Paha Review | 2015 by Mount Mercy University

Paha Review Writing and Art from the Hill Mount Mercy University Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Spring 2015

The term paha comes from Dakota Sioux dialect meaning “hill” or “ridge,” and it was first applied in 1891 by W.J. McGee to the special hill forms in this region of Iowa… Their distribution and alignment parallel to (and very often near) river valleys strongly suggest that paha are actually wind-aligned dunes that accumulated in response to the strong, prevailing northwest winds that were scouring the Iowan surface during this period of glacial cold. Jean C. Prior Land Forms of Iowa We need to recover the ancient sense of homeland as an area defined not by armies and flags…but by nature and geography and by the history of human dwelling there, a habitat shared by other creatures, known intimately, carried in the mind as a living presence. Scott Russell Sanders Mount Mercy University is built on one of the many paha in Iowa, most clustered near or southeast of Cedar Rapids.

Editors Billie Barker Cassie Green Courtney Snodgrass Art Editor Mariah Kidd Copy Editors Katerina Althoff Billie Barker Anna Bohr Drew Disterhoft Claire Garner Cassie Green Carmen Delgado Harrington Zachery Hooper Hilary Nekvinda Aly Oberdries Photographers Kathryn Hagy Mariah Kidd Cover Art Lauren Brunson Cover Design Mariah Kidd Faculty Advisors Jose Clemente Mary Vermillion

Selection Committee Billie Barker Cassie Green Katie Greenwood, ’o8 Carmen Delgado Harrington Zachery Hooper Kristina Mione, ’14 Laina Pilkenton, ’12 Bailey Rickels Courtney Snodgrass Special Thanks Ali Casella, ’12 Chris DeVault Jim Grove Kathryn Hagy Joy Ochs Joe Sheller Belkis Suarez Benjamin Thiel Carol Tyx

for late Mount Mercy University student Danny DeBacker and his loving parents, Daniel DeBacker Sr. and Karen Gosney DeBacker â&#x20AC;&#x153;Do it for Danny!â&#x20AC;? #DD20

Contents Oma

Jordan Larison

America’s Flag

Taylor Lamm

Addiction

Cassie Green

An Invisible War

Courtney Snodgrass

Beauty in the Breakdown

Jordan Larison

The Color

Billie Barker

The Storm

Ashley Holub

Homecoming

Courtney Snodgrass

The Diary

Abbey Konzen

Pigments

Carmen Delgado Harrington

Lo Que es Ser Madre

Carmen Delgado Harrington

Latinas Cry

Carmen Delgado Harrington

Fenced to Hate

Todd Cross

Powerful

Šárka Dvořáková

Music Box

Zachery Hooper

Flawless in the Darkness

Dilip Reshmi

Hand Saw Wild Flowers

Abby Manternach

Sugar Skull

Bailey Frederick

Summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Goodnight Kiss Alyssa Vicente

To Think of Hue

Abbey Konzen

Flowers on a Stream

Lauren Brunson

Blessing in Disguise

Emma BojorquezOldenburg

Rodeo Queen

Samantha Yorgensen

Perspective

Jordan Larison

Upside Down Pink Triangle

Todd Cross

Love in the Shadow of a Crematory

Cassie Green

Stories

Amanda Mayotte

Aliens

Billie Barker

New Age Cell Phones

Nikki Pochay

September

Abby Herb

October

Abbey Konzen

January

Catheryn Recker

Arrangements

Anna Bohr

The Cream Cheese to My Coffee

Amanda Mayotte

Things My Mother Has Said to Me

Cassie Green

Just Laugh

Taylor Lamm

Simply Love

Taylor Lamm

Untitled

Julia Simons

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll Be Me

Bailey Rickels

Blankie

Catheryn Recker

Rhythm of Life

Catheryn Recker

High School Creative Writing Contest Winners Serving in Ben Hai Contributors

Lisa Zou, High School 81 Contest Winner 83

Oma

Jordan Larison She stoops over the gas burner as she wipes the dewy perspiration from her glowing face, sniffing the sauce appreciatively. The goose in the oven wafts a homey aroma stuffed and glazed to the bursting point by timeworn hands. Seven hungry farmers collapse at the same scratched antique table she spent fifteen minutes setting: aligning modest cutlery in the grandest fashion. Her shirt is mottled with gravy, but her hands are just as beautiful, purpled with red cabbage juice, as they are when they interlock with mine, and we walk through the orchard every afternoon.

America’s Flag Taylor Lamm

I lie there draping over the fallen soldier’s casket. The soldiers grasp my corners and begin the first fold. Then another fold. I’m pulled and tugged. They fold me over and over again. Finally, the perfect triangle tightly tucked and ready for my new home. Then, the final salute. I have all eyes on me as I’m presented to his wife. A tearful embrace. All in remembrance of her husband’s life.

Addiction Cassie Green

(MASON slouches in a fold up chair. A black jacket hangs off of the back of it. His hair is long, and he is wearing worn-out clothing that hangs loosely off of his body.) I couldn’t help myself. Every time I saw someone with it, I would go crazy—and it just got worse as time went on. When I was in high school, my mom would tell me not to give into peer pressure. “You don’t need any of that stuff,” she would say. “It’s bad for your health.” I don’t think she ever suspected that I got some from the other kids at school. Johnny always had some on him, and I would hit him up on a regular basis. That well soon ran dry, however, because Johnny wanted me to start paying up. How could I do that? I didn’t have any money. (He starts to put on his jacket.) By now I was addicted. Desperate, I started asking everybody I knew. I just had to get my hands on some. The only problem was, so did everyone else. I was constantly fighting with other kids who needed their fix, like me. It was all a popularity thing. The more popular you were, the more you got. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you could even get it for free. I had no such luck. I had to patiently sit in a dingy high school bathroom, waiting for any kid who happened to walk by. I’d try to shake him down for one. Just one. Most of the time, I wouldn’t even get half of one. Sometimes, I’d get nothing at all. My time in high school came and went, and since then I’ve moved out of the house and gotten my own

apartment. I have to say, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been nice living on my own. No one to tell me what to do. No one to constantly look over my shoulder or watch my every move. No one to nag or to bark orders at me. Plus, (He pulls out a pack of gum from jacket pocket.) now that my parents are no longer under the same roof as me, (He opens up the gum pack, pulls out a piece of gum.) I can have as much gum as I want. (He unwraps the piece of gum and puts it in his mouth.)

An Invisible War Courtney Snodgrass

I could always tell when I was alone in bed instead of with him. I opened my eyes to the darkness, and the alarm clock glared the time. 1:46 in the morning was no time to be awake on a week day, but all too often, I found myself awaiting his return that never came. Lying on my back, I looked over to the mess of sheets and comforter next to me that harbored the absence of my husband. The house was quiet and I couldn’t tell what room he was in, if he was in a room at all. Too many nights I found him casing the walls, his invisible gun between his fingers as he secured our fort on Temberlyn Drive. I threw the covers off and stepped cautiously into the night. He had closed the door after leaving the bedroom to keep the light from spilling in, and when I opened it, I could see the dull glow of the stove light coming from the kitchen, illuminating the staircase. I was careful walking down to the kitchen so as not to scare him if we both came around the corner at the same time. Peering over the railing, I could see Kenny at the dining room table. He was shirtless and hunched over with his forehead resting in his palms on the table. The yellow bulb gently lit up the kitchen, and Kenny’s shadowy figure paced on the floor next to him with each breath he took. My bare feet whispered against the hardwood floors as I stepped off the final step. I heard the faint sniffle of Kenny’s nose as I stepped into the yellow light like a ballerina moving across a stage. I took a deep breath and leaned against the counter next to the sink. “Kenny?” I whispered, and when he didn’t answer, “Baby?” He stayed quiet, but I knew that he could hear me. I

watched his back rise and fall, his breathing steady, letting me know that he wasn’t in the middle of one of his flashbacks. I walked over to him and kneeled beside his chair at the table. “Kenny, baby,” I said quietly, then cautiously rested my hand on his bicep. “Baby, talk to me.” “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “It’s the same thing every time, Maggie.” He kept his head in his hands, and a tear fell onto his thigh where his boxers didn’t cover. “I want this goddamn ringing in my ears to stop,” he said a little louder. “When I close my eyes, I don’t want to see someone’s body torn to shreds.” “I know,” I whispered, “I wish I could help.” “I wish every time you rolled over in bed, I wouldn’t roll over too and almost choke you to death because I think you’re an enemy.” I’d never heard him admit to almost hurting me. I’d known that he’d sometimes thought I was the enemy and almost pinned me down to choke the life out of me, but he always realized what he was doing. He’d never gone as far as squeezing when he put his hands around my neck. “Maggie,” Kenny whispered to me, pulling me from my thoughts, “sometimes I wish I would’ve died over there.” “Don’t talk like that,” I said, quickly. “It’s true, Maggie,” he said, “I can’t stand living like this. I don’t want to live like this anymore.” A car door slammed outside, a teenager arriving home late from his part-time job. Kenny pushed his chair back, and stepped around me to look out front through the living room window. I sat back against the cupboard, feeling the cold kitchen floor beneath my bare thighs. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrapped my arms around my legs, hugging them as tightly as I wished I could hug Kenny, wishing I could hold him until he was mended back together again. I could hear him walking through the house, looking through the different windows, before he finally returned

to the kitchen, peeking through the small window above the sink. I looked up at him from my spot on the floor as he leaned against the counter, getting a better view of the lawn alongside the house and the neighbor’s porch light. “I think it’s safe now Maggie,” he said. I didn’t bother trying to tell him that we weren’t in any danger. I looked up at him again as he stared into space. “Do you want to go back to bed?” I asked him softly, touching his shin that was beside me. “Shh, no Maggie, I think I hear something.” I wanted to tell him that there was nothing outside, nothing inside, and that nothing was going to harm us but before I could, he gripped his head and ears. His face displayed the pain he was harboring. I could tell that his ears were ringing and bombs were going off. I imagined the bodies he talked about losing limbs as they were shot at with machine guns. I didn’t want to picture the pools of blood that formed after they’d fallen dead to the ground. “Make it fucking stop,” he said. “Please, make it stop.” He was gripping his head harder as if trying to claw inside his own skull. Hopeless, he slid down the side of the counter, past the cupboards to the floor beside me, his knees folded up against his chest to quiet the ringing. He was beginning to surrender. I unwrapped my own legs and put my arms around him, stroking the side of his head with my thumb like a mother comforting her child from a bad dream. After a few minutes, he began to relax and lean into me, trusting me to make it alright as I always did. I hugged him tighter and felt his entire body begin to loosen, his tears landing on my T-shirt. A few more minutes passed and he lay down against the hardwood flooring on his side, his cheek on the thigh of my outstretched legs. I continued stroking his shoulder, his neck and his head. I could feel his tears coming one at a time, landing on my bare leg. Kenny rested his hand on my thigh, hanging on as if he were about to give his last breath and die in battle. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Me too.”

Beauty in the Breakdown Jordan Larison

“How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice.” Your voice breaks as you break the silence but don’t let that discourage you. Your break-through is as revolutionary as your pick-up line wasn’t. Let me break the news to you, I’ve broken hearts. I’ve broken my own heart. I’ve said, “I’ve had a break-through” “I’m through with you” more times than I want to admit. I always pick up the broken pieces and put them back together just to break them again. Don’t do that. Don’t be like me. Don’t break down walls to put up new ones stronger ones transparent ones. Old habits are hard to break. But my advice: Break out of your shell and take a break from your solitude.

The Color Billie Barker

I am the world’s foremost expert on color. Not bragging—just telling. I’d barely received my second PhD when I was asked to supervise the re-varnishing of Rembrandt’s “The Noble Slav”—even at barely thirty, I was the Met’s best chance of avoiding another “Mona Lisa” incident. While silly art students were marching up Fifth Avenue with signs (“Restoration is Mutilation!” and “Rembrandt’s not Dead—Just Washed Up!”), I was removing centuries of layered soot. By the time I finished, the protestors had gone and Rembrandt’s colors sang my success. A few years later in Rome, my team approved the raw materials and mixed each historically authentic pigment for the Sistine Chapel restoration. I either followed the rules, or made them. (It was I who perfected grinding lapis lazuli and mixing it with egg white. And dealing with issues of effervescence.) I’ve consulted in Hollywood for MGM, colorizing black and white classic films. Currently, I’m at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art, cataloguing color samples by era and writing about twenty-first-century color juxtaposition in relation to post-modern globalism and urban gentrification. So when this Color no one had ever seen before appeared, I should have been the first to be called. And it should not have appeared on a Frigidaire handle. And not in Harlem. The Color defied description. It defied rules. When I finally was able to test it, I should have been able to lighten it by adding white, change it by adding a primary color. Instead, no matter what I added, it became even more in-

tensely its other-than self. When I used chemicals to remove color, color remained—like it was made of nothing but itself, clear through. Solid color, yet still the refrigerator handle. Instead of color properties transferring, they multiplied, spreading as if the pigment was endless. In writing about it, I can’t compare it to anything—no bird or deep sea coral or rare tropical bloom. I learned about the Color from a little blurb on the bottom of the front page of The Times. It referenced a small article on page 8A, which I’ll quote: “Mrs. Carpenter describes the door of her refrigerator as ‘…partly the color of the inside of a kiwi, with a little bit of peacock feather. When the sun hits it just right, it’s more like a basketball when it’s new. Maybe with highlights.’” Which is ridiculous. The Color is none of those things. I was surprised the reporter hadn’t contacted me for an expert perspective. The article went on, still quoting Mrs. Carpenter: “On one hand, it’s familiar like it’s always been near and I should recognize it. Other times, it just makes my head explode. It’s weird…it makes me feel like we’re somebody. Noticed and significant. Otherwise, why would the color have picked us?” It went on to say that the Carpenters had gone out on a Saturday morning to a farmers’ market, and come back to the Color on the Frigidaire handle. Lastly, the article gave the address of their apartment. It can be chilly in April in New York. Even so, East 96th was a circus, with a line of gawkers three blocks long outside the Carpenters’ apartment building. Religious zealots, complete with end-is-near placards, had set up a tent camp that took up nearly the entire sidewalk separating the narrow strip of weedy lawn from cars parallel parked on the street. There were people in business suits, mothers with strollers, conspiracy theorists in military garb handing out pamphlets. A high school kid was selling T-shirts and balloons (I heart NYC Color) in neon colors—colors not even close to the Color. I pushed my way through the wrought iron gate, up

three narrow flights of stairs to the front of the line, and through the crowded doorway of 3-C—my museum badge helped. The Carpenters were young, probably late twenties. He was a school janitor, she a beauty school student who waited tables at night. They leaned into one another on the day bed in the living room just feet away from the kitchen and the Color. There were piles of laundry against a dresser on one wall, a recliner and a side table filled with mail and dirty coffee cups on the other. The line of people filed through the right side of the door, through the narrow kitchen alley, by the Color and dishes in the sink, made a sharp U-turn in front of the stove, and squeezed out the left side of the door to make room for more to come in. Once in 3-C, the circus was over. People ceased to behave like sightseers at a carnival and instead behaved as quiet and respectful visitors to the Carpenters’ home. Some had to touch the refrigerator door handle, even going so far as to scrape it with a fingernail to see if it would rub off. Some laughed in disbelief, others with joy. A few cursed under their breath. Admittedly, I was at first taken aback by the Color. It was the first time I’d seen anything actually new—I reached through the crowd and touched it, ashamed that I couldn’t name it. I’m not sure if it was beautiful, repulsive, or just different. I stepped into the living room, gave the Carpenters my card, explained my credentials and position, and assured them I was only going to examine the Color and take samples back to the Museum lab for analysis. (This was, of course, a promise I couldn’t keep. By the next day, I’d be back with three attorneys, their landlord, and a team of technicians in a van to remove the refrigerator handle. Mrs. Carpenter would be hysterical. I’ve never heard anyone cry so loudly.) Mr. Carpenter spoke for them both, reading my card as he did. “Ian B. Eliot—I expected someone like you, what with the article. You’re welcome just like the rest. To look.” Standing taller than I would have expected, Mrs.

Carpenter put one hand on my shoulder, the other on my arm, and held eye contact for an unsuitably long time. “May I call you Ian? Ian, the Color is in our home. On our refrigerator. I won’t let you ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You can look—that’s all.” I didn’t know what to say—I hadn’t had anyone directly challenge my judgment or authority since graduate school, which had been a very long time ago. The relief I felt at having the refrigerator handle locked safely in the museum’s climate-controlled basement vault was as foolish as my thinking I could define, classify and control it. The day after the Color was removed from the Carpenters, my people began hearing rumors of it showing up around the city. I had decided to quiet my misgivings (Mrs. Carpenter’s sobs echoed in my head) by celebrating our historical acquisition with a strip steak and three gin and tonics at Sparks. I forced myself to cut small bites, and to rest the steak knife and fork neatly at angles on the plate’s edge while I chewed. I focused on flavor and texture, tinkling stemware and laughter, the soft burn of excellent gin. Normally my favorite, I had to send the casaba with prosciutto, pale and watery, back to the kitchen. I tipped liberally, as if Mrs. Carpenter herself had been my server, took my coffee to go, worked through most of the night, showered and dressed. I walked to work, thinking fresh air and exercise would do me good. It did not. The Color was everywhere—it flecked a homeless man’s cardboard sign, dotted a young woman’s skirt, and ran through the yarns of a blanket in a stroller. It lined a tenth-floor balcony, a student’s backpack, and numerous sidewalk cracks. Though by now I was almost jogging, I was careful not to let it get on the soles of my shoes. I took the stairs to the museum’s back entrance two at a time, reviewing my mental checklist, trying to think how I could have freed even a smudge. No, I had personally locked the door to the office the handle was in, and as an

extra precaution had changed the password on the small vault. I ran down the flight of steps to the basement, bullied my way past security guards who knew me full well without seeing my badge, and unlocked the office door. My hands shook as I typed the password to open the vaultâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;my shirt felt damp under my jacket. The handle was right where I left it. Soiled, newly chipped, and white.

The Storm Ashley Holub

Look out the window, to see the rain. The sky is dark; the road is flooding. Cars drive by causing waves while the wind is howling. But the real storm is on the inside— the stress, the tears, the fear. The water continues to rise. Prayers are said in hopes to make the rain stop. A stranger runs in seeking help. The storm within must be put to the side, the stranger is the focus. An hour goes by; finally the rain stops. The waters recede, the stranger leaves. But the storm rages on inside. Finally we see the damage, the aftermath of the storm. But one thought remains true: “Don’t show God how big the storm is; show the storm how big your God is.”

Homecoming

Courtney Snodgrass I wear your tags around my neck, my own personal lockets with your name engraved, where they hang low enough to hear my heartbeat pulse within the safety of my chest. The metal is cold against the skin that covers my breasts. And theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve folded the fifty stars and thirteen red and white stripes that protected your casket, even after your heart stopped beating into its triangle form, and they handed it over like a death sentence given to the wrong inmate, for a crime he never committed. I held the shield against my body, wrapping myself around the cloth, curving my body about the ripples which reminded me of the heart monitor that showcased your breathing before the line went flat. But it felt nothing like the way your body felt folded against mine in the darkness of your last night home before you left for your final tour in the foreign land that was as strange as the first time we made love, exploring the geography of our different maps holding buried treasures beneath the surface of our skin. In our strangeness, I lost everything to you, wandering without a compass. And ultimately I ended up losing you to

the strangeness of the land, when I’d rather you be lost in the familiarity of my arms. And I wish I could’ve convinced you to stay. But I was never good at tug of war, and Iraq was so much stronger than I. I’m dressed in a mask of tears, standing next to your casket, destroyed mascara and black clothing for your funeral as your fellow brothers in arms, who became my brothers too, hold their guns pointed towards you in the sky; your own salute. But it’s peaceful to know that your ears no longer ring with machine guns and you’ll sleep peacefully from here until forever instead of fighting enemies, even in your nightmares and daydreams. I am grieving but I am blessed that you no longer suffer.

The Diary Abbey Konzen

The empty diary mocks me in my bedroom. I had bought it to use as a dream journal; I’d thought it would help me keep the dreams in their place and preserve my sanity (if it can be called that anymore). But that was months ago and now the book has a permanent residence on my perfectly tidy desktop. I haven’t even opened it. And I’m teetering on the edge of sanity. Each morning I wake up in my organized bedroom, the only thing I seem to have control over anymore, from another world—a bizarre, uncontrollable world—and everything swirls fresh in my head. There’s no need to write it down. I will never forget. What good would it really do to have the dreams in writing? Every detail stays with me all day. From the moment I drift asleep to the moment I can sleep no longer, it’s a movie projected onto the backs of my eyelids. My own personal cinema. I can’t even fall asleep during the movie. I’m already there. There is no escape from the fantasy, the other world that my subconscious enjoys showing to me so routinely. My only option is to endure it, wake up in the morning, and allow it to faithfully continue where it paused the next time I fall asleep. I realize that other people do not have dreams like mine. People talk about those awful nightmares in which they’re falling and falling and never land. In my dreams, that’s an easy transition from one nightmare to the next. Of course, it’s not all nightmarish; the movie is definitely a mixed genre. I’ve experienced adventure, sci-fi, drama, so much horror, and sometimes even some romance! Over time, I’ve figured some things out about the

Dream. I know by now that it’s through my own point of view, except this version of myself is in an alternate universe. I’d much rather stay in my own world, though. In the other universe, there are trees the size of mountains; it always smells like watermelon; on the horizon are two pink suns, ever setting in the brilliant orange sky. There are people there—all women—and animals, but also…others. Horrific beasts you’d only find the likes of in Earth’s deep, undiscovered waters. They continuously threaten the safety of all who live there. One therapist my mother took me to in seventh grade wanted me to agree to be a guinea pig in some huge study about alternate universes after I’d told her about that. Now I keep it to myself, as if the dreams no longer plague my every thought. I know the truth and I know I’m the only one who could understand. I don’t need any experiments because I see the proof every night. Alternate universes are out there. I believe everyone has one. In fact, people could have five billion alternate universe versions of themselves. I’m just a little more in touch with one of mine. In my dream life I’m much more extraordinary. My main goal is to protect the world from the beasts. I’ll spare you the gory details (for the moment), but through what is now called the “most incredible act of bravery known to womankind” I came to be the leader of a group of skilled, dangerous women and we essentially spend our time fighting the monsters. It makes for very adventurous dreams. And the fact that we’re all the same sex there is strange, very strange, but I guess I wouldn’t have it any other way. They’ve figured out, long ago, a way to reproduce by duplicating the chromosomes from a woman to create a sort of identical female clone child. It would probably be considered completely unethical by humans’ standards on Earth, (probably because the men have a way of making all the standards here and I’m sure they don’t want to die out) so I have yet to mention it to anyone. But the gender thing is not an issue. It doesn’t matter to us. My issue is the danger. Every time I fall asleep

I enter a world of stress and pain. There’s always a threat to my safety now that I’ve made an oath to protect all the other ladies there. And that’s fine, I love saving people. It makes me feel some form of self-worth. But honestly, I’m terrified. I don’t know what would happen to me if I was severely injured in the alternate universe. What would happen if I died? I don’t want to keep living like this. I love my real family back here and I just want to be happy, normal, and honest with them. As it is now, I’m living a lie because of my double life and I am exhausted. I should probably just write down everything I’ve done and see if that will help calm things. Maybe it would do me some good to get it on paper instead of letting it eat me up inside. If I started to write in the diary, it’d be like entering the story approximately 20 years into the plot. How pointless would that be? Then again, if I don’t start now, what if I want to start in ten years? That’s ten years of documentation that I could have had if I’d just start writing it down today. So what’s stopping me? The effort of writing it? No. No, it wouldn’t take much effort. I often enjoy writing. I think the real reason is fear. I don’t want to have to face the truth. Right now it’s “all in my head,” but if I actually write it in a book…it becomes real. It becomes a story that others could potentially have access to—not that I will ever allow anyone to see it. I bought a journal with a lock for a reason. Still, the feeling is there. If I write it all out, it’ll become more than just my problem; it will be released from my tight hold. Then again, maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe in turn I’ll be released from the chains that are dragging me off sanity’s cliff. I want to let go of the other world, even for only a little while. I just want to be normal. I have got to start writing in that diary. Suddenly in my tiny room I feel enormous. I am an otherworldly tree, bursting with secrets and I must get them out. Moving my old stress ball from its place on top of the blank journal, I blow the dust that had gathered on its surface, save for the small circle where the squishy stress

reliever had been sitting. The sneeze-inducing dust flies into the air in front of me like a rush of leaves in autumn. Tucking the book under my arm, I slide open my window, hoping to enjoy a gentle breeze since the weather has really turned around after the gloomy start to the day. For a second, I see two stars in the sky, and a flash of color, but my eyes play tricks on me. Of course I’m in my real world. The sun, the solitary golden sun in that gorgeous blue sky, is peeking out behind a cloud as if to say, “Yeah, you can do it! Start writing! If you’d like to.” Then it slinks back behind the misty puff. With the encouragement of Earth’s friendly star, I twist the specialized key in the specialized lock for the first time and allow myself to crack open the means to my escape. As I turn to the first page, the hardbound cover eases open as if I’d done the action a hundred times. “What the—what?” I stare at the diary, fear striking the deepest fiber of my being. Heart racing, I quickly flip through the pages, searching, hoping…this can’t be real. The very first page is dated “Nov. 20,” twenty-four years ago. It’s the tale of my birth. My birth. On Earth. And then my firsts: the first roll, the first word, first crawl, first grade, first bully, first visit to the psychologist. Everything is shifting as I realize that although I know I’m awake, what my eyes are seeing is a diary filled cover-to-cover with an account of my own life. Me. And I realize that I must be in my alternate universe. My eyes were right the first time: the two magenta suns are sharply shining out my window—and in fact, it’s not even my spotless window from home. I can see now it’s the window from the other world, in the building we use as our hideout when we’re not fighting beasts. I have been here all along, and I’m getting ready to write a new page in the dream journal of the life I desperately wish would be my only one. My real life. But what is real? Who am I? Which alternate universe is alternate? Which me is me?

Pigments

Carmen Delgado Harrington Birds red black meadows green tan feathers spread yellow orange trees leaves mossy brown grasses plains lime white waterways blue grey pigments paradise passed.

Lo Que es Ser Madre Carmen Delgado Harrington

No crecí en tu vientre Pero me diste la vida. Tú me enseñaste a Caminar Correr Leer En español. Mi padre quería Un hijo de su sangre Pero le diste tres hijas Más partos eran imposibles. Descubrir su engaño Fue doloroso Matar tu rival Tu solución. Pero la malvada Llevaba un hijo en su vientre El hijo deseado Por tu marido. Al percibir mi existencia Tu corazón de madre, esposa, Cristiana Santa Detuvo tus balas.

What It Is To Be A Mother Carmen Delgado Harrington translation

I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bloom in your belly But you gave me life. You taught me to Walk Run Read In Spanish. My father wanted A son that carried his blood Yet you gave him three daughters More births were impossible. Discovering his deceit Was agonizing Killing your rival Your solution. But the wicked woman Carried a child in her womb The son desired By your husband. Upon perceiving my presence Your heart of a mother, wife, Saintly Christian Detained your bullets.

Al descubrir el deseo De La Malvada— Un aborto—ofreciste criarme Aunque verme te heriría. La gracia de Dios Recibí por medio de ti Porque aceptaste el obsequio Que La malvada rechazaba. Contrataste mi nacimiento Con ansias y esperanzas, Ansiosa que el pacto fuera quebrado Y esperanza por el hijo deseado. El día que nací Me abrasaste Sonreíste y Lloraste— No me rechazaste. Me amaste aunque El obsequio que recibiste El hijo anhelado— Resulto seruna hija. No crecí en tu vientre Pero me diste la vida Tú me enseñaste a Vivir Amar Perdonar Cuidar mi hogar. Me enseñaste— Lo que es ser madre.

Upon discovering the desire Of the wicked woman— To abort—you offered to raise me Though seeing me would wound you. The grace of God I received through you, Because you accepted the bundle The wicked woman rejected. You commissioned my birth With anxiety and hope, Worried she’d change her mind While you aspired for a son. The day I arrived You cradled me Smiled and cried— You didn’t reject me. You loved me although The bundle you received The son you desired— Resulted in a daughter. I didn’t bloom in your belly But you gave me life. You taught me to Live Love Forgive Care for my home. You taught me— What it is to be a mother.

Latinas Cry

Carmen Delgado Harrington Men make plans Fight wars Take lands And Latinas die. Columbus, Cortez And Franciscans Colonize the Americas And Latinas multiply. Las Mariposas1 n’ 30,000 Haitians die On orders from Trujillo2 And Latinas cry. Salvadoran troops assassinate Archbishop Oscar Romero3, Three nuns n’ 1500 campesinos4 And Latinas cry. Governments create laws Take husbands 1. The Butterflies—the Mirabal sisters, three famous underground resistance fighters killed by the military (NALL 38) 2. Dominican Republic dictator from 1930 to 1961, when he was assassinated (NALL 35) 3. Religious leader who disapproved of the Salvadoran military’s arbitrary abductions and murders of citizens 4. Atrocities include three separate massacres of workers and assassinations of religious leaders and charity workers, such as “three Connecticut Maryknoll nuns and a fellow volunteer” (NALL 40).

Draft sons And Latinas sigh. Students protest Police do not arrest Instead, they open fire5 And Latinas sigh Estadunidenses6 Chicanas, Mestizas, Cubanas, Dominicanas, Puertorriqueñas… Latinas—unify. Latinas Vote Don’t comply decrees modify Family raza7 rights indemnify Don’t cry. 5. Mexican authorities killed 300 students in Tlatelolco (NALL 39). 6. United States citizens 7. Race (Female, Latino, Human)

Fenced To Hate Todd Cross

I was built for a distinct reason not thought of in cold desolate Wyoming that autumn after nightfall. My purpose remains to prevent entry to the property. The task for me that night was inconceivable. I had no choice but to hang on. I wanted to release him. Lifeless frame bloody bewildered abandoned. The knot they used to fasten, effective premeditated hate inside them. I clung to the morning with the sunrise scorching his eyes, the blood coagulating his brow and core. The wind flung him side to side while coupled to me. He let out a groan and a shallow cry, shaking with fear over his certain fate, left alone to die in the cold. No one deserves to be beaten and restrained with no hope to live.

Powerful

Šárka Dvořáková (STEVE sits on a chair. He is in his late twenties. He wears torn jeans, a white T-shirt and an unbuttoned plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up.) The towel burned well. I was watching it from a distance small enough to feel the heat. It made me feel powerful—it was much more than just Grandma’s old towel. It was an adventure! When the flames died, I looked into the bucket. Hardly anything was left at the bottom. It struck me how easy it was to cause destruction. I touched the bucket. (Shakes his head and laughs.) That was really stupid. Anyway, that was my first time. I was seven. I was spending the summer at Grandma’s without my sister. You know my sister, Mike, she’s so upright. She wasn’t fun to be around even when we were kids. When I was in sixth grade, Mrs. Johnson found the lighter in my backpack. She thought I had it for smoking. She wanted to know where the cigarettes were. I told her I was planning to steal them from my dad later that day. I swore I had never smoked before. I blamed it on peer pressure. I promised to never even think of smoking again. And I never did smoke, you know that. It’s a disgusting habit. I was always interested in the way different material would burn. I took my sister’s old teddy bear and a couple of her Barbie dolls just to set them on fire. I burned a feather pillow, a newspaper soaked in gasoline. It felt like... science, you know. It felt like discovering something important. Once when I was drunk I burned the flag. I was really ashamed of myself afterwards. That was not an okay thing to do. I always saw to the fire being safe. I always had it

under control. I never wanted to harm anyone, Mike. You know that I’m not that kinda guy. (Pause.) Right? Look, you’re...man, you’re my best friend. I didn’t mean to hurt those people. It was an accident! I just wanted to know if... (starts sobbing) if the container would melt. It was supposed to be full of paper. If I had known the paint can was in there... Jesus Christ, Mike! You have to understand me! (Stares at his friend.) But you don’t want to understand, right? (Short pause.) Because you’re a cop through and through. The system means more to you than your friends.

Music Box

Zachery Hooper Listen How the box sings With the turn of the wheel The gentle tinkle of the keys Pure bliss. Music Singing out a tune So quiet but so strong One that makes you think of home. Yes, Your home. The wind Blows to the west The leaves point to the hill The clouds lazily glide above The earth. How strange That a music box Could make me feel so calm But so sad and nostalgic too. Odd, eh? The birds Fly far, freeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;grace Almost dancing along With the melody of the song Sweetly.

The box Plays on with time Inside the room, singing Out with a beautiful sonnet Of home.

Dilip Reshmi

Flawless in the Darkness, oil on canvas

Abby Manternach

Hand Saw Wild Flowers, mixed media print (watercolor, ink)

Bailey Frederick Sugar Skull, woodcut

Alyssa Vicente

Summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Goodnight Kiss, digital photograph

Abbey Konzen

To Think of Hue, oil on canvas

Lauren Brunson

Flowers on a Stream, mixed media (artificial flowers, encaustic, oil on canvas)

Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg

Blessing in Disguise, charcoal on paper

Samantha Yorgensen

Rodeo Queen, digital photograph

Perspective Jordan Larison

This isn’t about you, you know. Not everything has to be, she says. He glares. I’m trying to help you. You cannot possibly really want this. Is this an attention thing? She sighs. He still isn’t listening. She had meant what she said. It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about them. It was about her. She stands before him, overly defiant. Her white tee is half tucked into her denim cutoffs, riding far enough up her thighs reveal several healed parallel lacerations: unnatural tattoos that hint at her volatile and slightly unbalanced emotional state. She had chosen those shorts on purpose, knowing he’d rather ignore her past. Ignoring something didn’t make it go away. Which is exactly why she was going to do what she had to. She should have never told him of her plans. He doesn’t understand why it’s not a choice anymore. Her head spins every day. Round and round, her brain never shuts up and she just thinks, thinks, thinks crazy thoughts that she can’t stop from forming. She can’t stop it, can’t control it, can’t escape it in any other way. Has to be done. Has to. Snagging the keys from the bowl perched precariously on the kitchen table, she slips both feet into her grey Chuck Taylors. She lets the screen door slam behind her, slides into the driver’s seat, and ignites the engine. Before her cloud of dust has settled behind her, she catches a glimpse of his truck following her down the dirt road. Let him watch, she thinks. Maybe he’ll learn something. Maybe this will do us both some good. Maybe this will make him listen. Two hours later, she’s reached her destination, and

what a perfect spot it is. The sky is clear, like her mind never is, and the ground is dry, like her throat. She berates herself. This is not a moment for the weak hearted, the weak stomached, or the weak in general. It’s time to do or die, seize the day, reach for the stars, scream YOLO, and apparently it is time to cram as many tired clichés into a single morbid Kodak moment as possible. As she sizes herself up and walks into the hangar, he pulls his dusty truck up next to her silver sedan and throws the gear into park. He’s yelling after her, desperately and fruitlessly trying to save her from herself. He’s under the impression that immanent death tends to cling to the brazen, but she doesn’t need him to save her. He catches her arm, swinging her around to face him, pleads with her to see reason, begs her to think about what she’s about to do. He tugs at her hand, tries to tug at her heart, and every second she tugs farther and farther away from him, retreating lower into her mind, and deeper into the hangar. She doesn’t bother trying to talk over him anymore. She hears her name being called. The syllables echo through the hall, and she follows the sound towards her fate. Miles above the ground, she’s sure she can still hear him begging her to stop. His voice reverberates clearly, as if he’s in her head too. This is no big deal. Everyone falls eventually; her fall is just deliberate. And from a greater height. But regardless, this is no longer a choice. This is a prewritten stride towards the future. A literal step into thin air, a ridiculously high-stakes trust fall. Glimpsing the back of the pilot’s head, her eyes finally lock onto the sunset casting a spectrum of colors across the sky. She lifts one foot from the platform. And then she’s falling, gloriously. For a full minute and a half, she revels in the freefall, feeling the icy atmosphere bite her exposed skin. A scream is ripped involuntarily from her throat, and she wonders if he can hear her now. Just when the world couldn’t

seem any more enticing, the parachute billows open and for another moment, time stops, and she spins around, suspended fourteen thousand feet above him, untouchable as the horizon.

Upside Down Pink Triangle Todd Cross

I hope you feel pleased by the ridicule you forced on the innocent. Flamboyance or bending of typical beliefs were branded with the upside down pink triangle. Who are you to judge when you spread only hate? You held him up like a scarecrow and left him to die on that fence. The world had one less beautiful soul after you beat him and left him. His desperate pleas to live canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be heard anymore. The story is cemented in history like the symbol of the upside down pink triangle. Matthew Shepard gave all he had to stand up and not hide. You spew words condemning strangers. You created the upside down pink triangle to single us out. You say itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a choice but who would choose to endure your hate?

Love in the Shadow of a Crematory Cassie Green

From Olga Lengyel’s Five Chimneys They had departed not from Germany But from this world. “Everyone outside! Empty the barracks!” Not a cry arose from the victims. What could be the meaning Of this popular concert? “Today, it is our turn, tomorrow, it will be yours.” Then I understood. Why didn’t I do it? I think that others stifled similar Desires for the same reason. Our crematory ovens Served a vast region indeed. I dared not tell them anything. One, two three strokes Delivered in fury. Blood, nothing but blood. They were right.

Stories

Amanda Mayotte I saw him standing at the lip of the overpass, and somehow I knew exactly what was happening. He jumped just before an old maroon car passed under him. It’s a horrifying thing, to watch a man choose his own death. I screamed so loud my ears rang for days. I didn’t watch the car smash into the falling body. I would be a different person had I witnessed that moment. But I did imagine the lifeless, bloody body lying on the highway. My emotions were uncontrollable. I pulled over immediately and called the police. The woman on the other end couldn’t understand what I had just seen. “What, ma’am? A car drove off a bridge and hit a man?” No. “A car hit a bridge and the driver is out of his car?” No. “A man jumped off of a bridge and a car hit him?” Yes. I heard sirens and talked to police. An officer gave me a card with a number on it. He told me to call if I needed somebody to talk to. I never called. I still wonder about that man. Was he a coward, or was it something more? I know life is a struggle, but I think death is an even deeper struggle. I’ve struggled with suicide in my own life. Teenage angst can be a bitch when it’s mixed with complex issues. I never tried to jump off a bridge into a moving car, but I did down two half bottles of prescription medication. Was I a coward? Unlike his story, I know my own.

Aliens

Billie Barker

Mrs. Hilton and my mom were in the kitchen eating ubiquitous Benton County coffee cake made from canned fruit cocktail and crumbly topping, and gossiping about the other ladies who were in the Jackson Jolly Timers. One of them had heard that the Kirstens, the closest neighbor to the north and owner of this little farmhouse the Hiltons had rented the last two years, owed back taxes on income from their lawn mowing business. This reminded my mom of the matching halter-tops the Kirsten twins had worn to our last 4-H meeting. Even though the girls had sewn them as projects and received blue ribbons at the county fair for their efforts, the ten-year-oldsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; tops were still roundly denounced as inappropriate. Halter-tops reminded Mrs. Hilton of the recently deceased Elvis Presleyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;just as weeks ago the same halter-tops would have reminded her of the still-living Elvis Presley. Just as the price of gasoline, green tomato recipes, or the Watergate scandal would have reminded her of Elvis Presley. She would weep softly and blow her nose and swear that her one regret in life was that cruel death had robbed her of her chance to be with Elvis before he died. My mom would shovel another piece of dry coffee cake onto a mismatched dessert plate, warm up her coffee, and remind her that the odds of even being in the same room as Elvis were nil, and that no amount of Elvis passion would be worth betraying her husband and breaking up her family. As if that could happen. Mrs. Hilton whispered something about destiny, which started a fresh round of nose blowing and made me feel very sorry for my summer friend Scott. Even though we were in the next room with The Price is Right audience and contestants

screaming at full volume, we could still clearly hear Scott’s mother whenever she lowered her voice and used words like desire or destiny, or worse of all, s-e-x. I was ten, Scott was eleven. We were lying on worn green carpet with roller shades pulled against the impending heat, a bar of July morning sun pushing its way past the edges to warm a golden stripe across the patriotic-print double-knit top my mom had sewn for me. We were both uncomfortable so I tried to help: “Want to go out to the barn?” “I don’t care.” “We could work on the hideout.” “I was thinking we could turn it into a hotel and make some money.” Scott and I became friends of convenience after months of ignoring one another. My mother, thinking I needed neighborhood friends, forced me to trudge the halfmile up the gravel road to bring a plate of cookies to the Hiltons after they’d moved in. They were our closest neighbors, and Scott and I were only a year apart; he was a boy, and I was not. I handed him the plate and he mumbled thanks without looking at me, so I turned and left. I had town friends and didn’t need him. By the time school was out and summer days had grown long enough to seem dull, they were punctuated by our parents’ evening card parties. While they played Pinochle and drank Ancient Age with Seven-Up, Scott and I, forced into contact, were gradually knit by the diligence with which we both maintained our inner realities. When we fell into an unblinking trance before the full moon so that guidance from our interplanetary leader could flow into our open minds via lightning bugs, it was not just good theatre with which to frighten my little sister—our bodies truly had been snatched by aliens. We believed our actual souls were locked in the cellar, as did my terrified sister. And when we checked books out from the library to learn how to publish a best-selling novel or become Wiccan warlocks or build a log cabin and live off

bark and rabbit meat, it was because we fully intended to do so by the end of the summer. We slid towards inseparable, days centered on projects and schemes. When school started each fall, we would resume school friendships, embarrassed to acknowledge one another when passing in the hall or on the bus. A couple years later, after Scott turned thirteen, we would never speak again. After high school, he would go on to marry a girl from my class and would lose her to a prolonged illness just five years later. The barn at the end of the Hilton’s driveway was actually a small granary with a hayloft, its cool concrete floor a relief after running barefoot across the scorched lawn. Dim like the living room, the bits of light that survived the gauntlet of trees waving overhead flitted through slats in the wall, turning dust into a galaxy of stars. Decaying hay and corn made my nose burn. Scott was crouched by the remains of a John Deere tractor, torso so far behind one of the mammoth rear tires that only his bare feet and cut-offs were visible. He pulled a rusted metal toolbox from behind the tire. The latch ground and the hinge complained when he opened it. This box was the fruit of our second summer together and contained all we needed to survive any situation. Besides the rusted tools we hadn’t bothered to remove, it held Tic-Tacs, granola bars, red licorice, batteries, a rabbit’s foot on a key chain, arrow heads, a transistor radio, a flashlight, Kool-Aid packets, baggies full of sugar to use with the Kool-Aid packets, both our school photo IDs, and a worn spiral notebook. Scott carefully removed the notebook. We both looked at the granola bars and licorice, but agreed without speaking that this sunny day in no way constituted an emergency. I pulled a golden kitten from its solid pile of other kittens coiled together in a cardboard box full of straw. Sitting Indian-style, Scott was opening the notebook, so I folded the kitten under my chin and leaned against the John Deere tire close to him—but not too close. He closed the

space between us by shoving half the notebook onto my lap, flipped past the various lists of camping supplies and publishing contacts, past the best-selling novel starts and incantations, all a mix of both our handwriting. “I got the idea last night, so I started without you,” he said. The top of the page said in bold letters, “The Hilton- Johnson Inn.” And below, in fancier cursive, “Escape the big city rat race and experience rustic hospitality in the heart of rural America.” “That’s genius!” And I meant it. “I’ll bet if you put that in a magazine, we’d make like fifty bucks a night. All we’ll have to buy is blankets and food. Some of that I can borrow from my mom. Were you thinking the lobby would be where the tractor is?” Scott pulled himself up by the tractor rim, and shrugged. “So probably two regular rooms and a suite in the haymow, right?” “Probably more like one room and one suite.” Mind full of floor plans and color schemes, I shoved the folded notebook under my armpit and cradled the kitten into the crook of my elbow next to it. That left me with one hand free to balance rung to rung on a hurried one-story ascent up the ladder to the haymow. The top is always scary because you have nothing to hang on to, but must hurl the weight of your upper body onto the bare planks above, with only your feet anchored to the rung below for stability. I was thinking about how I could gently dislodge the kitten and the notebook, when my one free hand lost its grip on the rung, and thinking became black. My head throbbed, and I couldn’t move. My mom’s head hovered. Mrs. Hilton peered from a couple feet back. The kitten wasn’t under my arm, and I panicked, afraid I had crushed it. I couldn’t see Scott, but I could hear him breathing and I wished he were closer. Waking up in a stark hospital room with the back of my head bandaged and an IV tube sprouting from my bruised wrist, I could see my mom slumped in a chair in

the corner, eyes closed, legs thrown over the sides, shoes on the floor. There was an unopened box of Hostess chocolate donuts and a foot-high pile of Nancy Drew mysteries from the library on the little table that swung across my bed. I looked for Scott, embarrassed at my clumsiness and the fuss I must have caused. He wasn’t there. The effort to notice these things made my head too full, skull threatening to burst. Mouth dry, I reached for a cup of water next to the books, but sleep and the sensation of falling left my hand limp. I woke up a second time to the smell of buttered toast and chicken broth. There was cubed orange Jell-O too, all arranged on a tray that had displaced Nancy Drew and the chocolate donuts. My mom and Mrs. Hilton were sitting in green vinyl chairs, chatting quietly. Scott was there, eating one of the donuts. This time I was successful in my attempt to grab the glass of water, push up on one elbow, and sip through the bent straw. The IV tube was gone. “Is the kitten alright?” “Oh my god, she’s awake!” Mrs. Hilton put her head in her hands and made a muffled, snorting sound. “Feeling better?” My mom was nonplussed. “You’ve been sleeping long enough!” “Did I kill the kitten?” “I don’t know–seems like we’ve had other things to worry about the last couple days. Like why on earth anyone would want to climb a ladder with a kitten in her hands over a cement slab!” My mom’s face softened. “Scott, how is that kitten?” “It’s fine. It must have landed on the hay.” Scott finally moved close enough that my eyes could focus on his face without my head throbbing. “I’ve never seen a convulsion before–your eyes were open and going back and forth, but you couldn’t see. So weird. Next time, climb with both hands.” “The top is always hard—we’ll need to get rid of the ladder for the hotel. I’m thinking elevator or escalator. I wish you would have brought the notebook.”

Then our mothers talked, and suddenly shy, we didn’t. After she knew I was going to be fine, it turned out Mrs. Hilton was afraid my parents would sue. They said their awkward good-byes and then barely spoke again for months. Scott said, “See ya,” like he always did, and I said “See ya,” back. Although I recovered, our friendship did not. It could have been because of the chill between our mothers, but I think it’s more likely that Scott grew up. At thirteen-going-on-fourteen, he lost his magic. Postscript: Several months after writing this story, I was sitting in a red naugahide booth at Leonardo’s across from the fifty-something version of this boy Scott, giddy to see him after thirty-plus years. My husband’s sister, who had just returned from living overseas to reestablish her Iowa roots, had met him on a blind date set up by a friend of hers who worked with him. Learning he was from my hometown and a neighborhood playmate, she had set up this little reunion. Other than his clear blue eyes, Scott was nothing like I remembered. He didn’t recall my suffering a concussion in his barn or being abducted by aliens—both of which I consider definitive childhood events. I didn’t recall details from his perspective—like the fact that he had three siblings, or that a rope swung all the way from the haymow to a pile of oats on the floor. As an adult, he had worked the same steady job his entire adult life and stayed home most evenings to watch television. I saw no evidence of the fantastical life I thought we had shared. On the plus side, I learned that my mother had been a sensation among the neighborhood boys—they thought she looked like Catwoman.

New Age Cell Phones Nikki Pochay

Nowadays, I travel everywhere. I don’t leave people’s sides, even in bed. Dropped, thrown, caught: it happens every day. Bruised and battered, I live on. As every day passes, I’m eyed, sometimes for the actual time, sometimes to see how close to death I am. I fade. Soon I’ll be tossed… one last time, to the landfill, all for a brand new me.

September Abby Herb

September when the leaves begin to change from green to red, orange, and yellow they fall to the ground As they are stepped on by people hurrying rushing, they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see the mourner sitting on the bench, covered in rust watching the leaves fall hoping to wake from this nightmare at the end of September Every year is the same For each leaf that falls a soul falls with them September passes by like a dream without its speed Each fallen leaf takes its time to strike to sink into the ground and begin the cycle again from dust to life and life to dust

October

Abbey Konzen When in the autumn air, there is a wisp Of spider webs unhinging in the dew And jagged maple corpses, brown and crisp, I often find myself thinking of you. And though you’re not a person I can grasp, You hold me tight as mummies bound in time. While I can try to fumble with the clasp, No other soul can see you—only mine. See, you are just a whisper in the wind, A spooky, crawling chill right down the neck. Your essence is of bone and skull unskinned And pumpkins, leaves, and scarecrows blackbirds peck. This time of year, you’re see-through, yet still seen, Yes you, beloved, hallowed Halloween.

January

Catheryn Recker The wind howls blowing frigid snow over the roads resulting in no school for kids who would rather sleep and build igloos than learn. The wind mimics the excited screams of people who waited until midnight for the New Year to begin and bring with it a promise. The wind brings hope of a new love or the rekindling of an old flame or better grades and higher pay than I have earned so far along the way.

Arrangements Anna Bohr

Anything can be sorted or classified by size color shape weight. You have to sort your laundry before you wash it unless the machine is set to cold. A box of donuts can be purchased in an assortment of colors and flavors. Sometimes problems sort themselves out if we let them. My sister smiles when she sees the sorting hat in Harry Potter. Students are sorted and scored according to state assessment standards. We arrange people in our minds by age by gender by stereotypes and other sorts of kinds. He is an athlete

sort of but not really. She is the sort of person who shows her feelings too much. Some say that basic training is the sort of place that separates the men from the boys. True, there are people who also say “It takes all sorts to make a world,” So shouldn’t we stop sorting each other?

The Cream Cheese To My Coffee Amanda Mayotte

I don’t often go out for drinks, but when I do, it’s usually with co-workers. They’re good people. They don’t exclude me because they’re faculty and I’m just the janitor. In fact, they respect and appreciate what I do. They care about me—most of them watched me grow from a little middle-school shit to an 18-year-old man. The women can be a little much at times, especially when it comes to my personal life. It always happens—they look for all of the women in the bar who are by themselves and ask, “What about her? Why don’t you talk to her?” I reply with what I hope will leave them with the fewest questions: “I’m just not looking for a relationship.” The truth is that the women aren’t usually interested in me—especially before 2 a.m. Not because I’m not a good looking dude, but because I’m honest. Because I tell them the truth: I’m a 27-year-old janitor. “What do you do?” they ask after a few beers, as if it’s not proper to ask when they’re sober. “I’m a janitor,” I say with confidence. It usually ends the conversation, but I’m not going to hide who I am. If a woman looks down at me because I clean a school for a living, that’s just fine. I don’t need a woman who has a stick up her ass anyway. This night is no different. Three of the older ladies point at a young blonde, and I politely say no. I focus my attention elsewhere to tell them I don’t want to go through the routine again. As my mind wanders, I begin to focus on what Jim has to say—after all, he is the vice principal and doesn’t usually

drink with us. “She isn’t coming back after her surgery, so they put me in charge of finding her replacement,” I overheard him say. “We’re looking at a young woman who grew up here, actually. Her name is Jenny Moonrite and she is quiet as a mouse, but has a refreshing passion for teaching.” My heart skips a beat. I can’t believe what I just heard. My mind falls back to grade school. Jenny Moonrite was the only person who laughed at my stupid jokes. She loved the faces I made behind other peoples’ backs. Ms. Bauer, our third grade teacher, was mean. Jenny sat diagonally behind me, so whenever Ms. Bauer would scold a student I would turn to Jenny and make a face. I’d contort my mouth downward and eyebrows upward. She loved it. She got in trouble a few times because she couldn’t control her giggles. We were walking home from school one day, and I invited her to my house to work on a school-assigned project together—one of those volcanoes that shot lava from the top. “Want to work on our geography projects together?” I asked with what seemed like confidence. “I have all of the supplies. My mom’s a teacher you know.” “Sure,” she said with a shy smile. “But I have to call my mom and tell her.” My dad was just waking up when we got to my house. He worked odd hours, so he would wake up around 3 p.m., make his coffee and breakfast, run errands, and head to work. “What are you kids doin’?” he asked, wearing loose, white underwear. “DAD!” I yelled. Jenny giggled harder than ever. “Oh! Sorry!” he said like he forgot he was in his underwear. He turned around and went back to his bedroom, reappearing fully clothed. He grabbed his coffee, fully aware of the four eyes following his every move—two to be sure nothing too embarrassing was going to happen and two with pure anticipation—and walked over to the fridge. He grabbed

the cream cheese, set it on the counter, grabbed a spoon, took a big scoop, put it in his coffee, said “Deeelicous,” and walked away. This was just another one of his dumb jokes, so I looked at Jenny to make a face. She had run to the living room and was peeking her head out from behind the couch because she couldn’t contain her giggles. That was my favorite moment with Jenny. We finished our volcano and she went home. I never invited her, or anyone else, over again. My parents were going through a divorce and fought constantly. We went our own ways as we grew up, but sometimes said “hi” in passing. My mind returns to the conversation at the bar, and, out of excitement, I tell the group that I knew Jenny and she’d be a fine choice. I’m sure this had no effect on the choice, but they hired her soon after. The Monday she starts, I’m a nervous wreck. Will she remember me? Will she even care? I’m not the type to worry, but I can’t help but panic a little. I get to school, make a pot of coffee like any other morning, and sit in my office. I’m waiting for the right moment. She won’t be on lunch duty her first day, so I plan on lunch in the teacher’s lounge. The teachers don’t mind. After five grueling hours of my typical work, lunch finally comes and Jenny finally appears. Before I can even get out a hello, Jenny’s eyes grow wide, and a tiny smile lights up her whole face. “Allen Brown,” she says as a matter of fact. I smile. “Jenny. Welcome back to Garfield.” She looks exactly as she had growing up, only a little older. Her hair is longer, but she still looks exactly like the young girl who laughed at my jokes. She gives me a hug, looks at me for a few seconds, and asks if we could catch up later. Everybody plans on taking her out to our favorite spot for a beer. It’s how we welcome new members of the Garfield family. That Monday was the longest day ever.

I leave school early to clean the kids off of me. I put on my favorite shirt with a worn pair of jeans. As much as I hope for Jenny to like me, I’m not going to sacrifice myself. I arrive at the bar after everyone else, but Jenny comes right over and sits next to me. “Allen Brown,” she says. “I tried to find you on Facebook after high school, but wasn’t surprised to not find you. You never did follow social standards.” As the night wears on, we talk about her college years and what she expects for her future. I don’t like to talk about myself, so I let her talk until she is out of breath. Then she surprises me. “How are your parents?” she asks in the sweetest voice. “I know they separated when we were in school.” I don’t know what to say. She is so honest and I only want to be honest back, but I can’t talk about my folks. Jenny notices me falter and quips, “Does your dad still take cream cheese in his coffee?” My jaw drops, and she giggles. That giggle. It is better than anything. She got up, said goodbye, and left. I smiled and said goodbye. Going to sleep is difficult that night. So many things go through my head. Jenny is back, and no amount of sleep an help that. I wake up after only a few hours of rest and rush through my routine. I want to get to school early. I want to see Jenny. I check her classroom, but don’t find her, so I walk to my office to start a pot of coffee. I make an extra cup to set on Jenny’s desk. I don’t know if she wants milk and sugar, but I open the fridge to grab the milk so she at least has the option. Boom. What I see hits me like a ton of bricks. Next to the mill is a small container of cream cheese. “You look a lot like your dad, so I thought maybe you’d have his taste as well.” Jenny smirks from behind the door frame. I smile, open the cream cheese, and plop a spoonful into my coffee. “Deeelicious.”

Things My Mother Has Said to Me Cassie Green

Don’t do that! Put that down! Come here right now! Did you brush your teeth? Comb your hair. Don’t be late. Wait right there! You did what? Eat your vegetables, please. What did you just say? Don’t talk back to me! Why didn’t you do it? Now I have to do it! It’s alright—just try to remember next time. Don’t forget your lunch! Are you doing your homework? The deadline for this is soon, so don’t put it off any longer. You need what? Do the dishes first. You want to spend the night? Did you clean your room? Don’t lie to me. Where does she live? Okay—but remember, you have to be home by ten. Yes, I’ll bring you your pajamas. You’re welcome! Where do you think you’re going? Not in that outfit. What’s his name? Does he get good grades? Where do his parents work? Does he treat you right? Okay—but be home by eleven tonight. You kids have fun! What’s wrong? He’s not good enough for you anyway. There are plenty of fish in the sea. Don’t worry. Where are you going? When will you be home? Alright—see you then! How are your grades? That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you! Keep up the good work! Are you coming home this weekend? No, that’s fine. You can stay the night there. We’ll see you on Sunday. I love you!

Just Laugh Taylor Lamm

She loved to laugh. He could always make her laugh. It was always his goal to make her laugh. Her laughter brought him joy. She didn’t like her laugh. She thought her laugh was ugly. But she knew she had to keep laughing. Her laugh loosened Death’s grip on her. He knew how to make her laugh. He tried hard to keep her laughing. One day her laughter came to an end. But he could always hear her laugh— within him.

Simply Love Taylor Lamm

The sun glistened in his eyes as he squinted. It made his skin beam bright and his hair shine. His hands firmly, but gently gripped the steering wheel, showing all the muscles. I looked out the window and saw the cars fly by, as I tried to hide my love. He looked at me and saw my hidden smile, I looked to find him smiling back. At that moment I saw it. He loved me too.

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Julia Simons Do you ever feel that pull to another? That odd feeling that you’ve met before? You can’t place it. Yet there’s a tug at your heart— A draw Begging to know everything about them. Their secrets. Their joys. Their fears. Their language— You long for fluency. Do you ever feel the need to know someone you’ve never met before? Like a string is linking your heart to theirs. A string that—if pulled—would bring you closer together Or slowly tear your heart from within your chest Until it lay within in their hands. Do you ever give yourself away slowly? Until you realize that your string has been tugged and pulled And you are left without a heart that’s solely yours. Piece by piece. Bit by bit— Until you’re no longer your own. Your heart is heavy in their hands And your mind swims circles Colored only in their hue. Is this what falling in love feels like?

It’ll Be Me Bailey Rickels

I’m walking to school. There is snow on the street, people in cars speeding past me. Is it a couple trying to make things work? Is it a father with a screaming child? Is it someone I’d want to meet? Is it hard for them to make ends meet? Did they drop out of school? Were they abused as a child? Do they live on this street? Are they late to work? I wonder if they wonder about me. But if they do wonder about me, am I the one they want to meet? I’m the one without work, but still working hard in school, living my life on these bad streets, trying to raise my month-old child. I love my little child, and she has to love me. How could I bring this innocent life onto the streets? Her father she has yet to meet. I can’t drop out of school. I have to make this work. I need to find work, in order to support my child, all while staying in school.

Can it be me? I want to be the one they want to meet, not just some bum who lives on the streets. I’ll get off the street, I’ll find some work. I will be the one they want to meet. The girl who raised her child, it’ll be me… as soon as I finish school.

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Catheryn Recker use me to dry your tears and wipe your nose use me to transform yourself into a caped superhero use me to keep yourself warm and protect yourself from harm Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll cover you completely and smother you with love use me every day until you finally grow too old then pass me on to your own child so I can comfort him for a while

Rhythm of Life Catheryn Recker

We enter the park hand in hand. She carries the picnic basket and I, unbeknownst to her, carry the ring. I can’t help but notice how beautiful a day it is today, a perfect day for what I am about to attempt. The sky is clear, not a cloud to be seen anywhere, just a beautiful light blue with the first signs of evening beginning to show. The leaves are changing from green to their dazzling autumn colors. The air is cool and crisp, and carries the scent of the sausages being sold from a cart further into the garden where I am about to attempt to begin a new life, a new journey with the woman I love. We locate the perfect spot for our picnic, right next to the marble fountain. We lay our blanket down in the grass and empty our picnic basket. This is it! I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna ask her to marry me! As she takes the sandwiches out of the basket, I think back to our first date, right here in this same park where I am about to pop the question. Her dark brown hair kept falling over her eyes with every gust of wind, and she kept pouting her lips and pushing her hair back behind her ear. It was adorable. That was the moment I knew she was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. As I look at her now, three years later, she is still as beautiful as she was that first day. Her glistening brown hair flutters gently in the breeze, lightly brushing her plump red lips that always taste of strawberries. The light gray hat she is wearing makes her emerald green eyes stand out so beautifully I could cry. I start to reach into my pocket for the ring as I look into those incredibly striking eyes. I run through the speech in my head one more time. I feel like a lovesick goon. I am

going to spend my life making her the happiest woman in the world: I hope. I am so nervous that my hands shake and my palms sweat so much that a goldfish could make them its home. Alright Mark, this is it! You can do this! I get on one knee, and I open my mouth. But she holds up a hand to stop me. “Mark, I’ve met someone else.”

Creative Writing Contest Winners Mount Mercy University congratulates Lisa Zou, from Chandler, Arizona, for winning our fifth annual Creative Writing Contest for High School Juniors. Mount Mercy would also like to recognize the following writers: Second Place: Tiffany Wang, John Guyer HS (TX) Third Place: Erin Cox, Iowa City HS (IA) Honorable Mentions: Maren Findlay, St. Paul Academy (MN) Emma Hartwig, Regina HS (IA) Luke Harvey, Williamsburg HS (IA) Melvin Munoz, Postville Community Schools (IA) Austin Rickertsen, Calamus-Wheatland HS (IA) Allie Spensley, Avon Lake HS (OH) Cameron Verducci, Regina HS (IA) To read the second- and third-place writings, please visit http://www.mtmercy.edu/cwc

Serving in Ben Hai Lisa Zou

Eighty-six years marks the wooden calendar while she pours congee to the brim, eyebrows entangled as pungent porridge smoke rises above cracked porcelain bowls. Cracks like the antique spider webs framing the charcoal chalkboards in her restaurant. They tally forty-two splintered dishes, and they praise my grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a gifted cook. French businessmen consumed rice noodles crafted by her crinkled palms, the hands that cried soup the morning South Vietnam fell into silent chaos. Even when the foreign man plucked twenty-one plums from her only shrub, she served his empty insides. Her light leather skin folds itself as each full moon passes, each fold counting suns since she last folded my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clothes. My grandmother pours congee to the brim, as if compensating for the night when she can no longer lift the pan to serve them, him, or me.

Contributors Billie Barker is a junior transfer from Kirkwood in her first year as an English Major with minors in Communications and Creative Writing. Her career aspirations include anything that provides the opportunity to write, edit, or travel. She lives in Cedar Rapids with her husband, one son out of three still at home, two cats, and one dog. Her hobbies include her book club started with Starbucks baristas and customers (she was a barista for seven years), interesting food, gardening, and anything else that makes life beautiful or delicious. Her claim to fame is that she flew a passenger jet over the Ural Mountains on her way to Siberia while the pilots drank vodka. Anna Bohr is a sophomore Communications Media major with minors in Writing and Public Relations from Wichita, Kansas. She is involved with The Mount Mercy Times, Beggin’ for Mercy Improv Troupe, and the bowling team. After college, she wants to work as a web content writer in a related field. Emma Bojorquez-Oldenburg is a sophomore in the Fine Arts Program. She hopes to someday be an art professor herself. Photography is her passion, and a lot of her work depicts that. The concept behind her piece, “Blessing in Disguise,” is to show how her mind’s core has a self-inflicted mission of protecting her family and those she loves most at any cost—even if it means her own suffocation. Lauren Brunson is a sophomore Graphic Design major who draws her inspiration from pop cultures and countercultures from the 1960s to the 1980s to the present.

Todd Cross is seeking an English and Secondary Education major with an endorsement in Journalism. He graduated with honors in May of 2014 from Kirkwood Community College with an Associate of Arts degree and as the Treasurer of Phi Theta Kappa. Todd plans to teach high school English and Humanities courses after he has completed his education. In his spare time, Todd enjoys volunteering with his husband, Casey, at Theatre Cedar Rapids and walking their basset hounds. Šárka Dvořáková is originally from the Czech Republic. She attended Mount Mercy in 2013-2014 as an exchange student from Palacký University. She fell in love with MMU at first sight while still in Europe, but the real thing dramatically exceeded her expectations, and she found it almost impossible to leave. She is currently back in the Czech Republic, working hard to finish her B.A. in English so that she can return to the U.S., hopefully to Iowa (fingers crossed!), and study creative writing. Writing is Šárka’s favorite thing in the world, and her biggest dream is to share her love of literature with the world. She hereby thanks everyone who made her stay at MMU the best ever. Bailey Frederick is a junior studying Art Education. In her free time, she likes to listen to music and hang out with friends. Cassie Green is from Anamosa, Iowa. She attended Anamosa High School and is now a sophomore English major at Mount Mercy. Along with writing poetry and short stories, some of her other hobbies include dancing and Taekwondo. She is currently writing a book of poetry and hopes to have it published soon. Carmen Delgado Harrington is a senior English major. She is the mother of two and grandmother of three from East Los Angeles, California, working toward a career teaching adult English Language Learners. She is a Navy veteran

and a retired Navy officer’s wife. She is also an Educational Spanish/English Interpreter for the Grant Wood AEA, Iowa City, Linn-Mar, and College Community school districts. When she isn’t working or studying, she enjoys reading, writing, sewing, knitting, playing the piano, creating computer graphics, and taking care of her grandchildren. Abby Herb is a student athlete, studying English while playing basketball on the women’s team. She aspires to travel around the world to help improve people’s lives and give them aid. She hopes to write about her experiences during her travels and to help raise awareness about different people’s life conditions. Ashley Holub is a transfer student from Kirkwood Community College, currently in her third year at Mount Mercy University. Her degree is in Marketing, and she is a cheerleader for women’s and men’s basketball. She’s enjoyed writing all her life, specifically poetry because she feels you can express your thoughts and feelings in different ways that can expand on what you feel. She feels that you are able to express these emotions through words that might ordinarily not carry a lot of meaning to them. Zachery Hooper is a junior English major and Creative Writing minor from North English, Iowa. He received his Associate of Arts degree from Kirkwood Community College, and he wants to someday write and share his ideas with others. He is heavily inspired by music and video games, and he loves to spend time with his family. Abbey Konzen is a sophomore Fine Arts major and Creative Writing minor from Marion, Iowa. She is involved in many ways at Mount Mercy, including her help with Peer Ministry, Band, Art Club, and more. Taylor Lamm is a freshman majoring in Early Childhood Development. She is from Marion, Iowa, and has always loved writing.

Jordan Larison graduated in December 2014 with a major in English. She works as a lead teacher in the twoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s room at Apple Kids Day Care Center in Marion. In her spare time, she enjoys world traveling, skydiving, and binging on Netflix. Abby Manternach is a senior double majoring in Graphic Design and Marketing. The piece of artwork displayed was created for her original Hard Work Beautified Series, and she is currently working on another series involving the same concept for her Senior Thesis. Amanda Mayotte graduated with a degree in Public Relations in December 2014. She grew up in Pulaski, Wisconsin and moved to Cedar Rapids in 2009. She tries her best to help the world and will continue to do so in whatever career she pursues. Nikki Pochay is a junior from Chicago, Illinois. She is majoring in Criminal Justice and minoring in Pre-law and Creative Writing. She has served as an Orientation Leader and bowls for Mount Mercy. Catheryn Recker (Catey) is a senior working toward a degree in English Secondary Education with an endorsement in Special Education. Catherynâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plans for the future are to teach high school Special Ed while becoming the next James Patterson. Dilip Reshmi is a senior Graphic Design major. Originally from Nepal, he enjoys listening to folk music and working at his mini studio. His passion is painting. Bailey Rickels is a freshman Criminal Justice major from Cedar Rapids. Her hobbies include volunteering, dancing, and baking. After graduating, she plans to get her Masters at Mount Mercy University or attend law school.

Julia Simons is a sophomore from Gilbert, Arizona. She is studying Vocal Music and English. She plans on pursuing a graduate degree in one of those two fields. She enjoys spending her free time performing with the theatre community in Cedar Rapids. Her interests include film studies, ballet, acting, and spending time with friends. She spends her free time reading, writing, and singing. Courtney Snodgrass is a sophomore double majoring in English and Psychology from the Cedar Rapids/Marion area. As the author of two already-published poetry collections, she’s absolutely in love with the power of words. She spends her time writing poetry and short stories and working towards her spot on the New York Times Bestseller List. Alyssa Vicente is a Fine Arts major. She is a full-time mother, full-time student, and an intern at the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art. Samantha Yorgensen is a senior in the K-12 Art Education program. Her featured piece is from her Senior Thesis exhibit titled “Iowa Nostalgia.” Lisa Zou, of Chandler, Arizona, is the winner of Mount Mercy’s fifth annual Creative Writing Contest for High School Juniors.

Paha was composed in 11 point Iowan Old Style and printed on Cougar Opaque Natural 70 lb. text. 80 lb. Sinar Glass and 80 lb. White Sinar Glass Cover. The printer was Welu Printing Company.