plainsong
plainsong Volume 30
 
Š 2016, plainsong, Vol. 30 Department of English, University of Jamestown, Jamestown, North Dakota; copyright reverts to authors, artists, and photographers on publication, and any reprinting or reproduction may be exercised only with their permission.
Plainsong, a non-profit journal funded by the University of Jamestown, published by the University Department of English, includes the work of students, faculty, staff, and alumni of the University of Jamestown, besides occasional interviews with professional writers. 4
Editorial Board Department of English David Godfrey, Ph.D, Chair Mark Brown, Ph.D. Sean Flory, Ph.D. Dorothy Holley Larry Woiwode, Writer in Residence, Editor
Student Editor Laura Sieling
Layout & Interior Design Donna Schmitz
Cover Photo A Snowy Path Alyssa Studer Plainsong Prizewinning Photo Award
Printing & Binding Two Rivers Printing, Jamestown
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Table of Contents Facts, Transitive, & Dandelion, Thomas McGrath Poetry Prize, Meaghan Cronin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Dandelion, McCall Manske. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Single and Not Ready to Mingle, Beth Champa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I Never Thought This Would Be Us & Mysterious Man, Frances Kanneh . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Sunrise on Campus, Andrea Steinberger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Falling in Love with a Damaged Girl, Karson Pederson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hollow, Victoria Getchell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Road’s End, Andrew Tjader. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mask & Once Lost, Briana VinZant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ink Drawing, Rachel, Mark Brown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ambiguity, Lauren Cannon. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Hypnotic Beauty, Liza Ostmo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Beat, Tracy Ortman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Coloring Box, Katie Brandt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arhat & Medicine, Shawn Martin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, American Dipper, Laurel Pfau. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Phone Call I Will Not Forget, Eweyomola Akintunde . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Turn of the Century, Linda Hess . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Old General Windsor, Peter Odney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Individual Liberty and the Complexities of Human Nature, Louise Erdrich Nonfiction Prize Andrea Brenno. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Snow, Andrew Tjader. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Christmas Questions, Road, Stopping While on a Walk, and Ferguson, Missouri Matthew Nies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, North Dakota Harvest, Liza Ostmo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Finding Freedom in the Country, Andrea Steinberger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Muse, Laura Sieling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Epithalamion, Matthew Nies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Madmen, Kelsey Newton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Boarded, McCall Manske . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Arrow & The Archer, Shawn Martin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Big Brother, Emma Preble . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Nikki, Letitia Thomas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Mythical Creature, Elizabeth Bresson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, A Morning Visit, Alyssa Studer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Divorce, Larry Woiwode Fiction Prize, Emma Preble. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Loon & Chick, Laurel Pfau. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (Not) Hemingway, Emma Preble. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Firmly Rooted, Megan Baker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Seasons of Grief, Jim Stone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Wistful, Levi Brown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Change in the Air, Levi Brown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Colored Mountains, Valerie Kerner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, Touched By Glory, Megan Baker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Photograph, A Humble Gift, Levi Brown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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FACTS I don’t know everything-I don’t know the exact distance from the earth to the sun, Or if dogs are actually color blind, And I have no idea what to do with my life. But I do know That the earth rotates on an axis. That trees give off oxygen, And that emotion never follows logic, That they hold hands in line, but emotion finds Nothing but the woods along the way. I know that loving a ghost turns you into a ghost, And I am terrified that time has turned You into a voice & false memories; I know that you are the sole inhabitant of my soul’s habitat, A sleeping figure in a grey storm. And I know that you and the grey boy Who has taken your place are different. I know my head knows both, but my heart Knows only one. I know that now, You are rain. & silence. & grey light. You are the space I go to at the end of a long day, You are the folded letters on my dresser Handwritten with extra e’s & u’s and honest thoughts (& here’s where the line starts to blur) because You are the Earth admiring the Ocean. & I start to lose the parts of you that are foul-mouthed & critical & exasperated & flirtatious & self-loathing & I am scared to rediscover the person who is not a memory or a myth, but instead is tangible and imperfect. Like me, but so unlike me & 8
MEAGHAN CRONIN
I know I have been stuck since you left that grey boy asleep in my ribcage and I know that you have turned me into a liar, a desperate wisher, a saw blade on the hearts of other boys, but perhaps all you really did was draw open the blinds; You turned my dark room grey, so that now I can begin to see the outlines of what I know. TRANSITIVE I am full of half-nothings. And of what use is a fragmented poem, a single bar of a great sonata, the scattered artistry of this soul? It is a dizzying suffocation, this cotton fluff and half light. No one could find a path in this stippled shadow-play yet I know nothing but this.
THE DANDELION
So this is who you are. Roots and stem, the now undeniable deception of your petals; You are too unpredictable, too easily made a skeleton, too easily lost in mid air. How can one beautiful thing cause so much chaos? How did I end up with all your mess? These choking weeds in the forest of my heart, too far gone to be helped, too encompassing to see anything other than this— This awful yellow suffocation Of you You You everywhere. 9
Dandelion, McCall Manske
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SINGLE AND NOT READY TO MINGLE
You’ve never been kissed, and you’re twenty? You’ve never dated? What is so hard about making a move? The answer is I’ve never felt the need to have a man around my arm to feel I’m a worthy component of society. Young women in this generation are falling into a trance over the idea of receiving love immediately. A majority are unable to feel substantial love in life if they don’t obtain infatuation with a significant other. Society’s pressure on young women to find meaningful love reminds me of The Metamorphosis, when Kafka states “Disappointment at the failure of his plan, perhaps also a slight faintness from his long fasting kept him from being able to move” (Kafka 1231). This relates to how I feel from the constant pressure as I travel along on my great expedition to find a significant other; kept from being able to move. College, friends, family, music, social media, and television repeat a chaotic medley, “Have you found someone to spend your life with yet?” The answer is, “No, I haven’t, and it’s OK.” Questioners’ eyes wander across my face, waiting for a sudden burst of laughter, or a note of sarcasm. Little do they realize that I don’t believe in the conformity of having someone merely so a person calls me names like “Honey” or “Baby Doll.” I can’t recall all the times I’ve heard “It’ll happen when the timing is right.” Or “I bet they’re just intimidated by your beauty.” Is this a compliment? In my experience, being intimidating was never OK, and timing? Are we as women on some personalized love timer that will set off an alarm when we study prince charming across the room? Society’s clichés of love have given false hope to young women for generations, causing desperation to establish a relationship. No one wants to be a lonely, forty-fiveyear-old woman with twenty cats. Jokes are made about not wanting to end up like this, but why? In my experience with three brothers, I occasionally think I would prefer the lonely, old, cat-woman option. Love is too easily attained in present-day America, with online dating, free dating apps for teens, and speed-dating groups. This is astonishing to me. I’m guilty of trying a dating app on my phone after my crazy, single, older brother convinced me I should. A few potential candidates began messaging me immediately, saying we should go on a date and get to know each other. What is this new accessibility our generation has, making potential candidates so easy to find? It seems to be cheating on the universe’s plan for us as human beings, taking a shortcut to the nearest possible infatuation. I deleted the app after the epiphany that I do not want to cheat real love that could be waiting for me in reality, not through a phone. In the past few years the high-school prom has become a massive ordeal, and teenagers feel that if they do not have a date they are not wanted by anyone. I went to the prom with a group of girls, and it was the most fun I’ve had, with no added pressure of trying to force chemistry with a date. College is another struggle, especially attending a small, private university. By the time freshman orientation was over the first year, there were new
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couples roaming everywhere. Did they find a partner they could tolerate within a week? Or is it real love? Being here for only a year, I have noticed many engagement rings on my female classmates, and even walked in on a live music proposal in the cafeteria. This adds to the pressure of not dying alone. Surrounding me, couples are proposing, marrying, or simply getting into relationships. I do not understand what the rush is. My generation waits for the first love that comes along and we pounce like a lion after a piece of meat. “Just drink. It’s easier to flirt with boys.” This is what my friend slurred toward me before one of the many college dances I attended. I agreed, and it was scary how accurate my friend was. I was able to loosen up, smile at attractive males, even throw out a few pick-up lines. During the dance the music, strobe lights, and booze pounded in my head, blurring my decisions. I glanced around the packed dance floor in my delirious state and became disgusted, seeing people from my classes, in choir with me, dancing body to body and promiscuously with random partners. I could not let this be me. I sensed I was at a whole new level of desperation, drinking merely for the chance to feel wanted by a man. I realized that I had more fun drinking with my girlfriends, without striving for negative attention from boys. It scares me that alcohol has the capability of creating a chemical robot out of us, one that’s trying to hook onto love. Society’s definition of love is, As long as you can reach for it, you have it in your grasp. For me, this definition doesn’t cut it. Love should be a marathon, not a sprint. Society’s impression resembles a formal business meeting where, if you negotiate enough, you can obtain it easily. The constant pressure may help you reach a certain kind of love quickly, but in the end you’ll feel run-down by forcing infatuation, and unable to try any longer, much like the experience Kafka records about Gregor Samsa. —Beth Champa
Work Cited
Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Michael Hofmann. Norton, New York: 2013. Print. 12
I NEVER THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE US
FRANCES KANNEH
No, I never thought this would be me, To sow all I sowed and never reap While I sink down on bended knee In the hope that you will see me weep (Tears spring when words remain asleep). I try to follow your words and obey But see: I paint my world in gray. I hear your words, but not in fear, Words that I once loved, craved, seek; You betray me yet I find you here Asking forgiveness, acting meek! You taught me never to be weak So the armor of hate that I abhor I wear, never to please you anymore.
MYSTERIOUS MAN
Quietly and secretly you enter my thoughts-The music of our conversation plays And replays, as if to emphasize your words Like new notes displayed. You speak innocently as if you have Never tasted a lie, nor drunk of the cup Of deceit; your eyes reveal nothing, but You easily corrupt!  
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Sunrise on Campus, Andrea Steinberger
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FALLING IN LOVE WITH A DAMAGED GIRL
You see her sitting there, just sitting. Friends surround her, but only a few, the few who seem able to squeeze into the cracks they have created in the walls that enclose her. Your friends are more interested in her friends but you see only her. She nonchalantly flips her chestnut curls and you instantly fall in love with the look she gives you over her shoulder. With the effortless motion of her hair as it grazes her back, the delicate and deliberate way she folds her hand in her lap, you are going to want to talk to her. You and your friends move closer, stalking the current prey, keeping her in your sights. Your friends go for easy targets, but you go for her. You sit down, introduce yourself, and proceed with the typical routine. She initially declines to add anything to the conversation but slowly starts to lower the gate. You study her face, the pink in her cheeks, the graceful lines of her neck that flow into delicate shoulders. You notice the faint scar in the middle of her forehead, and wonder how that small crescent appeared. Tiny creases emerge in the corner of her eyes when she smiles, proving that she has had genuine feelings of happiness. Indents around her smile follow her laughter. Thick, dark eyelashes flutter and hide the intensity of hurt in her eyes. She finally gives you the look that you’ve been craving. That glimpse could knock out ten men, and you’re no different. You notice her outfit. Unlike her friends who are exposing their goods to attract a newer mate, she is dressed simply, declining to draw attention to herself. Her life has been on display for enough admirers already. You see how her hunter green button-up shirt enhances the flecks of gold and green in her eyes, as they mesh with a deeper liquid blue. Oh, how you would like to dive in, sink into her thoughts, wishes, dreams. But you won’t. In a while, you see past the initial mirage to what is really behind her eyes. You see the thunderous clouds that billow when another person breaks the fragile line of trust she graciously gives out. You see the girl hiding in the corner to escape an argument. You see the words that are branded on her soul, leaving their mark on how she perceives herself. You see the night when her father came home from a drunken spree. You see her trying to lend a helping hand, only to be met with a slap across the face. You hear the words uttered by her father, the ones still echoing in her. You see her curled up on her bed, silent tears down her face. You see her as a schoolgirl, at the age of nine, the enduring target of merciless words by others, a curly-haired girl with glasses who has experienced this before. She stands, not about to give her tormentors the gratification tears would provide. She continues her day, while the cycle (of what?) continues in her head. Lastly, you see her, at the age of sixteen, in her bedroom. She is almost unrecognizable from the girl in front of you now. Her already thin frame is all but skin and bones. You see her as she attempts to take her life at that age. But she is in front of you. She takes a drink of her whiskey coke,
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proving to herself that alcohol can’t affect her in the way it has her father, with the ability of control she has. She begins to contribute to the conversation with innocent stories she has sifted through as appropriate to tell. You hold onto every word, grabbing at what you can, piecing her together as best you can. You want to be able to show her the positive aspects of her life. You try to dig deeper and then you hit the spot that sets off alarms. Again she places her hands in her lap, as if to keep herself together, not to engage too much, not to show too much, to keep up her façade. Her demeanor changes. Her hands remain her lap, her shoulders slump forward, and her hand gradually lowers toward the floor. She will not meet your eyes. You have worked to open the connection of trust, but now it’s severed. Her submissive pose makes you want to reach out and grab her, shield her from the negativity that has bombarded her all her life. You look up to discover the two of you are alone, everyone else drunkenly dancing and groping one another. Your attention is directed at her. You become aware of the silent strength she possesses, what she exudes. Her dignified soul draws you in. You want to be with her, with every aspect of her. You want to immerse yourself in her, filling every nook and cranny until she’s whole again. Nothing else matters! You will not care about any girl before or after. Nothing about her past will direct her away from you. You will sit and listen to all her stories of pain and suffering, strength and triumph, then pain and suffering again. You will hold her when her ties to the past try to draw her back into the darkness. She will show you her world. She will give you love like no other, and fulfill your life in every way you’ve imagined. The love she will grace you with will be overwhelming and non-stop. But none of this will happen, because there she is, that damaged girl, sitting there alone, keeping to herself, all her barriers up, forever on guard. And all you had to do was go up and talk to her.
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—Karson Pederson
HOLLOW Feeling unwanted or unloved is undoubtedly heart-breaking. Feeling unwanted or unloved by your rapist is even worse. The holds my rapist had on me were unlike anything I had ever experienced or have to experience yet. I have said I was in love before, but I never felt as I did when he gave me attention. At the age of eight my innocence and sense of safety in this world were violently taken away. I went from a fun-loving, vibrant, enthusiastic girl to a solemn, self-loathing, shell of my former being. Much like Gregor in The Metamorphosis went from being a contributing member of society to an insect keeping to himself, I did the same. As children, we are taught to obey and respect adults, especially when they’re our friend’s parents. Growing up, I had a wide variety of friends, including many who came to town only for the summer. From the beginning Casey and I were inseparable. The majority of the time we played at her house because it was always only her stepfather A.J. watching us. He was like a giant child and when he was around it was guaranteed we would have fun. We would do everything with him, from playing dress-up (which I now realize was a ploy to get us naked) to flooding the back yard for a mud slide, to him taking us on extended camping trips. At the time I never thought anything of the way he looked at me because I honestly didn’t know any better. I was eight years old the first time he violated me. I remember it more specifically than any other memory I have. We had been fishing that day and swimming in the river. After being in the sun all day we got to go back to the small, yellow house with the red door. I was exhausted from fighting the current of the river all day and fell asleep on the couch. I woke to A.J. massaging my legs. I told him I liked it. I really did like the attention he gave me. I was the middle child at home and my parents worked a lot, so I didn’t see them often. A.J. always made sure to let me know how special I was to him. Back on that couch he kept moving his hand slowly up my leg. I protested. He told me to be quiet or I was going to wake up his wife and then I wouldn’t be able to play with Casey ever again. I did as I was told. I didn’t like him touching me where he was but I didn’t want to lose my best friend. This continued every time I went to their house. Eventually it wasn’t enough for him. This was the first time I understood that men always want more from you. Enough is never really enough. The next summer when I had reached the mature age of nine was the first time A.J. raped me. I had no power over him. I had no control of any situation involving him. The overwhelming feeling of guilt ate away at me. I knew what he felt toward me and what he was doing to me was not acceptable, but I told no one. Every time he contaminated my body with his, he made sure to remind me of all the ways he would slaughter my family if I ever spoke of what our private encounters entailed. I was terrified that if I didn’t do everything he asked in the specific way he asked, he would fulfill his threats. 17
Two summers went by with my body as his private playground. I was not his only victim. He had been doing the same to his stepdaughters for some time. He had a rotation among the three of us. Eventually when it wasn’t my days I would feel worse than when he was on top of me. As I said, I wasn’t very close to my parents and in spite of what A.J. did, he made me feel significant. He had me convinced that what he did was because of how he loved me and that no one else could love me like he did. I would get jealous of the time he spent with the other girls. When it wasn’t my turn he acted like I was invisible, like he could see right through me. I hated myself for wanting his attention. I was disgusted with myself and who I was becoming. Before, I was always smiling and willing to go on any adventure. After A.J. started abusing me regularly I lost all love for life. The brightness that encircled me went out. The only time I felt safe was after he was done abusing me, because he had filled my head with so many lies about people in the world. I was terrified of everyone, including my own family. I pulled away from everyone I loved. I stopped participating in sports. I no longer played with friends aside from Casey. Before this, I got straight A’s in school, and now I could barely keep up in classes. The nightmares were worse than the actual abuse. My mind would play all the horrific things he told me he would do to my family over and over. I felt that it was my duty to please him in order to protect my family. Eventually the truth of the abuse came out. My older brother, Trevor, was my out-cry witness and I was petrified that my whole family would be killed later that day. I was so upset when Casey came forward and told Trevor what happened to me that I had to be taken to the hospital to be sedated. Everyone knew me as a young, athletic, church-going girl and now I was the girl that got raped. Seeing the looks of people from my small town makes me cringe to this day. The fake sympathy and concern that I was given was horrific. Everyone wanted to help the broken girl. Funny how no one noticed, when it was actually happening, how I had become the polar opposite of the person I used to be. After the news came out, of course there was going to be a trial. I had already been in counseling for a year when my day to testify arrived. Sitting on the witness stand and facing my abuser was not what I thought it was going to be. I didn’t feel liberated or empowered. I still felt like the little girl in her bathing suit who only wanted attention. The defense attorney tried to make it seem I was asking for it, that at eight-years old I had seduced a thirtyyear-old man. I was grateful the jury didn’t see it that way. A.J. was sent to twenty-five years in prison. After five years, his attorney got him out on appeal. The whole case was thrown out due to a technicality. To this day he is out, free, and off the sex-offender registry. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about the abuse that I endured or the journey that’s brought me to where I am today. Today I am having a good day in terms of what has happened to me. Some days I still feel it was my fault and that I put my family through unnecessary heartache. Other days I feel enthused that I got him sent away 18
for five years. Most days, however, I feel sick that he’s out there, no doubt doing the same to some other poor unknowing girl. When I was young I thought that I could do anything with my life and conqueror anything in the world. When the abuse started I collapsed into myself. I couldn’t turn to anyone other than myself. After facing my accuser and then seeing him get out on a technicality I fell lower than I had before. I hurt so much that most days I stayed home from school and mostly cried. I have had chronic insomnia since this started, which is now twelve years ago. I have fought and failed and battled some more to get where I am today. The only feeling that I had through all this was the feeling of emptiness; that no one loved me. I went from a little girl full of life to a young woman who is hollow. —Victoria Getchell Work Cited Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Michael Hofmann. Norton, New York: 2013. Print.
The Roads End, Andrew Tjader
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MASK Don’t look behind the mask of pills I take because you’ll find the me they try to hide. The girl they hide is real. This me is fake, A consequence of dignity and pride. The you on pills is real, they say. They’re wrong. She’s numb—suppressed—the pain remains inert beneath my drugs. But they don’t like the song she sings. Because her song is one of hurt. Allow her wail. It’s ugly, but it needs attention, she deserves attention. I’m confused. Her pain consumes me. She feeds on secrets buried deep by fear and time. My soul is burning, cooking me inside and out. Your meal is stiff, how does it taste? Of ash, with hints of salty tears I’ve cried? Ignore my screams. My life will go to waste. ONCE LOST My tale begins inside my mind. My pain rocked me to sleep like a gloomy lullaby. My slumber sowed the seeds of my wasteland— where they took root and grew into an upside down thicket. I’d buried my fruit beneath forgotten sands of time. I tried to dig them up, but lacked the strength and wisdom. Then, a being appeared and called itself Sora. “I am your guide,” she said. “Who sent you here?” I asked. “You did,” she said, and turned to leave. I stood to follow her and leave the hole I’d dug behind. The dirt that fell from folds of fabric settled with an eerie hush. II “We’re going to the heart of all your pain to find its cause,” she said and parted thorns to make a path. They didn’t move for me. “The branches feel your pain and how you want to leave. Each branch, adorned with thorns, attacked my wrists. The roots rose up above until the dark enclosure block its path like they did mine. It seemed we all were caged in hell. I heard twigs snap behind us and I felt 20
BRIANA VINZANT
a tug, not at my arm, but at my heart, at my heart-beat. A pull, a strangling pull that cried, “Don’t beat! Don’t leave or live! Give up.” A word appeared inside with every thud. Could Sora hear? As if she could, she said, “Don’t stop.” I relaxed and asked “What self are you?” “I’m not a self, I’m not an am.” “Do you exist? Are you a ghost?” She laughed. “It’s difficult,” she said. “Imagine that a maze of mirrors makes up your soul—a room with infinite reflections stretching out. I’m one reflection, plucked from the depths of your abyss where you misplaced me when you were a child.” I wondered if I’d lost or hid her like so many secrets from my past. Some likes are better lost. Some truths too dark to tell. I feared I’d find a dead, and rotting body or worse an empty grave, no fruit to bare. III We came across an opening, a hole or cavity. The vines had grown along the entryway and conquered every inch. A beeping followed, as it had since we began. The cavity was filled with orbs all glowing, floating, bumping thorns of roots. Some bumped each other causing cracks of lightning to arc and jump across the unlit hole. “What are those, Sora?” “Memories and thoughts. When they collide, ideas form.” An orb was close enough to touch. I did and felt the misty composition. Sora watched. The mist dissipated. I appeared before me, younger. “Wow! I think. I know this. I remember other kids were playing tag and I was hiding by myself. I didn’t think that I belonged or that they liked to play with me. I don’t remember ever feeling like someone liked me enough to be my friend, the kind who always chooses you and forgives all of your mistakes and helps you grow to trust in them, no secretes or conditions—love.” I touched another orb. Her name’s Noelle. She was my friend, but then we grew apart I guess.” We watched me passing her without a word; she smiled but I pretended not to see. Another orb rupture and showed 21
me sobbing; blood was running down my arm. The orbs began to float toward me like I attracted them, and I began remembering each time I felt alone. The thud of orbs colliding echoed all around. My past escaped with each impact. A dark fog, seeped, creeped, pressed me down to sleep. I fainted from the overwhelming pain. Sora woke me and said, “We need to go.” “The thorns are everywhere. I can’t escape.” “You can’t escape alone, but I am here.” “Yes, but you don’t know me.” “I’m part of you.” I looked up at Sora and saw in her silhouette, a shard that I recognized. The link we shared gave me the strength to move on with the steady beeping following. IV We passed into a new region of my prison. A weave of tendrils snaked across the ground. Our oath was marked an umbra in the middle. “Who is she?” I asked, afraid. “Ask her, her end.” I chanced a step closer but didn’t speak. “You have goosebumps.” I looked to see the tiny bumps. “You’re cold, you see eclipse.” I looked confused. Till then her eyes were shut. Behind her lids, black knots replaced her eyes. “You only sense I’m here,” she said. “Sniff out the truth; it may be sour at first, at least it’s real!” My guide stepped toward our path to say it’s time to go. The next expanse was bruised. The trees seemed to shed blood. “Come look,” she said. A single patch of life survived “This patch can heal the rest.” “Alone?” I asked. “Yes, hope need not be large to thrive, so long as it can grow. We must continue on.” “You don’t talk much,” I said. “I am but part of you. I only say what you don’t know to say.” “If we are one, don’t I know all you know?” “You locked my truths away, so I must guide you there.” I stopped “What’s wrong?” she asked. “I think I felt someone. They squeezed my hand!” “Our path might yet enlighten you,” she said, 22
and so we went on. The humid air—a gift for plants, a pain for me—was forcing sweat to bead on my scraped skin. But Sora looked refreshed. My clothes were torn, exposing skin for trees to scratch and then the trail ran out. A canyon blocked our path, and I collapsed. “I’m tired,” I cried, “I’m sick of trying. Why?” for what? It always ends in pain, my pain, their pain!” “What ends in pain?” “Life, life persists, endures, survives, this endless misery and then it ends in death—unjustified existence finally at rest. And death is all I wish for now, to rest in peace.” The canyon echoed not what I had said but voices buried in the past. “Let me touch you.” “Okay.” “Why me?” “You’re different.” “Let me love you.” “I can’t.” “Why not?” “I can’t tell you.” “You seem distant.” “Are you okay?” “I’m not okay!” I screamed, “I’m not okay!” “I know,” Sora said, “Life can improve though,” If you choose it.” “It can’t, it won’t, I know. I’ve seen life fester like a sore and I give up. I walked to the cliff’s edge and jumped. V I braced myself for the impact. I knew that pain would come before I died, but peace would follow that. Darkness rushed past but I could sense the walls were close. The canyon flowed into a narrow tube. I thought of how Sora had tried in vain to help; the thought filled me with guilt because I’d failed again. Sora was part of me; I’d failed myself. I closed my eyes and focused on the rush of air around. Death would bring existence free from failure, free from ache, “And free from love,” I lamented, but who could love a damaged person? 23
VI I landed with a thud, to my surprise alive, and like the first appearance, Sora arrived without a sound. “But how did you--?” I asked, and stopped. “You can’t escape yourself. I’m part of you. We are near the heart of it but now I should reveal the nature of our kinship,” Sora finished and began to transform into me, age six. “I’m scared,” the younger me said. “Where am I?” She looked at me for answers. “I don’t know, but it’s okay. Just follow me.” The vines had grown along white beams that arched around the cavity I’d landed in. We walked together, holding hands. She needed help to climb across thick roots. The look of fear of the unknown—so much she didn’t know, not yet, so young—in her familiar eyes. We came to a wider gap and could not go on. I could have jumped, but she could not. “Hey look,” she said. The roots curved down into a hole. “Let me go first.” The roots descended for ten feet. I reached the entrance of a cave and turned around. She looked too small to know my pain, my fear. I felt her hesitation. “I’m here, I can catch you.” She turned to climb backward and slipped. I jumped to grab her waist and caught her legs. Relief exploded in my chest. I pulled her up and set her down. She took my hand and we went through the hole. We’d reached the heart. The roots that led us there stemmed from a dying tree in bloom. Petals littered the floor. My body weakened. I collapsed. “Nothing, I’ve learned nothing. The tree is dead. “But what about the flowers?” “They are wilting.” “So, they’ll wilt in winter too. then spring arrives and life renews itself.” “My Spring will never come.” “I think it will.” She didn’t know; she was too young. It’s like a darkness always lurks beyond each hill I climb. One battle won, but life is war and only death brings victory, because what is life for? Some grand design? If God does not exist, is life enough—does air 24
taste sweet enough to breathe pollution—why? What for? I am afraid what lies in store is like the pain I’ve known before. The faults that stole my youth from me will torment me again and when I lie in bed near death I will regret each painful breath and curse my will to live. And worse—the thought that I will burden others—No! I can’t infect another with this defect, but I fear the kiss of death—I’ve cried so many tears I’m petrified by selfish cowardice. I don’t deserve these years. I want to die, and yet, I’m still alive, struggling. I looked at her again, those eyes I knew so well— the heat they felt when filled with tears at scrapes and welts and whims, but soon for fears beyond her years. The innocence that gives her eyes their radiance is dead in mine. But she exists inside my head. Somehow I must believe in hope, but it’s forgotten in my wood. I could remember if I wanted to. “Elise, I think you’re right,” “Right about what?” she asked. “About my tree; it will renew.” Elise transformed again. The roots she touched absorbed her spirit and form and the sound of beeping grew in volume and increased in speed. I felt released. My legs began to lose their strength. Before my sight went black I saw Sora near a new tree. But it wasn’t Sora. It was Elise and it was me.
Rachel, Mark Brown 25
AMBIGUITY Ambiguity is apparent in many pieces of well-known literature, and ambiguous statements and phrases that writers use are intended to be left to the reader’s imagination. To employ ambiguity in literature is not meant to confuse, but rather to allow the reader to visualize what he or she believes the ambiguous statement to mean. To use clarity in literature, on the other hand, does not necessarily impart an unimportant message, but often one of lesser deep meaning than an ambiguous statement might deliver. Ambiguity enables readers to fashion a variety of phrases into what they believe and interpret them to be. It allows the reader freedom, which is desired in literature, in order for the “willing suspension of disbelief” to occur. To provide a reader with clarity can limit an individual imagination, disabling freedom and ultimately making the literature undesirable to read. Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis leaves every reader with various ambiguous meanings, the least of which might be the fear of waking as an enormous insect. However, Kafka meant to do this under the premise that it would assist the reader to think in a deeper sense of how his or her own life might turn in the event of radical, unexpected change. The deplorable tale of the state of Gregor Samsa allows us to take a closer look into our lives and to think about our identities as individuals, about the volatility and uncertainty of what we think to be fixed in us and in the society that surrounds us, and also the dangers, threats, mysteries, and wonders that course through our own metamorphoses in life. In today’s society, it is hard to decipher the meaning of what is implied and what is not. Ambiguity is employed in order to allow the reader to draw his or her own conclusions, even if a meaning was meant to be implied by the author. In Henrik Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, for instance, readers are left with ambiguity after the conversation between Hedda and Judge Brack in their second confrontation with each other. The reader knows that there has to be something more between the two characters, due to the vagueness and obscurity of their conversation. Inevitably, he or she assumes that their relationship must be deeper, due to the possible implications one might draw from the characters’ discussion. Ambiguity allows for freedom of the mind, and lets the imagination go where it pleases without limitations or restrictions. However, we must not mistake ambiguity for evasiveness. Evasiveness is purposefully evading a key point that should be made. Often the reader may get frustrated with a certain piece of literature because he or she believes the author is evading what that author intends to say in her or his writing. Instead, the author insinuates or suggests actions from a statement, using ambiguity, not to evade a key implication or point, but to allow the reader to decide what he or she interprets the meaning of the work of literature to be. The aesthetic of literature lies not only in the words of the writing itself, but rather in the reader’s imagining of what each word might suggest. Each word may hold a meaning far beyond what is normally believed, yet
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each individual’s willingness to enter in freedom allows for imagination and creativity in literature. In The Panther, Rilke refers to being a prisoner without freedom. The cage can be seen as clarity in this setting. Clarity can trap your mind and limit your ability to think. Literature is freedom. Ambiguity is an art. “For here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life” (Rilke 1380). To the naked eye, certain objects may appear plain or simple. Therefore, we have to look deeper--perceive and observe what is unclear. In Rilke’s The Archaic Torso of Apollo, the torso sheds the light that would have been in the beheaded man’s eyes. The torso has more power than I have in my daily life. The power of art is so strong that we must decide if we want to see it; but in order to earn this decision we have to understand what ambiguity is and appreciate its position in art and literature. If clarity were the only form existing, there would be no point in creativity, and imagination would become nonexistent. Sometimes, when life gets rough, it would be nice to have some sense of clarity, yet that is not how life works. Present-day society has taught us that clarity is simplicity and that is what we should strive for. But we need to be free to go against the natural grain of what is considered to be normal. Sure, ambiguity can become one of the most confusing forms in literature and all of life, but one must recognize the kind of ethereal beauty that can blossom from the most ambiguous objects. Life can be awkward, uncomfortable, and full of struggles; nonetheless the real question that stands at the end is this: would we rather our lives be black and white, or full of color and aesthetic possibilities? Our lives are ambiguous. We, as individuals, are ambiguous, and that is beautiful.
—Lauren Cannon
Works Cited Ibsen, Henrik. Hedda Gabler. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Rick Davis and Brian Johnston. Norton, New York: 2013. Print. Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Michael Hofmann. Norton, New York: 2013. Print. Rilke, Rainer Maria. The Archaic Torso of Apollo. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Stephen Mitchell. Norton, New York: 2013. Print. 27
Hypnotic Beauty, Liza Ostmo
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THE BEAT My life is like a drum; it has a steady beat. The rhythm is calming, never receiving a beat too soon. I am not in charge of the beat of my drum. I allow it to carry me into a sense of peace. I wake up to its beat, I fall asleep to its beat; I love its beat. I know that I’m not entitled to the beat. I’m blessed by it. I don’t have control over it; the one beating the drum has. I’ve never been able to see the drummer, but I feel its beat in me each day. It acts as the wind on a gentle day, reminding me that it is near. My life, like a drum, can never go on without this beat. The beat lives within me. It lives within everyone. I am dying. My insides are failing, my features are weakening, and my strength has reached its final point. My body has failed me and my hope is wavering, but I feel the steady beat. In the midst of my pain, the darkness and uncertainty, the beat remains. I gently drag my hand across the bed and reach into the air, met by another hand. It holds on tight, squeezing comfort into me. I can’t turn my head, but I don’t need to; the hand is all I need. The hand, like mine, carries a beat. The beat matches mine. It is calming, reassuring, always present. “I love you Lilly,” arrives from a voice far away. I whisper words back, not sure they leave my lips. I open my eyes to white. A blank ceiling is my view. Is the ceiling a representation of what my life has become? Blank? What purpose has my life accomplished? I am only twenty-two and had so many dreams I wanted to fulfill. There was a time when my heart was full of hope and love and a sense of renewal. During those times I would ignore the beat. I pushed it aside and forgot that it bore the rhythm of my life. I relied on earthly happiness to replace the joy the beat gave. But the beat never abandoned me. It continued to support the melody of my life; it continued giving meaning. Now here I lie, staring at a blank ceiling, with only the beat left to me. In the dreary state that I’m in, the beat continues to thrive. How many times have I fought for a better life, more happiness, nicer possessions, forgetting to depend on the beat? I turned my back on it, disregarding the rhythm that created life within. My new husband at my side is also compelled to rely on the beat. Wedding day bliss has turned to honeymoon disbelief. Cancer. Could I really have cancer at such a young age? Terminal. Where can I find a cure, where can I find hope? There isn’t any. Death is knocking; I have nowhere to turn, except to the beat. With death so near, will the beat leave? Will it stop guiding me, forming my story? How could a beat stay so steady and true through my turmoil? What use is the beat to me now as I lie staring at the blank ceiling? The beat no longer renews me because it has led to my death. I cry out in agony, alone, helpless. But in the stillness of the night, when all hope seems lost, the beat has never left me. In the midst of my doubt, it has continued to gently tap the drum, measuring out the days of my life. 29
I wonder why the beat continues to stay, why it never changes its rhythm. If I didn’t always follow the beat, why would it remain? Nurses come to prick my skin with more needles. The pain is unbearable, the heartache never ending. But as soon as I recognize the beat, I am reminded that life is not unbearable. The beat is the only thing that hasn’t changed, so I cling to the beat. Even as each breath takes me closer to death, the beat sustains me in its life. Family continues to come to my bedside, whispering words of recovery, trying to fill me with hope. I appreciate the words, but no hope comes; they do not have the effect of the beat. “Remember the time you broke your arm in fourth grade?” Mother asks. “You were trying to be so tough playing football with the boys. You’ve always been tough. I know that inner strength is still there, sweetie. Keep fighting this!” She’s right, my strength hasn’t left, because my strength doesn’t come from my muscles or will power; it comes from the beat that abides with me. If I could form words, I would tell my mother that. I would tell her to stay true to the beat in her. So here I lie, the doctors telling me it will only be a few hours more. What has my brief life been for? What meaning do I find in death? It becomes clear that my death has nothing to do with me. My death is nothing but a small beat in the midst of the greatest beat. As my beat continues, somewhere in the world another beat begins, promising the same hope and peace it has given me. What I’ve done for this earth no longer has meaning. My ability to follow the beat is my source of meaning. I’m leaving behind a new husband. I’m saying goodbye to a mother and father who have showered me with love. My relatives will be reminded of my death at family gatherings, looking toward the empty seat at the table. Is that all that my life will leave behind, an emptiness? I know that is not so. In the last moments I have on earth, I know what my life has been about--the beat inside, connecting with the beat inside others. Every moment I stayed true to my beat it gained in value. I’ll be leaving the world with my beat going with me yet remaining behind. This beat will not only carry me through the end of my days but will help continue the days of those that I’m leaving behind. I’m not afraid. I know that the beat is leaving with me. The beat will carry me through to the other side. The beat is leading me into peace. The beat is leading me to life. Eternal life is in the beat. —Tracy Ortman
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COLORING BOX The first cries are of the sweetest sound The joy of family gathered around: Yellow; A glow from the sun Happiness forms the classic smile The soft touch of a baby’s bum A moment this bright can’t fit in a file Growing mature and tall Seasons pass, spring to fall Red; Falling in love, wearing painted lips Feeling seductive and hot Eyes sharpen, temper makes for a flip The fiery flame or boiling pot The bells chime and rings are suited A party to happen, emotions alluded White; Walking down the aisle Secluded in a temple of peace Quietness can light a smile Perhaps rest on fresh linen sheets Picket fence, and a varnished deck Buns in the oven, what comes next? Green; Wanting always the neighbor’s hand Gamble away because money’s a guarantee Envy the lead singer of every band Jealousy can grow like healthy weed The career that consumed eight years Produces a pocket of earned arrears Gold; Richest man in numberless worlds Ancient Egyptian on his pyramid Around the neck a Black Hills twirls Pirates keep their treasures hid The cane that came uninvited Is now a companion to you united 31
Blue; An adventurous sail Through waters without a limit Worrying doctors all hail A code that tolls past a minute To leave the colored world as you came Hospital bed, your family its frame Black; As coal the long dark alley Where blindness comes to all Yet, slick and professionally The coroner comes to call. —Katie Brandt
ARHAT
SHAWN MARTIN
Go, enter the void, Realize truth in nothing, The empty vessel; Deny the lie of the self, As all is truly empty. Nirvana at last, Arhat now awakened, The void entered, Everything made of nothing; I am one with the empty.
MEDICINE Turtle sits on log, Water slowly flows through woods, I am wise turtle. River flows through woods, Flows with roads both black and red. I am the river. 32
American Dipper, Laurel Pfau
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THE PHONE CALL I WILL NEVER FORGET The cell phone rang twice that Saturday morning and I ignored both calls; however, I finally answered the third call as it came through. “Ivan Ilyich has died!” (Tolstoy 812) rang through my head as my favorite uncle delivered the sad news to me, “Samson is dead!” The phone dropped from my hand, and I fell backward and hit my head on the floor. I felt at that moment that the world came to an end. Samson was my only brother and had recently relocated to Dubai, UAE only four months earlier, and was an aviation administration student at one of the aviation schools in Dubai. It was a beautiful Friday night before, in the heart of winter, and my three friends and I dressed up. I looked stunning, and my friends took a lot of pictures of me. I now see those photos as smoky horror. We had a couple of drinks at my apartment in Loveland, Colorado, and then headed out to a night club in Fort Collins. We partied hard! The first call came through on my phone at 5:45 am, but it was a phone number I didn’t have in my contacts. I was in bed sleeping and I ignored the call; I was too tired. The same number called again at 6:15 am, but I shoved the phone under my pillow and continued to sleep. At 7:50 am on Saturday, the third phone call came through from the same strange phone number, and I finally answered. My friends were able to revive me from the shock I was in, and my life was never the same. I blamed myself for too many errors, such as coming up with the idea of my brother going to school in Dubai and supporting his trip all the way. If I had known he would be swallowed up by the red-hot dust of the Arabians, I would have stopped his trip. My dad took Samson to the airport in Abuja, Nigeria on the day of his departure to Dubai, but I didn’t have the opportunity to say goodbye. The last time I saw Samson was two and half years before he died. Without our biological mom, my dad was happy having my eldest brother and me; we were all happy and life was beautiful. After Samson’s death, even with ten thousand miles between us, my dad and I became inseparable. On the night before Samson was laid to rest on a Friday morning, he was watching the soccer game between Nigeria and Ethiopia. Could the excitement of Nigeria winning have launched Samson into everlasting peace? I still have one question to ask the Creator of all: “Was the doctor’s postmortem, the result of myocardial infarction, correct about the cause of death of a twenty-nine-year-old man with no previous history of heart problems, or was it something else that caused this mysterious loss?” On that same Thursday night, Samson had sent me a couple of messages, but I didn’t get to read them because of the twelve-hour time difference. His last words to me were “am about to lay and sleep.” I can see when someone last texted me and when they receive my response. I replied to Samson exactly twenty five minutes after he checked with me, but I was too late with my response of “Sorry I am just waking up.” Samson had gone to rest as I was awakening! 34
I gathered the pieces of my life together on Sunday morning and bought a plane ticket to Dubai on Monday. In my grief, I was still comforted when I heard how glorious Samson lived those few moments of his life in Dubai with his colleagues and friends. He was loved, respected, and cherished. I had my family’s blessings and prayers to lay Samson down in peace, as I was his only family member who could make it quickly to Dubai. My dad called to encourage me to be the tough woman he has always known, and to pour the dust on Samson for us in the name of the Lord. I saw Samson lie breathlessly, “the dead man lay, as dead men always lie” (814). I did exactly what was expected of me at the funeral, and finally Samson could go be with our beloved mother who had been lonely for several years. Losing someone close to your heart is the hardest reality. Losing someone close to you is losing a part of you that cannot be replaced. Well, death is inevitable, “it is God’s will. We shall all come to it someday” (817). I hope to be fulfilled before I die. —Eweyomola Akintunde
Work Cited
Leo Tolstoy. The Death of Ivan Ilyich. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Louise Maude & Aylmer Maude. Norton, New York: 2013. P. 812-817. Print.
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TURN OF THE CENTURY
I will be a vagrant and a wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me--Genesis 4.14 What Friedrich’s wanderer truly saw was fog, up there alone with his thoughts to give the shifting shapes some form and meaning. What Friedrich’s wanderer truly sought was lost before he even set out, maybe; the kind of peace that would end the need for art and history. What Friedrich’s wanderer truly understood remained up to speculation until, much of the century forgone, Munch conceived Skrik to greet modernity.
—Linda Hess
OLD GENERAL WINDSOR General Windsor loves me Like a woman’s sweetest kiss; Riding on a cold, glass steed, Sinking into old, known bliss. Part ice, part Coca-Cola, Downed easier over time. Now let’s throw in a curveball, Let’s get wild, Patron and lime. Bite the lime, lick down the salt, Tip the bottle back; drowning. Lights start to blur, voices loud; And to be sure, my heart pounds. But nothing still ever feels Quite like that smashing first time, Just me and old, brown Windsor. Let’s paint the town. Hold the lime. —Peter Odney 36
INDIVIDUAL LIBERTY AND THE COMPLEXITIES OF HUMAN NATURE
What is man’s innate nature? To what extent do man’s nature and impulses afford him liberty to do as he pleases? These questions, and others pertaining to human nature and individual liberty, certainly intrigued Victorian authors Thomas Carlyle and John Stuart Mill. In Past and Present, influenced by his ideas about the negativity of man’s impulses and the critical importance of work, Carlyle places minimal importance on individual liberty. Mill, influenced by his beliefs about man’s energies and capacity for good, stresses the importance of individual liberty in his piece On Liberty. Though Carlyle and Mill were close companions and agreed on several ideas, their contemplations on human nature and impulses ultimately led them to develop contrasting views of the value of individual liberty in society. Pertaining to human nature itself, Carlyle and Mill agree on at least one significant aspect: man is far greater than machine. Amidst the heavy industrialization of the Victorian era, both Carlyle and Mill adamantly argue against men existing as mere functioning machinery in society. Carlyle himself faced a personal life crisis at the thought of “the universe . . . as a mere mechanism” (Trilling and Bloom 14). In his work Sartor Resartus, he curses the idea of man being an “immeasurable Steam-engine, rolling on, in . . . dead indifference” (Carlyle 21). Similarly, in On Liberty, Mill recoils at the idea of “Human nature [being] . . . a machine to be built after a model” (Mill 86). The thought of reducing the complexity of man’s nature down to mechanical machinery repulses both authors. Despite this fundamental similarity in thought, Carlyle and Mill ultimately diverge on their beliefs about man’s impulses and purpose. Carlyle tends to view human nature in a much more pessimistic, Calvinist light. In his work Sartor Resartus, Carlyle expresses his belief that man is an “Infinite” (27) being, and he cautions against seeking happiness or satisfaction in the “Finite” (27) physical impulses and desires. In Past and Present, he conveys his belief that these physical impulses are corrupt and that, left to them, man will inevitably succumb to “[his] own brutal appetites” (70) for selfdestruction, perpetuating himself into “thralldom” (70) and “tyranny” (70). As a solution to this problem, Carlyle suggests that man needs two things: strong leaders and a strong work ethic. Carlyle asserts that man needs “a true God-made King” (66) – someone to rule over him and tell him how to “Know [his] work and do it” (53). Carlyle believes that man must realize that his “Work is sacred” (58) and engage in the right kind of work, the kind appointed to him by the strong ruler, to keep from his disastrous impulses. These ideas prove incredibly significant in shaping Carlyle’s views about individual liberty. In contrast to Carlyle, Mill harbors a more optimistic, Catholic outlook 37
on human nature and impulses. Mill does not share Carlyle’s belief that man’s physical impulses are inherently bad. Instead, in On Liberty, he refers to them as “energ[ies]” (Mill 87), a term that implies much more “self-control” (87) than impulses or desires. Mill believes that while these energies have the potential to “be turned to bad uses” (87), they also have immense potential to do “more good” (87). He believes that a man’s cultivation of these energies can make him “more valuable to himself . . . [and] to others” (89). While somewhat agreeing with Carlyle’s ideas about strong leaders to guide men in life, Mill warns that “There is no reason that all human existence should be constructed on . . . some small number of patterns” (92). In other words, strong leaders are good for society, but not greater than the individual, unique man himself. Mill recognizes that even these “exceptional individuals” (92) must undergo “cultivation of . . . [their] higher nature” (92). As with Carlyle, it is clear that these views of human nature are significant factors in Mill’s beliefs about individual liberty. Given these opposing convictions concerning human nature, Carlyle and Mill express remarkably different views of individual liberty. In Past and Present, Carlyle places almost no value on what he calls the “most insignificant” individual liberty. Because he views man as infinite, he believes that “No man oppresses [him]” (Carlyle 70), only “[his] own brutal appetites” (Carlyle 70), for how can someone oppress an infinite creature? Carlyle would say that the only things capable of oppressing us are those which we pursue given our own individual liberty – our impulses and desires. Further, because he places so much emphasis on work, Carlyle believes that “The true liberty of man . . . consist[s] in his finding out, or being forced to find out the right path, and to walk thereon” (66). Carlyle would say that the strong person or leader must interfere with a man’s liberty to make sure that he is performing the right work, avoiding his destructive appetites, and following his appropriate path in society. Mill, on the other hand, with his beliefs about energies and cultivating individuality, places immense value on individual liberty. In On Liberty, he expresses his opinion that man must be free “to carry . . . out . . . [his life] without hindrance” (Mill 84) and must be “encouraged to unfold” (87) his energies and cultivate them in himself. There is one caveat that Mill places on this individual liberty: “[Man] must not make himself a nuisance to other people” (84). Man must pursue individual liberty “at [his] own risk and peril” (Mill 84), not involving the risk and peril of his fellow man. Mill would say, then, that the only time we are to interfere with man’s liberty is if, in the pursuit of his liberty, he infringes upon the liberty of another man. Otherwise, man is free to pursue his own energies and endeavors and should be encouraged to do so. Mill champions the idea that every man deserves the same right to pursue his individual liberty. 38
In Past and Present and On Liberty, Carlyle and Mill respectively examine human nature, forming their own separate and distinct ideas about man’s impulses and individual liberty. While Carlyle suggests a more limited stance on liberty, and Mill offers a more generous option of liberty, the question of human nature and individual liberty remains open to interpretation and contemplation. —Andrea Brenno Works Cited Trilling, Lionel, and Harold Bloom, eds. The Oxford Anthology of English Literature: Victorian Prose and Poetry. New York: Oxford UP, 1973. Print. Carlyle, Thomas. Excerpt from Sartor Resartus. The Oxford Anthology of English Literature: Victorian Prose and Poetry. Ed. Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom. New York: Oxford UP, 1973. 17-38. Print. ---. Excerpt from Past and Present. The Oxford Anthology of English Literature: Victorian Prose and Poetry. Ed. Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom. New York: Oxford UP, 1973. 53-71. Print. Mill, John Stuart. Excerpt from On Liberty. The Oxford Anthology of English Literature: Victorian Prose and Poetry. Ed. Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom. New York: Oxford UP, 1973. 83-96. Print.
SNOW Stars falling faster Landing softly on chilled ground It’s getting damn cold.
—Andrew Tjader
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NOONDAY SEQUENCE
MATTHEW NIES
CHRISTMAS QUESTIONS
“Hot hay and a barnyard smell From cattle kept in the usual way, Set the stage for the first noel: A baby born on Christmas day.” TV words scratched as signal wavered. He breathed in pine and pined again for Mom’s cooking, The good old days—yule log, eggnog, fireplace stockings— And too much family for the house. There Had lately been occasion to opine As happy his life. He thought of a Christmas Eve Where by candlelight, a preacher had preached That God had come to earth to save mankind. Do I believe?—the answer he’d tried to find then Still lingered, buried deeper than the ear. Digging is hard when you’re in your early years, But can you forget “Peace on earth, goodwill toward men?” What had come of the years of Christmases? Tradition was the ultimate meal, But what if the “real meaning of Christmas” were real? In his living room chair he remembered wishes He’d made for a good life and the efforts He and his Greatest Generation had spent To realize one. Memory of light does not relent When once it’s shown—what of the shepherds Spurred by angels, what of wise men following yonder star? These and other questions mixed with memories, And he missed his wife and family, now gone or buried. If he’d only asked that preacher then how far Down the rabbit hole ran. Why would God come to save The world as a baby in a Bethlehem manger? He wrestled questions too wild, it seemed, to answer. Would he rise or simply watch the shadows in this, his Plato’s cave?
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ROAD
Over this road, cherry-tree branches finger Their way into the sunlight, leaves from the sharp pricks Green yellow in the glow. I linger Enough to enjoy, but no longer, then go again with my walking stick On a road where I’ve never been To see what I’ve never seen.
STOPPING WHILE ON A WALK
A tree lined Sunday afternoon walk Finds me farther than I’d planned— Above the open plain, beneath the mountain top; Trickles to my left—rocky water through the sand— Air crisp as fresh-clean sheets Hanging under gray clouds cool and strong. In, out!—I clench my teeth And look at sprawling forests I’ve long Since gone through, dark paths not as grim From this vantage point, but still grim. Memories of past stretches jockey within, What has brought me here again? I turn my well-worked walking stick around In my calloused thick hands and smooth its tight grains; I clutch my blistered toes inside my boots and push against ground That doesn’t give, and resume onward in a healing rain. FERGUSON, MISSOURI Little’s changed after protests— It’s like God’s gone, Nothing’s right, nothing’s wrong. Demonstrations done, what’s looting left? We want comfort by eulogy, Like what irreverent Reverends Can offer—something mainstream Media can’t: a narrative that makes sense. There’s no reason comfort Should be found in Baptist churches When derisive secular verses Give acceptably preferable retorts To our crumbling moral questions. Call religion a caveman’s farce, Call it a hoax or pain in the arse, But if God is gone, what are we left with? 41
North Dakota Harvest, Liza Ostmo
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FINDING FREEDOM IN THE COUNTRY I anxiously wait for my dad to give me the thumbs up to lower the combine header and begin harvesting the ripe wheat staring dauntingly back at me. This is my first time operating our combine and I am terrified of botching the whole process. Once I’ve completed a few turns and start chipping away at the massive golden sea of waving grain, I begin to calm down and appreciate the larger picture. In a broad perspective, I am singlehandedly, or with the active assistance of my dad, harvesting the food that eventually an American family in Nevada will be eating in a few months. It’s the ability to realize the larger picture in this rather calm setting that turns me to Andrés Bello’s question in his Ode to Tropical Agriculture when he addresses the city folk of London, “Do you love freedom? Go then to the country (Bello 604).” In my unique upbringing, I realize the country is a place that can truly free one’s mind and the city is a place where one’s mind can prosper in knowledge. I’ve learned that few suburbanites can fully appreciate the roots of the United States; the roots are the farmer and agriculture. Without these laborers and their passion to provide for others, the colonists would never have survived the making of America. And we would not be able to survive in current-day America, either, because the literal fruits of the farmer’s labor keep America nourished. I found this especially apparent in my five-hundredstudent graduating class from a Fargo, North Dakota high school. North Dakota is one of the most rural states in America, and few of the five-hundred students had spent a decent amount of time in any rural setting. Many had limited knowledge about the agricultural process, how current events affected farmers, and the future implications of agriculture and farmland. It saddened me that so few of my fellow students knew how greatly agriculture influences their daily lives. My perspective on city versus rural living arises from my unique upbringing as a child. My mother often worked long weekend shifts as a registered nurse and my father worked as a mechanical engineer; however, he always felt the desire to restart the farming career he left behind after college. Hence, my dad, brother, and I began traveling back and forth from Fargo to a small western North Dakota town named Carpio every single weekend during what I deem farming season. Each weekend I would cry over having to sign away a ten-hour round-trip car ride simply to get to the farm and back. Now as I look on this once dreaded feat, I realize that rather odd childhood circumstance allowed me to appreciate both the benefits and consequences of city and rural life. It always amazed me that I could go from city living to not seeing any remnants of a town in an evening’s drive. My favorite experience in all of those years was seeing a whole slew of residential settings in North Dakota; anywhere from the largest, Fargo, to the smaller Jamestown, to the small town of Harvey, to the tiny village of Carpio. The realization of the differences in setting allowed me to consider many perspectives in North Dakota alone. Having insight on both sides of the story has given me the
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ability to guide others to appreciate the opposite group’s values. Constructive criticism and advice are difficult at times, but often are required in order for people to grow and for change to happen. To my fellow rural friends, not all suburban individuals are out to dismantle the agriculture industry. Much like your industry, they too want to succeed in the economy and are willing go to great lengths in order to see that through. You must appreciate it that everyone strives for the pursuit of happiness and the American dream, and they go about it in unique ways. To my fellow suburban neighbors, not all rural individuals are naïve and believe in conspiracies about your businesses and practice. Most importantly, as Bello put it, “Honor the fields, honor the simple life, and the farmer’s frugal simplicity (607).” Respecting a different, and now rather uncommon, way of life is the greatest step in learning that is needed to experience and appreciate acceptance. Either way of living must respect the resources and services the other provides. Together, the two diverse populations bring about a wonderfully cultured perspective to today’s interconnected circumstances that affect us all.
—Andrea Steinberger
Work Cited Bello, Andrés. Ode to Tropical Agriculture. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Frances M. Lopez-Morillas. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. 2013. Print. 44
THE MUSE No, I’m not dead, Lena thought, and this isn’t the dead-man’s pose. It’s a pose. She wriggled her fingers to see if anyone would notice. Probably not, she thought, staring at an angle created by crisscrossing ceiling beams. Can’t waste my movements now, she thought, I’m only, what, three minutes in? Then her index finger twitched of its own accord. When did I go so blind? She tried to remember how fuzzy the edges of the exposed ductwork had been last year, and her brow contracted. Whoops! Okay, gotta be subtle. Like nothing…has…changed. Lena had perfected the stealth of restoring an accidental expression to the blank stare that was required of her every Monday night. She relaxed her facial muscles. Still got it, she thought, and imagined herself striking out in a samba. WHOA GIRL, stay awake! Oh god, how long was I out? Lena squeezed her eyes shut and exaggerated a few blinks. Yeah, my eyes were just getting tired. Keep painting. I’m a piece of fruit. Not even breathing. But her left leg had begun to lose feeling. Nooooo! Ah! It wasn’t unbearable yet, but she began to contract her muscles to see what she could get away with. If I shift the weight into my back, she thought, and tensed her back and right thigh to take pressure off the sweaty foot that was sticking to the outside of her left leg. Effortless! I am a goddess reclining on an Italian terrace. I never have to move! To take her mind off the burning sensation starting to build in her lower back, she stared at another fuzzy corner of the ceiling. I do miss my glasses, she thought. Her eyes began to trace Bennett’s face into the rafters. Idiot! But her mind had decided to indulge itself, paying close attention to the way his beard grew in fuller on the chin than the cheeks, sketching in the rounded teeth and sage green eyes in brutal detail. She made the image smile at her. Suddenly she was smiling back. No! Straight face! She pulled the corners of her mouth down and tried to ignore his voice that was suddenly echoing in her mind. Leenah. The corners of her eyes contracted imperceptibly (she hoped) at the sound of his pronunciation. Jesus, Lena, she told herself, stop! The burning in her back tore her attention away from the memory of his laugh. Shift weight into theeeee--her muscles relaxed--right, transferring the throbbing in her back to a dull ache in a foot. Her thighs were sweating now, too. God, how much longer? Thinking about Bennett had brought to mind some old Wordsworth poem she had recently in class. She had never liked the Romantic poets, so she reviewed the limited poetic lines she knew of a modernist. “May I feel? said he,” the first words of an e. e. cummings poem she vaguely remembered. Reaching for the
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beginning of each line was enough to draw her attention from the ache in her legs. Dr. Stewart shuffled into the studio from an adjoining room. Lena rolled her eyes toward her professor only enough to notice her clothes were dusted with thick white plaster. “Ten more minutes.” This was a reminder to the class, then Dr. Stewart coughed and left the room. Ten minutes? Lena thought. All right, I can do ten minutes. She had compiled a repertoire of exercises for the end of her sessions, when her body was the worst, stiff and achy. First, she steadied her breath to take her mind off of her back pain, and counted, One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, two, two, three, four, five, six—don’t fall asleep—seven, eight. To break counting meant she had to start over, but the mural of Monet’s The Japanese Footbridge on the opposite wall drew her attention away from the breathing exercise. Lena recalled her first visit to Paris. She indulged herself, closing her eyes and re-wandering the streets of Paris in search of the Eifel Tower. The first notes of “Si tu vois ma mére” floated though her mind, and lights swam on the surface of the Seine as she walked past café tables and Baroque buildings and conversations. The musical memory turned into a lullaby, and soon Lena’s posed leg slackened and dropped. Shit! She tensed and tried to ease into her original position. Why is it so warm in here, she thought, and why am I so hungry? What do I have at home? Probably soup. How long was I out? She tried to catch a glimpse of someone behind an easel. No one seemed to have stopped sketching. Oh, well, she thought, startled out of her reverie, allowing her mind to return to the Monet. Its greens, its purples, its pinks-- She suppressed a yawn. The warm lamp and light scratching of pencils and charcoal was calming, and she wondered what it was like to model for Modigliani. By shifting her eyes to the left, an exposed light bulb wiped detail from the room, leaving a yellowish wash of blank space. The art studio transformed into a dusk-lit attic apartment with paint-splattered floorboards, canvases propped against the walls, and a simple wooden stool in the middle of the floor. Lena imagined herself perched with her back to the painter, looking over her shoulder. She stared at the floor until her neck went numb, then stole a stretch as Amedeo moved to drag his brush through more yellow. “Few more minutes, Bella,” he said, his eyes flicking from her neck to the painting, then back to her neck. All she could see was the movement of his elbow plunging around the edge of the canvas. “Mmhm,” she mumbled, and resumed the pose. 46
Suddenly the bright light was blocked and Lena blinked to reorient herself. Dr. Stewart’s paint-smeared shirt was eye-level and illuminated by the bulb behind her. “Are you good?” “Yeah,” Lena said, and pulled the robe beside her on the bed around her bare shoulders. “Next week, same time?” she asked, as she set her glasses back on her nose. “Yes, if you would!” “Yeah, absolutely! Thanks!” Lena wrapped and tied the robe and hopped off of the bed, avoiding eye contact with the students as she swept into the dressing room. She hummed as she dressed and imagined her portrait hanging on a wall of the Tate gallery in London.
—Laura Sieling
EPITHALAMION
Today, a sprint, a dash—they said “I do”— Beginning now what lasts till death, a marathon To run together. Let’s begin with Death, The final page we write—no matter how Or where or why the writing’s done—we write. And why bring Death into a wedding hall, To temper smiles, to dampen joy? Well, no. Let me explain. See, Christ has conquered Death— Thus robbing its eternal sting; but love On earth, love shared by man and wife, is pricked By separation. Death will come between This Poe and Annabel Lee; but Death will never Dissever souls who love like these. Like Cyrus And Cassandane, the Persian king and queen Whose union never broke, so yours; and thus My point: though Death may be the worst of life, It will not be the end of life for you at last.
—Matthew Nies 47
THE MADMEN In the play Hedda Gabler the character Eilert Lǿvborg is known as the madman who was an outcast in society because he couldn’t contain a burning desire to live his life authentically. He also happens to be a genius (Ibsen 870). The qualities of exceptional creativity and a touch of madness or eccentricities tend to walk hand in hand down a dark and solitary road. Lǿvborg’s affliction with alcohol, suffering, and heartache reminds me in some ways of my own suffering and experience with depression and anxiety. Reading this play, in a bizarre way, has made me want to explore my illness and embrace it in an attempt to utilize the positive aspects, to expand my consciousness, as I believe that as a sentient being I have a responsibility to do. Before I delve into my experience with depression I want to make it clear that this is not an escape into pity. I am telling the story from my perspective, what I experienced and what I felt; I am not complaining or feeling sorry for myself. After all is said and done, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I am happy with my life, both the good and the bad. As a young girl I was incredible happy and upbeat, a perfectly well adjusted child, except for a slight temper, an endowment from my Irish ancestors, no doubt. My depression and anxiety sneaked up on me like a thief in the night. In retrospect, problems began to appear when I was twelve years old and reached full bloom by the age of nineteen. In the beginning, it was probably a perfect storm of hormones, genetics, family issues, and lack of confidence. These came together to form the beginnings of what will probably be a life-long battle with depression. The initial manifestations were a lack of confidence and self-worth. As I grew older, the signs expanded into dismal feelings of being ugly, stupid, and worthless. I felt I lived in a dark cloud of anger and sullen sadness. My family had to bear the brunt of my anger. In my later teens I began to suffer from panic attacks. These are miserable experiences. The attacks could last up to a day, which is abnormally long for a panic attack. This was the worst part of my illness. Sometimes they would leave me completely trapped; all I could do was lie in bed, still, until I eventually fell asleep and was temporarily out of my misery. I became more and more paranoid--concerns for my personal health along with an unhealthy distrust of others. I convinced myself that my hair was falling out, my teeth were shifting, and that people were laughing at me. This seemed a discharge of unresolved perplexities attempting to escape in the only way they knew, but all of this left me feeling alienated and isolated. After many internal examinations, I am still not sure what the root of my emotional problems is, nor am I sure that it matters much. What I do know is that I feel too much--not only in the personal sense, but in an expanded awareness beyond my boundaries. This often puts me at odds with other people, particularly those who are serenely self-absorbed. I am often characterized by others as opinionated, aggressive, and sometimes bitchy. This has resulted in both a real and an imagined alienation and isolation 48
that I continue to experience. These characterizations are a reflection of my passion and intensity of awareness and not necessarily based on negativity. In contrast, I notice that a lot of people do not want to feel deep emotions, and go to great lengths to suppress and deny pain and suffering. Maybe this intensity of mine comes from my willingness to stare into my pain and the pain I see around me. I can remember when I was off my medication; I was driving down a highway with a friend. On the side of the road I saw a deer had been hit by a car. My friend laughed and made some cold remark about road kill. I welled up inside and was filled with an incredible storm of rage and sadness. I couldn’t stop thinking about the emotions and pain the deer was going through--in opposition, my friend was contemplating the music on the radio. This exemplifies my being open to feeling pain in the world and being closed off to others. I am not saying that I am special or different in any way from others. We all share the same human characteristics. I do, however, differ in that my illness prevents me from closing myself off from the pain I observe and experience. This is the first step to developing equanimity with the sufferings and pain in the world. In order for me to be ultimately OK with the world, I first have to feel the world. I want to feel everything, I want to push myself to the limit; I want to taste, touch, hear, and sense as much as I can before I am no longer able to. I look at all these experiences as gems I collect along the way, to assist me in cultivating a sense of equilibrium and as, I hope, this equilibrium will help me develop a sense of compassion that is limitless. Another of my characteristics that seems related to my depression and sense of alienation is detachment. I mean this in the positive sense. This has provided me with some independence. I don’t want to define myself on the basis of circles of social standards in order to fit in. In my efforts to rise above my depression I value being an outsider, maybe because being mentally ill to some degree brands me as an outsider. There is a price one has to pay to be socially, emotional, and intellectually independent and I am prepared to pay the price. I see a kindred spirit in Eilert Lǿvborg, because of his inability to comply with social standards due to his slightly mad nature. This madness fuels his intensity and his fervor for experiencing all that life has to offer. These are qualities we all share. My illness has caused me to seek compassion and equilibrium in order to be at peace with myself and to further expand my mind. My depression has set me apart from others, but simultaneously made me embrace my strange position with open arms. —Kelsey Newton Work Cited Ibsen, Henrick. Hedda Gabler. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Rick Davis and Brian Johnston. Norton, New York: 2013. Print. 49
Boarded, McCall Manske
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THE ARROW & THE ARCHER
One of the first concepts that an archer learns and must be aware of before he takes up the art of the bow is that once he lets his arrow go, and it begins on its path, there is absolutely no stopping it until it hits a target. In many ways the hunt is a religious experience, a connection between the hunter, the bow, and the prey in a sacred exchange of blood and art. This particularly shaped me. I am an archer, and I hunt with only a traditional bow and arrow. I began my education in archery and hunting (and the overall whole of nature) when I was a little, sickly boy no older than five. This did not deter me or my uncle from making me strong, and allowing me to accomplish what needed to learn about the “art of the bow.” And much like the arrow released by the archer and his bow, I alighted like an arrow shot from the bow of my uncle’s teachings. To say the least of this process, nothing could stop me until I hit my mark. I was born with a rare, and often fatal, genetic, bone marrow disorder known as cyclic neutropenia. My body does not naturally produce white blood cells or immunities as part of an inactivation of the L2 gene in my DNA. This partly is because I also have a rare DNA type that only occurs in a select amount of people with a Semitic ethnic background. I spent the first four years of life in a plastic bubble in a room of the Children’s Oncology Ward at the UCLA Hospital, where I received treatment, testing, and was kept in a sterile environment so that my body didn’t become infected and overtaken by some foreign organism or germ that I had no capability to handle on my own. I was finally released from the hospital when I was four, allowed to go home, and receive treatment on an outpatient basis. By this time I was at the age when my family traditionally began teaching its boys how to fish, hunt, wrestle, and survive in the wild, out of the belief that it was important for a man to have a true connection with the whole of nature and God. When my uncle agreed to take me as his protégé, he said that I was weak, but had shown strength and promise in that I had the strength and resilience to live. He told me that he would “hone me into something sharp, accurate, and truly strong through teaching and instruction.” And so as we grew closer, and as I spent more time in the woods with him, I became immersed in his philosophy and all his teachings. During this time, he introduced me to the bow, and began showing me what was considered the proper etiquette to handle the tool of the art. He told me that the bow was an extension of the archer who wields it, and that the bow would only truly work with the archer if the archer respected the bow and allowed himself to feel and become one with it. The archer must carry a sense of calm and resolve, and he must be right in mind, body, and soul if his bow is to behave and function as if it is an extension of him as well. As I grew older, and as I became more proficient in my art, I took to heart the true depth of what my uncle had taught me at a young age. And the more I realized this, the deeper it sank into my being, much like the hunter’s arrow meeting its mark deep in the heart of his prey. Even now as I think of
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my time with the bow, I feel it as a lifestyle, a philosophy, or maybe even part of my Faith, rather than being a mere pastime of passing interest, as many others seem to feel is true. Even in the Zen-like nature of what I do, I feel that as I let the string slip from my fingers, sending the arrow flying to meet my prey, I am releasing a part of me, my very essence or soul, with the arrow that has flown from my bow. Through this, I have become stronger, wiser, and all that my uncle set forth for me, through his guidance and his teachings. My experience as an archer has progressed and matured over the years, but ultimately my reasons for picking up the bow and stringing an arrow are the same as when I first started. I am an archer because I wished to become strong, and earn honor within my family; and through archery I have done so and more. My bow has become a testimony to my skill, my honor, my struggle, and my strength as not merely a man or a member of my family, but as a being who exists with the will to constantly improve himself and attain the highest form of functioning that I can accomplish. That is my purpose. That was my journey. That has always been my mark, and I believe I have hit it. —Shawn Martin BIG BROTHER Getting home from school on a Thursday night, Arm stretched high, you hold the TV remote. Why do you get to choose all the time? I want a vote. The four of us speed down the gravel road, Taking a long route to our destination, You turn up the music, all songs a list of Your own creation. We’re in the hotel room, joking around, Your girlfriend calls, I have to make fun, One tackle, one truce, one bloody lip later, Our fight is done. In a hospital parking lot I first saw You cry as you left your baby for the night; I realized then that we had both grown up, Outgrown the fight. —Emma Preble 52
Nikki, Letitia Thomas
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THE MYTHICAL CREATURE Growing up with only an older sister and a mother in the house created an open environment. My mother never shied from the difficult topics most parents do, such as drugs, alcohol, and sex. So when I was in high school, my mother had a habit of turning my casual-friend hangouts into after-school specials. “Don’t sleep around,” she’d tell me, and, whatever poor soul I’d brought over, “Wait until you’re in a serious relationship.” My response to my mom was always along the lines, “Well, duh.” It was sound advice my mom was giving, but serious to her meant a year-plus relationship and the kind of guy you’d most certainly get engaged to. Occasionally, sarcastically, I’d say, “But what if I just lost it before?” To her, that was not funny. As I moved on in high school, more and more of my friends and classmates were having sex. It didn’t bother me that I hadn’t, but in my junior year I started my first real relationship. Six months down the line we still had not done anything especially physical and I was fine with that; he on the other hand, not so much. We broke up and got back together a few times, but the reason for each breakup remained the same; I was not ready to take the relationship to the next level and he was. I knew he wasn’t the right guy to be that close to and I didn’t want to be like Hedda in Hedda Gabler and settle for someone who was mediocre when I thought I deserved someone spectacular. When high school ended and I entered college, college was a whole other level of who’s done it and who hasn’t. Big shocker; most people have done the deed. I still wasn’t bothered by being among the minority of students who were holding on to their virginity. But soon the girls I was becoming friends with started telling me to “Just get it over with” and there was something “wrong with me” for not wanting to. These girls lived in the same dorm as I and later in the school year they thought it would be amusing to put a whiteboard up in the hall with my cell number, stating, “Call Elizabeth and help her lose her v-card.” I was humiliated. It’s not as if I keep my virginity a secret, but to display it so publically was mortifying. I began feeling insecure: Would I lose out on my dream guy because I wasn’t sexually experienced? Could my virginity be a deal breaker? Eventually it was my sophomore year in college, and still no change in my virginity. I had reached the age of twenty and when people found out about my virginity, I started getting congratulated. It was as if people thought that meeting a twenty-year-old virgin was like stumbling on a mythical creature, or worse, a social anomaly that needs to get it over with. It used to be shocking back in the day to discover anyone was having sex at all. Now, it’s shocking to discover anyone who isn’t. I became the token virgin in my group of friends. And friends who happily have sex with men they don’t love are adamant that I hold out for “the one.” I felt that being a virgin had become such a part of my identity I found myself living up to their expectations in addition to my own. 54
I am currently finishing my sophomore year of college and still maintaining my status as the designated virgin in my group. But as of now I feel more confident about my virgin status than ever before. For the first time in a while, I can explain to myself, in very certain terms, why I haven’t done it and why I don’t want to do it right now. Because everyone seems to have their own theory, allow me to debunk some myths: I am not a virgin for religious reasons or for lack of interest in sex; I am not waiting for marriage or “the one,” and because I am a virgin does not mean I am completely naïve about sex. I am who I am for now, but not forever. Virginity is part of my identity and I am completely comfortable and proud of that. —Elizabeth Bresson
A Morning Visit, Alyssa Studer
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DIVORCE “There’s a plate shattered on the floor. She’s yelling at him, he’s yelling at her. The argument might be over the shattered plate or over something that’s been building all day. As they scream at each other, red in their faces, they seem to forget that down the hall there are two sets of ears listening to every word,” the older woman says. “Those ears are pressed against the bedroom door and their hearts are beating into their throats. They wonder which one will stomp out the front door and slam it behind them this time. Last time it was him, the time before it was her, and neither remembered to check on the two children in their beds. Maybe they thought they were asleep, as if anybody could sleep with the arguing. “A few months from now the fights will be so frequent there’ll barely be a calm moment between you two. The children will sit silently at the dinner table, waiting for something to erupt, waiting for the orders to go to their room, and then they’ll have to pretend they have no idea of what’s going on. No one wants to admit any fault and the children will sit in their beds and decide that they’ll take the burden from their parents, they’ll take the blame for it.” The older woman takes a deep breath. “And then the talks will begin. Mom will sit them down and say ‘We love you just the same, no matter what happens,’ and Dad will say, ‘It’s going to be better this way.’ And they’ll explain with careful words what a ‘separation’ is, as if the troubled souls following their words haven’t been present the last few months. “Soon the separation turns into a document and Dad leaves the house. Months may pass, maybe only weeks since they sat the children down and explained ‘separation.’ The kitchen is still a war zone and in the bedroom the civilians sit on their beds, comparing injuries. “‘You can’t have my kids all week,’ one will yell, ‘I have a right to them for more than a weekend!’--and the yelling over who gets who for how long will go on until the children forget they’re people at all. Maybe the parents have forgotten, too.” The older woman pauses, studying the younger one’s face. “The argument will end with both breathing heavily from anger, barging into the room with a poor façade of composure to say, ‘Now, would you rather go to school where Daddy is going to live, or would you like to stay with Mommy, keep your friends and your school and--’” “Don’t you think this is an exaggeration,” the young woman says. “And as soon as the door is closed behind them, the yelling starts again,” the older goes on, ignoring the interruption. “‘God dammit, when you put it like that, of course they’re going to want to stay with you!’ he’ll yell. 56
‘Make it fair, for God’s sake. They’re mine just as much as they’re yours,’ and the pair of possessions sit on their bed with hands over their ears and wait for the slam of the door. “‘It’s going to be so much better now,’ Mom will say, once all of Dad’s clothes have been moved out. ‘I know this is difficult. But it’s for the better.’ But what used to be a heated shouting match slowly becomes a sick game. Each of the parents will use the children as pawns on their board. “‘If you’re upset you didn’t get to go to your friend’s birthday party, you can talk to your mother,’ Dad will say, after the weekend has passed. ‘If you hadn’t gone to see Grandma and Grandpa,’ he says, ‘you could’ve gone. But this is our special time together, and it’s not fair if Daddy misses two weekends.’ “So the children sigh and agree because they did miss him, but as they wait for her to tuck them in, they feel guilt creep into their chests. They can’t miss her when they’re with him and they can’t miss him when they’re with her. They always run the risk of angering one or the other. “In a few years she’ll meet a nice guy who takes her out to dinner and after a few months he’ll move in. The children haven’t seen her smile in such a long time so they welcome his presence, even if he doesn’t welcome theirs. “‘Can’t you let their father take them an extra day?’ he’ll ask her after a few months. ‘We deserve some alone time. They’re his kids, after all.’ “And for the first time she’ll agree they are his kids and he should be with them, and she’ll pack up their possessions and send them off to Dad. “‘Kids, I’ve met someone,’ he will eventually say. And the lady he brings home will smile brightly and hug them and play all her cards right. “‘So, what’s she like,’ Mom will ask when they return. “‘She’s really nice,’ they say in their small voices, unaware of the anger in her question. They relay the events of their weekend in happy voices. “‘Well, if it’s so goddamn great at your father’s,’ she will say, ‘why don’t you go live with him! She can be your new Mom, if she’s so fucking fantastic. He was never that good to me, I’ll have you know.’ “And they will fall silent at the table, their eyes focusing on something other than her. They’ll swear to themselves they’ll never enjoy the company of Dad’s girlfriend again!” “Please, I need to be getting--” the young woman says, trying to stop this. “I’m almost finished,” the other says. “Now the children are growing up and their parents haven’t taken notice, since they’re caught up in beginning new lives apart from each other. The kids have begun to see themselves as unfortunate side effects that have tied their parents to a past they hate. How can they stop fighting if they have to keep talking? And whose fault is it that they have to communicate? 57
“And then Dad’s nice new wife will have a nice baby girl and the children will hardly be able to look at the newborn. She’s shiny and new, she looks like Dad’s new wife, and he doesn’t look at her the way he looks at them. He doesn’t see their mother in this newborn. His new life is perfect. “The possessions have been shipped from house to house for years, and they’ve listened to every speech about how this was better for them. They believed their parents when they told them they still loved them, they’d always love them, and maybe they did, but they never stopped hating each other, and the children never learned to stop taking on the burden of that hate in their hearts. Maybe one will turn out all right, but maybe one won’t. Never learning forgiveness, never understanding their personal worth, maybe they’ll decide they have no worth at all. “Now we’re here, the children are still small and safe in bed, their mother setting a lipstick-rimmed wine glass down on the table, wondering if Dad will come home smelling of someone else’s perfume until she’s convinced that he will. Back to the shattered plate on the floor and the yelling and screaming. “‘You missed the parent-teacher’s conferences,’ she says when he walks in. ‘Where were you?’ “‘Work,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, hon.’ “‘Can you at least help me clean up the dishes,’ she says. ‘I’m here all day, taking care of the kids, busing them around. Where are you? What are you doing?’ “‘Not this again,’ he says, sighing. ‘You wanted to stay at home. One of us needs to work.’ “‘Just load the dishwasher,’ she says. “‘The kids asleep?’ he asks. “‘Yeah,’ she replies. ‘They should be. Maybe you’d see them more if you were home. They wanted you to read them a story.’ “‘Damn,’ he says. ‘You know I want to spend more time with them.’ “‘Can you just load the dishwasher?’ she asks. “He fumbles and a plate shatters on the floor. Now, before the words fly, before the anger erupts, think about the two who will listen in. Think about what you want them to know, how you want them to feel, before you speak. Pick up the pieces of the shattered plate, even if it can’t be fixed.” “Look, I’m sorry you heard all that, but I don’t need to be told how to run my marriage or raise my kids,” the young woman says, ushering her elderly neighbor out. “I’m sorry about the noise.” “Christie,” the old woman says, turning and pointing at remnants of the plate. “Don’t leave shards on the floor for children’s feet to tread on.” —Emma Preble 58
Loon and Chick, Laurel Pfau
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(NOT) HEMINGWAY Now across the keyboard sowing, A secret seed is slowly growing. Prick my fingers, now they bleed Nourishment to dormant seed. Tap the keyboard, words in a slew, Write all night to morning’s dew. Fingers shake and fly until the job Is through. I stop, I read, I sob. The quiet whispers from my soul Appear breathing on my pages, cold. The truth about my writing? It’s all only endless fighting. What do I show, what shall I hide? Cage the demons or open gates wide? A pen slipped and pricked my fingers And now, forever, the sting still lingers. —Emma Preble
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Firmly Rooted, Megan Baker
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SEASONS OF GRIEF
JIM STONE
FIRST UNREQUITED LOVE Ms. Madonna, Untouched (except by Him) Is bleeding; The tide, receding, Invites my footprints, Then conceals them while the dawn reveals My walking away—unknown (except by Him). It feels too lonely loving only what is holy Barely seeing [blinded by my being Human and in the sun] that woman comes undone By love that breaks itself and faith and hearts, and makes Attempts to be forgiven (except by Him) in sin Again and loving again Beyond God, Toward Him still by woman, Convinced that I must, with heavenly hope just Love and leave Her Untouched (except by Him).
UNDYING LIGHT “Why?” she whispered only once in her Long mournful months of merciful care, With faith in the face of outrageous fate. At the grave, God knows, from which she’s gone, As into the surface of a mirror, miraculous mirage Of the juxtaposition of joylessness and joy. Anguish and elation, after all, reflect The gift of guilt entirely forgiven, As He willed angels’ wings to welcome her To highlight heaven’s heart and hearth In the arms of Christ, uncrossed, caressed. Great God! She’s gone beyond the gate-Relentless light unrelinquished! The divine dignity with which she died Brightly beckons the best of me. 62
CAVEMAN Into a darkness of silence, Deaf to a spirited summons, Blind to the visible world, Mute when it matters the most. Longing to long for the gospel Out of miraculous moments; Now I can barely recall Longing to lie in the sun.
SLIP-KNOTS I might have laughed at me; instead I cried Of loneliness when Death became my wife. With only desperation satisfied Without her—now angelic to my life— Am I afraid to wait the way to die? Will dying find me dancing in the light Of constellations out beyond the sky In which I recreate her every night? Mountains in moonlight, majestic, aloof, Tempting to measure the distance between Cowardice, courage, preference, and proof; Yesterday certain; a future unseen. Some answers to the question, “What’s the use?” Are slip-knots on a suicidal noose.
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Wistful, Levi Brown 64
IMAGINE I can imagine believing that I Will see you again in all of your ways, Will know the grace of God in which you died, Will feel angelic arms in which you lie; But cannot believe it as doubt betrays— So I imagine. Believing that, I Trace my disbelief to lack of proof and try To recollect, again recount the ways To know the grace of God. The night you died And saw to heaven right before my eyes— An invitation worth the end of days! I can imagine believing that I Have seen in your ascendance to the sky The consequence that only faithful praise Can know. The grace of God in which you died— A revelation in the face of pride. With no redeeming character to play, I can imagine believing that I Will know a grace like yours the day I die.
Change in the Air, Levi Brown 65
PARTWAY Following instinct and a folding map Away from the intoxicating haze Of California’s coast, covered with scars, Rendered in clay. Following Interstate 40 all day From Barstow to Gallup, north to my home, Guided by mesas, greeted by mountains Rendered in stone.
Colored Mountains, Valerie Kerner
Following custom, unset in my ways, Willfully languishing promising years— Mountains majestic, small comfort to see Rendered in tears. Following wisdom’s whispering angel, Sorrow no longer a river a-flood, Accepting the gift of salvation Rendered in blood. 66
Touched by Glory, Megan Baker
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VISION QUEST Across the sunburnt skies of Canyonland, horizons layered, demarcations blurred, as red rock fingers rise from Satan’s hand, abandoned bones lie silent, uninterred. The wagon tracks of long-forgotten Saints, faint traces on the bottomland below-above, behind, the Master Painter paints a triptych of vermillion calico on stoic stony cliffs where shadows show: the image of an eagle overhead; a disembodied face with eyes aglow; a cryptic petroglyphic carved in red. To find a way to pray my spirit strives, discovering and fortunate to find instead of disbelief the soul survives. Too often deaf and dumb, I am not blind.
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A Humble Gift, Levi Brown
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CONTRIBUTORS Eweyomola Akintunde Megan Baker Katie Brandt Andrea Brenno Elizabeth Bresson Levi Brown Mark Brown Lauren Cannon Beth Champa Meaghan Cronin Victoria Getchell Linda Hess Frances Kanneh Valerie Kerner McCall Manske Shawn Martin
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Kelsey Newton Matthew Nies Peter Odney Tracy Ortman Liza Ostmo Karson Pederson Laurel Pfau Emma Preble Laura Sieling Andrea Steinberger Jim Stone Alyssa Studer Letitia Thomas Andrew Tjader Briana VinZant