Mercy Creative Review | Issue 2 | 2018 by Mount Mercy University

Mercy

CREATIVE Review

Issue 2 2018

“CREATIVITY IS INTELLIGENCE HAVING FUN.” —Albert Einstein

title created by BILLIE BARKER cover art Abandoned BILLIE BARKER cover design MORGAN ORTMANN

Editor COURTNEY SNODGRASS Advisor MARY VERMILLION

Selection Committee BILLIE BARKER CARMEN DELGADO HARRINGTON ABBEY KONZEN GAIL MURPHY COURTNEY SNODGRASS SARAH SWAYZE Special Thanks CHRIS DEVAULT KATHRYN HAGY MORGAN ORTMANN MICHAELA PEASE

Mercy Creative Review is a publication of literature and artwork composed by faculty, staff and alumni of Mount Mercy University: 1330 Elmhurst Dr. NE, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 52402. Mercy Creative Review is published annually in the fall. Mercy Creative Review accepts submissions via email: mercycreativereview@gmail.com. Mercy Creative Review is sponsored by the Mount Mercy English Program and Mount Mercy Art Program. Mercy Creative Review is composed in Bookman Old Style, size 11, 12 point font. It is printed on Cougar Opaque Natural 70 lb. text. 80 lb. Flo Gloss and 80 lb. White Flo Gloss Cover. Mercy Creative Review is printed by Welu Printing Company. Issue 2. ÂŠ 2018

CONTENTS

POETRY MICKENZIE JENSEN

ANNA BOHR

COURTNEY SNODGRASS

Butterfly

Virginia Nights

Tokens of Life

On the Planet of Me

Reincarnation of a Kite

Goodbye Ghost

Swimming

Two Men

A GoFundMe Page for my Antidepressants

Dear Boys Like Brock Turner

When a Child Kills Another Child

ANN PLEISS MORRIS

Anthem

ABBEY KONZEN

Amethyst

Brewing Death

GAIL MURPHY

The Unexpected

KAREN RENEE KREBS

I Could Not Say a Thing

Free

Colors of Love

More Than Your Insults

This Skin

KAYLA HODGSON

GRETCHEN MUNDORF

At Thirteen

Mestiza Blues

Beautiful Baby

JENNY WAGNER

Untitled

TERI KNAPP

A New Perspective

NATALIE DEISTER

My Truest Love

One More Page

Come Down

Weight

NICKOLE MEIER

Remedy

ED LEHNER

Where Does Love Go?

ANNA SCHMALL

Full Table

ABBEY KONZEN

The Eye of Scarlet

MORGAN ORTMANN

Untitled

BILLIE BARKER

Hillside Sheep

CARMEN DELGADO

Stillness

Weeds Were Flowers Too

CARMEN DELGADO HARRINGTON

CASSIE UNDERWOOD

ART

HARRINGTON ABBEY KONZEN

Until Someone Annoyed Them MORGAN ORTMANN

Untitled

PROSE MICKENZIE JENSEN

Note to Self

The Beauty of Inheritance

Hands

Looking in the Mirror

Alone

Where Were You Last Nightâ&#x20AC;¦?

My Childhood Haven

GAIL MURPHY

The Imperfect Pet

BILLIE BARKER

Brains in a Bottle

CONTRIBUTORS

TYUS THOMPSON

CARMEN DELGADO HARRINGTON

POETRY

MICKENZIE JENSEN

Butterfly New wings Heavy with Tears Fluttering wondrously Timid Torn Yearning to fly Saddened To leave Finally free Broken shell Left behind New life Begins At the end Love lost Life Redefined

Virginia Nights Perched on the concrete steps talking laughing living Stars so close they could swallow you lose you hold you Sharing truths buried deep pain loss guilt Dancing in place carefully comforting grieving loving Without uttering a word we forgive conquer and survive

Tokens of Life A bowl full of smiles Memories galore Tiny mementos Each I adore Crackling petals A torn ticket stub Gum wrapper chains A lucky stone to rub A bowl filled with trinkets Bits of my past Tangible objects help Make memories last Pink plastic barrettes Keys without locks Childhood toys A velvet ring box A bowl full of tokens Proof Of this life

On the Planet of Me everyone would have a sense of humor and chocolate would flow like manna from heaven. On the planet of me cats would be counted as dependents. There would be no appointments or time clocks, no one would care about punctuality. On my planet there would be mountains of books and miles of movies for everyone. It would be a law that everyone have comfy pajamas and cushiony recliners. On this planet no one would have to wake before noon. Work would be optional and fun mandatory. On the planet of me trying your hardest would be enough. Everyone would be judged on who they are, not how they look. On the planet of me no one would be picked last. Everything would be free and everyone equal. On the planet of me life would be good for everyone.

ANNA BOHR

Reincarnation of a Kite I must have been a kite in a former life The way I can stand up to the wind And be steady in the storm surrounding me I ride the gusts and enjoy the view In a floating, freefalling equilibrium So I spit in the face of physics Defying all logic and emotion That should exist in this dimension Yes I was a kite in a former life Perhaps the Franklin kite A centuries-old flyer with a key on my tail More mythical than real but fully here Uplifted and electrified by lightning What didn’t kill me put fireworks in my eyes And I’m fully alive Like I always was But haven’t remembered until now

Goodbye Ghost I’m moving on That part of you is gone You’re just a ghost Of who you used to be Now all you do is haunt me But you’re never there I can’t wait forever I can’t take this torment Anymore You made your choice I have to change, too So I’m moving on That part of me is gone Your ghost will always haunt me The remains will always cause me pain But since I never see you I’m moving on

Swimming Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve fallen underwater And Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m holding my breath The stress swells against me I should be drowning now Overwhelmed by these waves But I am still swimming I look up to the sky And I see the light I am almost drowning But I am certainly Not dying now

COURTNEY SNODGRASS

Two Men I kiss her goodbye I kiss her goodbye Today, her life will change forever. Today, my life will change forever. I left the house wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a sweatshirt. I left the house wearing slacks, a t-shirt and my police departmentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s uniform. I turned in my wallet, wedding ring, and was covered up with a white sheet in the middle of the street. I turned in my shield, gun, and covered up with a warm comforter in the middle of my bed. She kissed my cold face in a morgue She kissed my warm face in a courtroom. She went home alone. I went home with my wife.

A GoFundMe Page for My Antidepressants Hey guys! some of you know, some of you don’t, because we live in a society where talking about mental illness around the thanksgiving dinner table isn’t exactly normal. But that’s a story for another holiday. I’ve created this campaign because, well, being a college student on top of all the medical bills from the last time in the emergency room slash psychiatric unit, I can’t afford to pay for my prescribed Zoloft, Prozac, Lexapro, to be honest, I can’t even remember which one I’m supposed to be working into my system. It’s a damn miracle I can even pronounce their names. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that the little orange bottle of whichever medication I’m currently feeding my system with, is running out and there’s nowhere near enough money in my bank account for my student loan payment, gas, credit cards, and next month’s supply of “happy pills,” let alone, the month after that. And some of you might know this, others may not, because bringing up how many times I couldn’t get out of bed, how many times I thought of swallowing the whole bottle of pills 19

that’s supposed to be helping me, how many times I cried myself to sleep, how many times I went without eating, the list really goes on and on, but unfortunately, that’s just not something that gets brought up at family gatherings where everyone is supposed to be happy and enjoying life. My whole point is, to those who might not know, mental illness does not just go away. It’s not a light switch I can flip on and off. Obviously, I’d have the switch turned off because my depression likes the dark. My grandma refers to my depression as “episodes” that appear to be fixed by switching some sort of channel. I’m sure she’d rather watch General Hospital anyway, as if being a frequent flyer in the emergency room isn’t enough drama. What my family doesn’t understand is that when I ask for money for Christmas and my birthday, it helps pay down the stack of medical bills piling on my kitchen counter from the unnecessary appointments with my psychiatrist to make sure I haven’t developed a new knack for hearing voices. The money helps pay the statements from my therapist’s office where I sat for an hour with nothing to say but the letter with my outstanding balance says quite a lot, like a thank-you note encouraging me to come back for more awkward silences. 20

And for those of you who’ve never been to a therapist, their offices are not like the ones in the movies. There was no couch in sight. and calling to schedule an appointment for next week will never happen. The receptionist told me the first time I called that my therapist was booked out for three months. Okay, depression, I’ll need you to wait another 90 days and hope it doesn’t get much worse. I’m better off calling a crisis hotline and talking to a complete stranger. What I’m trying to say is, I’d rather have my friends and family donate to a gofundme campaign to help pay for my antidepressants than watch them donate to a gofundme page to help pay for my funeral expenses. And by that, I’m trying to say, I’d rather live than die but donating to funeral expenses seems more acceptable to talk about at family gatherings than talking about how to prevent a funeral.

Dear Boys Like Brock Turner You’re the type of boys my parents warned me about, the ones who think consent is optional, the ones who picked on little girls in grade school on the playground and don’t listen to her when she tells you to leave her alone. I heard about you on the news and what you did to that girl. Tell me, don’t you wish you would’ve listened to the small girl with long hair and freckles who yelled at you on the slide when you kept poking her? Tell me about how you waited until she couldn’t verbally deny you and how that somehow equals yes. Tell me about your erection and how aroused you were when she held her legs clamped together so tightly that magnets would be jealous of the strength she possessed to try and keep you out. Tell me how you confused her groans of pain as moans of pleasure and how blinded you must’ve been to not see the tears of shame glistening on her face. Give me a reason for why you chose not to listen to her when she begged for you to stop because of the pain she was in. Tell me about the choice you made to take her choice away. Enlighten me on what it’s like to have sex with someone who lays anything but still on the floor as she fights against you. Tell me, when she dug her nails into your flesh and bit with teeth into your arms, releasing the pain you forced on her, returning it into the monster who destroyed her, did you think that was permission for you to start again, when she had yet to finish fighting you off for the first time? Tell me, how could you confuse her silence when she finally laid still because she knew she could not push you out from inside of her, how that was enjoyable? 22

Tell me again about how you chose to take her choice away. Tell me how much you hate this poem and how it makes you uncomfortable. Now let me tell you how much I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care.

When a Child Kills Another Child For Aaron Richardson

Two lives end, not one. A fifteen-year-old boy’s life ended in my hometown because a fourteen-year-old boy took it. People are dying in small towns and big cities and all over the country. People’s lives are being bought and sold on the black market by payment of bullets and receipts printed from the trigger. The world is a dark and long journey through the woods, the guns belong to the big bad wolves and we’re all just riding in the basket, hoping to make it to grandma’s house. Is there a method to the madness, for why wolves have guns in paws that don’t know how to use such dangerous weapons? Why children are dying by other children? Why lives are being ticked off like tally marks in an invisible hit list on the streets where we’ve built our homes? Our homes are broken, split, drowning in grief because of reasons unknown. Children are ripped from their parents’ arms and left for silent goodbyes as they’re lowered 6 feet under, or swinging gates of jail cells shut behind them. Violence is flooding the streets like water rushing from a dam that hasn’t began to heal after the last fatality. Each death leaves families, communities in a hell that burns so badly, they don't know how it feels to heal. When a child kills anther child, who deserves a funeral and who deserves a cell? Why aren’t we fixing the wound before it’s too late to see that they both deserve to live.

ANN PLEISS MORRIS

Anthem When he was three, we watched the fireworks over Lake Geneva. What are these for? Even then it caught in my mouth: For America The previous year we had been in Peter Pan’s garden, no fireworks in sight. Maybe I wasn’t teaching him what it is to be American. Now three years later, I am alone in the holiday aisle, selecting star-spangled glasses. My fists clench as I waver over a bag of flags. What are these for? My hands are full of supplies for this weekend’s protest. Not their first. Not their last. Who will teach me how to answer their questions? I wish my grandmothers were still alive. They could tell me how to raise children in the shadow of fascism. But they got to believe fascism was in Never Never Land, overlooking it in the homes of their neighbors, their families, their friends. We were at the ballpark yesterday. The anthem started while we were paying for water. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least we didn’t have to be a part of that posturing. The lights went out in the stand. The commercial engine screeched to a halt. Out of respect. 25

What are these for? The man at the counter still tried to take our card. Sir, I think we should wait until the anthem is over. My husband. He is angry and frustrated, too. Yet he turns his heart to hope. My business is redemption, he jokes. I will watch oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;er these, our imperfect ramparts. I will continue to explain as best as I can that families belong together that black lives matter that love is love that women are equal. I will fight for them to feel safe at school at the movies at church at concerts. I grab the multipack of flags, enough for us all. I have to believe that in all this darkness there is still a nation worth shutting the lights off for. I will teach them to work for freedom. I will teach them, and myself, to be brave. I will teach them what it is to be American. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what these are for.

ABBEY KONZEN

Amethyst slow breaths, serenity smile on a whim anxious thoughts sent far away sparkling violet, swim in the depths of crystal peace heavy geode pressing palm all my muted troubles cease shimmer lilac veil stone protection from the truth a moment or for hours long I breathe

Brewing Death Grandma breathed her last while I made a cup of coffee Ten after eleven my mom got the call: At eleven she’d taken her last breath I know what I was doing at eleven Tearing a hot chocolate packet dumping its powder in my mug popping open the Keurig dropping a k-cup into its slot pouring water in the top clicking the machine closed positioning my mug pressing the blinking blue button to brew And sixty miles away my grandma breathed her last Now I sit with my coffee, unknowingly brewed with death It’s halfway gone as my mom makes calls to my uncle—he was already on the road from Indiana to see her one last time and my sister—the only call where my mom’s voice wavers and my great aunt—who doesn’t pick up, probably at lunch and my cousin—he is as surprised as we are, when just last night the nurses said the signs of imminent death weren’t yet showing It might've been easier to accept but everything is complicated by my grandma’s last wishes she never told us 28

A direct burial No funeral No wake No family The funeral home is to come and retrieve the body Directly bury her I sip out of my mug while I hear My mom trying to finagle a way for my uncle to see my grandma’s body before they take her away in a coffin Phone calls to the care center How long are they willing to leave my grandma in her bed? Long enough for my uncle to get there tonight? And how are we going to get closure as a family without any gathering where we can see each other, celebrate her life? Why would anyone wish for that? Why did she? Now there’s only a few sips left But I've stopped drinking How can I finish it if this cup of coffee is the extension of her last breath? What if I finish it and consume all that’s left of her spirit? What if I pour it down the sink to avoid that responsibility? 29

Would that be bad knowing that this coffee symbolizes the moment of her death to me? As bad as canceling the celebration of one’s own life knowing how much it could mean to those she left behind?

Or maybe she didn’t know And maybe the coffee doesn’t mean anything because either way She’s already gone The coffee chilled in sync with my grandma’s body and on the third day I gave it a proper burial, returned to the earth Down the sink, with a stream of cleansing water life and death swirled together toward their next adventure

GAIL MURPHY

The Unexpected I didn’t anticipate this. I don’t know what I thought it would be like But this…? this sudden ache? this emptiness? this longing to hold onto words? smiles? laughter? It’s sneaky this hole and comes at the most curious times when I open the candy drawer and still see his favorites when I look at his chair and it’s empty when I enter his bedroom and don’t see him napping. His leaving was not unexpected I’d fully armed myself for decades. Nothing could penetrate this webbed and reinforced shield and nothing did… for awhile. But now…? Now I wait for whisker rubs that no longer tickle my face hands teasingly grabbing the fat rolls at my waist his trusty, old corn popper whirring to life.

It hurts even more when I suddenly realize he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t slam his hands on the table just to see us jump or call me to share his favorite comic. I will have to live the rest of my life without seeing his crooked smile or his wiggling ears. No, I am left with only the faint imprint of my dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hugs.

KAREN RENEE KREBS

I Could Not Say A Thing I watched last week as they dragged my friend away Peering out my window as events began to play I wanted to rush out and help his desperate plight Tell them he was kind and not one who would fight But I couldn’t move and so I stood, paralyzed in fear And all the while I watched, my eyes were filled with tears My friend’s very life was hanging on a string And no matter how much I wanted to I couldn’t say a thing It was not the first time I was silent and didn’t use my voice It’s happened over and over again and has always been my choice I did not say a thing when they banned my Muslim friends I watched in fearful silence as their dreams of freedom end I did not say a thing when schools became a place to die I watched in sullen horror as a generation cried. I did not say a thing when ICE did another sweep I might have helped my friends if I wasn’t busy that week Even when they took the children to barter for a wall I could not say a thing even though I was appalled They came for me last night, for something that I said They came with guns and badges and dragged me from my bed They kicked me in the stomach and dragged me by the hair The torture didn’t end as they dragged me down the stairs I knew I was a goner as no one ever had come back Perhaps if I had spoken up I would not have been attacked My neighbors were all around us, watching in a ring I asked for help and when I looked up, no one said a thing

Free For sixty years I hid myself so no one could see me The person that I really am, the one who was not free The prison that I lived in was deep inside my head Letting out my secret was the thing I did most dread Born into a different world where acceptance was joke I filled my life with laughter as I found a way to cope Each chance I had to fix things I built a higher wall I was fearful that the truth would lead me to a fall But she was always there when I stared into the mirror Waiting for her time to come, for me to face my fear At home I lived a life that was never to be seen Learning all I needed from a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s magazine Then one day I woke up and I found the world had changed That people just like me were no longer considered deranged I had no more reasons to keep me from being me Now for the first time in my life I truly feel free

KAYLA HODGSON

Colors of Love The first time I saw them, I saw red. The instant draw and beginnings of a crush stained my cheeks with it. Irritatingly handsome and utterly unattainable. As the semester continued, I saw orange. Their optimism and pure acceptance of themselves and life helped me start to accept mine. When they sat in front of me in class, I saw yellow. Their smile and witty comments brightened my day and unknowingly started a friendship. Sitting next to them, waiting to graduate, I saw green. Having grown and finally learned I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t broken, I was calm and felt as full of life as they seemed. Accepting myself and crying after coming out, I saw blue as I was wrapped in their arms. Peaceful and content. Flirtations and playfulness abounded with them and I saw purple. In their presence, I felt like royalty and explicitly lucky. As the rain poured and their lips met mine, a rainbow of colors exploded. The world brightened and finally seemed to make sense.

More Than Your Insults Fat. Ugly. Revolting. Undatable. The girl in the mirror may not be perfect, but she does not deserve to have every inch of her body attacked with your leers and words. Worthless. Mistake. Waste of space. Burden. The girl screaming in my head is worth more than you say. She does not care what you think of her. Bitch. Whore. Just like her. Liar. Your hurt over her rejection does not give you permission to stab her with your words that echo in her brain. Freak. Awkward. Loser. Weirdo. Your thoughts on her abnormality are compliments. She doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need your validation for normal people scare her. Broken. Unlovable. Pathetic. Useless. These scars are beautiful and show strength. She may not be much, but she is enough with the potential to be loved.

GRETCHEN MUNDORF

This Skin This skin Of mine. It has Taken and given Such grief. All of my years We’ve been together— My longest and Most tempestuous Relationship. This one of loathing And of pride— Such a bitter juxtaposition Of weakness and Strength. This skin of mine— That avoids Even the briefest Exposure For fear That even my own eyes Will acknowledge The scars And flaws And proof Of hurried binging In closets And cars And shame Because life left me empty that day. That desperation to fill Because what is Is never enough. Not at 14 and not at 32. But is this not the same skin of mine That nourished And cradled 37

These two Living, breathing Dreams realized? That tore and stretched To house and protect. That fed and filled To grow and bond To this new skin of hers. So soft and vulnerable Without flaw And scars And shame. So she will see— Really see this skin of mine And think— Beautiful Strong Gentle Warrior— And not This Atlas burden— This heavy strength and weakness I bear and treasure.

At Thirteen A foal on wobbly legs Gangly and unsure Covered in womb A matador with nothing But a red cape Between them and Raging Bulls An ember, a spark With potential To light, to fuel, to warm Or Engulf, consume, crumble To dust That dusk between youth And lost cause Those Wednesday kids With equal parts Fear and ferocity

CARMEN DELGADO HARRINGTON

Mestiza Blues Children play; throw jacks, hacky sacks, and balls, but children also throw dirty looks, rocks, words, and phrases, Spic Beaner Wetback Pocha Girl! So Mestiza children learn to chant: Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me, —No— Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Caustic words cut, when placards proclaim, No Women No Spanish No Coloreds Allowed! But though written words are hard to ignore, Mestizas chant: Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me, —No— Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Americans, Mexicans, men, women, children, family, & “friends” utter repugnant remarks Que simple eres You don’t belong Get away from here! yet Mestizas snub the stony slurs, & chant: Only Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me, 40

—Right?— Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. HA! Sticks & stones may break my bones, but those wounds won’t reopen. Cutting comments create incurable injuries that keep ruthlessly reopening, marring Mestiza vidas incessantly with blues.

Beautiful Baby Beautiful baby with a spirit of gold, bright shining blue eyes and future untold, guiding my angel to walk on his toes and patting his head through his tearful woes. Lovely little lady with a round rosy face, chubby cheeks, golden curls, and cute button nose, toddling through our home all your days. Sassy sprite with a bright winning smile, flitting thru our dreams in Oshkosh Bâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;gosh jeans. What would your bond beâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; had you lived past age 3?

JENNY WAGNER

Untitled There are moments I’m painfully aware of how quickly time passes. Like I’m outside getting the mail or tending to the yard and above the mature oaks and maples, the unmistakable screech of a panicked driver desperately pressing the brake: the traffic ahead much closer than it first appeared, a crash unavoidable. I, too, need to slow down. My son is nine and a half and I still sneak in at 4am to watch him sleep. I slip my three smallest fingers into his palm to see if unconsciously his reflex will wrap his hand around mine. Something I used to do when he was an infant but then it only took my one finger to fill his tiny hand. All the years I’ve held him; this is how he holds me.

TERI KNAPP

A New Perspective He leans against the tree Staring at nothing, Mouth open in surprise, Head tilted— As if listening— To the songs of nature: To the songs of the vines As they twine about his ankles, Holding him fast; To the songs of the birds Making a nest Of his hair; To the songs of tiny insects As they find uses For his decaying flesh; To the songs of nature As it feasts Upon this sacrifice; This mere child Gives back much more Than he ever got from life. He leans against the tree, Glazed eyes staring at nothing, Dry mouth open in surprise, Heavy head tilted As if listening— Deafly— To the songs of nature. Inspired by The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane

NATALIE DEISTER

My Truest Love There is love In these bones All by itself It grows It does not hinge On an opinion It does not depend On approval For its nutrition It does not disappear When limbs untwine From mine It stays It shows In the way I still laugh When my heart is broken In the way I can love again (The way I can love myself) Even after being starved of the chemicals That I thought created itâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;no, no. It always was It always will be It is the blood That pulses through me And makes these bones Alive.

One More Page If you were a book (well-loved, a little beat up, a few pages torn) and I was the slightly rebellious, wildly imaginative, curious child who loved you I’d tell you not to close. I’d tell you there are chapters in you yet to be lived, to be read, and I need to read them, even if no one else does. I’d beg my mom or dad to let me stay up Just ten more minutes, because even in the middle of a dark, hopeless chapter I wouldn’t want to put you down. I’d want to read long enough to make sure you’d be okay. I’d want to find hope that there is something good waiting for you While you are on trial for a crime you did not commit When it looks like the world’s corruption will win out over your truth When the dragon seems like it might slay you Instead of the other way around When it seems like love may never light up your heart again. I’d hold you tight under the covers, Long after mom and dad had gone to bed I’d read by flashlight, Tread through muck with you, Climb a rocky, unforgiving mountain, Trek across a barren, scorching desert, a gray wasteland, Put one hand, one foot, in front of the other, Crawl with you when you can’t walk anymore. Taste the salt of your tears and feel the blood pound in your head. My own limbs would ache with your exhaustion. But still, I’d keep a light on the page and trust that your burden will strengthen you and become lighter.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d love you through your cowardice, your doubts, your worst moods, your less-than-perfect decisions, and also in your bravery, compassion, intelligence, and wisdom. I am old enough now to know that some stories do not have happy endings. But if I can read just one more page it means I can write one more of my own. No matter how dark it gets I want to know what happens to you next.

CASSIE UNDERWOOD

Come Down Why won’t you rip the sky open like cheap fabric and come down? If only bullets were bread, firearms were fish, and disasters were doves; maybe then we wouldn’t need you to split the seam of the sky and come down? We wouldn’t need a plague of Biblical proportions— a beautiful rainbow of natural disasters if you were to just come down. The sea would not need parting if peace were present on our planet. The heavens would not be torn in two if true love was triumphant over evil. Maybe we need to have heartbreak in the world so we don’t run the risk of forgetting your face when you come down.

Weight “You carry a lot of weight around your middle.” As if my weight were arm loads of groceries that I was awkwardly lugging in from my car. Like I had handpicked every ounce that now weighs down my plastic white belly. At least with grocery bags, people understand why you sweat when you walk— they don’t question those tiny beads of salt water dripping down your forehead because you don’t have to hold that extra weight forever. People understand why your steps are just a little more labored— the awkwardness of those groceries are limited to the outside; those extra pounds aren’t pouring out over your belt which is desperately trying to keep the seams of your jeans from bursting. People are more understanding when the extra pounds you’re carrying are in the form of TV dinners and laundry detergent. The only difference is, once you walk through the door, you can shed those pounds on the kitchen table; leaving them there as proof of your efforts.

NICKOLE MEIER

Remedy Verse 1 Too numb to breathe CGAmF You fall asleep FAm you rest in peace AFcG We’re on our knees GcFc Begging God to Let you see CGaf c You drown the pain CG They call your name GAm As you’re numb again AF Their hurt just stays F. C The hurt stays Gamc Your babies cry out C. G They're reaching out Am reaching out Am. F But not for me C but not for me A. F 50

Chorus Don’t be a memory C. G. A Let the pain come A. F Let the pain come F. C This is gonna hurt C. G It’s you or them GA Let the pain come AF Before you become FC Just a memory CG Just a memory GA Verse 2 You’ll have no say C Who they will be G If you’re just a memory A. F Start your suffering C In reality G Rise above the pain 51

A So you can see, canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you see? F. C Your babies cry out G. A Reaching out reaching out F. C You're the remedy. C. F G.

ED LEHNER

Where Does Love Go? Where does love go when it dies? Is there a graveyard for broken hearts? On the hill, overlooking the town? Where complacency rules lonely minds? Is there a hidden mountain valley? Or desert canyon filled? With bleached bones of dead love? Does love go off to some far jungle? As elephants do when they die? Or, maybe love never dies. Maybe it just shrivels because of neglect. Or, it hides out of fear of being discovered. Maybe it is only an abstract illusion of frivolous youth. Somewhere, someone screams in passion. Shared with no one, empty and alone. Seven carrion birds circle above the western arroyo.

ANNA SCHMALL

Full Table The table is filledâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; no empty chairs, extra seats added Overflowing laughter and conversations drifting Immersing the house in warmth Friends and family gathered for celebration. Pause; Thanks offered. Dishes passed, plates filled. Questions asked Moments remembered News shared Stories (re)told. Laughter erupts; Memories made. Hours pass. Has anyone noticed the food is long gone?

The Eye of Scarlet ABBEY KONZEN 55

Untitled MORGAN ORTMANN 56

Hillside Sheep BILLIE BARKER 57

Stillness CARMEN DELGADO HARRINGTON 58

Weeds Were Flowers Too Until Someone Annoyed Them ABBEY KONZEN 59

Untitled MORGAN ORTMANN 60

PROSE

MICKENZIE JENSEN

Note to Self Always brush your teeth every morning and every night; brush your hair until it shines; wear something fun at least once a week; don’t be afraid to hold on to the little sentimental stuff; be proud of yourself; smile a lot; laugh even more; dance around like a crazy person while you clean; sing along like a rock star; be silly; don’t let anyone tell you you’re too old for anything; watch cartoons; keep a stash of emergency chocolate hidden somewhere; always have a cat—allergies be darned; make more time for reading; call at least one friend every day; own at least one bobble head; collect neat stuff; always get excited about your birthday; make goofy faces at people who look too serious; drink hot tea or hot cocoa on cold nights; remember that almost anything worth eating can be made in under ten minutes in a microwave; refrain from kicking rude folks; watch a movie that makes you laugh; bawl like a toddler when you need to, but know when it’s time to suck it up and move on; veg out in front of the TV for hours at least once a week; play an addicting computer game at least every other day; have long chats with yourself about life; watch Supernanny and smile because you don’t have kids; always have one perfect blanket to snuggle under; work on waggling your eyebrows better; really try to stop smoking; take lots of pictures; play your music loud; own lots of stuff others may find childish; listen to a lot of different kinds of music regardless of whether anyone else likes it or not; don’t forget to blow out candles before you go to bed; don’t stress so much about money; deal with life as it comes—don’t waste time worrying about everything the future holds; have renters insurance and car insurance to be on the safe side; love with all your heart; try not to yell at other drivers; remember that beauty is only skin deep; before you comment on your looks, remember you look a lot like your mother; don’t judge others; cut back on swearing; speed less; when someone makes you mad just take a deep breath and try not to choke them; be more patient; spend more time with nieces and nephews before they are too old to have time for you; tell loved ones how much they mean to you; never stop thinking snow is beautiful; keep change in the car for parking meters; make sure you 63

have lots of super comfy pajamas; have at least three pairs of slippers for cold times and oodles of flip flops for warm times; go on roller coasters; be fair; vote; boogie to the music while driving; work on your tan every chance you get; go through a car wash just because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s neat; visit family more often; hang lots of pictures on your walls; invest in a big cushiony recliner; braid your hair once in a while; ride an ATV; visit Tahoe again; never give up on being a writer; believe in yourself; always refill the ice cube trays; and never forgetâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;you totally rock.

The Beauty of Inheritance I always thought of my mom as a beautiful woman. The way her laughter transformed her face into a masterpiece of life even as her eyes contained a sinkhole of suffering. Her fingers contained an arch of Victorian grace that entranced, and their touch whispered words of comfort as they evicted tears from my cheeks. All of my life I have heard the phrase “you look just like your mother” from the mouths of countless relatives and total strangers alike. I peer desperately into mirrors to see this precious inheritance but find only me. My face contorts oddly in laughter; my fingers are decidedly clumsy in their unremarkable presentation. And yet… Sometimes I am caught off-guard by the fleeting appearance of my mother in the reflection of a store window. There are times I begin to close the medicine cabinet only to be halted by my mother’s hand reaching toward mine in the mirror. I hold my breath and become still as gravestone. I long to reach further, to once again feel my hand in hers, but I simply stand there, statuesque. If I move the spell will break and she will disappear again to the realm of fading memories, leaving me to desperately await her next visit. I cannot bring myself to consider plastic surgery that would alter my face. Changing my face would declare my resemblance to her undesirable, would begin the process of eradicating her from the fibers of my being. My memories may fade but my inheritance shall remain—the shadow of my mother will always inhabit my features. A pang of guilt skewers me each time I catch myself commenting on my looks. When I proclaim my hideousness from the rooftops of self-pity, my mother’s beauty is slandered. Each time I cringe from my reflection, I am recoiling from my mother’s outstretched memory. How can I find her features so unbecoming in my face? Sometimes I envy those who inherited property or money after their parent’s death. I inherited the ghost of my mother. I will never be completely without her, yet I find myself 65

constantly searching for her elusive presence. Knowing she is there instills a sense of peace even as I am filled with desperation to find her there, hidden within my mirror.

Hands I often catch myself looking at my hands, searching each tiny crevice for something. Perhaps I am trying to find a link to my past hidden there. What do I expect from these two hands of mine—what could they ever tell me? It seems so strange to dwell upon these appendages, yet I simply can’t shake the feeling that they are significant. I suppose it all comes from having encountered so many life-shaping hands in my lifetime. My grandmother’s hands always fascinated me—they were so very different from everyone else’s. Arthritis had combined with years of hard work to deform her knuckles into tender knobs and leave the palms scarred and worn. Age had endowed her hands with mountains of wrinkles and tiny freckle-like spots. Those hands always seemed so fragile when you looked at them, yet they held unimaginable strength. Those hands dried my tears and gently applied aloe to my countless ailments. They sliced and diced helpless fruits and veggies in her kitchen. They also swung a fly swatter with deadly precision at my backside when I got a tad too rowdy. Those hands clung tightly to her knees when she would lean forward to close the distance between her and a child. And those hands would clasp mine and pull me close for her loving hugs. While I stood, grief-stricken and heartsick at her funeral, my brother stood beside me and said that he knew it sounded strange, but he missed her hands. I instantly knew how he felt. The hands that had seemed ever moving throughout our lives were finally motionless. To this day I find I still miss those hands pulling me in for a hug. When I glance at my hands, I remember driving my mother absolutely insane begging for piano lessons and crowing with delight whenever people would tell her my long fingers were simply perfect for piano playing. While I never did get my piano lessons, I think of this as I watch my niece’s hands fly across the ivory keys to produce Fur Elise for me. Her hands create beautiful sounds effortlessly, it seems, as her long, slender fingers prance from one key to the next in a beautiful dance. 67

My brother’s crooked pinkies have always made me smile, and now his youngest shares this trait. I must admit I always felt a twinge of jealousy over those quirky crooked pinkies. My pinkies are not nearly as crooked—in fact they barely crook at all. I have always believed crooked pinkies would be so much more fascinating than my nearly straight pinkies—though I have never revealed this to my brother of course. My mother’s hands were rarely at rest. She would constantly fidget—picking a stray thread or gnawing a nail into submission. Her fingers were long and thin with nails chewed to the quick. I never saw her paint those sad, stunted little fingernails, and found the existence of nail polish in our home a mystery. Whenever she grew impatient, her drumming phalanges would begin their music of displeasure. Her long pointer finger would single me out whenever she playfully sang along to records. That same right pointer finger also did double duty as judge and jury whenever I was in trouble—it would swing angrily in my direction and jab the air viciously as she recited the charges against me. Whenever I try to remember her, to actually visualize her, I see her sitting on our couch biting and picking at her nails. My ability to remember her has faded over time, but I can still picture her there on the couch, assaulting her nails, with perfect clarity. Men’s hands differ from women’s in one key way—on women the pointer finger is shorter than the ring finger while on men it is longer. A horse’s height is measured in hands. If the nerves in a person’s hand are destroyed, that hand can no longer produce sweat nor will it wrinkle when wet. The typical hand contains 29 bones, 29 joints, 123 ligaments, 34 muscles (none of which are in the fingers) and 48 nerves. Gandhi once said, “You can’t shake hands with a clenched fist.” I find I am staring at my hands once again, thinking of those I love and those I lost. My niece’s hands dancing across the keys; Donnie’s crooked pinkies alongside Chloe’s; Grandma Kay’s arthritic fingers and Mom’s gnawed fingernails. I 68

have a picture of my nieceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tiny hand in mine and it has become almost symbolic to me. The people in our lives touch us, leaving their fingerprints indelibly upon our hearts. In turn, we touch the lives of othersâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;hoping to leave our imprint forever on their hearts.

TYUS THOMPSON

Looking in the Mirror A cow grazing in a field of constant shame and disapproval. That’s what you are. All 5’11’’ of you is just disgusting. Just look at you. Overweight, ginormous head, and that hair. There are mops better looking than that brown thing you call hair growing on your head. I don’t even want to talk about your face. The only appealing thing is your teeth, and that wasn’t because of God’s hands. It was the work of an expensive orthodontist. You tried to pay him to make you look better, but all you did was falsify your true self. Don’t listen to him. If you’re a cow, then you’re best cow in the herd. You are just as God intended you to be. You are 5’11’’ for a reason. Your weight, head, and hair are all things that make up your uniqueness. Even if you altered God’s original work—it was all for a purpose. You are who you are, and that’s all you need to be. What the fuck are you talking about! Have you seen him? Oh my goodness! Look at those stretch marks. You have them everywhere: your armpits, your biceps, and by your tummy. It’s sickening. What is that horrendous thing growing from your body? Oh, I see. It’s supposed to be your penis. I now see why women have never flocked to you. If your face wasn’t enough to scare them away that tiny thing in your pants surely would. Those stretch marks are a constant reminder of where you have came from. They do not make you any less of a person. They are in those places because of the lifting you have been doing and the weight you have been losing. Your body is constantly changing. Don’t listen to him about penis size. None of that matters! It serves one purpose—to procreate. It can accomplish this. The people who love you could care less about this. They love you for being you. I spy with my little eye…do you know what I see? MORE STRETCH MARKS! Those calves are quite appealing, but no70

body really looks that far down to begin with. Finally, we have arrived at your feet. They are too big, too veiny, and need some taking care of. SHUT UP! He is perfect the way he is! No, he is not. How can you defend him like this? You know that he doesn’t have a future if he continues to look like this. I mean shit…hopefully the doctor slapped you twice when you came out because you must have been one ugly baby. Stop crying, and be a man! Maybe if you did something about all the problems with your body, you wouldn’t cry as much. Okay, that is all for today. Now you can get in the shower. I’m sorry about him…maybe tomorrow he will be better.

Alone She’d be lying if she said she never thought about the end. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t planned it out. What she would write, to who, what she’d leave behind, and how she would do it. But if she said she wanted to do it, she would have been lying. Back of the class, her own table at lunch, and a home where the dog was her only friend. Left out, left behind, and forgotten was how she lived her life. Constantly being picked on at school and then coming home to a mother that 16 years earlier had tried to forget she was pregnant. It didn’t work. She would try to draw peace from an iPod with infinite playlists, but not even her wireless earphones could block out the world that seemed to torture her more and more each day. Alone. At home she sat, alone with her thoughts. Her mind, body, and soul constantly conversing about the girl in the mirror. Mind: Look at your life. You don’t have anything to complain about. Soul: Why do I feel like this? Why do you constantly think about pain? Body: Pain is good. It helps relieve the stress on her body. Soul: Putting a blade across her wrists is not helping any of us. Mind: Soul, if it’s bothering you this much we’ll stop… okay? There were only three people she could always count on. Her seemingly endless supply of Advil, the counter boy who thought she was cute enough to not check her fake ID, and Jack, Jack D. of course. He always seemed to come around when she felt lonely. His smooth burn on the taste of her lips and the aroma he left on her after they would sleep together.

Alone. She’s alive yet trapped. Nobody listens to her and still nobody cares about the girl in the mirror. Months passed and still people would pass her in the halls without noticing her change of appearance and mood. She knew it started to get bad when Jack started to bring his friends: Morgan, Jose, and Bailey. When all four of them came over, she wasn’t herself. After a few hours together they had complete control over her. They told what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. Whenever the boys couldn’t come over the bottles of Advil always seemed to end up empty. Body: I thought we told Soul we weren’t going to do anything?

Mind: What does she know? I’m her mind…I know exactly what she wants. Just do me a favor and take some more pills. Body: That might not even work. Mind: How about we use a rope? Body: I don’t have anywhere to hang her from. We could drown her…that would be easy. Mind: Too easy. How about we jump off a building? Body: I have always wanted to fly! That would bring too much attention to her. Mind: Well, what should we do then? Body: I’ve got it! Alone. She’d leave three notes. One for her parents—she figured she owed them an explanation even though they never wanted her to begin with. Her next note would be for her little brother—she wanted him to know that she loved him and was sorry she wouldn’t seem him grow up. Finally, the last note was for the counter boy—she thanked him for being a friend, and apologized for never getting to know him more.

The clicking of the safe rang through her ears. Code: 4-3-8-95-1. It was light and loaded. She pointed it at the mirror, hoping that pretending to pull the trigger would be enough. Her reflection showed someone else. Her hair was falling out, her pigmentation was fading, and she had a xylophone ribcage. Body: I already put your finger on the trigger, all you have to do is aim and pull it back. Mind: Pull the trigger! Pull the trigger! Nobody loves you. Do it! Do it! Tears collapsed down her face. Looking up she saw herself in the mirror againâ&#x20AC;Śaimed the gun. Alone.

CARMEN DELGADO HARRINGTON

Where Were You Last Night…? “Where were you last night? Who were you with?” Rio asked his lover, angry that she had not answered her phone. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t speak, too embarrassed to tell him she had been sick, her period paralyzing her with piercing spasms and nausea worse than any seasickness. Her flow had always been heavy, painful, even dizzying, but last night it had been ghastly. She had heaved until there was nothing to left expel. She had bled so much the thickest Kotex couldn’t keep the blood from leaking and staining her clothes and sheets. She had dragged herself to the bathroom over and over again to retch, shower, change, and crawl back to bed only to do it all again. He watched her, waiting for a reply, growing angrier by the moment. He wanted to yell, to shake her to force her to spill. Where was she, was she out with her friends, did she find another lover, why didn’t she speak? Then he noticed her paleness, the dark circles under her eyes, her red swollen eyes, and she swayed. He caught her, berated her for not telling him she was sick, but she didn’t answer, didn’t move. He felt she didn’t breathe. He rushed her to the emergency room where she finally woke, silenced her protests and stayed by her side while the doctors examined her, put a line in her arm, explained she was dangerously dehydrated, and waited. Waited for the doctor to return, for the results of the examination, blood tests, and ultrasound. Waited to find out what was wrong. The doctor returned. “There is nothing to worry about, he said smiling. Just drink lots of water, and I recommend bed rest for a couple of days while your body recovers.” “From what?” She didn’t want to know but the words were out of Rio’s mouth before she could stop him. The doctor looked at him for a second then announced, “The dehydration and miscarriage.” Rio looked at her, the stricken look, silent tears, hands fisted on the sheets, and sat down in the chair beside the bed. Her eyes closed, her chest heaved. Not wanting to look at him, to see his pity. A baby! she had lost their 75

baby. Why? Was there something wrong with her? Would she be able to carry a baby? What of Rio? Is he shocked, pleased, relieved? Will he berate her or leave her? What was wrong with her? She hadn’t even known she was pregnant! They didn’t speak. What could they say? What could fix the wound that had opened? They weren’t married, it would have been foolish to have a baby. Would they have married? Would they have kept it? Was it a he, or a she? They would never know. He just sat, caressing her hair. She laid quietly. Her eyes were closed, so she missed the love fused with conviction glistening in his eyes. There would be another.

My Childhood Haven: An Exercise on Recollection Once upon a time, a teacher gave an adult classroom an exercise in recollection. I was in that class and couldn’t think of anything, so she helped me along by asking a few questions. “Did you have a special place growing up?” “Yes,” I responded. Then she said, “Describe it.” “It was a small room barely big enough to hold a twin-size bed, dresser, and a console piano. But when I wasn’t at school, I was in my room, practicing the piano, doing homework, or traveling to exotic locations, where I did many exciting things, like surfing in the Hawaiian Islands, or trekking through the Amazon jungle. It was my childhood haven.” I responded. “What more can you remember?” she asked. “Well, the walls were a very pale pink, and the sash, curtains, door and window frames, and molding were bright white. I had a white canopy bed that sat against the far-left corner with the matching dresser at the foot of it, just inside the door that led to the kitchen. I often used the canopy to pretend to jump from tree to tree like Tarzan’s Jane. One time I broke the canopy swinging off the end; I got into so much trouble that day. I remember the bed and dresser were so close; I couldn’t open the drawers unless I sat on the bed. The outer door opened into the closet door, and there was a bathroom door next to it, and the piano sat against the remaining portion of the right wall. There was a window between the bed and piano, but it wasn’t very big, because when I pulled out the piano bench to practice there wasn’t any room to walk between the bench and bed. But although it was small, it was comfortable. I loved my pretty decorations and comfy bedspread. My mom bought a pretty canopy top and matching bed spread, then found matching material to make curtains. They were ruffled, sheer white material with tiny, thick white polka dots in offset rows. There was a Bambi with a butterfly on his tail, and Pinky and Blue Boy set of ceramic figurines siting on the piano. Mom liked figurines. On the dresser I had a small white music box, with a twirling ballerina a large white soft bristle hair brush, and matching mirror and comb, a bottle of per77

fume and other assorted toiletries which I can’t remember. I also had a fat white cat that liked to lay on my bed, and a white toy poodle that lay on the small red rug in the middle of the room. The rug was the brightest splash of color in the room. The only other breath of color was the walnut finish piano, but that was draped with a long white runner.” I was breathless by the time I finished with the description, it was surprising how much I could remember. I was so proud of myself, I beamed at my teacher. She stared back at me with a puzzled look and said, “You must have really liked white.” “Not really” I answered, I thought I was through, but she wasn’t finished with me yet. Her next question was harder to answer. “I noticed you didn’t mention any friends. Did you have any neighborhood friends?” “No,” I answered. “Our town had a reputation and my parents were overprotective. They didn’t allow me to leave the house without a chaperone. Besides, when I was very young the only child that lived nearby was Bobby. I will never forget that little demon. He lived in the house directly across the street. He was short, skinny, had big ears, and a dark complexion. I think I played with him when we were four, but when I was five he spread a rumor about me and ruined my elementary school experience. He was always finding ways of tormenting me.” “Were there other children when you grew older?” the teacher asked hopefully, not wanting to end on a bad memory. I thought for a moment and remembered someone. So, I smiled and said, “Yes. When I was twelve, a boy named Ruben moved into the neighborhood. He was a tall goodlooking older teen with black hair and an engaging smile. I liked him. I remember one day we were talking on the porch in front of my mother’s bedroom window, the air redolent with gardenias. Suddenly we heard a loud report, and Ruben threw me to the ground covering my body with his and we laid there stunned for what seemed like infinity. When we could finally breathe, we got up, cautiously looking around, confused and 78

frightened, but all was silent. When we stood up, Ruben noticed a small hole in the window, right where I had been standing. Then a door slammed across the street, and I retreated to my childhood haven.â&#x20AC;?

GAIL MURPHY

The Imperfect Pet I was a rebel without much of a cause. I liked pushing buttons and refused to wear the title of “Miss Goody Two Shoes.” If there was a war protest, I was your girl. If there was a rule, I might be willing to break it. I’d always been the good girl who’d never think about going against the status quo, but that all changed the day I became a student nurse—as long as I didn’t do anything that would have been reported to my parents like being arrested (close once or twice) or expelled (naw! not really close), I wanted to try it. I entered the experimentation phase of my “bad girl” persona during the first day of orientation when I was presented with that tome of a rule book containing a plethora of mandates modern teens would laugh at. For example, no curlers in our hair and no shorts on first floor or anywhere in public. Or there was the study hours rule: all freshmen were required to be in their rooms Monday through Thursday evenings at the specified hours, and random checks were made by the housemothers. Finally, there was the absolute worst one which proclaimed there were no pets allowed in the dorms. I had grown up with dogs. Suddenly, I was convinced I could not live another day without a pet to keep me company. Not a dog or a cat, of course. The animal had to be quiet enough to not alert the housemothers. No smelly messes of any kind. And fish were out: too boring. That’s when someone mentioned gerbils. Perfect. My roommate Mary and I were diligent in choosing the most adorable creature. She had a soft, cream colored coat and pointed, black, tipped ears. A tiny black nose constantly twitched her delicate whiskers, and her sensitive eyes seemed to be begging us to take her home with us. Mary and I took one look at her and said in unison, “Gladys.” Ah, the perfect name for the perfect pet. We knew getting her past the sentries at the front desk would not be easy especially with all her supplies: a cage, bedding, food, etc. We wisely selected the time when many upper classmates would be swarming the mailboxes in the dorm lobby thus distracting whoever was on the switchboard at the 80

time. We agreed to meet at the side door, and when the coast was clear, we gave the signal. Through the door, around the corner, through the informal lounge, to the back stairs, and up two flights to our room. Whew! Totally innocent. We readied the cage. Then the moment finally arrived. Our excitement was uncontainable. I slid open the door of the cage. Mary opened the box next to the door. Gladys leaped into her new home, running about, exploring every nook and cranny. We did it! Our new pet was here completing our new dorm family. Our gargantuan smiles suffused our faces. We watched our pride and joy exploring her new environment. But that’s when I saw...when I… Jumping back from the cage, I grabbed Mary’s arm. “Mary...Mary, do you see THAT??” Alarmed, she followed my pointing finger to the cage. “What?” “That tail…” My voice quivered as she once again observed Gladys in her new abode. From her look of horror, I knew she was thinking the same thing: that long, skinny tail. “It’s a rat!” we screamed while doing a skittish dance away from Gladys. The poor little thing seemed to sense our disgust as her beady little eyes implored us to love her just as she was. It could not be, however. Once we’d seen the tail, there was no going back. We could not stick our hands in that cage to give her food, water, or change the bedding. We were not monsters. The ASPCA need not be called. She did not starve; someone fed her—probably Mary worked up the nerve—but Gladys’s self-esteem suffered tremendously. How do I know this? Well, one day on our return from clinical duties, we discovered our poor Gladys, deceased from pet suicide. She had wedged herself between her exercise wheel and the back of her cage, suffocating. Could it have been an accident? No, the space was too tight and she would have backed out right away. 81

Was it a homicide? Good grief, no! No way would either Mary or I stick our hand in and squish her up there. Yuck! Ick! No, definitely suicide. We did not grieve her demise. We did not feel remorse for our part in the death. It is regrettable since we were student nurses concerned with saving lives. We did, however, give her new purpose by using her little corpse in our visionary schemes. First, we decided Gladys could bring joy to others, but who and where we pondered. We were sure she would appreciate a soft resting place. What was softer than undies, unmentionables. Agreed. Now who? Someone who needs to relax a bit and not take everything so seriously. Who, who, who? There were so many “uptighters,” it was difficult to choose. All at once we had it. We said the name at the same time and shook on it. Now came the how. We threw out several ideas. Maybe while she was at the cafeteria. No, she was so edgy about everything she probably even locked her door when she went down to the common bathroom. We knew she locked up when gone to class or clinical. We thought about enlisting the help of the juniors to start one of their infamous water fights and drive her out of her room. Too big a risk with everyone on the floor running around. But we could get an outside friend to call her. Then she’d have to run down to the bank of phones in the hallway connecting the freshman and junior wings. Brilliant. The plan was put into action that very night. I called Janice and explained the situation. Janice called Ms. Anxious. Mary and I left our doors open to detect the exact moment. She’s out. Mary rolled Gladys up in a magazine and stealthily walked to Ms. Fuddy-duddy’s room. I opened drawers until I exposed some granny panties. “Hurry up, Mary!” Gladys slid off the magazine and onto the undies. She looked so darling. I gently closed the drawer and slipped out and down to our room. Whew! 82

We knew she’d been found when the scream came. We laughed and laughed. Apparently Ms. Persnickety didn’t. We were summoned to retrieve the unfortunate departed. Mary carried Gladys lovingly on a notebook at arm’s length as I walked behind—way behind. For Gladys’s next adventure, we found a tiny coffin for her remains. After tying a pretty red ribbon around her neck, we opened our housemother’s door and slid the coffin in. We were fairly sure our perfect pet wouldn’t be found for a while since our housemother was not known for her cleanliness. In fact, there might have been times when the dirt swept from our room was emptied under her throw rugs. When I think about it, we never heard from or saw Gladys again. Maybe...she’s still there. Hmmm.

BILLIE BARKER

Brains in a Bottle I funneled out of church one morning, spilling onto the street with all the others, and felt lonely. My loneliness reminded me of Rene Descartes, the French philosopher who wrote, “I think, therefore I am.” He said in 1641 that we are puppets of an evil demon. Both you and I. According to Descartes, the reality we perceive is just a stage the demon constructed, with our actions and reactions prescripted. Given some of the choices I’ve made—taking things that weren’t mine, laughing till I peed my pants in middle school when there was a bathroom just down the hall, neglecting callings out of fear and a misguided belief that permission is required—a demon in charge makes perfect sense. While I don’t care much for the demon, I do like that Descartes absolves me of responsibility. Nothing is real; consequences are imagined. I’m not accountable to the demon since I don’t know if it’s real or what it expects of me. This line of thought is just what the doctor ordered for we passive folks. So if my laziness or neglect have affected you, I can honestly say it was the devil that made me do it. The same devil who wrote you into my script. Or me into yours—Descartes is fuzzy on the details. Similarly, the love I give is not offered freely or with any spark of creativity—meals labored over, not for their physical sustenance, but as a means to comfort and connect; holding the cares of mostly-grown sons in a heart stretched thin—acts small or large are no big deal. They’re just shots called by the big puppet-master in the sky. Or wherever puppet-masters call shots from. Hilary Putnam, a contemporary American philosopher, was a fan of Descartes. He borrowed Descartes’ evil demon notion and sprinkled some science on top. After deciding that the evil 84

demon was too old-fashioned and religious, Putnam felt it would be more modern to suppose us as brains in bottles. He gave us cinematic electrodes protruding from our grey matter. Messages sizzled to receptors from a mammoth supercomputer created by a brilliant scientist as part of a mad artificial intelligence experiment gone awry. Don’t laugh. This is serious philosophy, and you can’t prove it didn’t happen. As unaware of the scientist as we are of the evil demon, we don’t complain. Our brains bob soundlessly in individual worlds of amniotic fluid. You and I are separate, but together. Stacked side-by-side, row-by-row in a stark laboratory, we feel, speak, and live, immaturity preserved in the isolation of our bottles. The computer, overseen by the capricious scientist, tells us what we do, how we do it, and who we do it with. We believe our experiences are real, choices our own, and that they matter. Being a Matrix-style brain in a vat reacting to computergenerated stimuli explains how I got my last job without any human contact whatever. Traditional phone and face-to-face interviews—a waste of HR personnel time—were dispensed with. Typing my answers to interview questions posed in an online questionnaire was enough—especially since it was the scientist and his super computer who would ultimately decide where I should perceive to be working anyway. It was unnecessary to see whether I could execute a firm handshake, behave civilly, or wear a proper interview suit with bag matching my shoes. My new employer leaves it to complex software to ascertain from its vast experience with all the other answers given by all the other brains in all the other bottles whether I indeed have earned the required BA or have committed a felony involving children. My first day at my job is the first time I’ve been there, met my manager, and met my co-workers—all hired in the same way, without human contact. Hand to mouse and eyes to screen, we are trained and bow to the tasks at hand. Meaningful 85

work with real-life consequence is begun without ever asking one another about families, favorite food, or pets. I will say that now that I know about Descartes and Putnam and all-powerful demons and supercomputers and the constraints of a bottle, life is broader and shallower than it was when my children were small and most families didn’t even own a computer. Back then we made do with flesh-and-blood friends. We went to parks with trees and museums with art and ate sandwiches at picnic tables. The strength of our bonds, without question, was real. We shared birthday cakes and deaths and U-Haul trucks in real time. At least I think we did. I have infinitely more friends now than before Putnam’s bottle. My network is enormous and never sleeps. At any time of the night or day I can find people who I may have never even met. And those people like me. They keep me company—they in their bottle and I in mine. They approve of my choices and laugh at my jokes. We Facebook and Twitter, putting best faces forward: the happy anniversaries of untroubled marriages, new jobs, and well-dressed children who win at everything. It’s better this way, really. To call someone on the phone would be intrusive. To drop by uninvited, invasive. Relationships are neater when predictably conducted through a centralized system. Anyway as I started to say, I filed out of church one morning, with all the others, and felt lonely. Even after learning about Descartes and Putnam, I still go to church. Something inside tells me there’s Someone outside this system Who’s more exhilarating and risky than either demon or mad scientist. Plus the perpetual infancy of floating in lukewarm fluid gets old.

The music at my church is pre-planned, and the message content, formulated months in advance, flows seamlessly. Hundreds gather in a shared physical place with devices laid on chairs or in pockets just an umbilical cord-length away. Relating outside of screens is encouraged, but even this is facilitated by systemic order: volunteering, giving financially, and attending groups are accomplished via online sign-up. Access to smaller groups is through a portal of classes. Grocery donation is orchestrated online—we can minister to the poor without actually interacting with the poor. In an effort to break outside my institutional aloneness, I went to the website and signed up for a women’s bible study. Together about ten of us shared a month of Mondays, learning and examining our lives and hearts in honesty. When the month was over, I wanted to build on the foundation laid. I wanted to be real friends. I suggested we all have dinner together in a few weeks. Dinner outside the online calendar, unsanctioned and off-grid. Eyes dropped, and the silence was uncomfortable. As we walked out the door, one of the women handed me her business card. “Get ahold of me sometime,” she whispered. I look at the people sitting row by row, side-by-side, divided by the chairs that hold them. Husbands and wives. Parents and children. Couples, individuals alone. By showing up we attest to desire for life outside the bottle and belief in our humanizing power to choose. If we didn’t want genuine access to knowing one another—outside of Putnam’s bottles and the screens we carry with us—we could just as easily watch church at home wearing our pajamas. Both you and I. I side-eye you through the glass between us, blurred by distance, and I feel God’s pleasure in the fact you breathe. I imagine there’s a lot more to you that I can’t see—unfiltered wrinkles and spots. I want to hear how those wrinkles were 87

earned through the choices you made and others made for you. I want the opportunity to know you in real-time ugliness and beauty. I want to hear disjointed, unedited stories of stupid things you did and obstacles you’ve overcome and where you see yourself going and what you need to get there. And I’m not sure how. I’m tempted to blame disconnection on Putnam and his vision of technology, except that it’s as old as Descartes and his demon.

CONTRIBUTORS

BILLIE BARKER graduated from Mount Mercy in 2016 and has worked as a copywriter, home-school mom of three fine men, and tutor. She is currently a professional scorer at Pearson Education while actively seeking freelance and more permanent positions. For fun, Billie enjoys hiking, gardening, reading and drinking coffee with friends, and writing. She lives with her husband, Steve, dog, and two cats. She is adjusting to their eerily quiet and newly empty Cedar Rapids nest.

ANNA BOHR graduated from Mount Mercy in May 2017 with a degree in Communication: Media and a minor in Writing. She recently completed a year of AmeriCorps VISTA (Volunteer in Service to America) service and is currently living in Wichita, Kansas. When not writing or working, she enjoys acting with local theater groups, including Shakespeare in the Park and a murder mystery comedy group.

NATALIE DEISTER graduated from MMU with a major in English and a minor in Psychology in December 2016. She currently works at the Marion Public Library where she helps patrons find books, organizes library materials, and reads on the job because she likes to live on the edge (kidding about the last one, sort of). Her hobbies include yoga, cooking, reading, writing, and talking about MyersBriggs personality types.

CARMEN DELGADO HARRINGTON is an East Los Angeles, California-born adult ESL teacher, Spanish interpreter, and U.S. Navy veteran. Her education includes an AA in Education from Kirkwood Community College, a BA in English from Mount Mercy University, and an MA from the University of Northern Iowa in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. Carmen is also a retired U.S. Navy officerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wife, a mother of two, and a grandmother of three, whose passion for writing poetry began at the age of 12 when she noticed the difference between academic and poetic writing styles; however, her writing was confined to greeting cards and letters, until she won first prize in the 2014 and 2015 Paha Review poetry competitions. Her poetry, prose and short stories have been published in the Inner Weather, Mercy Creative Review and Paha Review. 91

KAYLA HODGSON graduated from Mount Mercy University in May 2017 with a degree in Religious Studies and English. She hails from the lovely town of Urbandale, Iowa and enjoys hiking, writing while stressed, and reading in her nonexistent free time. Currently, Kayla is enrolled at the University of Iowa and plans to graduate in May 2019 with a Master of Library and Information Science.

MICKENZIE JENSEN is forty-one years old and lives in Anamosa, Iowa. She graduated from Mount Mercy in 2010, earning a BA in English with a minor in Creative Writing. She is an avid reader, devouring books at a rather alarming speed. She enjoys nerdy pastimes such as watching documentaries, making rambling vlogs with a friend (the whole kitten kenoodle @ YouTube), writing sporadically on her blog (tantie77@wordpress), honing her hermiting skills, writing, having dance parties on Skype with her niece, and building an impressive collection of witty t-shirts and schnazzy socks.

TERI KNAPP graduated from Mount Mercy in 2003 with a double major in English/Learning Arts and Secondary Education and a minor in Speech Communication/Theatre. She has taught English and special education in Japan, Iowa, and Arizona. She is currently working on her doctoral degree in integrating technology, learning, and psychology through Grand Canyon University and teaching at Legacy Traditional School in Chandler, Arizona. In her ample free time, Teri enjoys gardening (less so around the thorns and scorpions), baking, crafting, reading, writing, and playing with her clowder of crazy cats. She has previously had poems published in Mercy Creative Review, Paha Review and through Poetry.com. She has written and submitted articles for educational journals as well. She is excited to have her poetry included in this issue of the Mercy Creative Review, and hopes to continue to be a part of this amazing magazine.

ABBEY KONZEN is a 2017 graduate with majors in Art and Graphic Design and a minor in Creative Writing. She lives on a small animal farm in Pennsylvania where she continues to write and make art when she isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t helping with the foals, sheep, pigs, cows, dogs or cats. She never tires of seeing the sun set over the mountains each night.

KAREN RENEE KREBS has been the Catering Manager at Mount Mercy University for the last ten years and hopes sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eligible for 92

parole some day! When she’s not taking carts of food for long walks, she mentors three Improv Comedy Troupes. She has written numerous novels and dozens of short stories none of which will probably ever see the light of day. She is quite proud of her two sons and makes sacrifices to the gods daily in hope that they may someday graduate from college. Her only true hope in life is that when the water in her life’s tub drains she will leave a ring!

ED LEHNER graduated from Mount Mercy in 1977 with a BA in Art. He received his masters in Graphic Design in 1982 from Iowa State where he eventually taught until he retired as Associate Professor Emeritus is 2000. Ed has written poetry for over 40 years and began writing short stories four years ago. His first novel, A San Juan Sunrise, is available on Amazon or local bookstores. His next novel, Dharma on the Road West, will be available this coming fall. Check out his website for general musings and poetry at www.elehnerauthorsite.com. He lives with his wife, Julie, and Emma the cat, in Durango, Colorado.

NICKOLE MEIER is from Mount Carmel, Illinois. She is a singer/ song-writer/guitar-player and has completed over twenty songs. Nickole wrote her featured piece about a year ago, after her sister-in -law had her children taken away because of drug abuse. ANN PLEISS MORRIS graduated in 2002 from Mount Mercy University with a degree in English and Speech/Drama and a minor in Creative Writing. Currently, she is an Associate Professor of English at Ripon College in Ripon, Wisconsin. She teaches courses in early British literature, Shakespeare and his contemporaries, historical and contemporary theatre, women’s literature, composition, literary theory, and trauma studies. Her current research project reevaluates the place of women in Early English Drama. She lives in Oshkosh, Wisconsin with her husband, Ben Morris (2001), and their children, Julian (7) and Margaret (3).

GRETCHEN MUNDORF, a 2007 Mount Mercy graduate (English/ Secondary Education), still writes on the regular because she is a glutton for punishment above all else. A mom to two quirky littles and a wife to one hunky husband, she spends her days teaching seventh grade in the Marion Independent School District where she gets to channel her inner Mary Vermillion and Jim McKean to inspire tweenagers to love words and use them well. Also she is super into Jesus. Like a lot. Visit her at www.gretchenmundorf.com. 93

GAIL MURPHY came to Mount Mercy after working as an RN for over twenty years to rediscover a part of her was missing for a while: imagination, writing and literature. She had so much fun going back to school, she didn’t want to graduate, but finally did in 2001 with a degree in English and began teaching high school English the following year. That turned out to be a lot of fun too. She found a place to be quirky and filled her room with such essential items as a llama toenail bracelet, a thirty-inch pink flamingo purse, and some nine different staplers. She could test out different accents on a class, use her hat collection to become a different character, or act out scenes with students. She almost didn’t want to graduate from 9 th grade, but after fifteen years, she finally did and began her third career: retirement. She’s really having fun. She gets to read any book she wants, write her own thoughts and stories, sleep late, play with grandchildren, and make her own schedule. This is the life!

MORGAN ORTMANN graduated from Mount Mercy University in 2017 with a double major in Graphic Design and Marketing. She is currently the Assistant Director of Alumni Relations at Mount Mercy. Morgan enjoys taking part in many creative freelance projects including branding, logo design, and illustrations. Morgan is a Cedar Rapids native who loves spending time with her family, reading, yoga, and meeting new people.

COURTNEY SNODGRASS graduated from Mount Mercy University in August 2017, majoring in English. She also has minors in Creative Writing and Psychology. Courtney served as editor for The Paha Review, Mount Mercy’s student-run literary and art magazine. After graduating, Courtney took on the role of editor for Mercy Creative Review, building the magazine from the ground up. Courtney has had numerous poems published in The Paha Review where she’s also won awards for several poems. She was honored with the Mount Mercy English program’s award for outstanding creative writing. In her free time, Courtney enjoys reading, writing, Netflixbinging, and the never-ending moving her cat’s tail from any said notebook or novel.

TYUS THOMPSON graduated from Mount Mercy University in the spring of 2018. He graduated with a major in English and a minor in Creative Writing. While at MMU, Tyus ran cross-country & track/ field, along with being an editor for The Paha Review. Tyus loved his time at Mount Mercy and would especially love to thank creative 94

writing professor Carol Tyx for constantly pushing him to his limits as a creative writer (and for always reading his poetry). Nowadays, Tyus is working on becoming a high school English teacher in California. He would love to take the lessons he was taught at MMU and apply them to his own classroom. While working on furthering his education, Tyus has been given a head cross-country coaching job at Stockdale High School and been published in another creative writing magazine.

CASSIE UNDERWOOD is a Mount Mercy graduate of 2017, with majors in English and Secondary Education and a minor in Creative Writing. While at Mount Mercy, she served as an editor for The Paha Review, was a member of the Mount Mercy Dance Team, and also performed with the Mount Mercy Improv Troupe. She currently works as a Language Arts teacher in the Linn-Mar Community School District.

JENNY WAGNER graduated from Mount Mercy in December 2003 with majors in Secondary Education and English with a minor in Special Education. She began teaching at Kennedy High School in January 2004 and will soon celebrate 15 years in the classroom. When she’s not at work, she’s caring for her ten-year-old son, Seamus, and supporting his activities. She’s very thankful to have remained connected to the wonderful people of the past and present English Department through various events and now with her poem included here.

MercyCreativeReview@gmail.com WWW.MTMERCY.EDU/ART WWW.MTMERCY.EDU/ENGLISH ´/LNHµ (QJOLVK 0DMRUV DW 008 RQ )DFHERRN Follow @MMU_English on Twitter Follow mountmercyenglish on Instagram Read the English Program blog, Literary Mustangs at mmuenglish.wordpress.com Read and view past editions of Mercy Creative Review at www.mtmercy.edu/creative-review