the students by the students. Please visit our website flcimages.fortlewis.edu for more.

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Donors Dexter Cirillo Patricia Hankinson Stefanie & Brennan Ryan Judi & Jerome Simecek

Harvey & Stacia Deutsch In loving memory of Lorena Nadon

To Steve Meyers from the Images staff with all our love and support.

Images Editor-in-Chief Katie Hankinson Design Editors George Bangs Maddee Ryan Staff Raelen Barr Katalene Coulter Danielle Hutchins Lukas Kerr Benjamin Meckley Austin Munroe Ian Murphy Garrett Parker Erin Renner Emily Sandner Ryan Simonovich Hails Stacy Tanner Wilson Web Design Jeromy Slaby Advisor Candace Nadon Printer Basin Printing

Dear Reader, If you ask me, ink and paper make a better confessional than a wooden box. Because in that box you can still hide, while here, you are out in the open with your soul bare. In the pages that follow, we will confess to airport terminals and to nature, to cigarettes and too-late nights. To the page and to the canvas, to our pasts and to our futures. To ourselves and to each other. We confess to hiding from the truth and—now—we will finally face it, breathing a breath of relief in the process. Bear witness to these confessions. Thank you for joining us as we tell these truths. As they are written, created. Lived. Welcome to Images. Yours always, Katie Hankinson Editor-in-Chief

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Fiction

The Grass I Imagine is Always Greener Breana Talamante-Benavidez Mere Christianity Jenna Brooks Kept Unknown Kayla Cata Broken Love Sierra Doan

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The Grass I Imagine is Always Greener Breana TalamanteBenavidez

Stacy sat at her desk and admired its organization she wished she could force into the rest of her life. She smoothed the top page of the yellow legal pad just to the right of her laptop. She straightened the black, blue, and red pens that sat conveniently to the right of the note pad. The office phone sat at the top right-hand corner of the desk, bound by too many wires. She did her best to fix the tangled mess, but at this point, all she could do was disguise it by placing a picture of her cat in front of them and hope no one would notice. She smiled approvingly at her work. Only moments before, her desk was covered in manuscripts that needed to be reviewed, sticky notes with abrupt-semilegible-almost-cursive thoughts scribbled on them, and various other items that were haphazardly thrown on top of the pile. By the way Stacyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s desk looked now, anyone that walked in would think she had her life

all together. Perfect with a capital “P”. Right on cue, her assistant Gerald walked through the door, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand—two sugar cubes, a splash of almond milk and one shot of espresso. He sat the paper cup on her desk in front of the phone. “Are you and Ben coming to the Christmas party this weekend?” he asked as he shifted his weight and leaned over her desk, prying for answers. “I’ll be there, but Ben might not make it. He’s on a business trip and he’s not sure if his plane will land in time,” she replied without making eye contact, shuffling through the drawer she had shoved most of what was on top of her desk into moments ago. “That’s too bad,” Gerald said, “you should bring him by the office on his next day off.” He offered even though he already knew what her answer would be. “I’ll do my best, but he’s such a workaholic.” Stacy gave him the same answer she had given countless times in the last year she had worked at Peter’s Publishing House. She used the phrase so often she might as well have printed it on t-shirts. “He’s a good lawyer, so a lot of work comes his way,” she added, hoping this would satisfy Gerald’s curiosity. Everyone at the publishing company wanted to meet Ben but it seemed that Stacy always found a way to keep Ben from meeting any of them. She was never afraid to talk about Ben though. She constantly went on about how he generously donated his Christmas bonus to the children’s hospital, or how he would love to make it to Jenny’s annual barbecue, but he already signed up to volunteer at the soup kitchen. She made it a point to tell everybody about the poker games he had with his friends from work or how the two of them spent the weekend watching football at Ben’s brother’s house. The stories of Ben were so interesting that her co-workers often only asked her about Ben and never about herself. Gerald let out a disappointed breath and turned to walk out of the room. “Are you okay with all of your meeting times?” he asked before he walked out of the door. “Yes. They’re all fine. Thank you, Gerald.” She dismissed Gerald with a quick grin and continued to leaf through one of the

manuscripts that sat on her desk. As Gerald shut the door behind him, Stacy leaned her head back against the chair, letting her long brown hair drape over her shoulders. As she ran her fingers through a piece of hair, she tried to picture Ben. She could see his broad shoulders and simple, clean shaven face. She pictured him holding a blazer in one hand, with the other tucked into his pocket. She smiled for a second, then shook the image from her mind. The street outside was busy, constantly filled with honking cars and people she envied. People who didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t practically live in their offices and who probably were in successful relationships. She tried to focus her attention back to the manuscript she was in the middle of reading. Definitely has potential, she thought as she jotted down some notes. She leafed through a few other manuscripts and met with the aspiring authors that seemed to always think they were writing something that had never been written before. When the day was finally done, she grabbed her coat and purse, turned off the light in her office, and headed out the door. Her drive home wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t too long, although Stacy told her coworkers she lived on the opposite side of the city. She told them how she battled traffic jams and cops who made it their duty to make sure everyone in the carpool lane had an extra person in the car. As she pulled into her assigned parking spot, she let out a deep breath, watching the cloud of condensation linger in front of her face. She watched as it started to disappear, waited, avoiding going up to her apartment until her fingers felt like they were about to freeze off. She knew what she would walk into when she opened her apartment door. Nothing. Not a roommate. Not a successful lawyer husband named Benjamin. Just an empty apartment with an old La-Z Boy recliner pushed into the corner across from the TV set. Her Bangle cat, Benjamin, left behind fur in his favorite corner of the chair when he woke up to greet her as she walked in the door, forcing her to eat her left over Chinese take-out on the floor.

Mere Christianity Jenna Brooks

“I haven’t exactly done this before, but I’ve felt the need to lately. I hope it isn’t too unladylike for me to share some of these things with you. I don’t know if I’m looking for forgiveness, sympathy, or just a listening ear, but I can’t keep going on like nothing is wrong. Everything feels wrong. Even so, this morning I pulled myself out of bed, walked through two rigid doors, and prayed away the shame long enough to convince the world I don’t have any. People will believe anything if you smile hard enough for long enough, somehow forgetting that everyone has something to hide. Forgetting that all of us try to fill up the spaces inside of ourselves–empty spaces that never seem to stay full. I wish it was as easy as high heeled shoes, pearl necklaces, and dry-cleaned dresses. I wish I could wear that outfit to heaven like the armor of God and convince him of my piety with fashionable modesty. Unfortunately, I worry God is not fooled as easily as the rest of us. For instance, we just started reading Mere Christianity in the all-ladies book club I joined a few months ago. Last week I listened to the girls slam that whore Stacy for copying my outfit on Sunday. Each one of them put their books to the side, grabbed a glass of wine and meticulously discussed the newest gossip. Their porcelain faces and tight smiles made me want to vomit, but they treated me like the Virgin Mary nonetheless.

And if you think that’s bad, my husband’s even worse. One day I told him that polka dot dresses cover up sins better than Jesus and he looked at me like a stranger. He’s been looking at me like that ever since our second-year anniversary when I told him we should start seeing a marriage counselor. He curtly replied that there was no need; he’d counseled hundreds of couples before, all of whom had more serious problems than us. I found that amusing, coming from a man who finds porn more interesting than sex. The same man that I fell in love with. Later, I figured out that while I was stumbling past our white picket fence, I lost a part of myself. Three months ago, another pregnancy test came back negative and he finally told his parents that we’re getting a divorce. Fortunately, no one has found out that he’s been sleeping at the Holiday Inn for the past two months. I guess we always thought kids would fix our marriage, but my broken womb was a wakeup call. It somehow allowed him to realize that I’m a fake. A fake woman, a fake wife, a fake mother. He realized that we only married for sex, that guilt doesn’t change anything. That I drink too much to be happy. Now, I must figure out how to be normal again when I’ve never been normal. When all along, I thought that becoming my mother and marrying a conventional man would make me less of the sinner I am. Is it even a sin to be a human stuck in a Christian’s body? Where I come from it is. Where I come from we carry Jesus on our sleeve and hide our lies so no one sees. I did everything right, I married young, and now these polka dots, like spattered blood stains, don’t seem to cover me up so well anymore. So, am I forgiven Father?” On a late Sunday evening, the dim confessional of Saint John’s Cathedral rattled with stolen whispers and Hail Marys. Sara clasped her crucifix after mumbling out a prayer and didn’t bother to listen to the lonely priest beside her. Hurriedly, she wiped the bleeding mascara from her cheeks and pulled out a small mirror from her purse before exiting the confessional. Her heeled shoes tapped against the marble floor as she made her way to the large double doors before her, leaving a trail of sins in her wake that would stay trapped in the dark, empty confessional she left behind her.

‘Almost..’ Ali White

‘Cube Faces’

Unkempt Fall 2017 Contest Winner: Matt Lawrence

Kept Unknown Unkempt Fall 2017 Contest Winner: Kayla Cata

My daddy was a quiet man. The kind of man who kept to himself and never spoke a word more than he thought necessary. He spoke with his eyes and they said it all. Every ounce of anger, pain, and resentment was always swimming round, like he could never calm the storm that was always raging on inside him. Don’t get me wrong, he was a good man and a damn good father, too, despite everything he went through. It wasn’t until after Daddy passed that I uncovered his hidden secrets. When I found out that he was born Cal Greenaway but died Marcus James, I felt as though I didn’t know who my own father was anymore. I asked myself why did he change his name? Why didn’t he ever tell me? What was he hiding? Who was this man? At the time, it was hard to separate the man I knew and loved from this new man, Cal Greenaway, who was not the father I knew at all. Had I found out all I did when my father was still alive I never would have believed it. I never would have believed that what he went through as Cal Greenaway would turn him into the loving Marcus James. I am grateful that I knew him as the man he became and not the man he was. Who knew that finding an old photo of a little boy and a wood cabin in my father’s journal would cause me to reevaluate everything in my life? That photo led me to an alternate reality I didn’t want to believe could be true. Everyone has buried secrets, but slowly, one at a time, without anyone really noticing, they all eventually begin to surface.

Sierra Doan

Broken Love A cool breeze crept through the open door, lifting the transparent curtains to dance in the approaching twilight. Thin strands of purple painted sunlight cut through the endless tumbling knots in her hair. She turned back lazily to look at him, spinning to bring them face to face. Her lips were barely parted, revealing the small gap between her two front teeth. There were dry cracks in the pale pink tint of her lips. When their eyes met he laughed nervously and looked away. He could hear the muted shouts of kids playing in the surf down the beach, blended with the rush of the ocean crashing onto land. She shook some feeling into her limp hand and lifted her feeble fingers to his cheeks. She took in a quick breath as her fingertips traced his jagged hairline to the back of his ear. She pulled his gaze to meet hers. He couldn’t help but watch her. He could say that it was because she was beautiful. It felt like his eyes were locked on her, as though she had the effect of gravity on him. Her face went blank for a moment—a split second that she spent looking into his eyes. She watched him with a wide cocoa stare, almost with the same intensity as he watched her. She was searching for something in those pools of murky green. He hung suspended in her pause. His breath was caught in his chest as her soul searching efforts continued. He couldn’t say why he loved her. Perhaps he loved the way her restless nights where reflected in the pale purple bags under her eyes, mirrored his own insomnia. She was tired, and it showed in the hollow sunken-ness of her cheekbones. He felt his muscles sigh as he sank down into the pillows. She leaned forward to him, and winced, as though each shift of her joints took a painful amount of effort. There was something about the way her face moved, like all of her muscles operated in slow

motion. There was a hint of a smile on her face. He could barely feel her lips press onto his forehead; there was no moisture on them. After the kiss she sat up, distracted by the chill blowing in from the ocean outside. She climbed out from under the sheets. They dropped to the floor around her, leaving her stark naked. She shivered. The last bright rays of evening sun highlighted the edges of her frame, and left dark shadows in the pits between each of her ribs. She bent down to pick up a discarded shirt on the floor. He still stared, tucking his bottom lip under his front teeth. Her skin pulled tight as she kneeled, stretching across her spine as though the bones may just burst from their paper-thin prison. He stared as she pulled the buttons of the shirt together, tucking the tiny plastic parts into place. Maybe he loved the way the shadowed skin around her eyes emphasized the depth of their cocoa color. The white shirt was transparent and covered very little. The shirt belonged to him. She met his stare while she buttoned it up. The corners of his mouth turned upward, and a small laugh passed his lips. The hemline hung off her frame, leaving gaps between the thin linen and the valleys of her hips. Her skin was pale gray and crinkled to her own touch. She flicked her tongue across her lips, attempting to moisten the dry cracks with saliva. Yet still he stared, past the almost sickening leanness of her tiny frame. She turned back to him and walked over to the bed. He moved for her at the same moment she fell into him, like magnets shifting apart. She winced when she sat down, as if it was painful to sink into her tailbone. As he leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on the side of her temple, a lone tear slid down the crook of her nose. He caught it with his thumb, just before his lips brushed her hairline. She was perfect, in her brokenness. Despite the disorderâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inky grasp around her core, she still glowed in his eyes. Maybe she was a constant reminder that he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to be whole to embody such beauty and broken perfection.

Creative No On Motherhood CJ Calvert Expiration Date Kayla Cata Fucking Up Marshall Dunham Hey Oprah! Santa Isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Real, Now Bum Me a Cigarette: An Inebriated Precursor to Inevitable Alcoholism Marshall Dunham Hardcore Confessions of a Teenage Spy Jack Ellmer Brontide Dane Fogdall The Art of the Seat Deal Caitlin Laffey As Fun as Licking Wood Emma Smith Snowden Street Jeremiah Tjossem

Nonfiction

On Motherhood CJ Calvert

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not a mother by any means; I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what it means to be a mother, I just know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m fortunate to have one. My mom is a complex person, one of the most complex people I know. I love her. My mom is a child of divorce, an abuse survivor, a strong woman, and mother of two rowdy, rambunctious Calvert children. Raising even one of us Calverts is no small feat. My mom is the image of Southern stubbornness and authority. So, if anyone could raise two hellions like my brother and me, she could. Not only is she complex, but so is our relationship. I never understood the people I knew in high school who said that their mom was their best friend. Most days I spent with my mom in my adolescence were just spent fighting. My depression took hold of my chest and mind with a death grip and when I spiraled, all she wanted to do was save me.

“I don’t care how you feel. I don’t care about you.” Words I said in a moment of anger and deep depression. That was what I said to her when I figured out I had depression. I remembered I said it and her face fell. Whatever hope she had for me was shattered in that moment. All my mom wanted was for me to be okay and be better, and I couldn’t pull myself together enough to even try. The more I hated myself, the more she resented me because I resented her. “I’m tired of trying for you, Coby. I’m tired of you. I don’t like you anymore. I love you, but I don’t like you.” I can’t blame her for saying those things. I was the one who pushed her to say it. I was the one who was self-destructing. Hell, I’d give up on me too. I was sixteen and wanted only two things: to kill myself and to run away to Plain City where things were simpler, where I had Lori and Kole who would tell me that it was okay to feel this way. She gave up on me and I resented her for it. My teenage, depressed mind hated her. I was cruel. She only wanted me to be better. My mom was the one that taught me to walk away when I couldn’t handle something or someone emotionally anymore. While she taught me that, I never did it. I could never put someone what she put me through. Damn it. The more I talk about this, the more complicated it gets. I wish it wasn’t so complicated. I wish I knew better and realized she only wanted me to be okay. I wish we had a better relationship. I wish I never told her that I hated her. I wish I understood her better then. I wish I could just fix it. I wish she wanted to fix it. To fix us. The thing I admire the most about my mom is that when she’s done with someone, she’s done. With that admiration comes a realization that she is done with me. That any hope I had in fixing whatever relationship I wanted with her is gone. Our relationship will never be what those kids in high school always talked about. I hope she might pick this up one day and read it and see that I’m sorry. That I do blame myself. That I fucked up her dream daughter. Not because I’m gay. Not because I’m trans. Because I’m fucking selfish.

Expiration Date Kayla Cata

You know when you go to the grocery store, you have a list of things you need/ want, and sometimes those things are the same thing? Imagine all you need/want is a gallon of milk. So, you walk to the back of the store to the refrigerator section and see a clear window full of milk. You open the door and you reach as far back as you can because you want the milk that is going to last the longest; the one with the furthest away expiration date. Once you find the gallon you want, you go to the register to buy it. While you’re there holding the milk, you know that this gallon is not going to stay good forever. You know for a fact that—at some point—this milk is going to go bad. Yet you buy it anyway, knowing full well that the shelf life is about a month at maximum. The cashier asks you, “Are you sure?” and you say, “Yes. Of course.” The milk is now yours

and you drink it every day because you love milk so much, but then life gets in the way. Things happen, circumstances change, and life gets complicated. The expiration date is closing in and your glass is getting smaller and smaller, but you keep drinking it, trying to get every last drop in that you can. Time goes by and you keep checking the milk. Weeks go by and the expiration date is staring you right in the face. You’re now at the point where you are smelling the milk before you drink it to see if it’s gone bad. You ask other people, “Do you think this is still good?” You keep checking it day after day, no matter how exhausting it is. The date comes and goes, but you still aren’t done. You want more, but if you continue to drink expired milk you’ll get sick. So, why is it worth it to drink something that could make you sick? Why keep checking it when you could just throw it away or get a new one? Truth is, sometimes we like things that are bad for us. It’s hard for us to let go, especially when we aren’t ready. Are we ever ready though? How could something that was, at one time, so good turn so bad? I confess that I hold on. I hold on for dear life until the very thing that gave me life, takes it from me too. Is that a bad thing though? To fight till the end, even if it makes you sick? At least I could say I tried. At least I could say I gave it my all and drank every last drop. When I see the bottom of the carton, I know I can say that I exhausted every effort. I tried everything and that’s the end. The sad thing is, though, you could go through all this trouble, time, and effort, for nothing. If you knew the whole time it was going to end like this, then why go through with it?

Fucking Up Marshall Dunham

“Why’d you start smoking cigarettes so young?” she’d always ask when she’d plop down next to me on the roof, two fingers outstretched to my face—the universal sign for, Hey, I have a hankering for some lung cancer too. I had a stockpile of answers to deflect the intrusive nature of the question, sometimes saying that I was a suicidal procrastinator or that my therapist prescribed them in eighth grade in the hopes of stunting my emotional growth. The question was bothersome, and up until this go around, I don’t think I’d ever actually thought about it. But here, on my roof during a cool July night, throwing bottles at cars and actually reflecting, knowing that she’d stuck around for two years and nothing I could say at that point would chase her

off, I felt like being honest. I took a long, deep drag, closing my eyes as smoke filled my lungs, and as I exhaled I told her, “I’m not really sure I’ve ever liked myself as a person.” And she said “Oh,” and laid her head on my shoulder. We sat like that until the sun came up, saying nothing as we took turns cutting seven minutes off of our lifespans. A couple months later, right before she left, she told me, “I love you, and you’re a terrific individual, but I don’t think the world could handle two of you.” Then she got in her car, and I could hear her tires crackle as they backed out of my gravel driveway. She stopped, and rolled down her window and yelled, “Don’t fuck up.” I watched her drive down the road, and when she was out of sight, I crawled up onto the roof and reached into my breast pocket, hoping to kill another seven minutes.

Hey Oprah! Santa Isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Real, Now Bum Me a Cigarette: An Inebriated Precursor to Inevitable Alcoholism Unkempt Fall 2017 Contest Winner: Marshall Dunham

The first time I ever blacked out from drinking, I was on a beautiful beach in the Dominican Republic. It was roughly 9:30 in the morning, and I was 13. The resort was one of those built to cater to rich, white twats, with the walls around the perimeter that were high enough so you

couldn’t view the shanty towns on the other side. With all the food, alcohol, atmosphere and gluttony, it was easy to forget that you were partying paces away from poverty. Everything at the resort was all-inclusive, which is important to remember, because this, along with my complete lack of self-control and knowledge of alcohol, were the three key contributing factors leading up to my family nearly stomping my teeth in and leaving me for dead on a beach chair with a towel over my head while I scooped sand onto my bare chest like an overly-inebriated seal. If you’re trying to get plastered enough to lose all recollection of the following twelve hours along with your sense of self and your family’s respect, it is absolutely paramount that you start drinking early. I didn’t know this then, but I know this now. An experienced drinker might start light–perhaps with a mimosa, or maybe a beer–before sliding into hard liquor. An inexperienced drinker might wander over to the hotel room’s mini bar and make a concoction similar to slamming a little bit of every available soda into the same glass at the local Taco Bell’s soda fountain line. This, I did. I hope you’re enjoying the picture I’ve painted so far, because my memory of what happened next is pretty fuckin’ shitty. The following are things that I had relayed to me the next day through my family’s haggard, disapproving and clenched teeth: • Met up with family an hour after they left the room and, in plain view of them, took an accidental running stumble into the pool.

• Attempted to order multiple beers at multiple bars on multiple occasions. • Repeatedly referred to my mother as “Oprah.” • Frequently wondered aloud why “my entire family has their panties in a wad.” • Spoiled Santa Claus for my little sister and possibly two or three other kids within earshot. • Wandered across the pool yard, had an unheard conversation with a man who had a goatee and a backwards-facing baseball cap, and returned with a handful of cigarettes. • Slurred, “I GOT THIS!” (pronounced “AH GAHHT DISHHHHHHH!”) after every single stumble, stutter or mechanical fuck-up. • Passed out on a beach chair with a towel on my head, scooping sand off the beach and putting it onto my chest for more than an hour. Just as my dad was about to pull my tongue out through my asshole, my uncle stepped in and baby-sat my drunken ass for the rest of the escapade. Although we laugh about it now–and the entire clusterfuck of a shitshow was absolutely hilarious–at the time it was just the beginning of a long, definitive series of self-destructive choices that not even the most facetious of individuals should use for comedic fuel in a liberal arts college literary magazine. I won’t lie, shit got pretty rough for me after this. But, even if this was the beginning of the end of the beginning for me, I take a certain amount of comfort and pride in knowing that a baby-faced child with a Justin Bieber haircut that was three sheets to the wind can still approach a man on the other side of the pool and return to his horror-struck family with a fist full of crumpled, soggy Marlboro Reds. Yeah, that fuckin’ kills me.

Hardcore Confessions of a Teenage Spy Jack Ellmer

I read every Alex Ryder novel like three times as a kid, so I consider myself to be a master of stealth. I took note, on those late nights, of how the fifteenyear-old spy slipped undetected into evil laboratories and saved the world. Now my turn has come. It was one a.m. as I pulled into the parking garage at Boston Logan. Everything was going according to plan. I took a ticket, the gate went up, and in I drove. Ha! I’m in! I thought with relief as I rolled my dark window back up. I thought back to first tinting that window, when I was just a kid trying to cruise the mean streets of Fort Collins without being seen. “So, uh, how dark you want these things?” Tony had asked.

Tony had moved to Fort Collins from Brooklyn. He’d quit the mafia so he could snowboard more. And he had the hookup on windows. “As dark as possible, Tony,” I squinted at him from behind my sunglasses. “You mean ‘possible’, or ‘legally possible’?” “As dark as possible, Tony.” I flung him my debit card. “And you can keep the change.” “Uh, sure thing kid.” Those were the days, I thought. Through my illegally-dark windows I could only barely decipher that almost every car here had Massachusetts plates. Perfect. They’d never suspect the car with Colorado plates for a crime committed in Massachusetts! And an old red Tacoma with plaid curtains and a bunch of stickers? Some getaway vehicle! I had the perfect disguise for the perfect crime. On the second floor, I found the perfect spot and backed in. The hanger was visible in the distance, lit brightly even at this hour, and bearing the stars and stripes. I began to pledge my allegiance but before one nation could get under God a car rounded the corner. Shit! I’ve been tailed. I slipped down in my seat and watched as the security guard drove by. I whipped out my phone and started the stopwatch. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud.

His tires seemed to hit each seam faster, faster. He passed again. Three minutes forty-six seconds. I restarted the stopwatch and climbed out of the cab. After checking the neighboring cars for snitches I climbed into the bed of the truck and pulled the curtains closed as I started to blow up my sleeping pad. I heard the thuds and checked the timer. Four minutes had gone by. Poor guard has no idea I’m about to sleep back here. Probably thinks I’m going to catch a flight or some shit. Sucker. But hey, saving money on a hotel room shouldn’t be a crime. I’d just cozied up in my sleeping bag and begun to drift off when disaster struck. I had to pee. Without a bottle in sight I resolved to find a dark corner of the garage to avoid being detected. I set my timer and flopped from the back of the truck like I’d been flung by a momma bird from the nest. The urge pressed violently outward, threatening to tear apart the fabric of my abdomen and soak this whole goddamn airport in pee. I waddled faster, pinched my willytip and prayed. Agonizing seconds later, I’d found my corner. Relief! Sweet relief! Behind me I could see the flag waving above the Learjets. I held my free hand stiffly to my forehead in salute and peed in patriotic bliss for literally minutes, feeling the cold pricks of pee splatter my knees. My salute ended in horror, though, as I checked the timer and it’d already been four minutes. The guard would pass any second! Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud.

Shit! I tried to pinch it off,but it flowed with the force of a water jet cutter and I feared that any faster would cut a hole straight through the floor of the parking garage. The guard’s headlights flashed into my corner. Time froze and the wise words of kid-spy Alex Ryder flooded in. “If you can’t be stealthy, be scary.” As though Brussels’ own Peeing Boy had been strapped to a rocket-powered merry-go-round, I whirled. My arms were more erect than Christ the Redeemer himself as I screeched to a stop. The thuds sped up. The water jet shut off. I crawled back into the truck and slept like a slightly-damp baby for the next four hours. Around six, I fell from my nest and infiltrated the airport. I waited in the shadows of the terminal C baggage claim. My phone buzzed. “Has the eagle landed?” Ronan texted. Before I could respond a loud buzzer went off. Bags from Denver began to pour onto the baggage claim. I checked over my shoulder. I’d been found. Caitlin’s embrace felt foreign after so many months. She ran over to grab her bag and I replied to Ronan, still in a state of shock. The eagle has landed. Eagle and I retreated to my hideout and set off for the Maine coast. Sometimes spies do smile.

Brontide (n.) – the low rumble of distant thunder Dane Fogdall

A storm while traveling feels different. To begin with, there’s nowhere to run to. Not really. At best, maybe you can find somewhere comfortable to wait it out. A warm coffee shop, a clean hotel, your own car. But it’s not home. And sometimes during those Atlantic thunderstorms, which don’t possess the young ferocity of my Rocky Mountain ones, I would rest in my great aunt’s attic room. Where the sound of rain on the roof felt so close, so unfamiliar. It was comforting.

It’s how you really travel I think. How you come to know a place—really know it—is to sit through a storm somewhere else. It means that you lived there. For a time. North Atlantic thunderstorms don’t fill me with wonder these days. The lonely gray is now just too familiar, but the long afternoons in a rain-battered attic exist. In a Toronto bookstore maybe, or a quiet Californian restaurant, or an old friend’s oneroom flat. I’m not sure yet.

The Art of the Seat Deal Caitlin Laffey

“This time is different,” I reassured myself. Jack had preselected my seat. I waited eagerly. The flight was delayed two hours— my arrival in Boston would be postponed until 6:30 a.m. But Jack had preselected my seat. I was in 8F, a prime window seat. But this time was not different, actually. I relinquished the chance to watch the sunrise dance across Boston Harbor to a young woman whose baby would kick me ever-solightly every few minutes and keep me up until the third hour of our flight, which was like all other flights. I am doomed to a life of resigning the window seat. Being the first child meant I had a few cherished, uncontested years taking the window seat and I relished them. I would stare down longingly at the small dots lingering over the hillsides, knowing the trees were taller than my house but still believing I could climb them. The window seat called for daydreaming of skydiving, learning to fly, and the hours passed without much notice. “No, Mom, it’s okay, I understand.” A commonly-used phrase of mine. As my sibling count grew, I learned to accept a most tragic fate: the middle seat. Worse: an

estranged seat rows away from my family. Years would go by and I would sit sandwiched between middle-aged men, strange-smelling teenagers, and so many mothers with young children. I could steal a glimpse out the window every so often, but a glimpse isn’t substantial enough for a proper daydream. The last few years of my frequent flying career have brought me to Dulles, Dallas, Durango, Boston, Bradley, and always home to Denver again. No window seat in sight. Like a child grieving their lost goldfish— a pitiful, passing mourning—I have begun to process this life I am fated to live. But it’s July 2017 now. I know this flight is different. Instead of flying to see each other, Jack and I are boarding our first airplane together. We have two seats: 35A and 35B. This frequent flyer knows immediately that the A seat is a window. With sandals strapped to our feet and bright eyes we meander towards the back of the plane. At row 35, we pause and exchange a glance. He earnestly raises his eyebrows. “Do you think it would be okay if I took the window?” He doesn’t know about my airplane traumas and in this moment, my worst nightmare is confronted by an endearing, anxious smile worn by my favorite person. And like all other times, I answer: “It’s not a problem, love.” Our trip would consist of four flights in total, and on all of them I offered him the window seat before he could ask for it. Hands clasped together tightly as the plane took off; in-flight I stole glimpses at the ocean below, content, rather than in contempt. I am still doomed to a life of resigning the window seat, but this one felt different. Still, the plane lands. We’ve arrived at our final destination. Stage Five: Acceptance.

Alumni Contest Winner: Emma Smith Class of 2017

As Fun As Licking Wood At the time, it seemed normal. But looking back now, a tour of the Budweiser factory probably wasn’t the best way to spend my brother’s 10th birthday. It started off the way every good birthday does, with a surprise even the adults were excited about. Sitting in the car my brother and I guessed what awaited us. “Maybe it’s Chuck E Cheese’s,” my brother said. “No way! It’s gotta be better than that. I bet its Trampoline World,” I said. “You’re both wrong!” my dad said excitedly. We looked out the window as we pulled into the Budweiser factory parking lot. “A beer factory?” my brother and I asked, disappointed. “Yeah, but it’ll be great. There’s lots of things to do. Plus—” my mom and dad said turning to look at us, “there are horses.” At this point I, in the depths of my most severe pony phase, totally lost my shit. Jed, the birthday boy, however, still had his reservations. “It’s not too late. Can’t we go somewhere else like Elitch’s? I’d even go to a book store,” he said trying to negotiate. Much to his dismay, we all got out of the car and made our way towards the building. Once inside we joined a group of ten adults and promptly began the tour. My brother and I were oblivious to the shocked and bewildered stares of the other tourists. We were also unaware that we were the only people under the age of twenty-one. This, however, did not go unnoticed by the tour guide. “Excuse me, but this tour isn’t really the best place for children,” the guide politely suggested. “No it’s fine, we’re their guardians,” my dad said. “They’re good kids,” my mom added. “Okay, well then I guess we’ll begin the tour. We’ll go through our tour the same way we make beer. We’ll start in the

prep room, make our way to the brewery and production rooms, then go to the tasting and advertising room. If you want to buy gifts or cases of beer, that’s where you’ll do it. And of course we’ll end at transportation, which happens to include our worldfamous Clydesdale horses.” The tour ensued, and Jed and I soon found ourselves more bored with each room we went into. While our parents and the other adults were having the time of their lives, my brother and I were dying. Every room smelt worse than the previous and despite our insatiable thirst, we weren’t allowed to taste any of the many drinks the adults were guzzling down. An hour into the tour my brother and I were nearly crawling, as all the youthful energy we possessed was drained from our bodies. Every now and then we’d warn our parents the razor edge we walked of life and death by boredom; our mom would promise that we were so close to seeing the horses. Noticing our lag the tour guide tried to revive us. “Hey guys, would you like a souvenir?” “Yes!” we yelled feeling life come back to our bodies. For the first time since trying to get rid of us, the guide acknowledged us. “What I’m about to give you is very special. In fact—” he said redirecting his attention to the adults, “–it’s the secret ingredient in our beer. It gives our beer a subtle smokiness. It also adds depth, tone, and a robust earthiness, which makes Budweiser the best. Close your eyes and hold out your hands, kids. No peeking!” he said. A rough and weighty object was put in my hands. The adults in the room chuckled between sipping their beer. “Okay! Open them!” Our eyes flashed open and our hearts dropped. In each of our hands lay a large chunk of cedar wood. Disappointed, we looked up at our overly excited guide. You would have thought he had given us the key to Legoland, not the hunk of dead tree that was actually in our hands. “You guys can chew and suck on it the rest of the tour if you want. That way you get to taste a little something on the tour.” We reluctantly licked it throughout the remainder of the tour to show our “appreciation”. By the time we exited the gift shop and made our way to the

stables, both my brother and I had lost all hope and marked the day as a lost cause. Much to our disbelief, the saving grace of the day stood before us in horse form. We oohed and awwed at the gargantuan creatures. Their manes were braided and adorned with bows and ribbons. Their ankles showcased long, silky feathering. They even wore collars with nametags. They were so massive and elegant that it turned even the drunkest hill billies on the tour into obsessive seven-year-old horse girls, like me. That’s when I heard my brother. “Oh. My. God. Emma, look.” I followed Jed’s line of sight to the biggest horse in the stable: Big Dickie. There, attached to Big Dickie was a colossal big dickie. “Geeze! Well we know why they named him Big Dickie!” I yelled, forgetting my surroundings. A roar of laughter arose from all the adults. In that moment all the torture, boredom, and disappointment evaporated. Jed and I talked and laughed all night about the “Best Birthday Ever.” Now, twenty some years down the road I still remember it’s clear as ever. I cherish everything about that day. Years have granted me the realization that the anguish and boredom my brother and I felt that day was justified. That the Budweiser factory isn’t the ideal location for any child’s birthday, nor would it have been worth it had it not been for the astounding anatomy of one well-hung horse. I now find myself wrestling with Adulthood to preserve a fond childhood memory. The judgment that comes with growing up attempts to taint it, but I won’t let maturity steal this one from me. Looking back, I’ll admit it seems odd. I acknowledge it was a risk for my parents to take their two young children on a brewery tour. But I also know they loved us fiercely and fought Adulthood with fervor so my brother and I could stay children as long as we did. If I were being completely honest, I would confess my parents might not have won Parents of the Year by society’s standards, but they won in my book. And truly, you, my audience, who know the pains and frustration of adulting, have to admit, my parents are goddamn life goals.

Snowden Street Jeremiah Tjossem

I stared at my great Aunt as the dying sunset shown bright red against her long white hair. “You know Miah,” she said, fiddling with some pens she had organized into neat little rows. “It’s like I always say, we all get old, and we all have to leave at some time.” I nodded my head as she stared at the pens with an odd sort of look in her eyes. A nostalgic look. A look that conveyed every one of her eighty-seven years in less than thirty seconds. I was silent. An old clock ticked heavily in a corner of the fifties style kitchen. My mind went over a list of names, of people that meant something to this old woman in front of me and I realized they were all gone. Alone. She was alone. I was alone. The people that she had loved and that I never got a chance to love were gone. All. Gone. I’ll never forget sitting in her tiny kitchen as the reality of my life, the last big secret, the one thing I had never really allowed myself to truly comprehend, set in. They were gone. I’m driving to Silverton. Winding my way up roads I’ve driven my whole life. Roads that have a special almost sacred place in my head because I’ve known them for so long. They are home, or at least part of it. I’m eight. Sitting in the back of my

mother’s old ‘95 Subaru Outback that always smelled of old spilled coffee, with the window that wouldn’t roll down all the way. My mother sings along to “Sweet Baby James” as we twist and turn our way up the frigid mountain roads. The leaves have all fallen, the last vestiges of autumn gold blowing away in the winter winds as we make one last pilgrimage to my mother’s home. We pull onto Snowden Street, near the road that leads up to the shrine. My mom parks across the street, the wheels of the car churn to a stop in the dust and gravel of the dirt road. “Do you know what that is?” she asks my twin sister and me. “No,” we respond in unison. “That’s momma’s home. That’s where I was a kid. Where your Grandpa George and Grandma Anne lived.” Her voice cracks a little, and I see the glimmer of a tear streak down my mother’s cheek. She puts the car into Drive and we slowly roll away. “How come we can’t go inside, Mom?” I ask pointing to the greyish blue house. “Because we can’t, baby, we don’t own it anymore. Someone else lives there now.” Confused, I stare at the house as we drive away. I turn onto the dirt road, passing a green sign that reads in big white letters “Snowden Street.” I park the car and just sit, taking it all in. The greying blue paint, the purple trim, the layout of the two story house. What memories lie inside? A fundamental piece of my life lies not but a few yards away, forbidden and forever changed by the new family that lives there. Do they know? The bluish grey garage door is open and I see a couple of men, one older one younger, talking while looking at a snowmobile; a woman and some children are in the yard. The children run in circles as the woman watches with a smile. Another car pulls up to the house, and a man and a woman get out. The pleasant laughter of greetings trickle through the air. I’m angry. Is that wrong? These people seem to be happy in each other’s company, living under the roof that my grandfather built. I just feel…cheated. I drive away. Pull onto Highway 110 and drive north until I pass a familiar sign: “Hillside Cemetery.” I’m eight again. No. Younger. My mom, my twin sister and I make our way down to a rocky grave. I clutch a bundle of white plastic Walmart daisies in my tiny hand, as my mom guides us down

the slope. We reach a grave covered in large rocks, with a headstone that reads “David Ray Tjossem.” “Come here kids, come put your flowers on Daddy’s grave,” Mom says clearing the brush away from my father’s headstone. I stumble towards my mom and lay the flowers down against the grey chiseled granite. “He would have loved you so much,” Mom says, kneeling, her eyes re-reading the stark black lettering that spells out his name. I park above my dad’s grave. Hike down the slope and read his name upon the cold, grey granite slab. I move down the line and read the name of his best friend: Bradley Perkins. I called him Uncle Brad. He died shortly after my birth. I visit my grandmothers and grandfathers, my uncles, my great-grandparents, my aunts. It’s a family reunion. Almost comical in a morbid kind of way. Their headstones all stand silent in response to my prayers, as

‘The Memory Museum’ Ali White

a cold wind blows down off of Boulder Mountain. I brush the dirt off my knees as I rise and look south out over the valley taking in the land around me. Mount Sultan, Kendal, and Anvil are the only onlookers, the silent watcher of my endless vigil. The wind whips my hair and I shrug my jacket tighter around me as the chill finally pricks my skin. I breathe in the crisp cold breeze, and walk back to my car. My vigil all but done. I try to wrap my mind around the impermanence of life and time and memory, as I struggle to name these feelings I have for a past so inherently connected to me and yet so unimaginably far away. My great-aunt begins fiddling with the row of pens that click and clack against each other. I look at the clock. I stand. “Time to go Miah?” My aunt looks up from the table. “It’s time to go.”

‘Unburden’ Ali White

‘Weapons’ Alison Scheig

‘only with you’ Ali White

Poetry As Are You So Am I Jenna Brooks Triplets Cassidy Brunsen The Painter and His Canvas Kayla Cata Feb. 10, 2017 at 4:30pm Anita Cruse On Being the Little Spoon Douglas DuPont The Dutch East India Company’s 1652 White Elephant Gift Jack Ellmer Swing Holly Fox Where Healing Begins Stacy Jones There is a smell of undressing Merkin Karr remías M. M. Lansing A Tragedy Rachel Lee Addicted Joshua Mendrala Be a Man Robbie Morrison Using Science to Save my Soul Ellinore Porter The Final Trip Fred Resler The Persistence of It Emily Rickard Ber’s Prayer Matthew Winchester Smith An Undervalued Sound Christina Stanton A Cup of Coffee Cannon Sullivan Time Flies in the Whiskey Wind Jeremiah Tjossem Get Away Young-thoughts Allie Wilder Positive Attitude (The Yoga Song) Allie Wilder Bill Me Rachael Ruff

As Are You So Am I Jenna Brooks

we were sitting in my car and the skin between your eyebrows was creased and tense I could have just reached out and pinched that crinkled space separating those too-blue eyes that were ringed in red and fear and something like hate I sat across from you and beside you choking on excuses watching as slow tears ran down each of your freckled cheeks like naughty children into a patchy beard that sprung out everywhere a beard that I just wanted to smooth out with my hands like your heart and press down all the edges and kiss you

a kiss with you in that moment would have tasted like salt and regret it would have been a hard kiss on an angry mouth swallowed down like a lump in my throat it would have been the second to last worst decision after calling you broken and hearing my car door slam with your dog still inside confused as to why we were screaming and beating down on the dashboard like pianists instead of each other making the worst kind of music together so I let her out and walked her to the sidewalk slowly so she could say goodbye with those soft brown eyes and leave me with a puppy shaped hole in my heart I said you were broken you are broken

Triplets Cassidy Brunson

diamonds, ruffles, headbands in threes identical, not replicas we sit together we see our own individual worlds iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m my own two eyes, my own person â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Kayla Cata

The Painter and His Canvas On the eve of December my heart beat outside of me. up His hands went and my body like an painter down unhinged attacking his blank canvas. Each stroke,

So delicate So meticulous Until perfection is achieved. The canvas begins to bleed, Paint oozes and seeps and the artist is The image is

pleased.

but I suppose that is how he wants it to be. dead, I see a girl with a tear in her eye and a hole in her chest. Her skin is a mirage of purple and blue, like a lilac That wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ready to bloom. On her chest, he leaves his mark Signs his name On his work of art. hangs She on my bathroom wall For all to see. Portrait Little did I know, the was of me.

Feb. 10, 2017 at 4:30 Alumni Contest Winner: Anita Cruse Class of 2017

Sometimes all you can do is Run your hands back and forth These are my purple pants The same ones I wore the first Time I tried to get help, bogus therapist These are my purple pants She would stare and stare, stared me Straight into here, said to ground by feeling These are my purple pants With my three changes of clothes (no strings), The woman with brown eye circles and These are my purple pants Lank greasy hair, and the Be-zitted young man who talks to These are my purple pants No one and everyone all at once Maybe the same no ones I hear too These are my purple pants In empty rooms and shrieking in my head while Heart pounds and mind races (GET ME OUT OF HERE) These are my purple pants Dragging hands up and down, up and Down my thighs as I wonder These are my purple pants

Over and over why am I here? How can I possibly be one of these These are my purple pants People, who gibber and cut and Eyeball an unattended ballpoint These are my purple pants Left sitting by the intake nurse While she asks the whens and whys and These are my purple pants Hows of my fascination (friendship) with death The seduction of the void, blackness These are my purple pants Where everything is the same and My mind can’t surprise me with These are my purple pants A new me every day, they say they Can make it stop, go away, just stay “be brave my sweet girl. you’re my everything” But now I’m here and drowning and all I Can do is run my hands, back and Forth over my thighs in my purple Pants and stare out at a fence I have No hope of ever climbing.

On Being the Little Spoon Douglas DuPont

Un-surprisingly, I felt safe. I know my hips are nowhere nearly voluptuous as yours, and I thank you for taking one for the team. Awh, fuck… Who am I kidding? This was your idea and I agreed instantly. Wrapped in the lover energy bringing to mind giddy childhood days by the creek and nights next to the cold flames with warm beverages. These days, I have less weed & booze in my system than I’ve had since turning 16, so you’re what’s making me sweat. I wear a shit-eating grin & suppress an erection as I write this in Intro to Financial Accounting, reminiscent of last night. My favorite way to not pay attention in these business classes I take for the sake of pragmatism and postgrad prosperity is to think of you. I hope my erections never made you uncomfortable when I was the socially acceptable big spoon. Every sexual encounter I’ve had I’d secretly pray on it being penultimate on our way to one another. I deserve to be held, as I have a right to be loved.

The Dutch East India Company’s 1652 White Elephant Gift Jack Ellmer

Waves lapped gently at viney sand dunes Cape Town thrived in the distance.

and

White hands shuttled quiche and champagne in and out of the house. The house, Jacque said, he built himself. Himself? I marveled, those shiny logs on stucco walls seemed a bit big for a lone hoister. But Jacque’s arms seemed a bit big for a lone hoister too, and his v-neck was deep. Surely he wouldn’t lie to me.

(I would learn later that “I built this” is White South African for “I told twenty Zulus what to do.”) But I didn’t know that then. I took a fluffy bite of quiche and old Jacque set a puffy arm on me. “You know Jack, Seth Effrikah is a wonderful place, but you’ll see in your time here, that it’s in shambles. I’ll tell you why.” His old Dutch-ish accent kept on, “Look around the werld, the richest countries are the ones that have the most white people.”

I didn’t ask.

I screamed inside: “Where I’m from, racism is structural! implicit! Not blatant like this!” I screamed, in my mind: “Look at China! Dubai!” But I said nothing.

I smiled and nodded. I let it slide.

For 300 days I looked for a country in shambles. But I did not find it. I suspect it’s hiding behind a nation full of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. I suspect the shambles are tucked away in the walls of a room that holds a massive white elephant that true South Africans refuse to colonize and kill as it did to them. Because in “the country of shambles,” when Angry sons and daughters scream: “An eye for an eye!” their mothers and fathers answer: “Makes the whole world blind.”

Swing Holly Fox

Death clings to the marrow of my bones. A deep rooted pang flourishes pain all over each and every nerve littering my body. My ears are underwater and every sound is muffled. My soul grasps onto this forsaken world, fearing the unknown. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m watching the ceiling wondering when it will shatter over me. The grey speckled tiles sit silently watching. In the breath of an instant, my world twists upside down. I do not fall, only float gracefully down and notice how light my body feels upon my bones. You stand there with a droopy, smoldering cigarette. People shuffle past you and me, disappearing into what we called swing. Your eyes stare blankly out into the stars, they do not yet spark in a loving familiarity. A tug of fate shifts your gaze towards me instead. You smirk gently, your eyes drawn down. The introductions are quiet, and yet they reverberate for a lifetime.

“Do you wanna dance?” you ask, a smile blossoming across your face. I feel the tears prick my eyes. My cheeks radiate heat because of the immense sadness sitting idly in my soul. Instead of disintegrating into the night, your hand firmly holds mine. I gently, ever so gently place my head onto your chest. Our bodies begin to sway, and for that moment we are dancing. Raging thoughts bubble up in my mind. We have a son and name him after your father. He reminds me of you in many ways. Our first daughter, Elizabeth, dies in a car crash. I want to blurt out that it’s my fault, even though you always refused the idea. I’m sorry for doubting your motives, your hopes, your dreams, your love. We grew up together in a world in which we could only dream of understanding. We made it through fifty short, beautiful, punctuated years together. My guilt clutches and chokes my soul. The memories keep pooling in my head. I want to share all of it with you, to have you see it as clearly and as real as I do. And yet, my feet keep swinging.

Where Healing Begins Stacy Jones

It was when I decided To forgive myself, To leave behind My critical and hateful self, That the healing began.

There is a smell of undressing Merkin Karr

There is a smell of undressing. The bitter musk of socks without shoes and feet without their footing. There is an intimate silence thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a promise not to name the smell. Not to call this moment ugly. That to name it might break the sacredness, not the nakedness, but of the comfortability. That when you take off the gray sweat stained bra, all alone, you wrinkle your nose not in disgust, but in notice. That it is a smell of neither being all together gross nor all together sweet. That in these moments my nose knows more than me. That body autonomy begins and ends the moment we sweat off the deodorant and perfume. You used neither of these. As if you might really be okay with the scent of honesty. No hiding behind, but just being. How socks feel cold and damp when we put them on again. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never slept well with clothes on, but then again sleep never really mattered with you. Sometimes I miss the ignorance of who you smelled like and what it means now for my body, every night, to only smell like me. Not all together gross, But not all together sweet.

remías M. M. Lansing

I got my ex’s mother coming up to me in grocery store aisles asking about all the wrong things. Telling me things I can’t hear. Like maybe you don’t know your son. The way Mothers fight for the things they don’t understand. Unwelcomed golden showers. Unspoken words that speak into my ears when I try to sleep. Try to keep him out and he’s always in. Always reminding me of who I tried too hard not to be. Manic and unstable with wishing on the table. Like a meal you try to feed to the dog that begs at the feet of your chair. Even he won’t take the scraps of this relationship as truth. My mother always told me that with a victim and a perp there are three stories. Her side, his side, and the worst things that can’t be Spoken.

A Tragedy Rachel Lee

What a tragedy it is that she kept her mouth Shut. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t open it up to defend herself. Because she feared her anger, and hatred, and experience. Or maybe it was worse. She may upset someone. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Addicted Joshua Mendrala

I’m addicted to suffering. You could give me soft lips to kiss, Or kind hips to dance with, But I would rather take blood that clouds my eyes. I’m addicted to suffering. You could give me a beautiful meal, Or a fanciful delight, But I would rather push myself until my muscles rip. I’m addicted to suffering. You could give me a warm home, Or a soft bed, But I would rather weep on my pen as my fingers bleed.

I’m addicted to suffering. I’m addicted to overcoming. You could give me success, Or monetary security, But I would rather fall one thousand times to get one step below. I’m addicted to overcoming. You could give me release, Or affirmed employment, But I would rather break down one thousand times until I gained the strength. I’m addicted to overcoming. I’m addicted to beautiful pain. Such is where it lies. When we are so close to our own demise That blood clouds our eyes, That all we need Is for our fingers to cease to bleed; That we burn in haste, Hoping to gain the strength To overcome. I’m addicted to waking up yesterday, And looking in the mirror tomorrow just to say That I’m a better man than I was yesterday.

Be a Man Robbie Morrison

People say “be a man, deal with it like a man, work like a man, shut your emotions down like a man, don’t talk like a man, fight like a man, be a fucking man!” To talk is to feel–you don’t feel, not in public. Your love needs to be a secret kept hidden in a box you swear doesn’t exist. You don’t cry because your tears were taken from you as a child by a father who told you to keep your chin up and be too proud. Puff your chest out and be a man! If you cry you’re weak. If you don’t you’re broken. If you hug you’re sensitive and God help you if you’re soft spoken. If you’re angry you’re an animal and if you’re sad you’re soft. If you’re strong you fight but if you don’t you’re lost. If you’re wrong you’re wrong but if you’re right you’re still wrong. You’re judged every moment your eyes are open, every word you say is written down and there’s nothing you can do about it now. Don’t talk about your feelings because they won’t be heard. Pray when you can and love who you must, but that’s what it takes to be a man.

Ellinore Porter

Using Science to Save my Soul We learned in biology How mother mice who were starved Can imprint a tag onto their baby’s DNA. This tells the babies from their very core To eat as much as they can, whenever they can. These baby mice get fat faster than all other baby mice. They are obese and develop diabetes. All this because their mothers were starved in the name of science. On most days I feel like those fat baby mice. But, instead of my Swedish-European father’s diabetes I got my Ina’s anger and my Unci’s anxiety and my Unci’s Unci’s sadness and my Unci’s Unci’s Unci’s despair from when she cared for the dead and the dying at Wounded Knee. I feel it in every cell that built me. It’s deeper than my bones. All this in the name of Manifest Destiny? We learned in biology How mitochondria was a product of endosymbiosis. When one cell swallowed another cell millions and millions of years ago, And liked it so much that she kept it. We learned how mitochondria has its own unique DNA, and that it is passed down to us solely from our Inas. So that when I have children They will get my Ina’s and her Ina’s Back and back until there was nothing white, only brown. And that is how I sleep amongst my anger, anxiety, sadness, and despair.

The Final Trip Alumni Contest Winner: Fred Resler Class of 1971

When my time is getting near To head to the Great Beyond, Will the Gates of Heaven be open To me, after I’m gone? It’s a serious question Requiring a lot of thought. Will someone up there decide If I’ve been a good person or not? My life hasn’t been perfect I know that to be true, But I’ve been trying to make amends. For everyone, myself and you. Maybe a visit to his house To talk to my Maker Could result in a chance That I’d become a taker. Then you think what’s up there. Will it be the Place of Glory That everyone is trying to get to Or is that just someone’s story? I personally believe it is the Place of Glory And I am aspiring to get there. Where, hopefully, my family and friends Will greet me with a story to share.

The Persistance of It

Over my midsection Looking dead ahead. I’d hope no one would look at me That no one would see It

Emily Rickard “You’re starting to get a stomach.” I went through years Where I couldn’t move Couldn’t breathe Without feeling the presence of It

I’d cover myself in sweatshirts Hoping the bulk of the cloth Would cover my own “It’s not that bad.”

“What is this?” “My fluff!” “No, it’s fat.” I would lay awake at night Pinching and pulling at the folds of my skin Wishing I could will my stomach out of existence I’d say, “I’m done with you, go away”

I’d curl in on myself I’d slouch Hoping I would just cave in As if bending lower made me less visible As if slouching made me smaller. “Cover it up”

And It would persist in silence

I grew stiffer Unwilling to move To let my hips sway Or to lift my hands above my head

At times I would push It all together Hold It in my hands And wish I could just yank It off

Don’t think I never tried to fight it I had moments where I shouted Defiantly loud,

When I stretched my arms high in the air Feeling the warmth of the sun’s rays on my skin When Its presence was known, But in that moment not quite minded, “Nice beer gut.”

“I’m okay with my body!” But the words were hollow And fell on deaf ears Or were silenced forever by, “You don’t want to lose weight? Where’s your pride?”

In high school I walked Through the halls with My arms perpetually crossed

I have no pride I’m unlovable Because of a waist That’s more round Than narrow “I want to be pretty” I ran I walked I weighed myself Everyday counting down the Ounces, hoping they would melt away

Whose height was less than mine Feeling like a giant towering over the rest. “So you take up space, own it.” It’s easier said than done To get rid of the thoughts That have kept me down So long, I’m nowhere near there. But even though, “She’s like a tank.”

I sucked it all in Walked taller as if The straightness of my spine Could bring my belly button closer.

I still stare at It While naked in a mirror

But still, It persisted

I still tell It to leave While lying in bed

In college I clawed at myself In desperation I stared At my naked body in the mirror Searching for any change For any noticeable loss of It. “What good does it do?” “I need to know if I’m making progress!” “A day isn’t going to show that.” I’d stand and stare at myself naked in the mirror An internal battle raging on.

“You’re powerful.”

“You’re the sweetest person we know.” And It’s still persisting. “You’re our favorite.” But somehow I’m starting to feel Something melting “You’re beautiful” Like words of the past are slipping

“I think I look okay.” 196.8, Oh god I lost it Back to the gym everyday Pounding on the treadmill For hours at a time. But still It Persisted. Uncomfortable in my space I was afraid to even stand in line To bring myself closer to others

“The Kindest” Under the surface they lie “Unstoppable babe.” Still there, not forgotten But overpowered by the Piling on of something more.

“A diamond in the rough.”

Alumni Contest Winner: Matthew Winchester Smith Class of 2014

Ber’s Prayer It’s in the water. The air we breathe in the Sooner State is contaminated with hate. It’s in our blood. Family trees. Roots have gotten irreversibly close to evil. We hate in Oklahoma. Take pride in thumping the Bible. Politically see through the Devil’s eyes. Lights at the end of our tunnel vision are red. Somewhere, Parents breaking this cycle of hate & abuse Lift up through understanding deeply, Creating something beautiful through a divine acceptance. Somewhere, Develops and shines a sweet girl Perfectly flawed Freed by her words Enabled by what she reads Unscathed Empowered by the hate hurled her way by the masses They Who haunt my thoughts and infiltrate my dreams I am terrified of what they are capable of, yet marvel at the evil they have collaborated They New life, born to parents who hate my sister for loving a woman, hiding behind God’s Will They

My peers, food soldiered in, who have all learned what it takes to wear the demonic white sheet as they blindly carry water to a place they will never reach They Elderly, Patriarch of Hate, together they have spewed every single slur ever told, smashed down with their iron fist, silencing millions & a part of every single injustice committed against anyone who has dared to be different, fulfilling God’s will as servants on this earth on a mission from God, praising their Lord & Savior on this, their psychological land, run crusading to take what is “rightfully theirs”. The distance to her public school is half a mile Departing her heaven, shackled to the masses in her hell. On high alert for IED’s along the way. There is an ongoing war awaiting my sister once her car stops. Our heavenly father, who art in heaven The door creeks as it closes...SLAM Hallowed be thy name The weak whip their heads around at the noise. Eager to serve, They attempt in vain to take her heavenly glow. But with the strengths and power of a movement behind her That pulsates through her Thy Kingdom come She begins towards the front double doors Lifting up all of us who walk with her. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven “Fag!” A grenade is hurled from the masses Give us today our daily bread “After practice you can’t be in the locker room, it just wouldn’t be fair to the other girls” And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive all of those who trespass against us “Stop being so fucking Gay!!” And lead us not into temptation “Your stall is at the end. No fags allowed.” But deliver us from evil “Gay? No, you just haven’t found the right guy with the right dick.”

For thine is the kingdom “My father has forbidden our friendship. Leading mass he preached to our congregation that You are going to hell. So the next time you see me, walk the other way Because you are an abomination. While the Devil runs through you God courses through me. You have rejected Him So now I must reject you.” The Power & the Glory forever Amen.

‘Glitter Eyes’ Unkempt Fall 2017 Contest Winner: Regan Umberger

‘echo’ Ali White

‘Secret Spot’ Nikole Simecek

An Undervalued Sound Christina Stanton The sound of laughter is a highly undervalued sound. Then again, what sound do we value? Music, crashing waves, the pitter-patter of rain, or even those go unnoticed. But does any sound go unnoticed more often than laughter? Taken for granted? Forgotten? We often hear complaints of certain laughs, and become self-conscious of our own, hiding it away, only revealed to those most loved. But when you fall in love, that person’s laugh and their voice subconsciously become your favorite sounds. You may not realize it until that sound is gone, impossible to reach. But like all joy, laughter has an uncanny ability to reach you, even in your darkest moments. And you hear that laugh – the one you cherish in your heart, never wanting to let it go. That’s when you begin to value laughter – when it’s gone and you miss it the most, you find yourself searching for joy. And you find it, maybe in an unlikely place, but that joy is where you want to be.

A Cup of Coffee Alumni Contest Winner: Cannon Sullivan Class of 2017

I’d like to believe, but confess I’ve given up. I’ve heard after all, that’s just growing up.

But what is confession besides admission of guilt? Driven by shame I push that stone uphill.

They say to cherish your anguish, and swallow the pain. They say to keep pushing upwards, and you’ll get there someday.

Elect to continue, without exterior reason. Try again and again, reject internal treason.

My spirit smothered, choked by this smog of lies. My soul succumbs to this Sisyphean life.

For to live is to struggle, to swim against the tide. But till I can’t swim, I deny suicide.

Look to the heavens, to find only a boulder. Confess I yearn for the day that it rolls me over.

Today I choose coffee, to my lips I raise a cup. For in spite of my fate, I am stronger than my rock.

When the stone next descends, it will be the last time. That is my confession of wanting to die.

Time Flies in the Whiskey Wind Jeremiah Tjossem Alone at my desk, I take a shot of Makers Mark and it burns its way right down to my core at exactly sixty miles per hour. Tongue goes numb somewhere in the process of acceleration, and my head shivers and shakes of its own accord. “Another.” Glug, glug, glug. The amber liquid sloshes against the glass. The glass is cold to the touch, a dichotomous relationship that I’ll never understand. The smell of raw Kentucky bourbon singes my nostrils as I raise the glass high, fist towards the sky. A feeble gesture of defiance, and guilt, and regret. Nothing stops me now. If anything I slam ‘em harder and faster. Zero to 120 in less than ten seconds. “That’s some mighty fine horse power.” My core is on fire as molten lava seeps into my gut. An odd conflicting feeling of numbness, fire, and illusory self-confidence. Another glass, another bottle, cold to the touch. Amber firewater ripples, ebbs and flows, cascades into the glass, scintillating in the light. Nothing on this earth has ever looked so beautiful. All the mad ravings of alcoholic tendencies tinted rose and amber as strawberry fields glisten on forever. Forget the heat and the cold, the core and the numbness. Time flies in three concentric rings that twist against each other. A man in the middle screams in a shrill voice and devolves into a fetus,

pink with life, crying where he stood. Somewhere beyond the tinkerer ticks out his tune. It fills my ears and teeth and lungs and time and time and time. Recall the time. The void smiles wide its coiling coalescing nothingness—dive right down to the bottom that leaks. Drip, drop, drip, drop. Until bingo, bango, bongo, the Congo dries up and takes a last gusting dusty gasp of air as trees fold in like pages of the accordion that wheeze in violent melody to the rhythm that pours from amber bottle to amber glass. And finally just finally. You. Go. Home.

Get Away Young-thoughts Allie Wilder

A glimpse of a woman in an airport she was so tall and I —nine years old and traveling unaccompanied— was sure I had seen a queen. long after she had passed the contrast of her skin against the sterile room the brilliance of her smile she had to be a model some kind of celebrity, that was the only explanation for my stares.

Just young-thoughts. Anne Hathaway in the princess diaries and in Ella Enchanted and in magazine articles in grocery check stands that I palmed with grubby fingers. I watched the special features on the dented dvd meticulously memorized her laugh the way her eyes crinkled in the car I recited the facts of her career for my mother who urged me to talk about a boy actor instead, or a musician I just wanted an Anne Hathaway poster, I reasoned for her, because I admired her acting. Just young-thoughts. The cheer captain curled into herself in the hallway tears dripping down her face tugged on something within me and I had to make it up to her, I vowed to make her smile used all my words to write away the pain of a disappeared boyfriend that she took to him and used to win him back. I was so jealous, it didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make sense I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t realized Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d had a crush on him. Just young-thoughts. Stolen smiles at my best friend heart racing and all I wanted to do was be with her always, I felt safest with my head in her lap. and when I slipped on the ice and she took my hand I was flying. I realized I felt the same way for her that I had felt for my ex-boyfriend and decided that I must have just loved him as a friend. Just young-thoughts.

A job interview ended early and curious I went to see, I’d just watch, I told myself, and find out what all the fuss was about, I’d never done anything like that and I was curious It was just young— And I was swept up into the pride parade and after in the park everyone so sweet giving me tips and protecting me, holding me in their hearts as family when I never could have claimed them for myself but they claimed me. That was the first day I admitted that no matter how many times I repeated Get Away Young-thoughts only the first letters would remain. Today I hold my girlfriend as close to me as I hold the words I once feared and it wasn’t a stranger, or my mother or the popular girl in high school or my best friend or my ex-boyfriend, or my now love, or any other person in the world that needed to hear my confession. It was only myself.

Positive Attitude (The Yoga Song) Allie Wilder

Everything has to be done right. It took four years of fighting to learn how to make them listen to learn how to put on a pretty face (but not too pretty) and to act just strong enough (but not too strong) to be knowledgeable (without knowing too much) It’s a balance beam that I navigate in my wheelchair learning to ask without questions to present myself as a model patient someone deserving of medical care and I do want to do everything right. I don’t want to lie in pain sobbing I want to be an approximation of normal and happy and if that means I have to go to the chiropractor twice a week and if that means I have to cut out wheat and stop drinking lemonade and stop drinking I’ll do it. And if anyone asks me tells me how hard it must be I’ll just shrug and smile and say “It’s my life, I’ve got to live it”

and they’ll commend me, this stranger in a grocery store, for my positive attitude, and they’ll go away feeling better about themselves. But god it is hard. And when I drank too much and the triage nurse said “in your condition you should have known better” I looked down and nodded, agreed that I was stupid But when the ER nurse told me “You’re not the first 22 year old to drink so much; stop being so hard on yourself” I could have cried. Because when am I allowed to see myself as someone in their early twenties? I wish I could get away with half the stuff I’m supposed to be getting away with and I wish too much homework was the biggest reason I have no time but it’s the twice-weekly hospital visits It’s the twenty plus hours a month of doctors’ visits And ninety nine percent of the time I have a positive attitude. Or, well, at least seventy five percent. But the other twenty five? I’m either mad or mourning. And my fury is unpalatable And even if I’ve been stopped eight times during one single trip to Walmart I’m not allowed to snap at people and say “I’m not here to be your fucking Christmas spirit—I just want to do my shopping.” So I bite my lip because what’s one more bruise, one more cut on an already failing body? And I put on a smile and my Positive Attitude and say “I’d love to try yoga! I’m sure it will help!”

Unkempt Fall 2017 Contest Winner: Rachael Ruff

Bill Me So you’re saying it’s something I can’t see with my eyes, You’re saying it’s something in my mind... Yeah, but it’s fine. Nothing to fear: abnormal is normal, it happens all the time. F33.1 Major Depressive Disorder, recurrent, moderate Good to see you again, how are things? Um... well... you know... I’m still quite tired and... I don’t like those pills you gave me last time, I just... feel dull... numb Hmm, have you tried any other therapies? ... No. Well, I think I have F41.1 Generalized Anxiety Disorder just the pill for you!

p r slee it’s fo y a s , ll t ? s and a insurance n’t you ju great y ca ad That’s at about m overed so ing b f— c h meth i w ’m t I u n? So t all what b k e n i h t h t t a a ’t I don ething? ut, wh n’t do this o d n fi or som at if they just should h I But w ly, maybe b proba

Hold on. Why don’t we take a moment and

F43.10 Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

calm down? Now you can get the help you need.

There is no Help I need You can’t tell me I’m Weak

Don’t ask me to Talk about this Can’t you see I just need Time to be Me again

It’s not a bad thing

F90.9 Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder for him to be this active

Hey mom,

thi aw s is eso m Are e! t t ou ck i che

you sure?

well– Mom

If you want,

F42 Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

I don’t want someone to tell me what to do. I don’t want to be fo rced to sit in a bunch of g erms. I don’t want to chan ge how I live. I just want to feel better th an how I feel now. I guess you can’t hel p me at all all all.

It’s fine. I suppose I’ll take this prescription, and you can

I can refer you to a therapist.

Well, thank you for coming in. I hope you have found what you’re looking for.

Bill me.

‘Don’t Turn Around’ Nikole Simecek

Thank you for reading.

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