Paddlefish II 2016 by Mount Marty College

Paddlefish2016II

Paddlefish II 2016

Table of Contents 10

Maggie Jo McMahon • Socks in the Dryer—from the prompt: Write about an Appliance -Winner of the 2015 Father Jack Garvey Award for nonfiction

• •

Dare to Dream, non-fiction Years of my Life: Photo Essay, image inspire work

30 Alex Arnonld • The War on Us, commentary 33 Mitchel Barry • Window to Reality, poem 36 Joseph brinkman • The Beauty of Golf, non-fiction • The Tom Brady Argument, commentary 41 Caitlin Davis • May 15th, 2014—United Christians International in Caiman, Haiti, non-fiction 45 Destiny Garza • Behind Bars, poem 47 Manuel Guilen • Old Friends, fiction 53 Katie Hamil • Autonomic Frustration, poem

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Mathew Horn • One Song, One Corp, non-fiction

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Shanna Ibarolle-Koenig • First Love, non-fiction

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Paige Kanaly • One Scary Summer, non-fiction

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Jameson Kars • Branic Davidians: A collection of Soles, fiction

-Winner of the 2015 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for fiction

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Jennifer Vondrak • Puzzle Thief, image inspired work • Take me back to Jenny, non-fiction

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Abby K. Keffeler • Inmate Changed my Life, commentary • Glimpse of Me: Photo Essay, image inspired work

107 Graphic Design Student Work 119 Keslee Koster • Cotton Candy Heart, poem 121 Mikaela Lenz • Under Water, poem • Default, commentary 126 Gabrielle McHugh • Little Sister, poem 128 Jane Mill • That Easy Fix—The-Not-So-Great Powers of Drugs, commentary 131 Reece Mimmack • Vocal Weapons • How to Become Single 138 Dixie Pacheco • Tradition, commentary 141 Drue Soukup • Pro’s Place, non-fiction 143 Raquel Sutera • Waiting, non-fiction 148 Billie Wicks • The House that Tells the Story, non-fiction • Homeless, Not Hopeless, commentary

Table of Contents 155 Nicholas Wixon • My Dysfunctional American Family, non-fiction 160 Works Inspired by Edward Hopper

Katie Hamil • Girl at a Sewing Machine

Jennifer Vondrak • The Girl in the Automat

-Winner of the 2015 Sister Eileen Neville Award for poetry

Abby K. Keffeler • Black like Coffee

168 Bede Art Gallery: MMC Student Show 176 Book Reviews

Nicholas Wixon • The Commandant of Lubizec

Katie Hamil • The Collector of Names • I’ll Meet You There • Walk the Edge

Jennifer Vondrak • 4 P.M. Count • The Girl on the Train • Go Set a Watchman

Abby K. Keffeler • Silence • 4 P.M. Count

Raquel Sutera • The Collector of Names: “Cabin 5”

Caitlin Davis • Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

Editor

Jim Reese

Associate Editor

Dana DeWitt

Assistant Editor Review Editor

Jamie Sullivan

Copy Editor

Dana DeWitt

Arts Editor

David Kahle

Editorial Assistant Katie Hamil Abby K. Keffeler

Cover Art Katie Groteluschen “What Lies Ahead�

-Front door to Bishop Marty Chapel

Book Design & Layout

Abby K. Keffeler

Advisory Board

S. Cynthia Binder

Dana DeWitt S. Marielle Frigge Jamie Sullivan

Copyright Š 2016 by Paddlefish II All poems and prose are used with permission of the authors, and they retain all rights to their work published herein.

Except for brief quotations in reviews, no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system,without prior written permission of the copyright owner unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law.

The views expressed in Paddlefish II are not necessarily those of Mount Marty College.

Paddlefish II Snagging good literature one line at a time.

Mount Marty College 2016 Student Awards

Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry Jennifer Vondrak Father Jack Garvey Award for Nonfiction Maggie Jo McMahon Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Fiction Jordan Johnson All student awards were selected by anonymous MMC faculty.

Mount Marty College Student Awards provided by a generous gift from Liz Spivey in honor of Eugene Brinkmeyer, founder of the MMC Gregorian Club.

Winner of the 2015 Father Jack Garvey Award for Nonfiction

Socks in the Dryer

—from the prompt, Write about an Appliance

Maggie Jo McMahon It was old, white and beat up. It didn’t have a match, wasn’t part of a pair, just sat indifferent towards its neighbor. The thing’s top was uncaringly discolored, as if someone had haphazardly left something out to tarnish it with an off-white, almost brown ring to its center. Not to mention, the right hand corner had caved in a bit where Uncle Pat had dropped it during a move a few years before. The lid of the lint catch never really closed anymore, the catch had been pulled out too many times and was slightly bent with time and the family’s tendency to hurry.

But all imperfections aside, at the tender age of five, the thing was massive. Opening up the door on the front seemed to open up a world of possibilities. If I timed my adventure right, the new world was warm and smelled like a mountain spring. I discovered this, much how curious young minds find any new thing, with a sense of recklessness and head first. In a moment of pure desperation, the cavernous interior seemed to offer me the perfect safe haven during a really rather intense round of hide and seek.

I had originally been on path for the shower, because of course no one could possibly see me through the semi-transparent, dolphin themed curtain, but upon reaching said shower, I discovered the hideout already had an occupant. So I did what any kid in my position would do, I tried to squeeze in next to my best friend. Who promptly decided to roughly shove me out of the space and frantically wave her arms at me until I left her alone to her hiding spot. At this point I was sure I was going to be discovered, as I could hear my brother’s voice just down the hall, edging closer and closer to that magic number of fifty.

But then I turned around and saw a chance, a hope that maybe I could escape unscathed. I pulled open the door and without very much thought, I crawled up and tumbled inside. I scrabbled at the door, trying to pull it closed from the inside, and just as my brother hit fifty and announced his descent upon us, I managed to shut it with little more than a small thud.

Suddenly, I was engulfed in darkness. The metal was cold on legs, my shorts had done little to keep the chill at bay where my 10

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skin touched it. I felt something cutting hard against my back, but I hadn’t dared to move. I couldn’t be found, not when I had miraculously found a place to hide. Inside the metal drum of the machine, I couldn’t hear much of anything—all the sounds dampened by the walls of my newfound world. I don’t know how long I waited there, hidden away in my little safe haven, only that it felt like forever.

I remember feeling like I had won, like I was the queen of hide and seek—and at five years old, that was quite the bragging right. Being able to out smart my sixteen-year-old brother? It didn’t happen very often. I remember that first time, sitting awkwardly and somewhat uncomfortably, but the opportunity to come back was still enticing.

I could have a space of my very own, a space in which I could do anything, be anyone.

For an embarrassing amount of time, I frequented that new metal world. I stole away with a bag of previously forbidden chocolate chips—a five year old needed sustenance and mom would be none the wiser, as anyone had yet to find me—a flashlight, and whatever book I was attempting to read at the time. I always wore long pants after experiencing the chill of the drum, or made sure the metal was still warm when I crawled inside. Occasionally, I would bring my best friend on the adventure with me. We would twist just so, folding our legs up and pretzeling together in order to fit with the door closed. It was quite the feat, let me tell you.

I loved having this place, this metal world, all to myself. Being able to hide away from my nosy little sister, or to escape the threat of chores, or to just be on my own—it was almost powerful to childhood me. It was my safe haven as long as I could fit, which, of course, was around eleven years old.

I remember one day, probably when I was about seven, my brother opened the door to see me casually stuffing my mouth with chocolate chips and laughing at whatever silly thing Junie B. Jones had said. I had turned to him, wide-eyed and knowing I’d been caught, but he did the coolest thing a big brother could do. He sat down just outside the door, held out his hand, and asked for some chocolate chips. I coughed up my stash and offered it to him. He laughed, whether it was at the chocolate on my face or the situation he found himself in, I don’t know, but he laughed. I remember asking if he wanted to read with me, but then stubbornly telling him he couldn’t come in—he was too big, he would get stuck. Again, a chuckle was his only response. I read him the thoughts and adventures of my friend Junie, and we passed the chocolate back and forth.

It may seem a bit odd, to have such a memory connected with a machine meant for laundering clothes, but it is one of my favorite memories of my brother. He left later that year for the Navy—to go off in his own metal drum of a world—and somewhere along the line he

tumbled into a never-ending search for answers just out of reach somewhere in the bottom of a bottle. There are days I hold on to my wonder. Days I pretend, days I escape, days I still believe— that in and amongst the layers, and lost in with the socks, something beautiful and loving lives

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Dare to Dream Maggie Jo McMahon At just six years old, I thought I knew it all. My little sister was always going to be annoying, I loved spaghetti, and Princess Bride was always going to be the best story ever written and the best movie ever made. I lived a simple life, little six year old me.

But one day my mother brought home a new book. A book that eventually got shared with me. So then of course, I stole it. I’d read books before, but I’d yet to read anything that was worth something—anything that would make a difference to little six year old me. Remember how I said I knew everything?

I was wrong. I didn’t know how to imagine. I didn’t know what friendship truly was. I didn’t know what it was to believe in the unknown, the unseen. I didn’t know that just by reading the words spilled across a page I could be taken to a place where colors were vibrant and love was pure. Where adventure was commonplace and imagination encouraged.

I stumbled across this place—this new home. People told me it was all just a story and nothing from it could ever be real, but to me, all of it was real. It all meant something, and some days it meant everything. I could fall into the words written upon the pages, get lost in a world where magical things happened and evil never won. This world helped me to deal with the world I began to feel trapped in.

This book, and those that followed, became my invisibility cloak—I could hide from the monsters of my world within Harry’s. It was my resurrection stone—I could carry it with me always and reconnect with the people who would one day save me. It was my elder wand—it was the most powerful weapon I had. This book showed me what it was to live every second, to love every second.

Just a couple of years later, now eight, and let me just say, life was no longer simple. I was learning how to multiply, and I was beginning to notice that boys weren’t all disgusting. Oh, and I had braces—it was a rough year.

It was also the year I decided what I wanted to be when I grew up. I met Taylor by the mailboxes at the end of the culde-sac—naturally we decided to ride our bikes together to the neighborhood jungle gym right then and there, and from that 13

moment on she was my best friend. We decided together when we got to her house later that day, and as we played with our Toy Story Band Aids and our pretend stethoscopes, that we were both going to be doctors when we grew up, and that we would, of course, “have our own doctor place together”. I was so excited, in that moment, to have figured it all out, to have picked my “grown up job”. I was going to save people, and I was going to be rich—and on top of it all, I was going to get to do it with my best friend.

The next logical step, of course, was to start talking about buying our white coats and picking out what games were going to be in the waiting rooms for people to play. We were both very adamant that there would be I Spy books and Connect Four—we talked about Bop it, but we both thought our moms would get mad because it was too noisy, so sadly, it got cut from the plans.

Once we had that figured out, we moved on to who we were going to have as nurses. Each of us had a little sister, so we figured we could just rope them into being our nurses—they could work for free. Our moms could be the ladies at the front desk who always make you fill out paper work—moms love making you do things you hate doing. And just like that, our life was planned. Of course, now I can see the flaws in logic, but at the time all I could focus on was the complete feeling of satisfaction at having figured out what I was going to do—and at having a best friend to share it with.

Flash forward about ten years, and I’m a senior in high school—a very busy senior in high school. Life was anything but simple. If I wasn’t constantly at some club or playing in some game, I was trying not to drown in my own thoughts and self-doubt. Ten years later, and I still held onto that dream of becoming a doctor. I’d taken all of the science and math courses I could. I’d job shadowed and witnessed numerous surgeries.

To everyone else, I knew what I wanted. But inside, silently and uncertain, I also wanted to write—that place I went to whenever I read a truly fantastic story, one that I could feel with every part of my being, was like a drug for me. I wanted to create that feeling, I wanted others to experience it just like me. I wanted to save others through my writing like Rowling did for me. I wanted, dare I say needed, the relief that writing gave me, the feeling of utter weightlessness, even if only for a moment.

I wanted, but I doubted. I was still struggling with feeling like I was good enough. Making it as an author was hard, most never really become a household name, but me making it big?

Me being successful in the literary world? I never even saw it as a possibility. I never believed in myself and my capability as a writer. I told myself that I needed to study medicine, it was what 14

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was right for me—it was safe. Safe was good. Safe was great. I just wanted to believe that. I made myself believe it.

Skip ahead two years, and I’m a sophomore at Mount Marty.

I had just gotten to my boyfriend’s room. I was running late because softball practice went long. My boyfriend was upset, we were supposed to be having pizza and playing games with some friends, and I had caused them to wait.

I had waited for him to say his peace and then pulled out my phone and ordered the pizza, the least I could do was pay for it. We decided to start with Jenga, a simple enough game. His roommate went first, taking a piece from near the bottom. We took turns picking out the wooden blocks and then stacking them on the top of the little, wooden tower. I clearly remember edging out a piece about halfway down the tower and knowing that it was going to fall, that I was going to lose—I pulled the block out anyways. Watching the tower pivot and begin to collapse, I felt like I was watching the pieces of my life tumbling to the floor. Out of control and a bit self-destructive. I had once again become this hollow shell of a person. I didn’t want to do anything or go anywhere. All I wanted was to hide from the world in the quiet comfort of my lonely room—I didn’t want to take up space that someone brighter could have filled.

The pieces of my life were slowly tumbling away from me—I was failing several classes, my boyfriend had cheated on me, softball was no longer the escape it once was, and I felt trapped in this major that once was my dream. I needed a change or I was going to lose a lot more than a once upon a time dream. I needed to write.

I was terrified to tell my parents, I believed I would be letting them down. Once again I wasn’t going to be good enough. I was terrified to tell them that I was going to lose my scholarship— eleven thousand dollars was more than I could afford to lose.

I fought with myself for more than half a semester to just pick up the phone and call them, to just blurt it out, let them make sense of it. I could never work up the courage. I could barely even work up the motivation and desire to actually make the switch in majors. But one day I snapped, I literally broke down and called my mother in a sobbing mess. I could hardly get a word out through my tears, but she understood—I was hurting.

And finally, here we are. I’m a senior. Wait, did I get that right?

I’m already four years into this? I honestly don’t know where the time went or how I arrived at this point in one piece. Whole and happy and ready to embark on the next phase of my journey.

Making the switch from PreMed to English Writing was the best decision I could have possibly made. I needed the creative 15

outlet, I needed the opportunity to heal through my writing. I felt trapped and confined before, but now? Now I believe in myself, and all that I do. I know that even if I fail, I failed doing my best, doing all that I could. I know that the journey is just as important as the destination, if not more so. Now I know to trust my instinct, to trust my judgment. Now? Now I feel like the world is at my fingertips, if only I put them to a keyboard.

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Years of my Life Photo Essay Maggie Jo McMahon

I can still feel the softness of the speckled and animal covered fabric, with its stripes and the ruffles—can still feel the safety and the warmth these, now worn with over use but still forever loved, possessions once provided childhood me. (3)

Red and blue and stripes of green and white, this starry eyed, stuffed and floppy clown given to me on the day of my birth would sing a whimsical song to me if ever I pulled its white, plastic handle, a song I absolutely adored and made ring out time and time again—even after accidentally decapitating him. (1)

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A rock named George, a broken purple yo-yo, one of Mr. Potato Head’s ears, an Anastasia Barbie doll—little trinkets and odds and ends, these significant pieces of my younger life, all stowed away within the safety of my own yellow treasure box. (8)

Picking up that first softball, or trying on that little plastic glove for the first time, was absolutely captivating for me—it felt like I had the world in my hands. (4)

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Much like leaving the glass of milk and plate of cookies out for Santa on Christmas Eve, I always hung the Tooth Fairy’s winged and tooth-shaped pillow on the door handle of my room, where in the morning, I would find a dollar in the pocket—from the very first set of teeth my sister knocked out with a Land Before Time puppet. (5)

As a toddler I was fascinated with clowns, with their bright colors and their ability to make me laugh—this particular clown played a part in my second year, the year my parents dressed me up as a clown for my baby pictures. (2)

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As my father stuttered his way through Professor Quirrell’s lines, and while he read me the beautiful words J.K. Rowling was able to put to paper, I became completely and utterly entranced with this world that was being given to me—this world of magic and love and wonder, a world that taught me what it was to believe. (6)

I remember posing with my brother, my sister and I on each side of him, as he got ready to pick up his date for his senior prom; this is one of the last pictures I have with him, one of the last when I still completely thought of him as my brother.

(7) 20

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This picture is invaluable, irreplaceable, impossible to capture again; this is the only family picture we have that has both of my brothers home at the same time and all four of us together, but, just like the posing of the frame, we are posing as a family—my brothers left before I knew what that meant, they left to live their own lives, lives we aren’t a part of. (11)

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The summer before my freshman year of high school, my family and I went to Disney World; I know this trip meant a lot to my parents, as it was the first and only trip we’ve ever taken—we could never really afford to take a trip like this, and I love them even more for working so hard to make this one possible. (14)

A simple word, spoken by a man who was anything but, he was a symbol of the unexpected, of the brave, of the lonely—the word is a symbol of the mystical story that shaped my life, that allowed me so many dreams, so many hopes, and gave me a love for the power of a book, always. (21)

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I remember my mother made me join the girl scouts when I was eight; I remember feeling like it was the last thing I wanted to do, but after earning some badges and selling some cookies with my fellow scouts, I fell in love with it—it gave me a second family, a whole new set of sisters. (9)

I wish I could go back and experience the game with them all over again, the joy and the laughter with these girls eclipsed any shadow of the negativity from the years before that still lurked— they loved me and they loved the game, just like I did them, unconditionally and completely. (18) 23

Year fifteen was all about feeling inadequate, about feeling like I wasn’t worthy or good enough for someone else; it was the year I met Mason—it was the start of the darkness. (15)

Sixteen was the year the darkness really set in, a year of self-doubt and self-hate so strong it was almost the year that ended it all— it was the year of the semi-colon, my reminder. (16)

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This was the year of seventeen, of dragging through the mud, of finding my footing again after getting lost—it was the year the absolutely blinding darkness passed, the year it became slightly navigable again. (17)

Twelve years old and I’ve lost you, I won’t get to hug you or see you again; we won’t go to Bear Country that one last time, me tugging your hand and you laughing at the wildness of some overexcited cubs, but Grandpa, I’ve got our bears with me always.

(12)

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Having always loved to read, I was curious about writing—was it hard, or was it something I could do—so I would carry this journal with me everywhere, writing about everything I found even remotely interesting. (13)

Reading gave me this place to imagine myself, this place to escape from my own sometimes lackluster world, but writing gave me something else—it gave me the opportunity to heal. (20)

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All I knew was that I wanted to start over, to begin again with a new perspective and to really find myself and all I could be—this school, small and intimate, allowed me to do so as it welcomed me into its family. (19)

When I was ten years old my father quit his job and the family packed up and moved to a new state, a new town, a new house— ten year old me thought it was the end of the world, I thought I was losing everything I’d ever known, when in reality, I wasn’t losing my world, I was gaining a new one.

(10)

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?

Year twenty-two has just begun, aged but only three days—I have no idea where this year will take me as I graduate and leave this place that’s been home for the last four years, and I have no idea where I’ll end up, but I know I’m excited for the journey. (22)

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Maggie Jo McMahon is originally from the small town of Wisner, Nebraska, and soon to be a recent graduate from Mount Marty College, with a major in English Writing and a minor in Business. Aiming to land herself a spot in the world of publishing as an editor, she hopes to help authors share their work and ideas with others. Aside from dedicating time to her major, she is also involved in Residence Life on campus, a member of two Mount Marty choirs, a member of SGA, and tutors in the Center for Academic Excellence. She has been published previously in the Paddlefish and Paddlefish II.

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The War on Us Alex Arnold

The United States is always at war, its just part of the country’s description. We fought a war to gain our independence, fought another one against each other to preserve the union and we have fought many wars since those times. The need for warfare makes up a large part of our country’s fabric and is instilled within its identity. Wars have brought together Americans as much as they have caused division. With the obvious exception of the Vietnam War we as a nation have stood united in support of our troops, our government and our fellow citizens. However, when the government wages a war against it’s own people, or a segment of them, the idea of unity goes out the window. The War on Drugs is a government action that aims to remove illicit drugs from American streets. At face value this seems like a noble cause, a closer look at the legislation and agenda that surrounds this war reveals a dark, scary secret. What has been promoted as a battle for prosperity in the United States is truly a war based upon race and socioeconomic status.

Even if I never saw one statistic that supports this claim I would still believe it to be true. If I never visited the Drug Policy Alliance home webpage and seen that 70 percent of the federal prisoners and 60 percent of the state’s prison population is made up of Black and Latino citizens I would still believe it to be true.

If I were to never have watched the documentary “The House that I Live In” chronicling the disparities that exist in The War on Drugs I would still believe it to be true. Growing up in a lowermiddle class area of San Francisco, all I had to do was look at my surroundings to see the devastating effects that were brought along by this legislation.

The San Francisco-Bay Area is one of if not the most diverse places in the world. People living there know there are no true majority or minority races, as a vast number of ethnic and cultural groups are represented. The Bay Area is also extremely liberal and therefore is at the forefront of social justice initiatives.

A prime and relevant example of this innovativeness is its stance on marijuana prohibition. San Francisco was one of the first 30

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places in the country to ease the regulations and restrictions on marijuana, taking a big first step in legalization nationwide. With this region being so drastically different than most places in the country it’s easy to assume that the problems brought about by this War on Drugs don’t exist there. This assumption could not be further from the truth, as the inequalities are as visible there as any other part of the country.

Being from a lower-middle class family in inner city San Francisco I have seen first hand the havoc that this war causes.

The execution of this legislation has opened Pandora’s Box and damaged our society to the foundation, creating a system of failure, prosecution and exploitation. As I got older I started to see the effects that came with this war. By my last year of middle school most of my African American and Latino friends had dropped out of school. By my senior year in high school most of them were dead, in jail or strung out on the drugs that the government claimed to be protecting them from. The situation is so ironic that it would almost be humorous if it weren’t so devastating. While the objective of The War on Drugs was to take drugs off the streets, it seems that more often than not the only thing being taken off of the streets are the role models and parental figures for those living in urban areas. One of the most real things I’ve ever heard was said to me by a close friend who lost his family to incarceration or death, sending him down a path that so many others in the exact same situation walked before him; the path of a drug dealer. This would be one of the last things he said to me. “ When you think about it bruh, I basically work for the government. I do the job that they want done the most, killin’ the minorities and the poor with the shit they be (buying) off me. The government need people like me, that’s why they keep taking our pops. One day they gon’ take me so that my kid can take my place, poison the next generation. It’s all just a game. Listen here cuz I can get anything I want: (weed), sex, cars. The only thing I can’t get is out the game. Right now bruh that’s all I want.” He told this to me a few days before the start of my freshmen year in high school. Less then a month later, one of the smartest people I knew was shot dead leaving a barbershop, just the latest casualty in The War on Drugs.

The War on Drugs has had a large part in shaping society as we know it. While at face level it may seem like criminals are being taken off of the streets, more often then not a provider is being taken off of the street. It’s a father being taken away from his family, a child forced to grow up without a role model. The ripples from one arrest can be felt for generations to come. At the rate this war is progressing, this problem will be felt for a lifetime.

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Alex Arnold is currently a pursuing his degree in psychology at Mount Marty College where he is a junior. He is originally born and raised in San Francisco, a place that has been very influential to the person that he is. He resides in Yankton, South Dakota where he moved to pursue a baseball scholarship.

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Window to Reality Mitchell Barry

As I peer out the window, I picture two beautiful girls gracefully dancing around the meadow, The warm summer sun gently gleaming.

My wife and my daughter, faces blurred but beauty still unimaginable.

A bright future is what I see when I peer through the window.

A window that is just a fraction of a home where we will make memories to come Full of laughs, full of tears, and full of fear but ultimately full of love.

I imagine a future where we partake in holiday feasts, the family joining around the dining table with the smell of delight lingering in the air and the noise of social gatherings flooding my ears.

Days where I come home from work to a long awaited kiss, to a child embraced in my arms, to a pup wrestling me to the ground.

Then nights where I lay next to my daughter, sweetly serenading her to sleep as I wrap her up and kiss her softly as to not wake her.

The nights where I cuddle with the woman I love, looking into her beautiful eyes as if I am seeing them again for the first time.

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As I peer out the window, I imagine what love could truly mean but all I see is grass that has faded from green in a barren lawn, as I am brought back to reality.

A reality where the love for paper comes before the love for – another.

A reality where selfishness comes before – selflessness.

A reality where one says anything is possible but another says – impossible.

A reality where dreams seldom come true.

As I peer through this old pane of glass to see the pain brought upon those with hardened faces who pass.

Those, who have dreamed the same dream I had but have lost it all to reality.

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Mitchell Barry, born in Yankton, South Dakota, enjoys playing football, singing his heart out, and hanging out with close friends. Also, Mitchell loves spending time outdoors and has recently found an interest in writing. Currently attending Mount Marty College to pursue a Bachelor’s, and someday a Master’s, in Business Entrepreneurship and Finance, Mitchell is very passionate about his own future but yet lives to put smiles on people’s faces any chance he can. One day, he hopes to have a happy family, his own business, and an adventure of a life time.

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The Beauty of Golf Joseph Brinkman There is not a better sight to see in the mornings upon arrival at the golf course than that of dew still on the tips of the grass, haze hanging over the fairways and greens, a mist lurking above the lateral hazards where the ball hopefully does not land. After laces are tied and the golf club is in hand, the only thing that whips through your mind is the fact that the world that God has created is so beautiful even though the only thing being seen is the fairway off the tee box on the first hole. The sky is clear and the sun is just starting to shine over the hills off in the distance. The grounds keepers have not yet got around to mowing the greens so the ball is leaving a rooster tail as it rolls toward the hole on the putting green.

After the half hour of short-game practice the golf shoes get soaked with dew on the way to the first tee box where the round is commence. An hour and a half to two hours of relaxation and fun. Practice swings take place and the ball is teed up. Looking down the middle of the fairway at a house in the distance as the aiming point for the ball. The only thing that is going through the mind is perfect ball flight, like Jordan Spieth’s tee shots. A ball flight such as his doesn’t come around very often but when it does others are motivated to play on the PGA tour. Setting up for the shot couldn’t feel any better, the birds are chirping, the sun is burning off the haze above the fairway and practice swings are perfect.

The backswing just right, transition is at the perfect moment, and the hips clear before the hands on the downswing creating lag for maximum distance. As the follow through is being completed the head looks up to see the ball flying in a beautiful right to left motion just like Jordan, but to your disappointment there is no white dot flying away, looking down you realize the ball is still on the tee. Golf doesn’t look so beautiful anymore.

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PADDLEFISH II

The Tom Brady Argument Joseph Brinkman I have always been a New England Patriots fan, especially when it comes to Tom Brady. The first thing I am told is, “You are just a band wagoner because they are the best team in the NFL.” This comment always seems to get me because that is not at all how my liking for the Patriots and Tom Brady came about.

I do not recall how old I was at the time but my dad believes I was around the age of seven or eight when I first started liking Tom Brady. Truth be told, I saw an AT&T cell phone commercial with Tom Brady as the to-be Flo of Progressive insurance. Dad said that I liked the commercial because there was a quarterback in it and that’s what I wanted to be when I grew up. Of course at that age I wanted to be every kind of professional athlete on the planet. Dad said that I turned to him and said, “Dad, I like him. Who does he play quarterback for? Because I like them.”

My liking for the team that is now being discussed as a dynasty all started because I was watching television late at night with dad, when I was supposed to be dreaming of hitting walk off homeruns in the bottom of the ninth of a World Series.

“You are just a band wagoner” is always the start to the argument about the Patriots being my favorite team and Tom Brady being the best quarterback in the NFL and possibly in the history of the league. Most people tend to disagree with me for a number of different reasons. Some of the reasons are because he was picked 199th in the NFL draft, which I believe has nothing to do with being possibly the best quarterback in NFL history.

“Bill Belichick is one of the best coaches ever, it’s because of him that Tom Brady is so good.” I definitely agree that Belichick is one of the best because of Tom Brady, no doubt about that.

I always answer back with, “Where did Bill coach before New England and did anyone really know who he was before Brady and the Patriots?” I tend to get a lot of people stumped on that one because the truth is, he really isn’t known for coaching the Cleveland Browns in early 90’s. He received the head coaching job in New England in 2000 and has not left. He and Brady together have won a whopping 160 games which is 44 more 37

games than Don Shula and Dan Marino (2nd). Dan Marino is also one of the greatest QB’s to play the game.

Of course the comment, “Oh, he cheated! They deflated the footballs!” is always brought up against him and the Patriots.

That I cannot explain or prove, and neither can the NFL. No one knows whether Brady or Belichick deflated those footballs but they were in fact deflated and that is not right. I understand that completely. Whether the footballs were deflated or not, does not define Tom Brady’s career. He has 160 wins as a quarterback which is third in NFL history behind Brett Favre and Peyton Manning. Surprisingly Joe Montana isn’t even in the top five in this category. And oh yeah, he’s in the Hall of Fame and according to most IS the greatest quarterback of all time.

I could go on and on about stats that prove Tom Brady should be in the conversation for the greatest quarterback of all time. In addition, there are so many things that he does that don’t show up on the stat sheets. He was drafted 199th overall, which would be the sixth round of the 2000 NFL draft. He was told in college that he couldn’t make it at the NFL level because he sometimes played with too much emotion. Playing with emotion is never a bad thing in my book. Tom Brady worked to be what he is today, it wasn’t just handed to him. He is one of those athletes who plays in the moment and doesn’t let a big lead or something like that bother him or mess with the way that he plays the game. He has fun playing the game that he loves and there is no reason to punish someone for that.

“He plays for the New England Patriots, they are always good and they get a lot of good picks in the drafts.” This statement is one that I hear over and over. I don’t understand why people keep saying it because it is only half correct. The first part about them always being good is true because Tom Brady and Bill Belichick is the best coach-quarterback combo that the league has ever seen.

The second part however is completely different. The Patriots hardly ever get the so called “lottery” picks in the draft. When you do well throughout the season the league basically says that you don’t need to get a great player out of college because of how the last season went. And since New England is always in contention for the Lombardi trophy they have around the 30th pick every year. Because of this success Tom Brady has the most conference championship game appearences in NFL history with ten, Joe Montana is second with only seven. The 2015-2016 AFL Championship game also gave him the NFL record of 55 career passing touchdowns in the post-season, only distancing himself more from Montana’s 45.

“Tom Brady always has great receivers and tight-ends to throw 38

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to. That’s why he has so many yards, other players make him look good.” Whoops, sorry, wrong again! He hardly ever has an elite player/ Hall of Famer to throw to. The only potential Hall of Famer that Tom Brady has ever had on his team that he threw to was Randy Moss and only for one season. That season was in 2007 when Brady threw for 50 touchdowns and the team was undefeated until the Super bowl. His 50 touchdown passes in a single season are second in NFL history only to Peyton Manning, another all-time great. Just imagine what the Brady-Moss combo could’ve been if it had lasted longer. This 2015-2016 season he threw to Danny Amendola, Julian Edelman and Rob Gronkowski for the most part. Julian Edelman did worse in the draft than Brady, a whole round worse. Now because of Tom Brady, he will be one of the top receivers in free-agency when his contract is over. Three players the league had never even heard of before Tom Brady got ahold of them, at least in my understanding. If you look back in history at some of the greatest quarterbacks of all time you will see a different story. Take Joe Montana of the San Francisco 49ers for example. Who did he have as a wide receiver threat? Yep, that’s correct, Jerry Rice #80, the greatest receiver in NFL history. His name is on the top or near the top of every receiving stat there is to keep track of. Peyton Manning, another great, had Marvin Harrison and Reggie Wayne, two guys that are potential Hall of Famers.

Does Tom Brady deserve the conversation of being the greatest quarterback of all time? Absolutely. He worked his way to the top from being a sixth round draft choice, he’s won four Super bowl championships, he plays the game the right way, he knows how to lead a team, and he has never had a stellar receiving core like some of the greatest quarterbacks of all time did. He has never had “that guy” at the wide out position but yet he still is at the top or near the top of leaderboards from an all-time standpoint. Tom Brady makes everyone around him better. Period. He deserves the conversation with a high recommendation.

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Joseph Brinkman is a freshman at Mount Marty College, majoring in History with minors in English writing and Psychology, and he is also playing golf for the school. He is the oldest of eight children from small town Jackson, MN and enjoys being outdoors as much as possible. Faith, family, friends and athletics are the four main aspects in his life. He plans to deepen his faith, continue his education and improve his golf game while attending Mount Marty College.

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PADDLEFISH II

May 15th, 2014 - United Chrisitans International in Caiman , Haiti Cailtin Davis

On my third day in Haiti, the alarm clock went off at 4:15 a.m.

I lay there on top of the bunk-bed starring at the ceiling. The bed consisted of one sheet over a plastic-covered mattress and one lumpy pillow. With the intense heat, I only used the sheet to periodically wipe off my sweat. At least once every night, I woke up burning from head to toe. I would lay there desperately blowing on my skin trying to find some form of relief from the heat. Between the unpleasant temperature and my inability to forget about the tarantula we found- but failed to capture- in the corner of the room, sleeping was nearly impossible.

We didn’t normally wake up at 4:15 a.m., but that day was special. The community members invited our team to their early morning worship. I slipped on my shoes and headed out the door with a couple of the girls on the team. We walked down the gravel road in absolute darkness towards the church. I stopped for a moment to look up at the sky. Every star was visible that morning. I remember thinking that stars don’t look quite that way anywhere else. I found myself looking at the sky frequently in Haiti. It sounds silly, but it was difficult for me to believe that we were still on the same planet. The idea that I look up at the same sky in small town South Dakota as the people in Haiti seems illogical and incomprehensible.

The church was a building with only a roof and two walls- one in the front and one in the back. I admired the openness of the church; it was inviting and accepting. It seemed to be saying, “I don’t care who you are, where you’ve been, or what you’re doingyou are always welcome to come worship with us”. Within the church, there was an arrangement of wooden pews and a few extra chairs. It’s important to note that everything within the building- including the building itself- was created by calloused hands and kind hearts. I think that says quite a bit about the Haitians, that the pews they sit on in church were created by their own hands.

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I examined the people already in the church before sitting down in the first pew. The church was filled with mostly men and a handful of women. The Haitians go to worship early in the morning before they head off to work for the day. They do this every single day. Their definition of work doesn’t involve sitting down passively at a desk all day. The days of the Haitians are filled with hard, manual labor. The fact that they make time every single morning to worship says a tremendous amount about their faith.

A young Haitian woman took a seat beside me right as worship began. I stole a glance at her before she sat down. She wasn’t much older than me with smooth dark skin that stretched over protruding collarbones and pointy knees. I looked down and examined our contrasting arms. An image of the third grader who sat beside me at bible study the day before crept into my skull. I caught her starring at my pinkish flesh with big brown eyes filled with curiosity. With my attention, she slowly grabbed my arm and put it up against hers. I could tell that she was intensely observing the difference in pigment. Flipping over my hand, she studied the creases on my palm and the indents on my fingertips. Slowly, but confidently, she intertwined her fingers with mine and proceeded to listen to the bible study. I felt a compelling stirring within my heart that moment. Despite the language barrier, I heard her loud and clear. She silently told me that she acknowledges our differences and loves me just the same.

I couldn’t help smiling as I gently tucked this memory back into the seams of my heart.

As I turned my attention back to the church, the man in the front with sharp cheekbones and a kind smile began the worship service in song. I had absolutely no idea what they were saying, but I focused on the way their sound waves vibrated against the ceiling of the church. I was startled when the young woman next me started to sing, as well. Her voice was low and husky, yet powerful. She never faltered while finding the harmony line. If I had the words, I would have told her how beautiful her voice was.

Instead, I closed my eyes and softly hummed along. It was only their voices- nothing else. Despite my inability to understand what they were saying, I could appreciate the purpose behind their singing and the beauty of their raw voices. I’ve never felt God’s presence as much as I did sitting there on that wooden pew surrounded by people speaking a language I didn’t understand.

After the song was finished, the same man read a bible verse that our translator proclaimed in English to us. Expounding on the verse, he stressed the importance of loving God with every atom of our existence. It isn’t a part-time thing. We need to love God through all aspects of our lives- work, relationships, hobbies, 42

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etc. Following this sermon, he proceeded to pray in free-verse style. This type of prayer will always strike me. Growing up in a Catholic household, I am used to saying and hearing rehearsed prayers and routine ‘Our Fathers’. Free-verse prayer is my favorite kind because it is unrehearsed with no other choice but to come from the heart and soul. Goosebumps speckled across my skin as I listened to him pray for our safety, our happiness, and the state of our souls. These people live in the absolute heart of poverty where their children walk around eternally barefoot, where houses are made out of tarp and fragmented pieces of wood, and where people die from common colds and the flu. The selflessness of the prayer shook me to the core.

As he began to close with the last song, I felt my eyes sting with the presence of tears. They may not be living the ideal life, but they are alive. The faith within their hearts is not the same kind most of us possess sitting in comfy living rooms with more than enough food in our cabinets. It’s a faith of a greater magnitude. I looked around the room and studied each of their faces deep in song and filled with passion. I thought about how little the Haitians have compared to our American standards, but I couldn’t help noticing how significantly happier they are. I’ve seen this happiness in their eagerness to learn, their ability to show love freely, and their absolute engagement in the present. Maybe the way that we’ve grown accustomed to living has cushioned us against the beauty of simply being alive. It was only day three in Haiti, but I already felt myself shaking off this cushiony layer and letting the Haitian people rearrange my way of thinking and my deepest beliefs.

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Originally from Elk Point, South Dakota, Caitlin Davis is currently a junior at Mount Marty College pursuing a double major in Criminal Justice and Human Services with a minor in English. Other than focusing on academics, Caitlin is avidly involved in campus activities as a Resident Assistant in Corbey, a voice for the students as a Student Government Representative, the Vice President of Fellowship of Christian Athletes, a Tutor in the Center for Academic Excellence, and a track/cross-country athlete.

When she has free time, she enjoys reading Mary Oliver poetry and self-discovery memoirs, taking extensive road trips through the mountains, and practicing the ukulele and piano. She has kept a journal since the first grade, and has always loved capturing her ideas and adventures through pencil and paper.

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PADDLEFISH II

Behind Bars Destiny Garza

I spent most of my childhood talking to my family through plexiglass windows.

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Destiny Garza is a freshman at Mount Marty College. She is seeking a major in Human Services and a minor in Psychology.

After graduation she plans on continuing on to law school and hopes to eventually be a corporate lawyer.

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PADDLEFISH II

Old Friends Manuel Guillen

INT. CAR - DAY George (brown skin and brown eyes) talks to Tyler (caucasian, red hair and green eyes) in car as he pulls up to the bank.

GEORGE I just need to make a quick withdrawal.

Tyler, upset with the pit-stop, crosses his hands and wrinkles his face. George shivers when he steps out of his ’89 Honda Accord and puts on a black hoodie.

TYLER Be fast, I’m starving!

GEORGE I got you hommie, just chill.

EXIT CAR.

INT. BANK - DAY The beige counters and bulletproof glass are dull. The woman at the counter is wearing a grey suit and is attentively watching George step to the ATM. George moves his hand to his pocket.

The woman moves her finger closer to the button under the desk.

George pulls out his wallet. The woman eases and puts her hand back on the desk.

CUT TO:

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EXT. BANK - DAY George walks out the door and just outside a man approaches him from behind.

MAN Give me all of your money!

George turns abruptly with his hands in the air.

GEORGE Please don’t hurt me. I’ll give you all my money, just let me go (Looks up) Michael?!?

MICHAEL (blonde hair, blue eyes in a business suit) Hey George! You okay, just wanted to surprise you, didn’t mean to freak you out.

They embrace.

GEORGE I haven’t seen you in like 3 years.

What’s new?

MICHAEL Nothing much, just living. You know, just trying to get by.

GEORGE Yeah, I get you.

MICHAEL You still into FIFA? GEORGE Yeah, man.

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George looks over to Tyler. Tyler is waving his hands wildly, pointing at his watch.

It’s so good to see you.

MICHAEL Been real busy ya know. Just working on all sorts of projects.

You heard of that new bridge? I’m on that committee.

GEORGE That’s great, man. Hey, I gotta head out...

MICHAEL Yeah. If you’ll be in the area, you should call me. Here, take my number.

(George hands Michael his phone.)

Call or text me anytime.

GEORGE I’ll text you real soon.

They hug again and go their separate ways.

INT. CAR - DAY George starts the car with a huge smile on his face and they pull away.

GEORGE Can you believe that I ran into Michael?

TYLER Who? GEORGE 49

Michael, the guy that threw a party Sophomore year.

TYLER I was so drunk, you could have told me Santa was there making out with Betty White and I would have believed you.

GEORGE Anyways, he seems to be doing well for himself. We should call him to hang out.

TYLER Can we do that some other time? I’m starving.

FADE TO:

INT. CAR - DAY They place their order and drive up to the window.

CASHIER That will be 12.67.

George checks his pockets, seeking his wallet.

TYLER What’s wrong?

GEORGE I can’t find my wallet.

George apologizes and parks nearby and calls the number Michael gave him. The phone beeps loudly and the recorded message plays “The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”

CUT TO: 50

PADDLEFISH II

INT. MICHAEL’S AUDI A8 - DAY Michael plays with a wallet in his right hand. Smiling, he removes money from the wallet and puts the cash in his pocket.

He takes a paper towel and soaks it in alcohol. He delicately wipes the outside of the wallet and tosses the wallet out the window. He puts the car in gear and takes off.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Manuel Guillen always expressed an interest in the field of arts. Through his interest he graduated from Occidental College with a degree in Art History/Visual Art with an emphasis in Film. However, aspires to one day work in the medical field and is completing course work at Mount Marty College.

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PADDLEFISH II

Autonomic Frustration Katie Hamil

“Autonomic dysfunction is a malfunction of the autonomic nervous system… [which] controls the automatic functions of the body that we do not consciously think about” —Dysautonomia International I would love to be able to stay up for the after prom like all the other kids my age, competing in the obstacle course, instead of falling asleep, tucked into the fetal position on our gymnasium high-rise bleachers.

I would love to be able to pull an all-night TV marathon.

Progressing through episodes of Arrow, The Flash, Jane the Virgin, Lucifer, Shadowhunters, and D.C.’s Legends of Tomorrow simply because I enjoy them.

I would love to be able to stay awake until dawn’s rays perforate the dim morning sky, laughing with friends about the silliness that we have come to recognize is uniquely ours.

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I would love to be able to not have to worry about my heavy eyelids dragging me down, down into an insatiable sleep while I try to read one of my favorite books, Clockwork Angel.

Unfortunately I cannot.

I am sick with a disorder that may or may not get better with time.

For me, the symptoms are awful.

Manifesting mainly as fatigue, They make getting up a struggle.

They make going to bed too easy.

I do not need the sleep, yet it claws at my consciousness like a cat trapped inside a room, meowing, trying to compete for my attention.

I try to fight, but it is no use.

Unintentionally I drift into sleep.

My head falls forward onto the desk.

My hair tangles in front of my face.

Drool slips from the corner of my lips and pools on the desk next to my mouth.

In the middle of my English class— Embarrassment creeps up my cheeks when the bell rings and I am startled to be caught with my eyes closed in a class that will be the foundation of my future writing career.

Riding home on the yellow school bus— Where children scream, yell, and put their gross, sticky little fingers in my hair.

At my sweet home Iowa farmhouse— 54

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Where laundry sits in baskets unfolded, food crusted dishes pile up in the sink, dust bunnies float around on the un-swept floors and cans of Pledge wait unused in the chemical cupboard.

My sister complains to me often: why do you have to be so lazy?

Though this isn’t the issue at hand.

I no longer respond to her demands.

Unfortunately, this is my life.

I have missed many hours of it.

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Katie Hamil is a freshman at Mount Marty College and is currently pursuing a degree in English with a history minor. She has always dreamed of becoming well-known author. Besides writing, Katie likes to read, create art, participate in community service events, hang out with friends, and cook meals for her family. This is her first publication.

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PADDLEFISH II

One Song, One Corp Mathew Horn Every night the bugle played and we all heard this song; whether in the ranks of the squad bays, with bunk beds lined up like ants on a march, or in a six by six fighting hole in the California coastal mountains. Learning to stay awake in a place where you might draw your rifle at a sneaky drill instructor or a curious raccoon. At first it was notes and noise to us, but over twelve weeks of hell in boot camp, voices and meaning were added and the noise would simply fade, each word becoming a reminder of the next verse to be screamed while laying at the position of attention. The drill instructors stared as they waited for us to mess up the hymn, ready to correct our mistakes with louder screams.

The squad bays were three stories tall, each floor contained roughly ninety nine recruits. Those recruits all trying to sound like one while bellowing from the depths of their chests. For some this act of reciting the hymn was just another routine before the lights went out, for others it brought them to near tears, with the pride the words filled them with. Over 200 years old, these words bring pride as well as fear.

The words became motivation throughout seventy five miles of hiking and obstacles in the hot California sun. With six hours of sleep in three days and on our final hike around 4 A.M., these words would push us once more. On a steep incline known as Reaper Hike, designed to weed out the weak and forge the leaders the final training exercise reaches its pinnacle. Words, crafted from sacrifices and lives lost in battles past, wars yet to be fought, and blood yet to be shed, rang out loud in our hearts and minds. The climax of cresting this hill gave meaning to the hymn’s words as we were read a citation of a true hero’s sacrifice that embodied the meaning of the great hymn. At the base of reaper hill the words finally made sense as they became a whole. So did we.

A small black medallion, our eagle globe and anchor, placed in our hands, filled us all with energy and pride. We bellowed once more the words that will forever be cemented in our minds as we earned the nation’s greatest title. “From the Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli, we fight our country’s battles in the air on land and sea. First to fight for right and freedom and to keep our honor clean; we are proud to claim the title of United States Marine.”

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Mathew Horn is a non-traditional student in his first year at Mount Marty College. As a Marine Corps Veteran he has seen and done more than most people could ever dream of. Mathew enjoys spending time with his dogs, making new memories with his friends and occasionally sitting down and binge watching a series on Netflix. Currently pursuing his degree in Recreation management, he would like to start his own veteran-based recreational program here in Yankton, South Dakota. He has just recently found enjoyment in writing and would not mind seeing where that could take him.

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PADDLEFISH II

First Love Shanna Ibarolle-Koenig

The wind snaps the screen door shut behind me with a loud bang, reminding me of a bull-whip cracking. I stand for a moment allowing my eyes to adjust from the bright summer sun to the dim interior of the tack room. Blinking rapidly, I begin to scan the room and suddenly locked into a staring contest with dark, yet soft brown eyes of a handsome boy from my past.

The last time I saw him, was the day before I left for Christmas vacation, 11 years ago.

The dust dances in the rays of sun coming through a small window in the back of the room, providing just enough light for me to study his features. A thoughtful smile kisses my lips as I begin to remember the way he smelled, the way my fingers felt when I ran them through his hair, and how he could always make me laugh no matter the mood I was in. I thought of the adventures we had together, from water fights on hot summer days to late night conversations. There was even a sleep over or two, but that was only after he got sick.

I was absolutely crazy about him and preferred we spend every day we could, together, specifically during the spring and summer months. But the cold weather of winter didn’t limit us, especially after he was diagnosed with a debilitating form of asthma, which made even walking a short distance difficult. He would have more energy in the colder months due to lack of pollen and dust in the air, but on those wonderful warm days we would sit picking the grass at our feet or wading knee deep in the lake, just enjoying each other’s company.

My heart ached for him as I watched his health decline, but he never complained. The day before I left, I wrapped my arms around his neck, inhaled his wonderful scent, and wished at that moment, time would stop. I knew I would never see him again.

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The tears stinging my eyes pulled me back into reality. I try to blink them away, but one escapes and spills down my cheek.

I wipe it away with my shirt sleeve as I make my way over to a rack of saddles and pull one down. I take another long look at the painting of Bob, before making my way past it, heavy roping saddle in tow. Pushing the screen door open with my hip, the sun engulfs me in its great warmth. A breeze smelling of freshly cut alfalfa from a nearby field raises the hair on my cheeks, reminding me of the soft appreciative sigh of my wonderful horse from long ago.

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Shanne Ibarolle-Koenig is the daughter of Wayne and Lori Ibarolle of Yankton, South Dakota and mother to 6 year old son, Joshua Koenig. She is currently the assistant coach for the Mount Marty Lancer’s Volleyball Team and pursuing her Secondary English Education Degree. Shanna has loved horses all her life becoming an accomplished rider at a young age and training horses as a hobby and side business. Her passion for horses and the cowboy way of life have been her inspiration for writing since she was a young girl.

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One Scary Summer Paige Kanaly

Walking into the 1886-built home at 509 Pine in Yankton, I was hit with energy from a different century. I learned the details of the house by reading the pamphlet that was provided on the patio upon entering. James Teller, the architect of the house and later resident of the home, sold the property to the Cramer’s in 1890. Nelson and Alice Cramer ended up completing the interior decorations and added the finishing touches of the beautiful home. When Mr. Cramer later passed in 1929, the house was willed to Nelson’s great-niece, Esther Kenyon. They occupied the home until late 1972. Both owners left many of the original features and furnishings intact.

Alice Cramer spent much of her time writing in a detailed, closely guarded journal. During the summer of 1912, Alice’s niece, Esmeralda, spent the summer with the Cramer’s in their home. Esmeralda and her mother, Hazel, lived in an apartment in New York City. Hazel worked very much during the summer and didn’t have anyone to watch her daughter and therefore insisted she stay with her distant aunt in Yankton, South Dakota.

All of this information was documented in Alice’s journal. When Esmeralda arrived, it was time for the grand tour.

When Alice brought her into the front parlor, the first thing she noticed was how high the ceilings were. Esmeralda wasn’t used to this kind of luxury in her cramped two-bedroom apartment in New York City. An old piano was stationed against the wall and Esmeralda had stated she wanted to learn to play the piano while she was there. Large portraits of Nelson and Alice took up space on the papered wall. A beautiful fireplace across from the piano got Esmeralda’s attention because she had never seen one before.

She wanted Alice to fire it up, but it was warm outside so Alice said, “Maybe later tonight.”

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In the back parlor, Esmeralda was amused yet again by a second fireplace. This one had a black splash of imported Shakespeare tiles. She had learned about Shakespeare in her studies back in New York, and spent over an hour studying and talking about the tiles with her dear Aunt Alice. Long, thick red flower drapes covered the windows and Esmeralda made a comment about a friend back home who would love to have a dress made in that same exact print. Alice asked her more about this friend, but she fell quiet.

The dining room, as described by Esmeralda, looked as if it was out of a princess’s castle. The ten-seat table was equipped with candles and china. Walking into the dining room, Esmeralda noticed that the walls were curved; this was new to her as well.

She asked Alice why this was so, and Alice explained that it’s to keep the spirits moving through the house, so they didn’t get stuck in the corners. Esmeralda began giggling and talking quietly to herself, Alice was confused and asked whom she was talking to. Esmeralda said, “Nothing, just my friend.” There was yet another fireplace in the dining area.

After traveling up the curved staircase, Alice brought her into the master bedroom. There were beautiful stained glass windows facing the sunrise. Esmeralda had only seen something like this in church. She was in awe of this room; there was another fireplace with imported tile. Esmeralda wished she could sleep in this room with Alice, but she wouldn’t allow that. Alice told her she could have the spare room all to herself.

In the north bedroom there was an oak dresser, washstand, and a pull down guest bed, called a Murphy bed. The blue porcelain wash basin set, gilded in gold, dated back to the late 1800’s. Alice thought that Esmeralda would pick this room to stay in, but she didn’t seem very interested. Paintings by Mrs. Cramer filled the room. It was believed that art is the way she expressed herself. All of her artwork is dated before 1900. She died in 1916. This special room displayed a metal tub; the servants carried the water to the room for guests. Alice was still surprised that Esmeralda didn’t choose this room to stay in.

Alice reluctantly takes her up to the attic after Esmeralda begs her to see it because she had never been in an attic before. Alice tried telling her that the attic was nothing special; the other 63

bedrooms were much, much better for her. It was here that she decided she wanted to stay. Alice couldn’t figure out why she wanted to bunk in the attic, it was “strange” she wrote. Esmeralda seemed to have no fear of being away from the rest of the family.

There was a loft with a stained glass window behind the door; Alice thought maybe this was the reason why she liked the attic so much.

One evening in the weeks to come, Esmeralda approached Alice in the kitchen. Alice noted a “faraway” look in her eye. She asked if there was anything wrong, Esmeralda said, “No, I’m just a little anxious about Nettie, that’s all.” Alice didn’t say anything, thinking that Esmeralda was simply enjoying some childhood make believe with an imaginary friend, probably the one she had been talking to when she first arrived in Yankton. The following day, Alice recorded in her journal that Esmeralda had noticeably brightened and seemed happier than she had been in the weeks prior. According to Alice’s journal, this was about mid August. In two weeks, Esmeralda was to board the train for her return trip back East. Hazel was going to meet her daughter in Chicago and the two of them would travel together to New York City, arriving there two days before school starts, September 3rd, 1912.

The next entry in Alice’s journal was August 22nd, 1912. She had had a strange conversation with Esmeralda the day before.

Esmeralda had said that Nettie was going to travel back to Chicago with her, so Alice needed to purchase another one-way train ticket for her friend. Alice seemed concerned and made another entry in her journal but Alice seemed to brush it off as just another “make believe” episode. Nevertheless, to keep the peace and not to upset Esmeralda, Alice assured her she had secured passage for both girls. After all, it was only $4.75 and was well worth the price to end the summer adventure for Esmeralda on a positive note.

The night before Esmeralda’s departure, she insisted a plate be set for her friend Nettie. Alice, again, went along with it not wanting to hurt her feelings. So, on August 30th, Alice recorded in her journal that everything went well at the depot over on 8th and Douglas. On the morning Esmeralda set off for Chicago, Alice assisted her to her seat and instructed the porter that she would be traveling alone but her mother would be meeting her in 64

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Chicago later that afternoon. Stepping away from the car, Alice stood some fifteen feet away on the platform and waited patiently for the train to pull away from the station. As she sought out Esmeralda through one of the windows on the car, Alice was stunned to see two little girls peering out at her and waving. Later that day, Alice made a journal entry expressing that she, too, must have been imagining things. Though she was thoroughly shaken and was unable to go to sleep that night.

No further journal entries were found regarding this strange incident and Esmeralda never returned to Yankton. Alice died rather unexpectedly some five years later, in 1917. With the death of Nelson Cramer in 1927, the home at 509 Pine was passed on to Esther Kenyon, a great niece of Nelson. Upon their arrival in Yankton, in 1930, Esther and her husband, Herbert, set about refurbishing the house and establishing a playroom for the children. Until then, there had been no children residing in the home other than the occasional visitors like Esmeralda years earlier. This was all to change, however, as the Kenyon’s had two children, Carleton and Jean.

It was these children who were at the center of things some ten years later, during the summer of 1941. Esther’s first cousin, Ethel, had two children and was residing in upstate New York.

Her husband, Charles, had enlisted in the Army shortly before hostilities broke out after Pearl Harbor. Ethel telegrammed her cousin and begged her to take one of the children for the summer as she had to work and there were no childcare facilities in her area. Besides, she had no money and her husband’s income as a Private was barely enough to keep a roof over her head. Esther decided to help her cousin out; after all, it was only for the summer. Esther decided to take the boy, Freddie, as she felt it would be better that way so that Carleton would have someone to run around with and it might be less work. Esther Kenyon had no interest in journaling but she did record everything that happened that summer on a large calendar she kept on the wall in the pantry, adjacent to the kitchen.

When Ethel got the news about the Kenyon’s taking in their son for the summer, she blurted out how thankful she was that Freddie would have a fun filled summer out west. Esther could see she was almost in tears but said nothing. She simply assured 65

her that Carleton and Freddie would indeed have an adventurous time together.

Five days later, Herbert, Carleton, and Jean met Freddy at the same station on 8th and Douglas. Freddie was traveling light and he insisted on carrying his own bag, a small leather tote he slung over his shoulder like his dad had with his duffle bag when he departed for basic training. Freddie was about one year younger than Carleton but built like a wrestler and was simply ecstatic about finally being in the Wild West. Carleton, on the other hand, preferred indoors and was not a fan of strenuous outdoor activities; he would rather play the piano and read books.

As the days and weeks went by, Esther was somewhat relieved when Carleton began exhibiting more interest in the outdoors, particularly playing cowboys and Indians in the loft of the Carriage House out back. On some days, she had to drag the boys in for lunch and Herbert had to round them up for dinner, often not until 7:30 or 8:00 p.m. On rainy days, though, she notes the boys played in the attic, in the big storage room adjacent to Ms. Stella’s quarters. Stella, the first maid, didn’t seem to mind the boys passing through her room as long as she was away somewhere in the house tending to her duties.

One drizzly August afternoon, Freddy came bounding down the stairs full speed. He burst into the kitchen where Esther and Jean were just finishing up a batch of chocolate drop cookies.

“Come quick,” Freddie cried, “Carleton’s acting like he has seen a ghost!” Esther dropped everything and scaled the three flights of steps in record time. As she entered Stella’s quarters at the top of the stairs, she saw Stella lying flat on her back on the rope bed, just staring at the ceiling. Upon seeing Esther, she simply gestured toward the door that led into the big storage room.

Esther rushed through the door and saw Carleton seated on the floor staring at the doorway and indeed, it did look like he had just seen a ghost. Relieved, Esther shook her son and said, “Come on honey, let’s go have a cookie.” Just then, she heard a terrible crash, like glass shattering, coming from the lower level. Stella jumped a foot off the bed and both women ran down the stairs, two at a time. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Freddie and Jean were sitting on the floor together with their heads tucked in their knees. Freddie was laughing, but Jean had tears in 66

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her eyes. She saw nothing funny in this. To Esther’s shock, one of the beautiful etched frosted glass panels in the front door laying on the floor in a million pieces. “What happened?” she shrieked.

Freddie said he didn’t know, but after Esther went upstairs he had heard a loud “whoosh!” and when he came to the front entrance, a figure he couldn’t make out had shot down the stairs and went right through the glass panel in the door and disappeared. Jean said that she didn’t know what happened and she was too scared to talk about it. Years later, both Esther and Herbert talked about the strange noises that they could hear from time to time, always in the afternoon. Stella never talked about it. * Before entering the home, I had not yet heard of these stories.

However, I still got an eerie feeling when I was touring the home. I didn’t know the exact stories of the home at the time, but I had a feeling there was more to this house than the antique furniture and portraits of the families. After being enlightened on the events that the Cramer and Kenyon families dealt with and having a full tour of the house, I most definitely believe there was and possibly still is a supernatural phenomenon going on at 509 Pine, in Yankton, South Dakota. *[Three years ago, the Cramer-Kenyon Heritage Home board members discovered a wooden crate in the attic with one of the frosted glass panels. They decided to put it in the doorway so that people touring the home could see what the door windows once looked like. It is still there, the one panel, reminding all of the strange events that took place seventy-five years ago.]

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Paige Kanaly is a freshman nursing student at Mount Marty College. “One Scary Summer” is Paige’s first publication. Paige grew up in Yankton with her four siblings and graduated from Yankton High School in 2014.

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Winner of the 2016 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Fiction

An excerpt from Branic Davidians: A Collection of Soles Jameson Kars

I could faintly see my six foot one “dad bod” in the steamed up bathroom mirror. Still in the throws of meditative awareness brought on by a perfectly hot shower, it struck me that this image was a perfect instance in which inner character reflected outer appearance. The silhouette staring back at me told the story of a man who tried just hard enough to get by, but certainly had no interest in pushing himself to the point of physical fitness, all the while justifying this complacency by recalling an article that explained that women are subconsciously drawn to men with more average bodies, as they are less intimidating. This rationalization allowed me to continue in my diet of dive bar food and craft beer, but it did not account for the fact that I was single despite having what was supposed to be the ideal body for women to commit to.

I was unable, or rather, unwilling to remain in my meditative state long enough to find a suitable explanation for my life’s absence of romance, especially as my temperature dropped as rapidly as the final water droplets falling from the shower head.

Reality set in as quickly as the cold, and I reached for a towel to provide some relief. This futile effort was part habit and part wishful thinking; my final thought before entering the shower concerned my lack of clean laundry. I really should do it today, I thought, but, with my impending job search, I was hopeful I would find plenty of cause to delay such a remedial task. Besides, laundry would have taken quarters that I didn’t have, and an old t-shirt was more than sufficient for drying off. I started to tell myself that I was simply making another rationalization, but I am so damn good at rationalizing that I was long past the 71

point of arguing with myself. When I did try to argue against my rationalizations, I always returned to the mantra of my AP Psychology teacher: “without ego-defense mechanisms, we wouldn’t survive the day.” And in a time within which you could have most appropriately characterized my manner of existence simply as survival, ego-defense mechanisms were a crutch that I was content to rely on.

Finally dry (or at least as dry as my limited resources would allow me to get) and holding a sopping wet Chicago Steel t-shirt, I began my search for clothes. Normally, I would have gone straight for the top drawer and retrieved a pair of basketball shorts, but I already knew such a search would be as futile as my reach for a towel and the blanket mailing of my resume.

I reluctantly settled on a pair of stone-washed jeans that I never liked but always found myself wearing within the days immediately prior to my marathon trip to the laundromat.

Nothing seemed to motivate me more to do laundry than a full day of denim and the ensuing jock itch it caused (I’ve always said my balls need more liberty than Ron Swanson on the fourth of July). It was with this motivation that I acquiesced into a search for quarters and laundry detergent.

After my day-wasting, soul-crushing trip to the laundromat (through which I self-medicated with copious amounts of self-loathing, pirated Game of Thrones episodes, and two extra hits from my bong), I received a text from my mother asking if I’d found a job yet. Oh, how refreshing it was to get her daily reminder about my underachievement and complete lack of ambition. “But your brother got his doctorate by the time he was 21 and your sister has already started and sold three companies,” she’d say, every time the opportunity presented itself.

Well Samantha operates on a near-lethal mixture of caffeine, cocaine, and a smorgasbord of prescription drugs, and Max has cheated on his wife more times than Tiger Woods (however, in fairness, Max’s wife is nothing close to Elin, though he, too, was assaulted with a 9-iron for his transgressions), I’d think, unsure why I continued to bite my tongue. Still, I knew she was right to be concerned. After all, I couldn’t live off my boat booze cruise settlement money much longer.

I reluctantly opened my computer and pulled up my resume.

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I read through it for what must have been the 214,712th time.

Unlike a fine wine, it didn’t get better with age, but it did succeed in royally bumming me out. Rather than dedicating myself to overhauling the entirely average resume that had resulted in a grand total of zero call backs, I pulled up Chrome to catch up on the day’s news.

The browser was running slowly, so I decided it was time to clear my history and cookies. If my computer had a soul, clearing its browser would be a sacramental ritual akin to baptism as I wash away the past sins and iniquities that it arduously carried to the point that it’s very processing became overladen with burden.

After my computer was reborn and christened anew, I opened Chrome up again. I programmed the browser to automatically open my four primary news sources: Politico, Huffington Post, Drudge Report, and FiveThirtyEight. The four sites give a view of the whole political gamut, allowing me to sift through the biased opinions on both sides and cut through to the underlying truth and its potential micro and macro implications. Little intrigues me more than the manner in which otherwise inconsequential events and happenings can reverberate within the echo-chamber of American obstructionist politics to become momentous occasions and the means by which men and movements fade into sullen obscurity.

Finally, after I’d indulged my media addiction to my heart’s content, I felt forced to be productive. Turning my attention to the shoddy resume that had been updated in only the most ineffective ways since I was assigned to write it in twelfth grade personal finance class, I realized that I may be better off starting from scratch. Only twenty-one seconds into my new resume and I was already at a cross-roads and being tempted to again placate my insatiable need to procrastinate. It was with marked determination that I persisted, and began to place my name and contact information at the top of the page. When I was a kid, my grandma always told me to wade into the pool, so I dipped my big toe in, never one to take a chance. Name: Jimmy Ryan. That was the one thing I couldn’t screw up. Unless you believe in being prim and proper and I should have used my full name, James.

But then again, no one ever spent a lick of time focusing on my first name. No one could get past my last name, a name which 73

certainly has done its part to mess me up. I would have hated my family and the dynasty of overly glorified assholes represented by its name more than anyone, but every damn person I came across seemed to share my same loathing. The sins of our father are most certainly our own, and no matter how much I tried to disavow all that he and his name represent, no matter how far I traveled from the town his company plundered and destroyed, no matter how fastidiously I resisted the temptation to succumb to the easy money that came with the name, I couldn’t escape it as I emblazoned the prestigious Ryan name at the top of my resume.

The hell with it. I needed something to make me stand out.

Name: Jimmy. I said it aloud: Jimmy. It sent a chill down my spine; the name exuded and unyielding aura of confidence and power. Suddenly, I was somebody. Like Cher, Madonna, Bono, and the many other one-named wonders before me, I was sure to be an icon someday, and I could trace it all back to this very moment. I said it again: Jimmy. It sounded beautiful, like the sweet, soulful sound of my Misogynistic Musician Mixtape that I used to seduce Hannah, the girl I surrendered my virginity to.

Either that or it sounded like the retarded kid from South Park.

Regardless, with four taps of the delete key, I erased ninetyfive years of sin from my resume. Couple that with the browsing history from before, and I might as well have been ordained and canonized on the spot. If anyone who read my resume wanted to know my last name, they could call me and ask for it; I also knew that may be the only reason my resume would result in any calls. With an underwhelming GPA from an even more underwhelming two-year business program, I needed to do something to generate a little interest, and I thought that by going with a simple “Jimmy� on the top of what was an otherwise pedestrian document, maybe I could stand out a little. It was a bit more subtle than utilizing a ridiculous font or absurd color scheme to catch the eyes of the HR reps who sift through submissions like a hot girl on Tinder who swipes left at every match due to an over-inflated sense of self-worth that has been impressed upon her by society.

With my contact information heading completed, I came to the opening statement. While this would normally act as a mission statement or statement of purpose, I had no true mission or 74

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purpose to speak of. Instead, I decided to use this portion of my resume to sell my skills rather than my goals or experiences. My career counselor, a raving lunatic she-demon, always told me to make my weaknesses my selling points, and my strengths a bonus, so I wrote: I am a fast learner, with more potential than experience. I excel at assimilating new and varied information to continually build a base for prosperity, yet I would enter your company with no preconceived notions of the definition of productivity as it has been adapted to your business’ individual philosophy. I am the ideal candidate for any position in which I can learn on the job and demonstrate my ability to convert mission-based concepts into applied success. I’d always had a flair for b.s., but this time I had really outdone myself.

Unfortunately, the rest of the resume needed a great deal more exaggeration, inflation, and flat I was dependent upon the glories of my past to carry weight. The bright side, I had no issues keeping my resume to one page.

Next heading: Experience. I chose that word carefully, as it would not pigeonhole me to previous work history, of which I had none. Strategist - Years of active refinement during periods of functional unemployment have given me the opportunity to hone my observation skills, which consequently has allowed me to notice fine intricacies when problem solving and implement creative solutions. Translation: I’m freaking unbeatable at Risk and I’ve seen every episode of Friends at least five times. Service - Helping others is at the heart of everything I do, and I have worked tirelessly to aid the community and improve conditions for all. Grand Theft Auto has a mission where you drive an ambulance and bring people to the hospital. Not to brag, but I completed that one first try. Now that I’d taken the experience section to a level beyond perfection, it was time to move on.

Only the education section loomed large over me like a hurricane in a town below sea level. You do everything you can to fortify your defenses, but, no matter what, you know you’re screwed, so, the quicker you accept your fate, the quicker you can make peace with it and begin to rebuild from the rubble and wreckage; that is, if you’re fortunate enough to survive the disaster. Though this was the only section of my resume that I could use steadfast, concrete facts, it was also the part 75

that needed the most embellishment, or positive spin, as I prefer to, well, positively spin the phrase. Minnesota School of Business - Associate’s Degree earned May 2015. I pressed enter and continued on the next line with my college “highlights”. I intentionally maintained average grades in order to be more relatable to my peers, an example of the dynamic networking that is integral in successful enterprising. Extra curricular activities were not available, but, even if they had been, I would not have chosen to participate in any specific areas, as I focused on gaining a wide breadth of knowledge to prepare me for the working world. Despite the fact that I have never held an official leadership position, I’ve always tried to embody the spirit of leading by example, never shying away from an opportunity to advocate to a professor for the improvement of a grade on behalf of myself or my fellow students.

I took a step back from the computer to admire my handy work. The linguistic craftsmanship was a work of art on par with that of the Sistine Chapel, each word as carefully chosen and deliberate as Michelangelo’s brush strokes. The only question at this point was whether my masterpiece should be brought to admirers, or if I should allow the admirers to come to it. In other words, my two options are to send it out to HR Reps in a cold call fashion, or post it on Monster and Indeed. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that a work like this should never be limited to one release venue, and I made sure to email my new resume to a few businesses and post it on the job sites that night.

The only thing left to do was wait for the job offers to start rolling in.

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Jameson Kars is a self-proclaimed up-and-coming author called into existence from voices in Avon, SD and Duluth, MN to be the demagogue of young novelists. He will bolster his soon-tobe vast portfolio with the release of his debut novel, Four Shots in the Dark, before the end of 2016. When not writing, Kars enjoys political satire and deprecation, sarcastic tirades and rants, and generally trying to get under the skin of as many people as possible. Follow him on Twitter @JamesonKars to keep up-todate on his latest works and narcissistic ramblings.

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Puzzle Thief Jennifer Vondrak

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Take Me Back to Jenny Jennifer Vondrak Your eyes, glowing with open curiosity of your brand new life in the dim light of the calving shed, meet mine as I watch you fondly from the other side of the gate. You are too young yet to fully know fear, so you slowly inch forward, toward me. You are a little hesitant, not sure what to make of the world. Not sure if you can trust me or not. I don’t really blame you. Us people take away your mother and force her to pace anxiously outside the pen, making her opinion known through her loud bellowing, while we poke you with needles and pierce your ears with numbered tags.

Some, like you, have yellow. All of the others seem to have red.

You don’t know why.

I lean the pitchfork I am holding against a gate and reach tentatively through the red bars separating you from me, trying not to frighten you with any sudden movement. Maybe you are not quite as timid as you’ll soon become, but I know calves can easily be spooked away. I don’t want to do that. You let me pat you on the tip of your pink nose, which is marked ever so lightly with splatters of black. Then, you pull back abruptly and skitter to the opposite end of your small pen. That’s perfectly fine if you want your space. I’ll just admire you from a distance.

You are astonishingly beautiful. I don’t know if you know this, but you and all the others are. One of the things I have always loved about spring is calving season. Watching you now reminds me why that is. Something about new life fills me with hope, and I am flooded with awe of God’s beautiful creation. Unlike autumn when the landscape is painted with astounding fiery warmth right down to the last leaf of the old maple tree, directly south of our house, the Iowa farmland looks depressingly dead this time in March. Perhaps that is because God is saving his beauty for the baby calves just like you. Now is definitely not the time to inform you of where your future will inevitably lead. It would be far too depressing to shatter your youthful hope.

I wish I could capture this moment forever. Snap a picture and 89

step inside, escaping the reality of life’s mess. I can’t. You’ll grow up soon. Too soon. In just a year’s time, another will stand in the very spot you are standing now with same expression of wonder floating in its eyes, and I will be watching.

When I stoop down and look into your eyes, time freezes. I am no longer a sophomore in college just a couple weeks from my twentieth birthday. Suddenly, I am seven again, running up the hill after my older siblings, decked out my purple stocking cap, grey Vondrak Brothers coat, and pink jeans, lugging a bottle full of milk on a brisk spring afternoon. Up in the old hog shed, my siblings and I each have bottle calves we feed. Mine is a sickly little fellow named Speedy. There’s a bit of irony in that name. He is actually on the slow side. He’s a black calf, who often suffers from scours. Sometimes we mix this stuff into his milk that is supposed to help. It discolors it, and we joke that it is chocolate milk though I doubt it tastes as sweet. It wasn’t enough in the end. Flash-forward a month or two. He dies, and a part of me dies with him. My puppy, a purebred collie named Lady, got hit by a car that spring as well. I guess this wasn’t as bad as that since he didn’t exactly die right before my eyes, but it still makes me a little sad that he was so young. He wasn’t even the only one this year. My brother Carl’s bucket calf, Tippy, named because of the white tip on his tail, also dies. This was even more surprising because I never even really realized he was sick.

Carl’s replacement for Tippy is an all black calf. He named it Tippy II in honor of the first despite the fact that the name did not fit the calf as it had Tippy. I get a new replacement, too. One of the last calves born this year, she is the elder of a pair of twins though also the runt. We mostly raise Black Angus and Herford cows. Herefords are the red whitefaced ones. Black whiteface cows are also naturally in the mix as they generally are a cross between Angus and Herford. This calf isn’t any of those breeds however. Her mother is one of the oddballs of the herd. She is a grey cow. Thankfully, her twin daughters took after her and not their purely black Angus father. I mean, all calves are cute in their own little ways, but black calves are unremarkable because they all look exactly alike, which is slightly boring.

There is something striking about the uniqueness of rare grey cows in a blend of black, red, and white. Mix one in the herd, and she’ll stand out because she’s beautiful in a different way than the rest. If you look out in the field from a distance you can spot her with almost complete certainty.

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My calf only has one tag that hangs in her left ear. It is yellow and has 222 written on it just like her mother and twin sister’s.

Her date of birth is marked above that number. Technically, bucket calves are supposed to be born before the first of June in order to be shown in the bucket/bottle calf show at the county fair. However, she was born on June nineteenth of this year,.

I really should not be able to show her at the fair, but we will probably fudge the rules a little bit. It is not a real competition anyhow. At most, we might get a participation ribbon. There’s not truly any need to lose sleep over this tiny detail. Most likely no one will make a big deal of my calf being too young. I don’t think it will be that big of an issue and neither does my father, who was the one who really insisted on me showing a calf.

My uncle names her Jenny after me though I do not go by that name myself. It suits her, and since I cannot think of anything better, it sticks. It is not just her unique appearance—in comparison to the rest of our herd—that makes her melt my heart like a flame melts a candle on a birthday cake. Jenny has this spunky little personality that I could never describe with my minimal seven-year-old vocabulary. She is a stubborn little gal.

She might be the runt of the family, but that has never hindered her or her appetite.

While Speedy and the other calves were kept up the hill in the former hog shed, Jenny is housed down the hill in a pen just outside the barn. That is where I head every day, cradling the bottle full of the milk we mixed from powder out of a bag. Jenny is waiting impatiently there for her supper, pacing back and forth by the silver gate of her pen bawling her head off. Spotting me—or more precisely, the bottle—Jenny becomes excited. She shoves her head through the silver bars, her tongue reaching for the bottle.

“Hold on, Jenny!” I laugh as I lift the bottle up to her eager mouth, resting it on a bar of the gate since it is a little heavy for my small body to hold. Her mouth closes around the nipple, and away she goes. In no time, she has drained the bottle. I don’t want her just sucking on air, so despite her loud protests, I pull the empty bottle from her mouth. Foamy, white slobber strings between the nipple of the bottle and her mouth. Yuck! Some of the saliva drips onto my leg, so I wipe it away with my hand and then wipe my hand on my plaid pink skort. Though it is a little bit disgusting, I think it is funnier than it is gross, so I don’t really mind. Jenny is now sucking on the gate, dousing it with her 91

saliva.

“Here, Jenny,” I say, holding out my hand. I stick a couple fingers into her eager mouth and let her suck on them.

Feeding our bucket calves is only half of it. We also have to break our calves to lead with a halter, so we will be able to show them at the fair. Although I have watched my siblings do this, I have never done this myself. I watch as my dad puts a halter on Jenny’s head. It’s a worn, faded red rope halter. I am not sure if I am strong enough to keep hold of Jenny. She might be just a baby and runt of a calf, but she is continually growing with her unceasing appetite. She was also walking within an hour of her birth. Even at just a month old, she is much stronger than me.

The frayed rope is rough against my palms as I loop it up to keep it from dragging on the ground and pull. Jenny is none too eager to be led. She stubbornly holds her ground, and like I said, I am not that strong of a seven-year-old, so I can’t force her to move.

My father helps me get her to move a ways, which is encouraging.

However, Jenny soon decides she has had enough with this business and plops down. I do not mean she merely lies down, legs folded beneath her like any normal calf typically would. No, Jenny flops onto her side with her legs out. She will not move.

I tug and tug, the rope cutting into my hand, but she refuses to budge. I kick her, but she does not move. Exasperated, I whine, “She won’t move! Come on, Jenny!” letting the rope hang loosely in my hands.

Eventually, we manage to pull her back up onto her feet, but it is clear halter breaking Jenny will be no easy task. If only Jenny would take to being led like she did being fed.

There is a spark of inspiration. I am not sure who exactly proposed this idea—I know it wasn’t me—but it was a clever one.

Here’s what we know: Jenny loves her bottle. She will follow it anywhere. If we hold a bottle in front of her when we are leading her, she will follow it. That’s what we are hoping anyway. It is kind of like holding a carrot in front of a horse. Carrying around a full bottle would be completely impractical, so we decide to use an empty bottle.

The next time we head out to practice leading our calves, my mother comes along to hold the bottle in front of Jenny while I attempt to pull her. You know what? It works. Jenny’s eyes light up when she sees that bottle. She forgets about the halter around her head and walks willingly toward the bottle my mother keeps just out of reach of her outreaching tongue. I didn’t even have to 92

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pull on her rope. In fact, I had the problem of having to keep up with her, but at least this is a better than Jenny not walking at all.

She knows what the bottle means. Suppertime. We don’t actually let her suck on the bottle, of course, but it worked this time. It works the next time and the time after that. Jenny slowly seems to adjust to being led.

One worry we have is that she will eventually realize that there is no milk in the bottle, and she will lose interest. However, each time she fails to connect these dots, our hope grows.

Over time, the regular bottle becomes a bit of pain to lug around, so we work on designing a smaller version of a bottle.

Since the only requirement is appearance and function is irrelevant, we tape an old pink rubber bottle nipple onto an empty pop can. We are delighted to discover that this marvelous invention works just as well as the real thing and is far lighter and easier to carry. We call it the Mini Bottle.

Time passes and pretty soon it is the week of the Plymouth County fair. The fair doesn’t technically start until Thursday, but they always have the bucket/bottle calf show on Wednesday.

Since the fair is not open, we are allowed to park our pickup and trailer in the middle of the fairgrounds near the covered livestock arena where the show takes place. Hopefully, we won’t have too much trouble leading our calves. Even if the calves get used to being led, you never really know how they will react when you bring them around a crowd of complete strangers and strange calves in a strange place. Some calves do all right. With others, however, it can be a nightmare. It is one thing for a calf to get away from you when you are at home. It is an entirely different thing to let a calf get away from you at the fair. However, the most unfortunate thing is that we really cannot use the Mini Bottle to lead Jenny, especially without becoming the laughingstock of the county. Jenny will have to be weaned of her fake bottle.

Succeeding in dragging our calves over to the show arena from our trailer—my dad helps me lead Jenny over—we tie them up with the special 4-H knot to the gate outside. Imitating my siblings, I brush Jenny with a currycomb while we wait for the show to begin. There are other kids between the ages of seven and eleven with bucket calves of their own gathered around the outside of the arena though none of them are quite as young as Jenny and me. We most certainly are the youngest pair.

While some of the other calves act up a little bit in this new environment, I think I am the one who has the most trouble 93

holding onto my stubborn baby and attempting to drag her into the pen when the time comes to do so. The men who help with the show—I am not exactly sure what their titles are, perhaps some are on the fair board—help me lead Jenny, since my small size makes pulling her difficult. I follow the other kids and their calves, struggling with my own as we make a lap around the pen before we all tie up our animals along the gate.

I run my hand across Jenny’s oddly clean coat, then file behind the rest of the participants out of the pen and onto the bleachers where we will wait out our turn for the worst part of this show.

Every kid is called up to be interviewed about their calf. I don’t understand the necessity of this. As far as I can recall, it is not a part of most other cattle shows. In those you usually only have to answer a couple brief questions from the judge, which doesn’t sound nearly as bad as this. In those shows, nobody cares what your calf ’s name is or why you chose that name or whatever.

I think they think it’s cute to have little kids talk about their animals. I don’t agree. I would rather skip this portion of the event. They might not mean for this to be a stressful process, but I can tell you I am anxious about being in the hot seat and having a microphone held to my mouth. Maybe some kids who love the attention of the spotlight live for this part, but I feel kind of sick.

I sit down next to my older sister. A lump rises in my throat out of nowhere as I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I try to convince myself they are only sweaty because of the humid heat of this July evening, but deep down, I know that’s only part of the truth. I do not like talking in front small crowds of people I at least sort of know, let alone a whole crowd of strangers. I wish I could be like Jenny and lie down on my side, refusing to move when they call me up there. I honestly wouldn’t mind being on the other side of the rope in this moment.

One by one, they call us forward for torture. With each interview, my heart pounds faster in my chest. I barely listen to the responses of my fellow exhibitors as I try to think of things to say when they ask me these questions. I can’t think. When they finally call my name, everything turns into slow motion. I awkwardly climb down the bleachers weaving through the others, my cheeks probably flushing some reddish hue. I manage to find my seat on the hard folding chair and brace myself for the questions.

I fumble through the interview and come out in one piece. I don’t know what I say exactly, and I don’t think it is important 94

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enough to remember, so I block that out of my mind, leaving the past in the past. My eyes are on my shoes as I head back to my seat on the bleachers. It is not until I sit down that I finally take a breath. Well, I survived the worst part, I guess. The show can be done anytime now.

Once every child has been called up, we scramble back into the pen and untie our calves. I try to be swift about untying Jenny’s rope, but my fingers fumble slightly as I untie the knot. I line up Jenny alongside the other calves with the help of the men.

Though I love Jenny tremendously, even now at the mere age of seven, I can sense that I will never truly love showing cattle.

I might love the animals and interacting with them, but the joy of parading them around a pen is not something I understand. I guess I’ll just do it to please my father since it is so important to him for us to do this for some reason.

Although there are technically no places awarded in the bucket/ bottle calf show, they still choose the order for us to line up in.

Jenny and I are naturally near the end, which I suspect is not as good as being in the front. However, at this point, I couldn’t care less. Like the calf whose rope I am holding in my small hand, I am growing a bit weary of this experience. It was fun to show the world my darling little calf in the beginning, but I have come to realize that the world does not quite share my enthusiasm about her. Sure, some might think she is cute, but they think she is cute in the same way I think all of the other calves are cute. To me, Jenny is the most beautiful bovine creature I have ever seen. They will never understand my special bond with this little calf I have fed for the last couple of months.

I follow the lead of my brother and sister and head back to our trailer. It requires all of my weight and most of my patience to drag Jenny behind me. The pickup isn’t really that far away, but we might as well be crossing the country. It is clear that Jenny is not particularly enjoying this. If only we had her Mini Bottle.

Then, she would probably be more willing to walk for me.

“Jen-ny,” I grunt under my breath, leaning into the rope as it digs into my hands. I really hate being angry with Jenny, and her precious little face does not make it any easier, but she is definitely testing my patience right now. Granted, I don’t think I have ever been at her end of the rope or would ever truly want to be, but still, how difficult is it really to walk a relatively short distance to the trailer? It is one step closer to home, freedom, and her bottle. Why can’t she understand that?

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We make slow strides to the trailer. Three cars away. Two cars.

One car. It is there, right behind the car right next to our pickup, that Jenny decides to lay down on her side. Unbelievable. We were so close.

A loud crash shocks me back to my senses, abruptly pulling me back to present day. The pitchfork has fallen over, smacking the hard, concrete floor. I realize I have been staring into space rather than bedding pens with new straw like I am supposed to be doing as I mentally fill in the details of the rest of the story. We must have gotten Jenny up somehow that day thirteen years ago though I don’t remember how anymore. I remember continuing to feed her and writing about her in my journal at school saying that she “really really really really” loved to eat and was growing “very very very” much.

I had already finished with your pen when you took me on a trip back in time, so I move on to the next pen. Pulling open the gate of the pen to the left of yours, I am faced with possibly the cutest calf of the year. Please don’t take offense to that comment.

You are adorably cute with the unique markings on your brockleface, but this calf is something else. Your neighbor is a black whiteface bull. I admit that a black whiteface calf is commonplace enough around here. That was not what really struck me though.

It was the white boots painted onto his legs that made me pause in wonder. While we do have calves like that every so often, it is not an especially common trait among our calves. It takes all of my will power to stop myself from getting lost in adoration of those sweet eyes, letting him take me back to Jenny like you just did.

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Jennifer Vondrak is a sophomore at Mount Marty College majoring in Graphic Design + Media Arts and minoring in Art and English with a writing emphasis. She enjoys using her creativity to paint, draw, attempt to sculpt, and write both prose and poetry. Her work is often influenced by art, her upbringing on the family farm in Iowa, or other personal interests and past experiences. This is her first publication.

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Inmate Changed my Life Abby K. Keffeler I told myself I would walk into the room, sit next to another person and learn to draw. I would do all of this without nerves eating away at me. I had created a mantra, “Be positive, Abby.

They are just like everyone else.” As I entered the prison, they asked me for my driver’s license, I signed the book to receive my visitor’s badge, and got the run down of what to talk about and what not to talk about – don’t talk about your personal life, don’t give them your contact information, you can’t leave anything for them, if you get uncomfortable with their questions let us know and we will talk to them, but don’t worry, they know their boundaries.

I was walking through the halls and my nerves were on the rise.

“They are people just like me, don’t worry,” I told myself time and time again. In all reality, they were not quite like me. I was able to walk away from this facility in a couple hours to return to my own dorm room, while each person I saw was wearing the same colored khaki uniforms with a white tag above their shirt pocket with their name on it, and they would return to their assigned room within the fences.

I entered the art room, and hesitantly I found a seat in the back of the classroom. There was a man already working on his shading. I pulled out the hard plastic seat next to him, when he immediately stood up, greeting me with a smile and switched the chairs. He had been sitting in a padded office chair, the adjustable kind with wheels on the bottom. I thanked him as I accepted his kind gesture as he offered me another favor, his art supplies for the next hour.

I looked around the room at my classmates, wondering how their experience was with their new art partners. My attention was drawn to the lady on the projector screen that was teaching us all how to draw a nose. I thought it was nice that I had the opportunity to learn along side my new partner. I have loved to draw but I have never been particularly good at noses. The video ended and my partner delved right into conversation with me.

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In fact, the first thing he said to me was, “I suck at drawing.” He looked worried once he found out I was a Graphic Design major.

It being their second class, I asked to see his work from the first class. He had two perfectly round and excellently shaded spheres on the page in his folder. I could tell he was proud of them and he thoroughly enjoyed the class, even if he claimed otherwise.

My partner introduced himself as “John” but said I could call him “Inmate,” because according to him, it’s what everyone else calls him. This was a harsh reality to me, because everyone should be recognized as his or her name. I refused to call him “Inmate” and I explained that I did not want to be grouped into the same category as everyone else. As the hour went on we conversed about a variety of topics, and I laughed more in that hour than I had all day.

One of the last things John said really stuck with me. He told me that I seem to be smart, “the honor roll type of student,” who has a lot of friends; I thanked him for his compliments, then he continued to tell me not to screw it up. He encouraged me to chase any dream that I have and to do it full force with the power that I have resonating in my heart. I thanked him for sharing his art supplies and helped him pack them up as the class was dismissed.

I never would have guessed I would walk into the prison and leave with a changed heart after only an hour of drawing noses with a man who once was a stranger. This man is a person who I think I could call friend, but I will probably never see again. I wish him all the best in the coming years. If I were to see him again, I would make it clear that he changed me in a way that is hard to explain. The greatest lesson I learned did not have anything to do with the noses on the pages, it was that each person is human and they all have a background and history.

Give each person you meet a chance, because they might fill your life with laughter when you expect much less.

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Glimpse of Me: Photo Essay Abby K. Keffeler

The influence my godparents had on my life shaped the way I viewed the world, often through Sebastian’s hamburger shaped squeaky toys, as I would exclaim, “BUG EYES!”

My older brother’s purple gift from grandpa left me feeling envious until I had my young, sticky fingers wrapped around my own cord, dragging the circular shape behind me as I walked the “dead dog.”

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Passed down from my greatgrandmother, I was the next young child to exercise my imagination by flipping through the pages in my favorite picture books, as I’d slowly rock myself on the glossy, red, wooden slats.

Sitting in the hospital waiting for my grandfather to wake up, I clutched Puddles, who was purchased in the hospital gift shop, in one hand and in the other I slowly sipped on a green apple float, trying to save grandpa the last taste in the hopes that he would wake up soon.

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Sitting in my third grade desk, struggling to see the words written on the chalk board, I will never forget walking away from the optometrist with the one thing that I knew would change my view of the world forever, but knowing it was worth it because I could see the leaves on the trees again.

The wind rustled my curls as I would soar through the sky, fighting sleep as the remnants of an old tire, shaped to create a bucket seat crafted by my father, rocked back and forth.

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All twenty-three keys are synonymous with the black lines and circles on the page in front of me; working hand in hand to create the music my soul is trying to sing.

My first mistake was saying yes to my aunt’s invitation to go camping the first time, now my heart longs for the cool summer nights I get to rest not only my body, but my heart and soul under the yellow roof supported by fiberglass poles.

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As the silence of the still dawn air is broken by the dips of an oar and frogs croaking in the distant cattails, the soft morning sun peaks above the tree capped hill.

During my teenage years, I struggled to understand true friendship, love and appreciation, but with my compassionate and empathetic heart I started signing all messages to family and friends with “love always,� so that no one would ever feel like they are living without love; this mark has even begun to take place of my name at the closing of letters and notes.

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Being editor-in-chief of the Mato Paha Yearbook not only gave me insight into my future career path, but it also gave me the opportunity to learn the process of self-publishing a book from start to finish.

I am valuable. I am worth it. I am able to make a difference. I am a world changer!

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Abby K. Keffeler is a sophomore Mount Marty College student from Piedmont, South Dakota, pursing a degree in Graphic Design + Media Arts with a minor in English writing. When she is not focused on her academics and responsibilities in various clubs and organizations on campus, she enjoys spending time outside, whether it is sleeping in a tent or hiking the back trails. Abby is a photography fanatic who loves the adventures life throws at her, and all the while; her greatest aspiration is to change the world—by changing someone’s world one person at a time.

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Graphic Design Student Work

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Portrait Illustration Jennfier Vondrak

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Wuthering

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Book Cover Design Abby K. Keffeler

Thirteen Reasons Why

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Book Page Design Abby K. Keffeler

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Portrait Illustration Abby K. Keffeler

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December Calendar Ellen Renz

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MOUNT MARTY COLLEGE THEATRE PRESENTS

O’Conner THE

Girls

BY KATIE FORGETTE

October 22,23,24 Thursday – Saturday 7:30 p.m.

October 25 Sunday 2 p.m.

Marian Auditorium Yankton Campus Adults – $8

Students – $4

*MMC students receive free admission

Purchase tickets at www.mtmc.edu/arts or at the MMC box office. Call (605)668-1234 or stop by box office Mon. – Fri. from noon – 5 p.m.

Production Poster 1 Ellen Renz

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Production Poster 2 Ellen Renz

By Katie Forgette

October 22–25, 2016 Thurs., Fri., Sat. – 7:30 p.m.

Sunday – 2 p.m.

Marian Auditorium Yankton Campus Adults – $8

Tickets

Students – $4

* MMC students receive free admission Purchase tickets at www.mtmc.edu/arts or at the MMC box office Call (605)668-1234 or stop by box office Mon. – Fri. from noon – 5 p.m.

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Book Design Ellen Renz

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Self Portrait

Brooke Steffen-Kleinschmit

Lincoln, NE 68508

800-471-6000

cecilias.com

Brooke Steffen-Kleinschmit

808 P St #100

Stationary Package

Lincoln, NE 68508

Cecilia’s

808 P St #100

402-471-6478

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cecilias.com

‘ 808 P St #100

Lincoln, NE 68508

402-471-6478

cecilias.com

CHEF

ROB BENNET robert.b@cecilias.com 402-471-6478

808 P St #100 Lincoln, NE 68508 cecilias.com

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Terrifying Doll T-Shirt Brooke Steffen-Kleinschmit

Five Fish Children’s Illustration Brooke Steffen-Kleinschmit

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Cotton Candy Heart Keslee Koster Why did you have to play with my cotton candy heart?

And why’d you have to break my rose colored glasses?

I was happy and content with just me, myself, and I. Then you strolled in with your slicked back hair, bad boy attitude.

I didn’t mean to fall.

But I did.

I knew that you were red.

And that I was yellow.

When we met.

There was an explosion of orange; bursting with bliss and passion where everything was perfect.

You were me, and I was you.

Together, we were us.

Then everything turned dark.

And now, when I see you, I see a stranger who I know everything about.

Everything you’ve ever wanted, dreamed of.

Everything you’ve ever hoped for.

It was all for nothing.

Because you never loved me anyways.

We used to be, still want to be, forever young lovers.

But now we’re, don’t want to be, but have to be, perfect strangers.

All because you broke my rose colored glasses.

And played my cotton candy heart.

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Keslee Koster grew up in the small town of Armour, SD and will be attending Avera McKennan School of Radiologic Technology in Sioux Falls, SD to finish out her degree this fall.

She first discovered her love of writing in middle school and it has since then grown into a way for her to express thoughts, feelings, and emotions in a positive and creative way. In addition to writing, Keslee enjoys baking, shopping, reading, and spending time with family and friends.

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Under Water Mikaela Lenz I lowered my body a couple inches and the world became still.

Just for a moment the sounds that once engulfed me fell silent and the air that gave my lungs life quenched of its oxygen.

The rush of society was halted instantaneously and immediate peace followed.

Feeling only my hair dance around me and seeing only a haze.

A haze resembling the walls and floor of the rectangular box I had sunk myself in, this was a box of nothing.

Absent of sound, of smell, of clear vision.

Absent of sunlight, of nutrition, of life.

Absent of hatred, of bias, of judgment.

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A box filled with peace.

A world of nothing that can make you feel everything.

But such a world is temporary because a world without sound or smell, or nutrition isn’t a world at all.

The world needs judgments and bias’ to have purpose.

Such disgraces provide determination, commitment and fortitude to our lives.

Unhappiness is necessary to know happiness.

Hatred is necessary to know love.

Imperfection is necessary to know perfection.

So I raised my body a couple inches and the world became alive again.

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Default Mikaela Lenz The buzz of the alarm rings inches from my face at 7:30 a.m., telling me, unsympathetically, it doesn’t care that I received a minimal amount of sleep the night before and that it’s time to get up. I groan as I fight the urge to press the snooze button, and reluctantly turn off the horrid noise. Rather than climb down from my bunk and dress for the day, as I should, I continue bury my face in the phone. I scroll through my Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat feeds to further update myself with useless information. I head to the restroom and proceed to scroll through these apps while I empty the can. While I’m eating breakfast I refresh all of my social media apps and begin the process all over again.

The scene I have portrayed outlines an average American teenagers’ morning. However, the social media scrolling and posting doesn’t stop after the first groggy hour that our generation is awake. Studies show that the average 18 to 34 year old spends 3.8 hours of their day using social media networking apps and sites. Surprisingly, this statistic doesn’t decrease much with age as the average 35 to 49 year old spends 3 hours of their day on such sites and the average 50 to 64 year old spends 2.4 hours (MarketingCharts). This adds up to about 27 hours a week, 106 hours a month, and 1,277 hours per year for individuals in my generation. These statistics show that in an average year an individual the age 18 to 34 will spend about 53 days scrolling, posting, and refreshing social media pages.

These statistics beg the question: “Why? Why do individuals in modern society spend so much time, that could be used productively, on social media apps and websites?” I have found the answer to this question to be quite simple, social media is our generation’s default. In our world today scrolling through various applications on our smart phones is a way to pass time.

Whether we are standing in line at the supermarket, sitting at the dinner table, or in a lecture hall, seeing people scrolling through their various app feeds is a guarantee. Our generation has 123

glorified social media sites to the extent that checking such sites has become second nature to us, it has become our default.

Having a default mode has made individuals inattentive, absent minded, and often times downright senseless. I believe that our generation has produced this default mode because the world of social media provides instant gratification, direction, and self worth as individuals. Many people struggle to find these characteristics in their everyday lives, so, by default; many turn to a world where they can hide behind a screen. Such a screen offers them protection and security. However, I think young individuals have become too attached to hiding behind their screens that they are no longer present within their “real worlds” and have forgotten communication skills.

The world of social media has many benefits when used appropriately; it also has many deficits when used inappropriately. One inappropriate use, which I have highlighted in this paper, is the overuse of social media. This overuse has led our generation, and others, to spend thousands of hours of our lives inches away from our smart phones. This has led to individuals be constantly distracted within their daily lives.

Hiding behind screens gives people a false sense of reality and can ultimately leave them with a lasting, negative impact on their lives. It’s time for us to stop turning to our phones whenever we are bored or feel like pushing reality aside and start living the life set out for us. It’s time to turn off our default mode and turn on reality.

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Mikaela Mary Lenz was born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska. As a freshman at Mount Marty College she is studying Human Services with a minor in English writing. She plans to pursue a career working with developmentally disabled children as an Occupational Therapist. Aside from dedicating time toward her major, Lenz is also a Cross Country and Track athlete for Mount Marty. This is her first publication.

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Little Sister Gabrielle McHugh Oh, little sister, The path you have chosen.

I know.

It could be so much worse, And yet That is what I see, A crushed stone.

You want to join the military.

Which is good, But what are your reasons?

I can only question your intentions.

The past three and a half years Have been more unstable Than before.

Perhaps, this is what happened, For this is where The worst changes have occurred.

I want to help, But I don’t know how.

I want to yell at you, But I don’t want to lose you.

You say you’re fine, But I can tell; It’s a front.

Inside you’re broken And angry.

You need to let it out.

You’ve already crumbled once.

I’m afraid That if it happens again You won’t come back.

Your pieces won’t fit.

You’ll be gone for good.

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Gabrielle McHugh grew up in southwest Iowa with her grandparents and three siblings. She worked at a daycare throughout all of high school and is currently working at Hy-Vee. She is a sophomore English major with a literature emphasis. Fun facts, like the origins of playdough, are one of many things she enjoys learning.

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That Easy Fix —

The Not-S0-Great Powers of Drugs Jane Mill “Did you remember to take your medicine?” That was the question asked of me every morning before walking out the door to go to school, putting on a fake smiley face and nodding yes.

I went to school each day still as sad and depressed as the last. I was on three different medications; I was supposed to be getting better. I wasn’t, and no other recommendations were made for my health. I was just directed to take these pills every day. That was all I knew. I had no clue what each one was for, what the side affects were, or how to pronounce the drug’s name.

Growing up I had a great life; depression was not something anyone expects or hopes for. Depression hits you seemingly out of nowhere, sometimes for no reason, but when it does hit you it feels like a train, a train that did not care to turn on its lights or blow its horn.

Mental hospital bills were piled on our kitchen table, all from the same place. The bills were stacked beside the prescription bottles that had my name written on them. It made me sad to see my mother and father put all of their money into my health, into trying to make me feel better even though it was not working.

Within six months I had quit every sport I participated in.

In addition I was failing a few of my classes, not caring about anything including my family, being rebellious and shy at the same time. There were times I was so doped up I did not know my right hand from my left foot. Doctors said the medication would take some time to get used to, a year and half went by and I still was not used to them. The medicine made me extremely tired, and I slept most of the day. From doctors to my parents they all told me that talking would make a world of difference, but it never did for me. Talking usually made things worse. I was a private person before depression so I did not understand why they wanted me to change. I would talk when I needed or wanted to, yet they just kept trying to pry me open.

Before the year ended my depression train had crashed and I decided to change for my family. I did not care about changing for myself. I was tired of seeing my mother cry, my father having to hold her and having to pick up all her tissues. I wanted to become the daughter they had a year ago. The daughter that was 128

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bright, outgoing, caring, and loving. I could care less if I actually was her, but I knew I needed to try for my family’s sake.

I went out for the basketball team my freshman year of high school; I made varsity right away. I started to take easy classes in high school. I wanted to feel all the small little successes and gain some self-confidence before I ventured out into something bigger. Slowly I built myself up, the whispers around the house began to grow concerning why I was genuinely smiling and actually talking at supper. Each night before I went to bed I wrote in a journal, I wrote down exactly how I felt during the day. I did not dwell on the day because that seemed to make me more upset. Instead of reflecting, I was thinking about what I could do tomorrow to push myself just a small step further.

Faith is extremely important, I found out. You do not have to show it publicly though it does help a little bit more. Each night I was going to bed praying, thanking God for all the greatness in the day, even if I just found one thing to be good. Picking out the small things that went well during the day can help you trek on the next few miles. Realizing all the good in the world and not focusing on the bad. Telling yourself and slowly starting to believe that not everyone in this world is out to get you and not everyone around is talking about you.

I beat depression not because of all the drugs my doctors put me on, but because I found self worth. Many people want to find that easy fix that happens over night, but trust me you can look all you want but you are not going to find it. There is no magic wand or pill out there that will make this go away in the matter of a few hours or even a few days. It is going to take awhile; I know that is not what you want to hear. I know it is hard grasping you are going to still feel shitty about yourself for a few more months.

Depression is something that was hard for me to talk about in the beginning but now I do believe it has made me a stronger person. I can now see things in a way most other people cannot.

I see the beauty in items that others find absolutely disgusting.

I view other people in a more positive way, giving many people second or third chances because that is what I got. Some do not think that people can change, but I am living proof people can.

Believe me when I say things will get better, it is just a matter of time. There are going to be obstacles you will have to overcome and each time you get sad, each time someone dies in your life, you are going to worry about whether or not the train is going to run off the tracks again. Sure it could, but do everything in your power to keep it on the right track. I have faith in you.

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Jane Mill is a student at Mount Marty College.

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Vocal Weapons Reece Mimmack It was a known fact that if you are a senior in high school, you are not only obligated to go to almost every school event, but you are also obligated to get there before everyone else did so you could get the best seats. This was exactly what I planned to do on a Friday night in mid January. I walked into school with a couple of buddies dressed in white from head to toe and headed straight to the front row where the students were required to sit. As more and more students started piling into the gym for the rivalry basketball game, our student section grew to what looked like a giant marshmallow or an oversized cotton ball. All throughout warm-ups we were waiting with anticipation for that one person to walk into the gym that didn’t get the memo about today’s theme being ‘White Out’. There was always someone who was out of place, so our curiosity set in to see who it would be this time.

Just as the game was about to start, there he was. The guy we had been waiting for this whole time. He was a sophomore and was dressed in a red, Super Mario t-shirt and black sweat pants.

We could tell he was embarrassed, but my buddies didn’t think that was enough. They started to make fun of him and give him shit for not being dressed in white like everyone else. He was the kind of guy who was used to this. He was used to people making fun of him all the time for anything he did. This time; however, it was a little hard for him to handle. He sprinted out of the gym as fast as he could. Laughs erupted from the student section, but I didn’t feel right being a bystander to all of this. Something inside me felt the urge to chase after him. I was faced with a tough decision; do I stay and watch the game with my friends, or do I leave them and go see if the embarrassed sophomore was okay? I knew that if I left, my friends would probably give me shit, but I didn’t care. I made my decision, and till this day I don’t regret it for a second.

I looked everywhere for that boy. I checked out every bathroom, all the classrooms, and even the closets and storage areas, but he was nowhere to be found. I knew he had to be somewhere because he didn’t have a car, so I continued my search. I remember people I knew questioning me about where I was going, what I was doing, and if everything was all right. I 131

didn’t answer any of them. I didn’t care if it was rude, or mean to ignore them, there was something much more important at hand that didn’t concern them. Finally, after a solid ten minutes, I found him in the men’s locker room, huddled up in a tight ball in the furthest stall away from the entrance. His face was wet with tears, and his petite body was quivering as if it were twenty below zero. I stood looking at him for probably longer than I should, but I have never seen such a sad, vulnerable person before. Even though he told me several times to leave him alone, I found myself sitting beside him on what seemed like the dirtiest floor west of the Mississippi. I can’t recall all of the conversation, but whatever I said, and whatever he got out of it, worked. That day in mid January was the first time I had ever seen him hug another human being, and I found myself on the other side of it.

From that day forward, he was different. He didn’t look different or act different to anyone else, but to me he did. We started to notice each other in the hallways between classes. We would make eye contact and a smile would proceed. He smiled a lot more than normal, which made me feel a lot better myself. I felt like I had made a difference. It wasn’t a huge difference, but it was a difference, and that’s all that mattered to me. He had felt better about himself because of one simple conversation we had in a bathroom stall.

Our friendship lasted throughout the course of the semester.

Although we never really saw each other outside of school and school related activities, we talked almost every other day.

School started to be more and more demanding and family life became harder and harder for the both of us, but that’s what connected us. We always had something to talk about. Whether it was about school, family, friends, or girls, we always had an interesting conversation. He would feel a lot better about himself, and I would too, because I knew I was helping him in a way many other people couldn’t. He wasn’t the one to have very high selfesteem, so it was always a tough task to make him comfortable and confident in the amazing person he was. Everything was going well, for the both of us, until one day something happened that would change everything for the worse.

Graduation day approached a lot faster than I anticipated, and summer came in the blink of an eye. Yes, I was overjoyed to graduate from high school and to finally get some much needed time off from school and my studies, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to see him as much as I was used to. This impacted the both of us dramatically. We didn’t have that one person we could talk to about anything. We lost that sense of support and charismatic friendship we had in each other. This didn’t hit us 132

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for a while though. It wasn’t until I left for college that our lives began to falter.

I received a text message from one of my good buddies in high school. He asked me if I had heard the news about the 16-yearold kid that was killed from our high school. I hadn’t. I wish I never had. After hearing how he died, I knew who it was. I didn’t have to be told a name to know who jumped off that bridge. It was him. God dammit it was him. One of the sweetest and most loving kids I knew took his own life because he couldn’t handle the reality of life. And how could he? His peers at school for no reason whatsoever constantly abused him. No, there were never any cuts or bruises, but that’s because words don’t leave any physical evidence. If only people could realize the amount of damage, pain, and suffering someone can feel because of words.

If only they could realize how pathetic it looks to have to tear someone else down in order to build yourself up. Your voice is the most effective weapon ever created, and unfortunately, people all over the world use it in a way that it shouldn’t be time after time again. Still to this day I have no idea why I was the only one who could see the enormous amounts of pain he had in his little body, but I could.

Ever since I got that dreaded text about his death, I haven’t been able to forgive myself. I have a heart full of regret because I know I could have done something differently to try and prevent this from happening. Deep down, I know it was a long shot from getting him to not take his own life, but I never even tried. I went to college and started a new life, while he was still in high school, with the same situation he had before, except now without his only companion. I wasn’t there anymore to help him through the struggles of life. I wasn’t there to talk to when something went wrong. I could have been, but I wasn’t. It’s hard for me not to blame myself for any of this, but I know that there just wasn’t much more that I could have done.

I think many people feel this way when they are in a similar situation I am in. They blame themselves for not doing more, but the reality is, you did everything you could. You made life better for someone by simply using your voice, and that’s one quality in a person that will forever be admirable by anyone. I think about the effect I had by only talking to that boy. He had a reason to live. He told me time after time again that I was the only one who seemed to care if he was doing okay besides his grandparents. I gave him a sense of willingness to push forward.

I know I wasn’t the only reason for him to keep on going, but I feel like I was a big part of it. It wasn’t even me that was a big part of it; it was my voice. Somehow, my voice made him feel a 133

way that nothing else and nobody else could.

There are so many different ways to use your voice in the world today. You can either use it to bring down others like some of the students did in my high school, or you can use it to make others feel better and create an all around better atmosphere to live in.

It is ultimately your choice, but I’ll tell you one thing; the kids from my high school feel a hell of a lot worse about the situation with that vulnerable boy than I do. They have to live with the feeling of guilt for the rest of their lives because they did nothing but make his life a living hell. A hole in their heart will always be there and will never be filled. Myself on the other hand, have this hole in my heart where that boy used to fill. This hole will never be filled either, I know that, but knowing I was one of the few people that got to know who he truly was and being one of the few people that made him actually feel important in this world will forever put me to peace. I believe he is at peace as well, because someone finally stepped up, used their voice, and gave him the courage to continue much longer than he had anticipated.

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How to Become Single Reece Mimmack You can’t stop staring at the girl across the room. She’s glowing from all directions. You notice her, but she doesn’t notice you.

How could that be? You’re a charming guy. You’re attractive. You know because your mother tells you so. Either way you know you’re good enough. Good enough for at least a shot.

Well you get your shot. Finally, you get your shot. Now for the love of God don’t blow it. After talking awhile, you have a date set up. Next Saturday at 7:00 at the burger joint downtown. That’s a good choice, tasty yet inexpensive.

You dress appropriately. Khaki pants and a button up shirt. You look like nothing compared to her though. She’s wearing that skirt you often picture her in because you’re a freaking weirdo, but that’s okay because you’re on a date with her now. Let’s just hope your weirdness doesn’t show through too much.

Dinner couldn’t have gone better. Conversation flowed better than expected because you know how socially awkward you are.

You only clammed up towards the beginning of the date and were only reminded twice that her face was, “Up here”. You pay for dinner like your old man taught you to. You drive her home, walk her to her door, and plant one on her. The first of many. More importantly, you got that second date.

The second date went just as well. As did the third, and the fourth. So well in fact, that you have yourself a girlfriend. How a guy like you got a girlfriend in the first place blows your mind, but that’s beside the point, because now you have someone you need to actually put effort into keeping other than your mother.

It’s a whole new responsibility you wish you understood before you got yourself into this relationship. You still like this girl, heck; you might even love her by now. But how would you know? You’ve only been in love with one other person and that’s the 87-year old woman down the street because she makes the best oatmeal cookies. It has been a few months since you started dating; however, things are getting serious, and that’s when you start to slack off as her boyfriend. Now’s not the time. This is the make or break time in the relationship. This is when she makes the decision to kick you to the curb or start taking you to relative’s weddings as she starts thinking of her own with you.

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Instead of taking the necessary steps forward, you’re going backwards. It all started when you ripped ass in front of her. Not cool dude. She’s starting to think you’re disgusting and have no respect for her. And then you chose to go to the hockey game with your buddies over a movie night with her. Just because she said “it’s fine, go have fun”, doesn’t mean that it is fine and to go have fun. That’s when you abort mission and start getting ready for a chick flick. But you didn’t do that. Not only didn’t you do that, but also you forgot her birthday AND anniversary. The two most important dates of your relationship. Even if you have to forget your own birthday to remember hers, you better do it!

Instead, now she’s crying for what seems like to you no reason, which doesn’t make the situation any better whatsoever.

Not only is your girlfriend losing interest, but her father never had interest. Not once did you show him the respect he needs.

He thinks you are a low life that will never be successful. Maybe that’s true, but who does he think he is judging you like that? He isn’t Dr. Phil. He’s no psychic. But yet you never did anything to prove him wrong.

You aren’t just doing the big things wrong, but you’re doing the little things wrong too. You don’t tell her she’s beautiful enough.

You have never bought her flowers. You leave the toilet seat up and never wash your hands after you are finished. And for heaven’s sake you actually hesitated when she asked you if she looked fat in those blue jeans that are one size too small.

It’s no secret why you are staring at the same girl across the room, who is glowing from all directions. But no, you do not have a conversation with her, you do not have a date with her at 7:00 at the burger joint downtown, and you cannot call her your girlfriend anymore because she dropped you like a bad habit about three weeks ago.

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Reece Mimmack is a freshman at Mount Marty College majoring in Psychology and minoring in both Chemistry and Biology. He hopes to be accepted into a Pharmacy school after his four years at MMC to earn a Pharm-D Degree and eventually become a Pharmacist himself. He is active in baseball, STEP Club, Bio-Chem club, and is going to be a Residence Assistant his sophomore year. He is from Sioux Falls, South Dakota and is the youngest of four siblings.

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Tradition Dixie Pacheco My family has always treated hunting as a tradition. One that should be passed on from generation to generation. I have been raised with this mentality since I was a young child. I have been shooting guns since the age of ten, and learned how to shoot a BB gun in school during my physical education class. Hunter safety was a requirement in my middle school in Manderson, Wyoming. Which we obtained in science class. In many places, this would be frowned upon. I remember when I was a child going into the garage; it was normal to see the lifeless body of a deer that my father had shot.

The first time I saw a deer hanging in the garage I screamed.

The moment I walked in I observed a deer with no fur covering the dense dark red of exposed muscle tissue. The deceased deer would just be hanging there with nothing but a frozen expression of fear on its face.

I still remember my dad standing there holding a buck knife with a glossy handle. The knife glistened when the light from the open garage door struck the blade. The blade had been recently sharpened this was obvious by the thin evenly round edge. My dad’s normal soft stricken demeanor had changed to a rough, frightening figure whose hands were stained with blood. He even had the blood of the deer smeared on the legs of his overalls.

When I screamed he set down his knife, and ran over to me.

After a hug he spoke to me words of comfort. My dad went on to explain how important it was to hunt, to use the meat that you hunt for, and be able to provide food for ourselves.

He also described how important it was for his generation to show my generation the proper ways to hunt, use a gun, and to maintain a respect for nature. He expressed how important it is for our generation to continue passing on the hunting tradition to future generations. In a low, soft relaxing tone, he continued on about how important, and lucky we were to have been born American citizens.

My father has always been a gentle soft-spoken man. Anyone who meets him would be surprised to find out this bright-eyed slender man is a hunter, and a very strong believer in our second amendment right. He said, “After all, this deer will feed us.” For 138

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the next few months.� we will give thanks to the deer for giving us the most precious gift, the sacrifice of her life, the sacrifice of her life, for our benefit.

By this time a feeling of calm and interest about what my dad was telling me had completely taken over, and the fear I had felt from seeing the dead deer was gone. My father must have noticed a change in my emotions, because he picked up his hunting knife, and continued to carve out the pieces of meat from the hind quarter of the deer. All the while he was explaining what he was cutting, and why he was cutting it the way he was. By the end of the evening, I was even helping him carve into the deer, he would guide my hands over the flesh of the deer making sure that I was making correct cuts.

A hunter’s way of life is not always as brutal and cruel as it is portrayed. Is there death in hunting? Yes, but anyone who eats meat has contributed to the death of an animal in some way or another. The important thing is to remember to respect the animal. The hunted animal has died for the hunter and his family to eat. Give thanks to the animal by using as much as the meat as possible. This way the animal will be honored and not die in vain.

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Dixie Pacheco is a non-traditional Mount Marty Student.

She is attending Mount Marty to obtain her BSN in Nursing.

Dixie is married to her high-school sweetheart Tim. Dixie has a wonderful outlook on life, and loves to spend her spare time with her three children (Tanayia, Timmy, and Tessamae). She is also very excited to get her piece “Tradition� published.

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Pro’s Place Drue Soukup My uncle, a great man, sits in his chair in his tiny tan house.

As I sit in his tiny one person house I play with his little cacti. He tells me “Don’t touch” but I never heed. This man was nothing like my father, never telling me what was right or wrong. He would just stare blankly at me. As if he’s trying to read me like I am the solution to all his problems. “Thirty years ago I would put in those storm windows,” He said to break the silence. When he looked at me for a response, all I thought of was to shrug my shoulders. He looked back at me with a puzzled face, which puzzled me. I wondered what he was thinking. Before I thought too long, he asks harmlessly, “Do you want a cookie?” He never had any milk so he’d always say, “No milk today but you can have a coke.”

Every time I was at his house he offered me one, and I took just a few more, but there is something special about this. Every time he asked me if I wanted one, he acted like it was the first time he had asked this question. Even though we both know it has been asked a million times. As I grew older I started to do the chores that my father did for him. It would be me putting in the storm windows, and him still sitting in the same chair saying “Forty years ago I would be putting in those storm windows.” Then the stroke hit him. You could only imagine his frustration. He was taken away from his tiny tan house, and put in a nursing home.

Seeing him got harder and harder. When he tried to speak he would stutter and get angry. Pro knew what he wanted to say but it would not come out. Even after he passed away two years after the stroke, I kept going to his house to mow the lawn. After I was done with the chores, I would sit on his couch. I would imagine him there giving me that puzzled look, like I had the solution to life’s problems.

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Drue Soukup is a freshman English Education major at Mount Marty College. He was born in Martin, South Dakota but has lived in Wagner, South Dakota all his life. He is also involved in choir, Catholic Leadership, and baseball. He enjoys playing basketball and hanging out with friends in his free time.

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Waiting Raquel Sutera She had gone missing the Friday night of prom, the day before my eighteenth birthday. She was last seen by friends in the parking lot walking to the gym door, driving her light blue minivan away from Bon Homme High School, her two daughters, and the grand march. Monday came around and still nobody had heard from her, not her husband, friends, or any of her five children.

This wasn’t like one of her usual episodes. I know this because Dana had finally broke down earlier that week when we headed to Yankton to get our nails done for prom. She let me in on how bad her mom’s behavior at home had been. She would disappear from time to time in the car, sometimes for hours on end, but always to return the same day. Her explanation to Dana and the rest of her family, “driving is therapeutic for me,” was justifiable until she wrecked Dana’s car. A possible suicide attempt.

Walking through school that Monday without seeing Dana there was dull. We all missed her contagious smile, sarcasm, and hilarious facial expressions. She and the rest of her siblings would not be in school that day, or the rest of the week. They were out searching, while all of us were stuck inside waiting; waiting for the news, good or bad only God knew. I remember feeling anxious and useless at the same time. I couldn’t do anything but try to make it through the day as normal as possible. It was a very distracting day for our group of friends, and waiting had never been so hard.

The waiting ended at around eleven thirty after lunch. I remember walking through the hall not paying attention to what was going on around me, trying only to think of picking up my bag and heading to my fifth period class. That was until I turned around the last corner before I reached the commons, which was full of students tending to their books and lockers. I stopped dead in my tracks, and my heart began sinking all the way to my toes.

I saw a mutual friend standing towards the back of the commons area, phone in hand with tears streaming down her face. By looking at this scene I knew exactly what was happening, she had heard from Dana’s sister, and the news was 143

not going to be good. I walked up to her trying desperately to keep my voice even and keep the tears in my eyes until I could be alone. She looked up at me and said two words that still haunt my memory to this day, “She’s gone.”

A million questions started running through my mind, but I couldn’t seem to find my voice. The only thing I could do was reach out and hug her. I’m not sure if I did it to comfort her sobs, or to try and stop the tears that started pouring out my eyes. We stood like that for a long time, well into our fifth period. When I finally found my voice, and the tears started to slow I asked some questions, “How? Why? Is Dana okay?” But she didn’t have any answers to give me, and that’s when I realized the waiting wasn’t completely over.

Walking numbly up the three flights of stairs to my fifth period English class I knew what was waiting for me. The rest of my and Dana’s friends with anxious stares, and sad eager eyes yearning for the information they thought I had. I set one foot into that classroom, and couldn’t avoid all the searching looks, and it broke me. The tears started flowing again and I bolted out the door into the girls’ restroom where I hoped to be alone. My friends and teacher followed me but no one had to say anything because they all knew too, just like I did when I saw our friend in the commons. Finally after the tears started to slow again we moved to an empty classroom. We were excused from the rest of our classes that day.

Sitting in a third floor classroom, I didn’t have answers for my friends, and again the waiting started. I checked my phone every other minute, I swear, desperately wanting to see a text from Dana flash on my screen. We all wanted to hear from her, but uncertain as to what we would say when she reached out. How could we comfort her, when none of us had any idea the pain she and her family must be going through?

My emotion was overwhelming sadness at the loss of such a wonderful woman. Dana’s mom was beautiful, kind, and caring, with bright short orange hair as radiant as the sunshine and a personality to match. She could make us laugh the entire time we were at her house, and always made sure we felt right at home.

She was a woman of strong faith, with so much love in her heart for everything living around her, and wonderfully passionate, the kind of passion written about in books, and exaggerated in movies.

I kept thinking while my tears began to subside; my emotion switched to anger. I was angry, angry at her mom, and at God. How could she leave her five children like that? Her youngest child was a third grader. Did she think about how he would 144

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interpret his mother willingly ending her life? How could she be so selfish? Did she even consider the emotional damage she was leaving behind for her friends and family? How could she miss her children growing up, the graduations, weddings, and sporting events that were yet to happen? After considering all those questions, I really became mad at God. Why do people get depressed? Couldn’t he have eased her mind, and her pain? Why do these things happen to some of the best people?

Finally my friends and I worked through these emotions by talking out loud to each other. I’m not sure if we came to any conclusions to our questions, but it somehow eased the pain just to talk. Even though I was mad at God I found myself praying more than I ever had in my life. Praying for Dana and her family, to ease their pain. Praying for myself to be strong and to find the right words to help Dana when I finally got a chance to talk to her.

School was finally out, and as I headed to my car my phone lit up with the text I had been waiting for since I received the horrible news. Dana had finally contacted me. She invited me to come see her. I don’t think I’ve ever driven so fast in my life.

When I got to her front door the only thing I kept repeating over and over again in my head was, Don’t cry. Be strong. Dana needs you right now.

All the preparation in the world couldn’t have helped me after Dana opened the front door and I took one look at her face. I burst into uncontrollable tears, somehow managing to get out a barely audible “hello” before we were hugging. I managed to compose myself, and realized Dana had not been crying with me, which led me to feel like a horrible friend for not being strong.

Dana was the one comforting me when it should have been the other way around. I finally spoke to her and apologized for not being strong, needing her comfort, and she stated, “It’s alright. I am all cried out for right now.”

We went up to her room and started going through some of her mom’s stuff, and reminiscing about all the good memories we had with her. Overall, a very soothing process. That was until we came across a small ribbon that had “birthday princess” written across it.

I remembered the day; it was Dana’s sixteenth birthday. Her mom had met me early outside school to give the ribbon to me.

She wanted to make sure Dana wore it that day during school so that everyone would know it was her birthday. Her mom was so full of joy and laughter while explaining this to me. When I took Dana the ribbon she initially was horrified and said, “Oh hell no I am not wearing that around school.” I told her how happy and 145

insistent her mom was at the thought of her wearing it and that she should do it just to make her mom happy. Finally Dana put it on and wore it for an hour.

We both started laughing remembering that day, and her mom being the happy, silly, carefree person she usually was. When our laughter subsided tears started flowing again, this time from both of us. We hugged a long time and cried together in silence. I thought to myself, this is how I want to remember her mom, this is how I hope her family will remember her happy, silly, carefree, and loving life. This is how I will describe her to people who didn’t know her. I won’t remember her as a troubled lady who couldn’t find a way out, because that was only a fraction of who she was, and I only knew that version of her for a short time.

After I left Dana’s house it was late, around midnight, but it felt like I had been awake for three days straight. I was exhausted from the tension of the day, the waiting and not knowing, the overwhelming sadness and anger when finally hearing, and all of the tears shed. I finally reached home I became overwhelmed. I woke up my mom and sobbed into her shoulder with the rest of the energy I had, holding nothing back. When I calmed myself down enough to apologize for waking her up I was overcome with guilt. Dana would not be able to do this anymore. When she needed a hug from her mom she would not get it. She no longer had her guide and rock that had been a consistent thing in her life. I felt guilty that my mother was still here to be that for me.

This day might have been one of the longest days of my life.

I’ve never felt so many different emotions at the same time. I still feel sadness, and anger when I think about it. I remember the agony of waiting and not knowing. I don’t enjoy the memories and pictures from prom that year as much as I should.

Every year my birthday comes around I send a text to Dana remembering her loss that day, and she sends a text back wishing me a happy birthday. Is that fair? No. But the one thing I’ve learned from that day is that people who say, “Life isn’t fair,” they are right. I learned to appreciate the good things more because of the bad things that happened. I try not to complain as much about the unimportant things, like being single and not receiving gifts on Valentine’s Day. Compare that with not having a mother on Mother’s Day.

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Raquel Sutera is a senior at Mount Marty College and will graduate with a major in criminal justice, and a minor in English.

Raquel wants to pursue a career where she can help people, right now she is seeking a job at Child Protective Services. Raquel also played basketball at Mount Marty College all four years. She wants to live in the Yankton area with her boxer puppy named Hooper, and to stay near her family.

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The House that Tells the Story

after reading Ted Kooser’s “Abandoned House”

Billie Wicks This house was a place for tears and laughter, comfort and protection. A place where broken hearts were put back together and a place where memories would last forever. The yard was cared for said the green grass growing tall and fast. The man of the house was busy said the oil stain on the cement driveway.

There lived many people said the pile of shoes blocking the doorway. The children were reckless said the many stains on the carpet. You can tell the living room was loved and used for many occasions because of the dents and bruises left on the couch’s surface. The house was safe said the locks on the doors. Many complicated math problems lay here said eraser shavings on the kitchen table. Dinner was a messy time because the pots and pans were still waiting to be cleaned. The youngest child was messy says the clothes scattered throughout the room at the end of the hall. You knew her favorite color by the purple paintings that hung on the light, purple walls. In the next room was the middle child. You could tell she liked to keep things tidy because of the perfectly aligned knick-knacks on her dresser. Across from the two bedrooms, the parent’s room stood. The parents loved their children said the many pictures on the white wall. The family was never still said the unfinished basement. The unfinished basement held many super bowls and slumber parties said the giant TV and the popcorn kernels embedded in the carpet. At the edge of the basement was a small room. This room was different from the rest. In this room it looked as if the child who lived there left before the others. She left behind important belongings that showed she had every intention of returning.

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Homeless, Not Hopeless Billie Wicks This is the nation’s capital filled with politicians and it is where the White House stands. It is also a poor, segregated city filled with crime and poverty. There is much more to Washington D.C than people are aware. This city has the highest homeless population in the United States. Washington D.C. is as broken as the people who live there.

This was the week that would change my life. It was the week that changed me for the better, the week I will never forget. The sun was just coming up over the mountain top. It seemed as if the whole world was still sleeping. Not very often do I get to see what the world looks like when it is sleeping. It was four in the morning though, so I don’t blame the world.

When we arrived in Washington D.C., the sky was full of rain clouds that were about to burst. We knew we had to find shelter, enough shelter for twenty people and their luggage. The clouds began to open up, one drop at a time. It seemed as if the clouds were only warning us before the big event. I could see the subway station getting closer and closer but by this time the clouds had already burst into a million tears. I was finally close enough to touch my foot to the cement floor. The rain was no longer hitting me so I looked up.

They were lined up against every wall with the few belongings they had. There was close to one hundred. One hundred homeless people that is. I was terrified. Each face was a different color and told a different story. Some looked angry, some looked sad, but they all had something in common. They were broken.

As we walked through the sea of people I knew why we had come to this city.

We made our way through the crowded subway station and started another long walk to the church we would be staying at for the next week. The church was filled with colors. The light from the stained glass windows shown through and lit up the sanctuary. The top floor of the church was a shelter for women.

This week it was a shelter for us. When we made our way to the top of the steps I felt discomfort. I knew this week wouldn’t be easy and I knew things would never be the same after this.

There were two bathrooms. One for the boys and one for the girls. The girls’ bathroom had one toilet and one shower for the 149

seven of us. The boys’ bathroom had two toilets and two showers for the ten of them. I thought that was a little unfair considering the fact that the boys always smelled bad anyway.

We all had to sleep in the same room. The only thing that was separating the boys from the girls was an imaginary line that said ‘do not cross.’ There was about nine metal, creaky bunkbeds that filled the room. Each of us claimed our territory as we sat in silence preparing for what was going to come next. Even though the room was crowded, it felt as if no one else was in there but me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the homeless people lined up against the walls of the station. I knew nothing could ever make me forget that.

That night I prepared myself for a restless sleep. The shelter said they would supply us pillows and blankets but they were unable to this time. I am not use to sleeping without a pillow but this week I would have to get used to it. I stared at the metal bars under the bunk bed above me until my brain allowed me to finally close my eyes.

The next morning the sound of Pastor Tom’s singing woke me up. I think it was his plan to wake everyone up with his singing. It definitely worked. Everyone grabbed a bowl of cereal or two and dug in. We had a variety of choices including Captain Crunch, which was one of my favorites. Cereal was going to be our breakfast for the next seven days. I really didn’t mind.

We were all waiting patiently for her to walk into the room.

Her curly brown locks were pulled back by a rubber band and she had a smile that could light up an entire room. Her glasses sat on the bridge of her nose and the way she talked made everything sound important. She introduced herself as Curly, which wasn’t actually her real name, but that is who she will always be to us. She was our leader for those seven days and she too changed my life.

She took us down the dirty streets of Washington D.C. and showed us the White House, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial. Each monument stood tall in the hot sun and made the city look stronger than before. There were many sites to see, but we weren’t there for that. We were there to make a difference. Our first stop was at a shelter for women. The women ranged from about thirty to sixty years old. Each woman held a piece of unfinished jewelry between their shaky fingers. The women of this shelter transformed unwanted, damaged jewelry into beautiful recycled pieces.

They all looked happy but one woman in particular looked a little more broken than the rest. She was an African American lady that was probably in her early sixties. Her dark hair was falling out of the hat on top of her head. She was wearing a 150

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purple floral printed dress that covered her arms and only ran a little past her mid-shin. She sat tall in her chair but not tall enough to hide the pain she was feeling. Behind her glasses were her dark brown eyes and that was where the sadness was buried. Without realizing, I found myself making my way across the room where she sat. I was close enough to see her beautiful pieces of jewelry. I pressed the tip of my finger on the chain of every necklace until finally my fingers touched the most beautiful piece on the table.

“That is my favorite one too,” she said softly.

“It is beautiful,” I replied.

Curly had each of us come back to the center of the room and sit on the cold, dirty floor. She informed us that each woman would like to tell their story of how they ended up in the shelter.

One of them said she struggled with alcoholism, another had gone bankrupt, one of them was in an abusive relationship and a couple more suffered from drug addictions. I felt deep pain in my heart for all of them, but I knew the pain I was about to feel from this last story would be different. The African American lady shifted in her chair a bit before she started her story. She was looking down at her shaky hands until finally she looked up and locked eyes with mine. I gave her a little smirk to show her that it was okay.

She sat up a little taller and began to speak.

“I was a full time nurse and my husband also had a very good paying job. We never had children but we were happy with the way our lives were going. I loved my husband dearly and he loved me just the same, if not more. A few years ago my husband was diagnosed with cancer. It all happened so fast. He lost his job because he was no longer able to work. I, also, lost my job because I had to take care of my dying husband. I did it all on my own. I still wish I would have had more time. He passed away and my life took a turn for the worse. I was depressed and before I knew it, I couldn’t keep up with the bills so I lost my home. I lived in my car for a few weeks after that, but then I lost that too.

I was left with nothing.”

This wasn’t fair. How could that have happened to her? She had such an amazing life and now she was living in a homeless shelter. The tears began to fill my eyes as I watched her drop her head back down to look again at her shaky hands. I knew the pain in my heart was nothing compared to the pain that she was suffering.

After a while, everyone stood up and started to get ready to leave the shelter. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to fix her heart.

I didn’t want her to feel that pain anymore. I walked over to 151

her and told her I was sorry. She grabbed our favorite piece of jewelry and placed it into my hands. The words I wanted to say weren’t coming out. She looked at me with her dark brown eyes and smiled the most beautiful smile I have ever seen.

“Thank you so much,” I said.

She looked at me once more but this time, her eyes didn’t look as sad. Even though she never said anything in return I knew I had lessened the pain just a little bit.

“I will never forget about you,” I said under my breath as I walked away.

We walked everywhere we went in Washington D.C., and everywhere we went we saw homeless people. I wasn’t sure how many more broken people I could take. My head would fill up with questions as we walked past these people on the side of the streets. When was the last time they ate? Where do they sleep?

Why is their family not helping them? What are their stories? I wanted to know the answers to every question.

Our next stop was another shelter. This shelter was for men, women, children, and even dogs. However, we had work to do in this shelter. Some of us helped in the kitchen preparing the meal, others were out back carrying donated items into the basement and my job included sorting through donated clothes, blankets and anything else you could think of. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but I knew it was necessary. After a couple hours of sorting, picking, and complaining, it was time to open up the doors. Outside of the dusty windows I could see them all lined up. They looked sad and tired but most importantly they looked hungry. I was trying to imagine what it would be like when those doors finally opened. They would all come rushing in like wild animals.

I was wrong though. The doors were opened and no one rushed in. They waited patiently outside until they got the “okay” to come in. They all stood there in a single file line. The ones in the back were just as patient as the ones in front.

Most of them were carrying a small bag of belongings but some weren’t carrying anything. In fact, one guy didn’t even have any shoes on. The only thing on his feet were a pair of faded white socks with at least three holes in each. He also had a few pretty good sized bruises on his arms and legs. The owner of the shelter walked over to where he was waiting in line.

“Hey Jim, where did your shoes go? You had them yesterday didn’t you?” he said with concern in his voice.

“I did have them yesterday but last night I fell asleep on a park bench and these kids made me give them up,” he said ashamed.

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untying his laces. The shoes were grey and a little worn down.

He slipped both of his untied shoes off and was left with a pair of white socks that had no holes.

“It looks like we have the same size feet. Here take my shoes,” he said.

“No, I can’t take your shoes. You need those,” Jim replied.

The conversation ended with, “I have another pair of shoes back home, you need these shoes more than I do.”

After the line went down and everyone received something to eat, the place was filled with laughter and happiness. I couldn’t understand why they were all happy. A group of men was sitting in the corner of the room. Each of them had a smile on their face. There were three African American men and two white men. They all sat around the table and talked like it was thanksgiving dinner. I walked over to them and pulled up a metal chair.

“Hello, how are you guys doing?” I asked.

I already knew the answer. Of course they wouldn’t say they were doing great and they loved their lives. They all sat in silence for a few seconds and then began to chuckle. That was a good enough answer for me. They asked me to tell them a little about my life, so I introduced myself. I told them about my sisters, my dogs, and school of course. I thought if they were anything like my grandpa, they would end up asking me about school anyway.

Then it was their turn. I asked them to tell me a little about them.

They told me their favorite colors, favorite baseball teams, and they also told me their stories. One guy at one point in time was playing college level baseball until he got tied up in drug dealing.

The other two suffered from alcoholism and the fourth was born into homelessness. The last guy, however, never told me his story, but instead he taught me something.

“Billie, my name is David. I want you to remember that what you’re doing here is saving one life at a time. When you’re homeless you lose hope in life. I lost hope. Let me explain, when I stand on the side of the street, no one looks at me, they avoid my existence. I’m a nobody to most people. I am even a nobody to myself. I guarantee you every homeless person at some point has wanted to end their life. I was sitting on the street like I do every day watching people avoid my eyes except this one girl.

She looked into to my eyes and instead of looking at me like I was no one. She looked at me like I was someone.”

“Thank you, David,” I said.

He looked at me with tear filled eyes and said, “I haven’t heard someone say my name for over four months. You just saved my life.”

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Billie Wicks graduated high school from Custer, South Dakota in 2015. She is currently attending Mount Marty college where she runs for the cross-country and track team. Some of her interests include, hiking, climbing and of course running.

As of now, she plans to major in physical therapy and minor in business but is still unsure. Although her major is undecided, she knows she wants to do something that involves helping others.

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My Dysfunctional American Family Nicholas Wixon It was a warm summer morning in the middle of July. The window shades were pulled down, blocking out the intense rays of sun, except in the corners. Light poured in around these edges, allowing just a bit of UV escape to the left hand corner of the computer screen. The loud dramatic music combined with the slashes and clangs of imaginary swords echoed from the computer speakers. These sharp noises were diluted by the low hum of the air conditioner. I could hear my Chihuahua; Skipper, scraping his claws against the hardwood floor trying to sprint faster than his feet could grip. This scene looked like a real life version of Scooby Doo, and he often left scratch marks on our polished wood floors. This used to bother my father but now he’s grown tolerant to the vigorous attempts my dog makes to change direction. My brother, much larger than I, was leaning forward in his chair, tapping the mouse with the speed and relentlessness of a machine gun. His eyes were dreary and bloodshot from hours of gameplay, as he continued to slave on through the day, leveling up his medieval character.

My brother at the age of eight was larger than I was at ten. To this day he towers over me. When people meet my brother for the first time, they ask questions like, “Is he adopted?” or “He has a different father right?” They did this because the size difference between us is so significant. I am currently five feet eight inches tall, and I weigh about a hundred and forty pounds. My brother is only a junior in high school, and he is six feet two inches and still growing. He also hits the scale at a massive two hundred and ninety pounds. He’s bigger around than I am tall. We played football together through high school. I was the undersized running back that followed behind his massive wall.

The clock above our yellow painted entertainment center struck one. “It’s my turn now!” I exclaimed as I eagerly pushed Chris out of his spot. I was excited to continue my journey through medieval times. I had waited in agony for an entire hour for it to be my turn, my turn to slay dragons, kill demons, and smith armor. I grabbed the mouse as if it were the key to my life and frantically typed my username and password. It was almost like I was a junky, and this game was my heroin.

I heard a loud creak come from the other room. Instantly, I 155

recognized what caused this gut wrenching noise. It was our green winter door that always squealed obnoxiously. My instincts took over as I lunged down to the speakers and turned off the volume. I then spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees in an imitation of Barry Sanders to punch the manual shut down button on our hard drive, but the computer froze on the screen displaying my medieval character still standing there in an aggressive stance and shiny armor.

“I’m home!” sang my mother from the kitchen. My stomach dropped, and I knew at that moment I was in some deep shit. I had one of two choices, either run up to my happy mother and hope she was in a good mood. So good that she wouldn’t be upset that I was on the Internet when she wasn’t home, or create a convincing story. A story that would not only entertain my mother, but make her think that the computer has been frozen on my game since last night, yes a devious plan.

We were not allowed on the computer when my parent’s weren’t home, and when they were in the house we had an hour time limit. To this day I don’t really know why we had a time limit. I’m sure it was something about how my parents wanted us to go outside and play. I feel like my dad wanted my brother to be more athletic, and also I felt like he didn’t want us to be weirdo’s. I am a collegiate athlete and Chris has the potential to play college football, but he was unsuccessful when it came to preventing our weirdness, especially my brother.

“I was playing last night mother, and it froze. I thought I had fixed it so I didn’t tell you guys, but when Chris turned the computer monitor on I saw it was still frozen. Do you think you could fix it for me?” is what I wanted to say, but Chris had already begun his sprint to the kitchen.

Chris was always known for his wit. He flew through classes in school, and he always pulled A’s, so did I but my parents believe that Chris is a genius. Don’t get me wrong, Chris is probably the smartest person I know, but my parents think I’m some kind of idiot compared to him. I remember one night after a basketball game I went out to eat with my mom and my brother at the steakhouse in town. We sat down in our booth and were served our drinks. My mother peered at my brother and me over her tall miller light. I had gotten my ACT scores earlier that day, and I was pretty stoked with how I did. We were talking about my future, and where I would be going to college when my mom flat out said, “Nick, I’m proud of you. A 28 is a high score and you’re going to do great in college.” My mom raised her tall beer up to her lips and took a long draw from the dark gold poison.

When she finished the last drop she set the glass down onto the 156

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cardboard coaster the waitress had provided. She curved her index finger and held it against her lip in an attempt to hold in a belch. Her cheeks filled with air from her stomach, but the sound was inaudible. My mom looked up from her drink, her glassy eyes met mine and she continued on, “but I have no doubt in my mind that your brother is going to do much better.”

Similar to my dog, Chris too couldn’t gain traction on the hard wood due to his socks. He slid around the first corner; however, his large uncoordinated stature failed him, and caused his left leg to shoot out from its position. The rest of his frame followed and soon Chris’s face was greeted by the fabric-covered edge of our cheap dining room chair. After colliding with the chair, Chris’ face was introduced to the floor and a loud yelp quickly followed.

This didn’t hinder Chris at all as he was a man on a mission.

He arose from the floor like a wounded warrior, supporting his enormous body with his left hand on the edge of our cheap but elegant dining room table. I locked eyes with Chris as he arose from the dead and wiped the blood off his nose. He gave me a glare, through his eyes I could tell what he was thinking. “You drew first blood!” I instantly knew his plan. He was going to tattle on me.

Chris always got his way so I knew I was in big trouble. He had it so easy. Why did he get an Xbox one for Christmas when I had to purchase mine? Why did he not have to play baseball all the way through middle school too? I hated baseball, but my parents made me play it. I would stand in the batters box with my bat held tightly in my hands but I would never swing. I would duck the pitches because if I actually connected with the ball it would be an out. The bat was bigger than I was, and I could barely swing it anyways. I remember one particular instance when Chris didn’t have to go to church and I did. “Chris doesn’t have to go to church, he went last week.” My mom told me.

“I did too mom, I sat right next to you.” She looked at me like she had never seen me before, or maybe she was looking straight through me. She did this sometimes, she would gaze at my face that strongly resembled her own, thinking, “It wouldn’t be so bad to have only one child.”

“Chris doesn’t have to go because I said so!” she shouted at my smart remarks. I couldn’t form a response that wouldn’t get me grounded so I kept my mouth shut and went to church.

My legs shot my body forward like a bullet out of a gun. I was sure I could beat Chris to the kitchen. He turned and began his mad dash for the kitchen as well. Soon I reached the hard wood floor and as my socks began to slide I noticed I was gaining on Chris. My feet felt warm as I launched myself at my oversized 157

brother, and with an outstretched arm I grabbed the back of his dry-fit Under Armor shirt. The fabric was slick, and my fingers could no longer keep a firm grip on it. I yanked with all of my might, one last desperate attempt to save myself. My fingertips lost every thread of his shirt. Just as Chris did earlier, I began my descent to the floor. I slid on my belly like a penguin into the corner of the door, and slammed my back against the hard doorframe that lead to our kitchen. I lay there in agonizing defeat as I heard from the other room, “Mom! Thank GOD you’re home, Nick has been playing computer all day. I tried my best to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen to me and he told me if I told on him he would tell you that I was playing too. He also didn’t do the dishes!”

Shit, I thought to myself, I actually had forgotten to do the dishes.

“Nick, get your ass in here!” roared the mighty beast I called my mother.

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Nicholas Jay Wixon is a Freshman Pre-Med major with an English Minor and a track/cross country athlete here at Mount Marty College. Nick is new to the world of writing as this will be his first published piece. He aspires to finally become the favorite child in his family.

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Works Inspired

by Edward Hopper

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Girl at a Sewing Machine:

Inspired by “Girl at a Sewing Machine” Katie Hamil Have you ever wondered about the place where the canvas ends? What was missed? The story that was never captured by the artist’s brush is like a page torn from a book. The rest of the story is forgotten with time, so only a partial history remains.

Imagination must be used to recreate that day. Standing in the museum, I am mesmerized by the painting entitled Girl at a Sewing Machine. I look deep into the painting, deeper still, until I am a bystander in the room where it all took place.

On an ornate, hand crafted, high-backed, wooden chair with a shiny gloss finish, sits a plump teenage girl with long brown hair racing to finish what could be a gorgeous bridal gown. She has been sewing for days, being careful not to mar the beautiful work her hands have created. She leans forward in the scorching sunlight to examine the dress, momentarily blinded in the process.

Even without her sight, Marie knows it is the prettiest material to ever grace her hands. Unfortunately, she will never feel the silky satin drape around her body or experience the effortless flow of the dress when she moves. Only her sister will have that privilege.

Picturing Katherine in this dress makes Marie feel sick. The elegant simplicity does not fit her sister at all, yet that was her request.

Wanting to look like the angel she will never be. The saddest part of Katherine’s façade is that she has fooled many people.

Katherine even tricked their own parents into believing she was the wide eyed innocent girl who was meant to be loved and adored. She was mommy’s princess and daddy’s little girl. The beauty queen and the center of attention. The girl every boy loves and every girls wants to be. Blessed with great beauty, but cursed with a selfish heart, Katherine knows exactly how to get what she wants. She is gorgeous, but only on the outside. Her fiancé, the richest man for miles around will soon learn of the financial burden he has taken on. Katherine wants the lavish and grandiose, but she won’t contribute a cent of her own to that lifestyle. Instead she will latch onto her host and slowly drain the money away.

Marie hates how she has become the passive please all sister.

With everything revolving around Katherine, she has lost sight of who she is. Most people don’t even remember her name is Marie let alone anything else about her. Living in the shadows has 161

become her crutch, always skirting the issue at hand. Always skirting Katherine. She doesn’t know when it started, nor when it will end.

She can only hope it will end soon. She continues to stitch.

Just then the clicking of the room door stirs her from her thoughts.

It is Katherine, come to badger her once again. The inconsiderate words pouring from her mouth like passengers exiting the subway.

Bumping into each other, creating chaos in their wake.

“It’s too bad that even a pretty dress and a veil can’t hide how ugly you are.”

Suddenly Marie presses her foot down on the pedal hard. Hands shaking from rage, she no longer is neatly feeding the delicate fabric through. The needle is pumping up and down faster and faster, the material stitched in every direction. Finally she rips the dress completely off the work table. She shreds the skirt and throws the now detached bodice at her sister.

“How is that for ugly?”

Edward Hopper Girl at a Sewing Machine ca. 1921 Oil on canvas 48.3 x 46 cm Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid INV. Nr. 595 (1977.49)

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Edward Hopper (American, 1881-1967) Automat, 1927 Oil on Canvas; 36 X 28 1/8 in.

Des Moines Art Center Permanent Collections; Purchased with funds from the Edmundson Art Foundation, Inc., 1958.2 (Photo Credit: Rich Sanders, Des Moines)

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Winner of the 2016 Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry

Girl in the Automat Inspired by “Automat” Jennifer Vondrak

Alone, she waits at a table in the automat, a cup of coffee in her ungloved hand.

Her other glove remains forgotten on her left.

Along with her green coat trimmed with faux fur, it fails to comfort her from the chill of the night air, but the chill she cannot seem to shake has another source.

If I were braver, I think I would walk over there and pull up a chair; she looks like she could use a friend.

Now, not yet winter, the warmth of her life is gone.

She stares into her coffee as black as the night outside.

A haunting mystery hangs around her, enveloping her, like a blanket of morning fog hugs the countryside.

There was something about this woman that struck me when I first walked into this desolate automat, late on an autumn night after a long shift at work.

I cannot pinpoint what it was that compelled me to sit down alone at this lonely corner table, sweep aside the sole remains of a stranger’s late sandwich, and pretend to be enthralled with my food, while I watched.

I imagine she was happy once upon a time.

A nice little house on the outskirts of town, a loving husband, maybe a baby on her hip.

Beautiful perfection— A happily ever after straight from a fairy tale— At the very least, the illusion of it all.

Now, she tries to hide her self-conscious fear—without success— under her floppy, yellow hat, shadowing her face and the loneliness she has come to know far too well.

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Soon she’ll have to swallow the last drop of her now cold coffee and face whatever it is that is on her mind. but just for one more moment, she’ll remain there, where it’s safe.

The automat is almost empty, save for her and me, sitting at a distance, observing t¬¬he lights reflected behind her like artificial stars in the dead of night.

That is until he strolls through the door.

He saunters over to her, whispering sweet words.

I cannot hear what he says, but as I watch, I see her back stiffen. Her eyes go wide. Her grimace.

I cannot help myself. She catches me staring.

The instant our eyes lock—we both look away.

I catch a trace of something I can’t fully read.

Anger? Fear? Distaste?

Not for me. Him. The whole room turns cold as she stands up gracefully, ignores whatever it is that he is saying to her— she’s fallen for that façade one too many times— and walks out, her heels clicking on the cold, hard tile until she is swallowed by the darkness of the night.

I shiver and step back from the painting.

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Black Like Coffee Inspired by “Automat” Abby K. Keffeler “Can you believe Melissa? She has been here for two hours, again. Just staring into the depths of her mug,” I explained to my coworker Sara as we stood behind the counter observing our regular customer.

Today, she donned her favorite yellow hat. The floppy-edged hat she wears when she needs to hide from judgment and stares. Her evergreen, faux fur jacket lay over her shoulders and extending its warmth down the length of her arms to the cuffs at her wrists. If I’ve noticed one thing about Melissa, it is her never failing, classy style, even when I can sense something in her world is off-kilter. Her blank stare into that mug is as obvious as the flashing-neon, Broken Spoke Bar sign down the street.

“Hey, Sara, did you notice she didn’t take off her glove again?”

Sara turns away from the register and notices Melissa’s elegant, black glove covering her left hand. “I am worried for her,” Sara whispered under her breath, “Do you think it is happening again?”

I immediately was taken back six months when I was chatting with Melissa on a warm, sunny afternoon. She had come in for a tall glass of iced tea. Her personality filled the room with warmth, and her smile shone bright. She was on cloud nine because her boyfriend of three years had finally proposed. John claimed his love for her was so great that they should get married within the month. I was happy for her. Who wouldn’t be happy with this type of news? I served her the iced tea and told her it was on the house. Our most loyal customer deserved a celebratory gift. Melissa’s life was filled with happiness and joy, being newly wedded that is, until one fateful evening. John had succumbed to the bad habits he had worked so hard to beat and lost his selfcontrol.

John had been known, many years before he met Melissa, as the town drunk. He was constantly searching for answers to all life’s questions at the bottom of a bottle. When he met Melissa, his life had changed for the better. He no longer felt the need to fill a void with the poison that was killing him, and the people he loved. That evening, John was filled with rage and booze, and with one swift punch, sent Melissa to the floor with an eye 166

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that swelled shut in an instant. Thinking back on this now, that day was the last time I saw Melissa with the bright look in her eyes that glinted with each curve of her smirk. Melissa’s life had forever changed.

All these months she has remained faithful to our store, but she is not the same woman. Quite frankly, it breaks my heart a little each time Melissa comes in because she does nothing but stare into the darkness inside her mug that matches the obscurity in her world. Not only has John continued to express his frustrations by laying his hands on his wife, but Melissa has also fallen into her own darkness she can’t escape.

I knew this was serious for her because the previous month was the first time I had seen the marks on her arm. Melissa came into the store with unusual blankness written across her face, but I greeted her as I always had. I brought her usual fall and winter order, coffee with a splash of cream, and tried to have a conversation with her. If I’m going to be honest, I felt like I was trying to have a conversation with a brick wall. The moment I saw the pink tally marks on her left forearm, I felt sick.

“Melissa?” I said, as I reached out to her, only for her to wince and retract her arm and hold it in her lap under the tabletop. Her body was turned away from me, but she allowed her empty, blue eyes to connect with mine. As she peered up at me, pleading, one lone tear slowly slid down her cheek. She didn’t need to say a word, I understood.

Looking at her in this moment, with her still vacant stare, I see a woman searching for answers. I hope she finds them. For a second she glances up—she doesn’t need to say a word.

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Bede Art Gallery: MMC Student Show

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Crosses

Denae Veldkamp

Skull

Spring’s Slumber Ellen Renz

Wolves

Samantha Kasowski

Zach Telles

Among the Leaves

Jelly Drifter

Abby K. Keffeler

Katie Hamil

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Morning Raven Jennifer Vondrak

Spiraling Metamorphosis Katie Hamil

Elephant

Light the World

The National Emblem of Guatemala Ludwin Arana Marroquin 170

Fernando the Deer

Samantha Kasowski

Madison Profeta

Scott Stoll

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Ying-Yang Fish

Creation

Green Night

A Whale’s Tale

Victor Barillas

Samantha Kasowski

Elephant

Mitchel Steffen

Zach Telles

Molly Henrickson

Squirt

(from the movie “Finding Nemo”)

Hannah Reeves

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Home

Rachel Shippy

Abstract Imagination Abby K. Keffeler

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Geisha

Janaya Lewis

Angel

Rachel Shippy 173

Down the Rabbit Hole Katie Hamil

Symbol of Light Maggie Jo McMahon

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Rainbow Frog Katie Hamil

Eating Popsicles on the Deck Jennifer Vondrak

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Book Reviews

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Review: The Commandant of Lubizec (Steerforth Press, 2013, 246 pgs.)

Nicolas Wixon The Commandant of Lubizec was all in all an amazing story, and it has surpassed every other book I have read to become my favorite book. I enjoy history very much, and I have always been intrigued by the history of World War Two, everything from the beliefs of the Nazis to the decision to drop the atomic bomb, but the most interesting part of the entire war is the concentration camps. Many movies and books have been made based on concentration camps.

I like how Hicks brings light to the fact that everyone only thinks about Auschwitz when they hear the words “Concentration Camp.” Nobody thinks about the various death camps that were under the Nazi regime. Nobody knows what these camps were like because generally few people survived to tell their story. Auschwitz is so famous because it was a work and death camp. Prisoners were selected by mere physical appearance whether they became workers, or if they were murdered. Yes it was a terrible place where many people were murdered, and worked to death, but it wasn’t a death camp. In the death camps there was no such thing as hope. When the inmates entered their camps, they knew immediately that there was no chance of survival. Hicks hit on this. He depicts his fictional camp “Lubizec” it as a place of no hope. On the entry doors to Auschwitz it said, “Work Sets You Free” but at Lubizec it just says, “Welcome” because there isn’t a way to be set free. Lubizec was the last location the prisoners reached in their lives. They never left. I found it extremely intriguing when he described the construction of the death camp. It was gruesome to think that the Jews that weren’t killed were kept alive merely to build a structure for the camp, and then they were all shot, killed, and than thrown into a trench. The use of specific language allowed me to paint my own picture of how this fictional death camp looked. It put me in the place of the prisoners. It let me see how awful their lives truly were. I could picture myself digging the land mines around the base of the fence to the camp. Basically burying every hope I had at survival with each mine. If I slowed up to wipe sweat off of my 177

face I would be shot in the head. If I stumbled while carrying a heavy box I would be killed. After all of my hard work it wouldn’t matter because I would be killed after the project was completed anyway.

Hicks adds another point of view to the book which makes it even better. It lets you peek into the life of a German Commandant. Every night he went home and ate dinner with his family. He was a loving father and husband by night, but by day he was a mass murderer. Every morning he set off for work in his Mercedes and rolled through the gates of a mass grave. He wouldn’t personally kill anyone, but demanded his workers kill as many as possible every day. He kept trying to develop new techniques to efficiently kill more prisoners each day. After a long day of killing thousands of people he went home to his family and once again performed his fatherly duties.

I found this book to be exceptional. I felt like I was watching a documentary film about an actual camp found in the 1940s. I got to experience the camp through the Commandant and the prisoners in the same story. Hicks kept reminding us that we couldn’t become numb on the issue. As we read we should allow each horrible event to sink in. If we become numb to the issue, events like this could happen again. We need to be constantly reminded of this tragedy so the next generation doesn’t allow the same mistake to occur. Overall, this book is descriptive, moving, and just all around exceptional. I would recommend it to anyone and everyone.

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Review: The Collector of Names (Schaffer Press, Inc., 2015)

Katie Hamil

The Collector of Names by Patrick Hicks is a compilation of short stories with a remarkably honest appeal to human emotion.

All of his stories are raw and telling, but a few stand out as the most powerful and compelling pieces. “Burn Unit”, “Picasso and the Tornado”, and “57 Gatwick” all shed light on death, destruction, and fear through the eyes of various characters.

More importantly, these three stories are a testament to the resiliency of the human spirit.

The story “Burn Unit”, which details the rollercoaster of emotions that Andi feels about the after effects of her brother’s house fire, shows the strength and courage it takes to heal after a traumatic experience. Andi reminds me of all the women who have been role models in my life, the kinds of people who always seem to be there to lean on in times of trouble. Andi is that person for her niece Sara, who is burned so badly her body is almost mistaken for a rug. Visiting Sara in the hospital, Andi provides much needed moral support that Sara’s deadbeat dad Steve cannot find it within himself to give. After disconnecting his phone completely, Andi realizes that Steve is never going to be the parent Sara needs and alludes to the fact that she is ready and willing to raise Sara by herself. A true female heroine is hard to come by in literature, but this story does Andi justice. I also like this story because it does not sugar coat the fact that the world can be cruel and that horrible incidents can happen to innocent people. Issues such as poor parenting, grief, and pain are not danced around, but instead addressed in a direct fashion which I found very refreshing. “Burn Unit” is a story about moving forward in the face of adversity.

The second story which I find completely enthralling is one called “Picasso and the Tornado.” This story features a girl named Ella Marie, who lives through a tornado that sweeps across her hometown of Paradise, Minnesota. Once the storm has passed and Red Cross workers arrive, Ella asks for just two items: a canvas and easel. She wants to depict the horrors the tornados have caused on a personal level. She uses her talents as an artist to share the devastation and destruction of that fateful day.

What makes this particular story appealing is the detail Hicks 179

uses. I could clearly see the scene that he painted. He really uses aspects from each of the five senses, so much so that I feel as if it could just as easily have been me sitting in the library as the tornado passes overhead. For example, the sound of the tornado is described as “a thousand squealing pigs caught in a jet engine” (81). This leaves little to the imagination. There is also an honesty to Ella Marie’s character and, quite frankly, all of Patrick Hick’s characters that I like. Ella’s thoughts and dialogue tell us how it is.

She is straightforward and to the point. There is a genuine quality about Ella that makes me wish I knew her, so she could be my friend. In “Picasso and the Tornado” Patrick Hicks is somehow able to bring this character and natural disaster to life, which makes this story stand out.

The third story is “57 Gatwick” which highlights the life of George McCourt, a county coroner, who is tasked with the unthinkable. His job is to identify the bodies of victims of an airplane bombing. He becomes the unshakable support system for his town and the families of the victims involved. All of Patrick Hick’s stories contain a message, but in this story that message really hit home. What I took from this story is that there is power in the strength of a unified community and we do not have to be alone. I think Patrick Hicks does a wonderful job of portraying a sense of togetherness even in the most tragic of circumstances.

I could make an argument that the best quality of Patrick Hick’s The Collector of Names is his attention to detail, his connectedness with emotion, his forthright writing style, or his messages that linger far after finishing this book. Combining all of these elements into his stories, Patrick Hick’s has proven to be very talented at writing stories that engage and deliver a thought provoking read. “Burn Unit”, “Picasso and the Tornado”, and “57 Gatwick” are just three of twelve short stories in a collection that is too good to pass by.

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Review: I’ll Meet You There (Henry Holt and Co., 2015)

Katie Hamil I’ll Meet You There by Heather Demetrios is a young adult book that captures the true struggles of life. Although romantic in nature, this novel is more than a shallow and cheesy interpretation of love. Serious real-life complications are not skirted around, rather, treated with delicate grace. The majority of the story unfolds from Skylar’s point of view, but a page or so at the end of every chapter gives glimpses inside the mind of Josh, who has recently returned from Afghanistan. Both fighting their own battles, Josh and Skylar, will form a bond that is sure steal reader’s hearts from the very first chapter.

My favorite part of I’ll Meet You There was definitely that it seemed real. Part of what makes some romance novels seem fake, flat, and boring is that all of the focus is put into the main two characters falling in love and the plot revolves solely around overcoming a hurdle so that the two main characters can be together. Sure there are mountains to climb, but there is not one seemingly insurmountable obstacle standing in their way that the characters constantly complain about, but never try to overcome.

There is no magical “everything works out moment” as there are in some romance novels. Instead, I’ll Meet You There uses the notion that life does not get put on hold when two people fall in love in the real world. Time keeps ticking, people continue to interact, and problems get solved not magically, but with hard work. In other novels, I often find characters are severely under developed. It is refreshing to see several dynamic characters in this novel. Marge, the hotel owner where Josh and Skylar work, becomes the protective mother bear to the both of them after losing her own son to post-traumatic stress disorder years earlier.

Then there are Skylar’s friends. The scene in which I felt the most emotionally attached was actually one involving Skylar, Dylan, and Chris. Their discussion about escaping their small, good-fornothing town escalates into a heated argument. The tension in the story was palpable and I felt the sorrow and regret of blurted words as if they were my own. Wanting the characters to work it out, this novel had me rooting for peace. Demetrios is original in her approach to conflict and character development and that gives this novel an air of authenticity.

Within the book there are a multitude of issues being dealt with in a variety of ways. Being out of work, drunk driving, 181

suicide attempts, physically and mentally living life after war, teen pregnancy, grieving, alchoholism, growing up, and chasing dreams are just some of the complications of life that play a role for the characters in this novel, especially for Skylar and Josh.

I am truly impressed with the way that the author majestically weaves these problems into the book and creates themes through them. The outcomes of all of these conflicts are not fairy tale endings. Instead they are reality endings. The world is not perfect and neither are the characters nor the situations. Demetrios writes with honest brutality, but gives genuine hope to readers who pick up this book.

I thoroughly enjoyed the point of view changes within the novel. The majority of the novel is in Skylar’s point of view, but every so often Demetrios throws in a glimpse of the pain and suffering that Josh endures. Without his point of view, I think I would lose some of the understanding and sympathy I feel for him when he makes stupid choices. By getting into his head, mainly through flashbacks of his now deceased fellow Marine, Josh becomes a much more relatable character. I also believe that these insights are written with a special appreciation for those who have post-traumatic stress disorder. Demetrios clearly did her research before writing this novel.

Overall, I’ll Meet You There by Heather Demetrios is an outstanding novel that is raw, heartbreaking, and uplifting all at once. She perfectly captures the struggles and triumphs of the human condition. With characters that I feel like I have met before and situations both that I have been through and hope I never have to go through, I’ll Meet You There is the perfect balance of fiction and reality. This is a winning romance novel that is sure to meet all expectations and more.

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Review: Walk the Edge (Harlequin Teen, 2016)

Katie Hamil The newest installment of Katie McGarry’s Thunder Road series, Walk the Edge, was recently released on March 29th 2016.

As a long time reader and fan of Katie McGarry, I expect the best of the best when it comes to her young adult stories. Walk the Edge did not let me down. With a strong hero and heroine, unpredictable twists and turns, and secondary characters that intrigued me enough to want their stories next, I was impressed.

Walk the Edge details the romantic relationship of Breanna Miller and Thomas “Razor” Turner. Breanna is the smart, puzzlecraving girl who feels like an outsider, even when it comes to her own family. When she is blackmailed into writing a classmate’s paper she calls on Razor. Razor is the guy troubled by his mother’s death—a death that just might not have been a suicide.

Razor is hoping Breanna might be able to help him find the truth of what really happened all those years ago.

One aspect I really love about this book is that the main characters are true heroes. This can be seen both when Breanna and Razor are together and when they are apart. I honestly like it when characters can be heroes when they are apart. One of Razor’s big moments happens when he saves a fellow club member from a bullet while on security duty. Breanna is nowhere nearby. Not every issue they have is figured out together with a perfect solution, wrapped up in a big red bow. Towards the end of the book Breanna decides to take the blackmailer situation into her own hands. Since she has the compromising photo she is being blackmailed with, she decides the best way to avoid letting Kyle, the blackmailer, hold power over her is to release the picture under her own terms. The consequences of this action lead to her parents not trusting her, being sent to a private school, and a very angry and distraught Kyle, which leads me to my next point.

Throughout the novel there are many shocking moments that I never saw coming. From finding out what really happens to Razor’s mother to discovering why Breanna hides her talents there are countless events that had me reeling. The biggest of these events is the aftermath of Breanna sending the photograph into the social media world. The climax of the story is intense.

I will not spoil anything, but let me just say it involves a bridge, 183

train tracks, and few pages that had me truly fearful for what would happen next. The ending is as surprising as it is great.

Lastly, the supporting characters are one aspect of McGarry’s writing that sets her apart from the rest of the Young Adult romance novelists. In some books secondary characters do not get the time of day. Fortunately, Katie McGarry usually writes her next novel based on a character from the one before it, so she usually develops the characters just enough so that as readers we are intrigued and want to find out more. Not only does this get readers hooked so that they will buy the next book, it also makes the current book more interesting to read. For example, in Walk the Edge there are several characters I believe could be made into interesting spin-off novels. Addison, who has terrible home life and a father who beats her, “Pigpen” whose bother is part of a rival motorcycle gang, and Violet, the girl who was born into the club, but desperately wants distance from it, could all be interesting subjects for future novels.

All in all, I really enjoyed Walk the Edge for its powerful main characters, complex and startling plot, and potential of the supporting characters, and many other reasons. This is a fun, fast, and heartfelt read that will likely draw readers to read the rest of the Thunder Road series along with the Pushing the Limits series.

If in need of the next great young adult romance series, be sure to check out these two by Katie McGarry.

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Review: 4 P.M. Count

(Federal Prison Camp Yankton, 2015, 240 pgs.)

Jennifer Vondrak The first place one would think to look if they were searching for talented writers and artists would probably not be a prison.

4 P.M. Count, however, reminds us that there is potential in everyone to succeed in something. Reading the 2015 edition of the Yankton Federal Prison’s 4 P.M. Count, I was awed at the quality of some of the work. These men are convicted criminals.

They have obviously made bad choices in their past, or they probably wouldn’t be in prison, but it is also apparent from the work published in this journal that they have unique talents just like any one of us do.

Some of these men, from what I understand, have little to no experience in writing or drawing. When our Writing and Visual Arts class went to visit a pencil portrait drawing class at the prison in December of 2015, the inmate I was paired with had never drawn portraits before. I think it was only his second class, so I did not get to see the progress he made throughout the whole duration of the class, but I heard about others in similar positions who had succeeded in creating commendable work in past classes. It is possible that that man was destined to do the same. With that in mind, I was really impressed with a most of the portraits found in the book. I like to consider myself an artist, but drawing people is a struggle. These portraits are pretty remarkable.

The writing is not half bad either. I think what strikes me the most about the writing is the honesty. Many of these men were willing to open up and share parts of themselves through their writing. That can take a lot of courage to do, but a lot of the most powerful writing is blatantly honest. It is interesting to hear stories from the perspective of inmates because their vanishing points are in many ways different than our own although they experience some of the same things we do. I think it helps us to better see them as humans and not just criminals. They still have the potential to become better versions of themselves, and I think writing can be a positive tool to help them reach that goal.

As I skimmed through the journal, I paused to read “What 185

You Don’t Know About Prison.� This piece offered insight from some of the prisoners about living in prison. Each little snippet provided something to the discussion. One of the comments that struck me was John Christian’s about not being able to go to the funeral of a loved one if it is only your first year in prison.

I will not dispute that that is a just sanction since the person is in prison for a reason, but it is still a little sad. I cannot imagine what it would be like to learn that a loved one had passed and not be able to say goodbye or grieve with your family.

I also found it interesting to look through the letters and reflections included in the journal. These were written from a variety of perspectives including writers, Mount Marty students, professors, and prisoners. As I read through the different responses, I found that most of the opinions were positive.

Reading about these experiences helps reiterate the fact that people are people regardless of their backgrounds.

Overall, I think reading this journal was as positive of an experience as writing it probably was. There is a wide range of styles and topics throughout the book, so something is bound to spark the interest of any reader.

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Review: The Girl on the Train (Riverhead Books, 2015)

Jennifer Vondrak Paula Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train begins with Rachel Watson’s daily train commute on Friday, July 5, 2013. Rachel, an alcoholic, spends her commute to and from the job she lost months ago, riding past the suburbs of London. Not far from her former home, house number twenty-three, where her ex-husband Tom, his mistress-turned-wife Anna, and their daughter Evie now live, is house number fifteen, the home of a couple Rachel secretly calls Jess and Jason. She does not know them personally, but she sees them as how she and Tom used to be with a perfectly happy marriage. Every day, when the 8:04 train stops at the signal, near number fifteen she watches them and daydreams about their seemingly perfect lives. Things change a few days later when she sees something that shatters her illusion of the couple’s perfection.

If you have not guessed, Rachel Watson is the girl on the train.

That is obvious. If that is all I was curious about, I could have easily stopped reading after the first page or two if not the very first sentence. I was also interested, however, to discover how she got messed up in the incidents surrounding a strange couple she has only fantasized about. Perhaps that is one of the reasons I picked up this book. There was the essence of intrigue.

The story is not all about the girl on the train but also the people around her. While the bulk of the story is told by Rachel, fittingly since the book is essentially named after her although she is more of a woman than a girl, narration duties are also shared with two other women, Megan Hipwell—that is Jess’s real name—and Anna. Through hearing the perspectives of each of the women, as each woman has a unique view of the situation, the reader is able to better understand motives of the characters without the complete bias of one character. The set up of the book was a little different than most other chapter books I have read, which was interesting, but I think it worked for this story. Each chapter is titled “Rachel,” “Megan,” or “Anna,” depending on who the narrator is. Chapters are then broken into sections based on the date followed by the time of the day (morning, evening, 187

afternoon). It was a little annoying not being able to say exactly what chapter I was reading to help gauge where I was in the book, but I will admit that this method did help me keep track of the timeline of the story particularly since Megan’s portion began a year prior to where Rachel’s and Anna’s parts began. This slight annoyance is no reason to ignore this book.

One Saturday night, everything goes wrong, but presumably due to Rachel’s recurring drunken blackouts, she cannot remember what happened. The reader watches as Rachel struggles to remember and piece together all of the fragments to eventually realize what happened.

While it was easy to narrow down the possible culprits for the disappearance of Megan to Megan’s husband Scott, Megan’s therapist Dr. Kamal Abdic, and Tom, I did not feel like it was too predictable. I suppose Anna and Rachel could be lumped in there as well. However, though the truth arguably affected them the most, I never suspected them as possible culprits.

The book is full of flawed characters with hard lives both past and present, therapy, a messy web of love affairs (one of which was complicated by a pregnancy), and lies—lots and lots of lies. It was a little dark, but the suspense kept me reading.

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Review: Go Set a Watchman (Harper Perennial (Harper Collins), 2015)

Jennifer Vondrak It was over four years ago when I was first introduced to Jean Louise Finch in American Lit class and explored the world of her childhood found in Harper Lee’s 1960 To Kill a Mockingbird. I cannot remember how I felt about that book. I probably resented it at least a little bit—though I loved reading, reading books for class always seemed to suck out the joy of it for me. Aside from that built-in resentment, I don’t know how the experience of reading To Kill a Mockingbird influenced my life. I closed that book and never looked back. When it was announced that a second novel by Lee was going to be published, I did not have the intention of ever picking up the book. However, staring at the shelves of the fiction section in the library, I was overwhelmed by the variety of books. My selection was limited since I had been asked to review a book published within the last two years. One of the first books I pulled off the shelf that fit this requirement was Go Set a Watchman, which was published in 2015. There I was, reading a book I never meant to read.

Go Set a Watchman tells the story of many of the characters from To Kill a Mockingbird a couple decades later, including Jean Louise—in To Kill a Mockingbird she was mostly referred to as Scout— her father Atticus, and a handful of others. Her brother Jem is only present in flashbacks to their youth as he died from a heart attack a couple years before the book is set.

Jean Louise returns home to Maycomb, Alabama from New York for her fifth annual visit. Although she usually flies, Jean Louise decides to take the train home. Henry Clinton, a childhood friend of Jem and friend and love interest of Jean Louise, meets her to bring her back to Maycomb.

The story is strung with several flashbacks to Jean Louise’s childhood including tales of a church revival, her misconceptions about pregnancy, and a dance. Throughout all of the trouble Jean Louise found herself in as a child, she could always depend on Atticus and admired him greatly. He was a well-respected lawyer who believed in justice and seemed to accept even the blacks who were seen as lesser people by many Southerners. At twenty-six, Jean Louise still trusts her father more than anyone.

That all changes when Jean Louise finds a pamphlet of Atticus’s, 189

prompting her to investigate further. What she finds shatters her whole world.

Go Set a Watchman, while a relatively quick read, is by no means easy to stomach. The book revolves around the central theme of racial discrimination especially in Southern towns like Maycomb in the 1950s. It is hard for me to say, having little recollection of To Kill a Mockingbird, but the Atticus in Go Set a Watchman is not the Atticus I remember. I remember reading about the Go Set a Watchman when it first came out and hearing that Atticus was a racist. This seems kind of backwards to me. It would seem more naturally progressive for Atticus to go from racist to nonracist rather than the other way around.

The writing itself is good, but perhaps the story would be best left unread. I think I would prefer to leave Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird and save her from having to experience the betrayal of her beloved hero, Atticus. Part of me honestly regrets opening this book. Sometimes sequels are not necessary.

This is likely an example.

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Review: Silence

(CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2012)

Abby K. Keffeler Silence by Natasha Preston was published as an ebook in 2014, and left me with nail biting anticipation as I searched for the main character’s answers. This young adult fiction deals with some serious topics, but Natasha Preston relayed the topic in such a way others might be able to relate to. Natasha Preston allows her readers to dive into the book by telling the story from different points of view between the main characters.

The book begins by introducing the main character, Oakley.

Not only does the reader begin to discover who Oakley is, but also she described what silence meant in her life; she said, “silence was my prison.” If I pick up a book and read the first page or two and do not have a need to keep reading, I’ll put the book down.

Once I put the pages down, there is a chance I’ll never pick it up again. For Silence, this wasn’t the case. I was immediately hooked within the first paragraph of the novel. The author presented questions I immediately wanted to find the answers for, and what better way to find the answers than to keep turning the pages in the book?

Oakley and her best friend, Cole, quickly helped the reader understand not only Oakley’s condition, but also how it affected their friendship. Oakley had been completely silent for eleven years, and no one knew why. Cole decided to continue forming a friendship with Oakley anyway. Their friendship began when they were both young; their mothers were friends. The strength behind their friendship is something I truly believe everyone is looking for. Every young teenage girl is looking for a male best friend. Oakley has that with Cole’s companionship.

As time goes on and the feelings Oakley and Cole have for each other develop, this long-lasting friendship eventually turns into something more. Cole has fallen in love with a girl who is mute.

This gives the reader a sense of hope for all humanity. I am a twenty year old who has seen the cruelness of the world through the actions of my peers. It all began when I was in high school. I related to some of the things Oakley endured, as she was a victim of bullies while she was in school. The fact that Cole was able to overlook other’s opinions, and the mystery, in his now girlfriend’s life, shows the reader who he is as a human being. It shines a 191

positive light on some not so positive daily occurrences in the world.

I was pleased with how the author uncovered Oakley’s secret.

Throughout the rising action the characters were developed in such a way that they became friends. The climax hit like a ton of bricks and everything suddenly fell into place. Oakley spoke for the first time in years. Cole began to question some of the choices he had made. Tears were shed because old sores were reopened and the truth was uncovered. Despite all of the unknown, Oakley’s family members bound together to solve the issue that was at hand. They were determined to get the justice this girl deserved. I did not want to put the book down as I turned the last page. I wanted to continue turning the pages to discover what would come of the end result. The sequel to Silence is Broken Silence and it is definitely on my “to read” list because I am still wondering what happened to these characters I learned to love like friends and family.

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Review: 4 P.M. Count

(Federal Prison Camp Yankton, 2015, 240 pgs.)

Abby K. Keffeler I thoroughly enjoyed reading 4 P.M. Count, A Journal From Federal Prison Camp Yankton 2015. This is the second year I have obtained a copy of this journal, and I am just as amazed as the first time I sat down to read it.

As I was reading, a couple pieces stood out to me. I completely enjoyed reading Ivan Brooks’ writing. The first entry written by him that had my full attention is titled, “How Long Should I Mourn.” I was partially drawn to this piece because it mentioned locations I have been very familiar with. He attended college in Chadron, Nebraska, and I have spent many hours on that specific campus. As he was writing about traveling from Chadron to Denver, Colorado, I could hear the honesty in his voice. The bulk of this piece was centered on the loss of a loved one. I realized that every day can be taken for granted, and our actions impact others more than a person might recognize.

The memories he outlined for his readers were easy for me to connect to. The style he used when writing about this girl in a letter, helped me understand the person she was while she was in his life. The times they spent together filled me with understanding and joy. But the greatest emotion that Brooks evoked in me was when he wrote the line, “I didn’t attend your funeral; that was sort of by choice.” Each person deals with death in different ways. Some try to reminisce on the memories and the happiness those people created in their lives rather than dwelling on the absence of their life. In my own life, I have opted out of attending funerals of classmates, simply because I did not want to dwell in the sadness of their passing life. On the other hand, funerals can provide a person with an outlet and can in a sense, be a celebration of the life a person lived while they were here on earth.

As I continued reading the pieces Brooks wrote, his poem, “I Want to Believe” left me with an array of emotion and memories.

The fifth stanza stood out to me, because it put into perspective the life he was living in prison compared to the life I have the opportunity to live. Growing up in the public school system, everyone told me—in real life and in the literature I read—that I needed to beware of the school food. When Brooks talks about 193

sawdust being in the prison meatloaf, it took me back to those moments when the food on my lunch tray looked like it could walk away if I wasn’t watching. I appreciate the feelings this poem evoked in me.

Since I have been a visual person for much of my life, I was drawn into the pages that contained the art classes’ masterpieces.

Having sat through a drawing session with the prisoners through one of my other classes, I enjoyed looking at the handiwork of the artists who found themselves while they were in prison. I believe all of these prisoners could do wonderful things in the world if they not only put their heart and mind on their task but also invested their entire being, soul and all into them. The passion has come across with many of the works published in this issue of 4 P.M. Count. I will forever support these individuals with their future endeavors because they are people who need support as badly as I need it, if not more than I.

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Review: The Collector of Names “Cabin 5” (Schaffer Press, Inc., 2015)

Raquel Sutera

Patrick Hicks’ “Cabin #5” in The Collector of Names is enjoyable even though it is a sad and tragic story. Hicks does a good job at writing from a woman’s point of view, and the story he tells is very realistic.

This short story is about a marine and his wife. The story is written from the wife’s point of view and explains how she feels like she is a veteran of the Iraq war. She has not actually been in the war, killed anybody, or picked up a gun. She feels wounded by the war because her husband has been there fighting during it. This hurts her because her husband isn’t the same man she married, the one that she loved so much when he comes back from Iraq. Her husband becomes a drunk, and violent in his words and actions toward her. They have a hard time communicating with each other, and remembering how much they love each other.

Throughout this story Hicks uses very vivid imagery. He writes the memories the husband has from Iraq in such a way that it almost seems that Hicks had to be a soldier to be able to write them. His imagery made my heart ache for both the husband and the wife. The ending is also surprising, and not surprising at the same time. When I first started reading the story I assumed that her husband was going to die, but not the way Hicks wrote it. Her husband ends up dying from alcohol poisoning, and hypothermia. When I started reading it I assumed that he was going to die in Iraq.

The ending of the short story is also very well written. Hicks’ ties the ending and the beginning together wonderfully. I am not a veteran of war, nor am I married to one, but I think that the story Hicks wrote is very accurate in showing how someone would view being married to a soldier. The wife talks about how her heart has wounds even though she wasn’t in Iraq; she was directly affected by the war. The war took away her husband which was the one thing she loved more than anything.

Overall I really enjoyed this short story. It was my favorite out of this book. This story was relatable, even though I have not been affected directly by the war; I have been affected by someone who abuses alcohol, and also someone who has 195

committed suicide. I have also dealt with death, and grief like the wife goes through at the end of this story. I would recommend this short story to anybody dealing with death, the war, or even a tough obstacle in their life.

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Review: Wild: From Lost to

Found on the Pacific Crest Trail (Knopf, 2012, 336 pgs.)

Caitlin Davis

Cheryl Strayed shares her transformative adventure backpacking the Pacific Crest Trail in Wild. I’ve read various nonfiction adventure novels with similar themes; including one of my favorites Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. I knew this one was going to be different in the most magnificent ways on page eleven when I already had tears welling up in my eyes.

Cheryl manages to capture something far greater and universal in her writing. She shares an intimate journey- internally and externally- that allows readers to travel alongside her the whole 1100 miles. It’s the type of story that changes you and leaves you better having read it.

Right away in the book, Cheryl makes herself vulnerable to readers. There’s only raw, honesty in the way that Cheryl describes her mother’s battle with cancer, her affairs and divorce with Paul, and her slow spiraling loss of self. Naturally, I wanted to judge Cheryl for her promiscuity and unfaithfulness, but her genuine nature lets us see the ways that good people can fall into mistakes like a stubborn quick sand. This universal sense of humanity that shines through her words allowed me to empathize every step of the way.

Cheryl’s adventure across the Pacific Crest Trail ignites the free spirit within us all. She does an outstanding job of capturing that child-like freedom that exists at the human corethe one that always longs to return to the simplicity of nature.

Throughout the novel, Cheryl perfectly depicts a familiar tension between wanting to be alone and our inherent craving for human contact. Everyone can relate to these conflicting emotions at one point in their lives.

Ultimately, Cheryl manages to address two different forms of wilderness throughout her novel. On the surface, she literally confronts the wild of this earth. On a more subtle level, she acknowledges the wild that exists within every person- the bits and pieces that we don’t quite understand. This novel brilliantly captures what happens when these two wildernesses collide.

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PADDLEFISH II

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