Murphy Square 2015

MURPHY SQUARE LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL 2015

THE MONSTER AT THE END OF THIS ESSAY Sean Evenson

Do not keep reading this. Didn’t you see the title? There is a monster at the end of this essay. Each word you read is a step. Step. Step. Stop.

Set down the paper. In fact, take the paper in your hands and rip it in half. Again. Two more times. Now take the bits of paper and place them at the bottom of an empty trash can. Fill the trash can with whatever you have: apple cores, rumpled napkins, moldy leftovers, a tissue box. After it is filled, take the trash out. Make sure the men in the uniforms with brown barb beards take the trash away in their truck.

just a few suggestions. Hell, you should probably just sleep it off. Sleep it all off. Sleep until you can’t remember the day before- who you talked to, where you were, what you read. Then we can continue on like nothing ever happened.

See look, I am transforming this essay into a scientific analysis of the endocrine gland. You will not want to read this.

It’s going to get dry very quickly. I can already feel the paper crumbling in my hands.

Endocrine glands are glands of the endocrine system that secrete their products, hormones, directly into the blood rather than through a duct. The major glands of the endocrine system include the pineal gland, pituitary gland, pancreas, ovaries, testes, thyroid gland, parathyroid gland, hypothalamus, gastrointestinal tract and adrenal glands. The hypothalamus and pituitary gland are neuroendocrine organs. Local chemical messengers, not generally considered part of the endocrine system, include autocrines, which act on the cells that secrete them, and paracrines, which act on a different cell type nearby.

Or Close this window on your internet browser, the one glowing soft electric light in your face. Close it. Please. Then bring up a fresh page at Google.com and search “Exotic Caribbean Cruises.” Click on the first thing you see. Fill out the form and give them the money for the trip. Go on the trip tomorrow. Leave your computer at home.

Or Turn off your smart phone. Turn it off and push it deep in between the couch cushions until your hand brushes past the lost quarters and toothpicks and stale crumbs. Leave the phone there for the rest of the night. Do not make any phone calls or texts. Do not browse the internet.

And If it is daylight, go outside. Look for the sun. If it is not there, pretend it is, for the sun always shines warmly behind the clouds. Walk until you are in the sunshine, or in a patch of dull grey light. Stand in the light until you forget about everything but the light. This is important. If the light is too bright, do not step into the shade to rest your eyes. That is what it wants, the monster, because it lives in the shadows.

If it is nighttime, find somebody to talk to. Take them to a room, turn on all the lights, and talk. Listen and talk and then listen. Repeat until you forget about everything but the conversation. This is important. If the conversation is too dull, do not fall back into your wandering mind to dream. That is what it wants, the monster, because it lives in the dreams.

I am concerned about you.

I know that the monster is waiting for me. And it is not stitched with purple fuzzy patches. No googly eyes. No sharp foam topped teeth. No claws, bloodshot eyes, flaring nostrils. It doesn’t have a body. It breaths deeply and that is all.

See, you have already read this far. What did I tell you? I told you to put this essay down, in the trash, stuffed between the couch cushions. Why are you still here? Go on. Leave. Find the sun, or a friend, or anything else. Those were

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Are you still there? No, you have to stop. This is not a stylistic form that I have chosen to pull you further and further into this piece. It is not. I do not give a fuck about stylistic choices. Or grammar that for that matter. Speling kan goe fuch itselph.

What are you looking for? Are you looking for anything? I think that last paragraph had some spelling mistakes. I’m not sure. Maybe you should go back there, up above to the previous paragraph, fix it up a little, and stay there. Stay there and polish up that paragraph and make it neat and presentable and perfect. Read it back to yourself over and over again before you go to bed. This will send the monster away, snarling shadow breath after breath after breath.

Fuck You Really Fuck You

This has nothing to do with you. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Are you looking for a sweet, delicious conclusion? I can assure you that it is not here. Not here in this piece. Not here in life. Not here.

If you are looking for a vision into my life, then here. If that is what you read for, then here.

Take this and leave: I am six years old. I am on the dock at my family’s cabin in Brainerd, Minnesota. Brandon, who is 4, is walking beside me. We are friends. My parents and their friends are sitting on the pontoon with Bloody Mary’s and Margaritas. A fuzzy cassette of Jimmy Buffet crackles through the speakers. He is singing about cheeseburgers in paradise. Brandon and I are walking down the dock to his house. We want to play with trucks or action figures or puzzles.

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I don’t know. I can’t remember. I will never know.

I push Brandon. I push him off the dock. I push him hard and purposefully. He falls into the shallow water. Splash. He is four. He cannot swim. I cannot swim. It is deep enough that Brandon is screaming like he is dying. I think he thinks he is dying. I watch him splash in the water and scream. He is screaming for his parents, or for someone to help, or he is just screaming. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I will never know.

My Dad drops his Bloody Mary on the carpeted floor of the pontoon. The red juice cocktail bleeds into the floor. He runs up to me. I am looking at Brandon splashing in the water. My dad jumps into the water and picks Brandon up into his arms. Brandon coughs up lake water onto my Dad’s back. Brandon is crying. I start to cry. My Dad yells for Brandon’s parents.

Brandon’s Mom comes, picks him up, and walks him home. My Dad takes me by the hand and walks me to our cabin.

I watch cartoons or The Price is Right or Sesame Street. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I will never know.

I am done. With this, with that, with you. I cannot write anymore. I feel different.

And you made it here, to the end, with me. How do you feel?

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KAT AND THE GHOST HANDS Devyn Lempke

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EAGLE AT ALTON LAKE

FISHING FOR THE SOUND

Severe urges to become violent with someone. Something. Not angry or wanting. Could have thrown the frying pan at the floor to ceiling window. Could have shattered the glass.

Fishermen auger their holes, by motor or by hand.

Where they drop their lines, I drop, too.

Feet first, like you.

Father was always there to fish me out, gasping, soggy, flopping.

Silence the sound he listened for, while I was caught up listening.

It happened so often that my father began to wonder if I went searching for the weak spots, and I did.

Soaked socks and snow chaps steamed near the metal-orange propane sun, with boots cooked upside down, drip-drop-dry in our fishing shack.

Stomping my snow clompers on the clear cylinders of crystal-crusted ice above the sinking sapphire, deepening blue, until I broke through.

Swearing with lips blue as the water, under wind-snapped folds of tarpaulin walls, we will never ever tell mother about this.

Tina Monje

Steven M. Schwar tz

Glass, split and falling, could have looked as the falling snow looked the other day when the sun was out for a moment.

Shining in the light. Glitter. Slow motion birthday confetti. Applause.

Not angry, but feeling as the eagle at Alton Lake must have felt. The eagle hovered the island at which the canoe perched. The eagle cyclone circled and dove toward the island and toward the loon’s nest hidden in the bushes. The eagle was hungry.

Or not hungry – only wanting the loon opera to persist. The glass lake call. The fluid beckon that glides quiet. Penetrates chest and water. Floats heavy stars.

The eagle must have felt as I did every time I made my brother cry when he was little. He looked at me. Cried. Called at me and for me like the loons called the summer. Reached up to me with pillow arms wanting to be held.

Each time I went onto the ice I knew I might crack, like you, into that cruel cold belly of water with silver fish and sunken cars.

I listened for the frost-muffled echo of the lake’s chilling voice, depth-charge contact with my brother below, who drowned.

Put my ear down on the fragile partition of ice that keeps your wet world of death from mine.

A fracturing line.

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GLOBAL POLAR BEAR

BRUSHES WITH MORTALITY

Jazmin Crittenden

Andrew Jewell

I I don’t really think I understood at the time exactly what it was that I did, and why my mother was so upset. At my age, I suppose it was more a matter of logic than anything else. I must have gathered that, seeing as there were holes in the wall, there must have been something inside of those holes, and I was determined to get it out.

When my mother found me, I had just determined that toothpicks were not strong enough to get whatever it was out, and had gone to find a fork.

II He used to sit there outside my violin teacher’s studio every time I had a lesson. My teacher (an elderly Japanese woman) worked in a large building containing about a hundred different studios for private teachers to use to teach their respective clients. I suppose the man must have had the hour after mine – I never thought to ask, for I was too young then to think of such things. My mother would simply pick me up and I’d walk out past him. I was scared of his beard and his thick, yellowed glasses – my own uncle had worn such spectacles and he was a loud, boisterous type, so I feel justified in that. He’d smile at me – then, I construed it for a leer but I no longer think that’s how he meant it. More likely, my own imagined man scared me far more than the reality ever did.

As the months went on, he became less and less a man. His skin tightened over his bones and when he’d get up to walk in to the room to converse with my teacher, his joints creaked and snapped. He was brittle, like a branch of a tree with no moisture.

Then, one week he was not there, outside, when I arrived, nor was he when I left.

For some odd reason I could not place – I began to cry.

III For a long while, my years felt as though they became safer as I went. I had grown older, which improved things; no more forks in electric sockets, no more violin lessons. The event that stands out to me, however, was in my 27th year. I heard about the bridge collapse on the news – a horrible thing, quite unlike the way that life seemed as though it should be. Abigail was not yet home, though she certainly would be shortly.

I myself was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables as I gazed passively out the window. The peppers (though not my favorite) had always been a passion of hers, and I was doing my best to chop them as thinly as I possibly could – just the way she liked them. The sky was cloudy, appropriate for a day filled with such anguish for so many. Even Abigail herself took that route home from work most days.

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Before long, the peppers were thinly sliced and I threw them into a skillet. The oil crackled and popped over the burner, and the smell was delicious. I smiled, breathing in the scent of their freshness.

The rattling song of keys turned my attention back around to the door, and I rushed away, letting the peppers blacken.

“Hey, honey, sorry I’m late,” she said.

“It’s alright,” I said, as I held her body tightly to my own, resting my head on her shoulder. “The peppers are nearly ready.”

I AM THE RULER OF A WIDE BUT DISPARATE COUNTRY Mar y Cornelius

I am the queen of bowling 9’s instead of strikes. Queen of never wearing mittens. Queen of quotes. Queen of candles.

Queen of accidentally making weak coffee and queen of drinking it anyway. Queen of never having chapstick.

Queen of thinking up names for dogs (a chihuahua named Chip; a chocolate lab named Kisses).

Queen of quinoa.

Queen of commas.

Queen of filling uncomfortable silences.

Queen of asking professors intelligent yet off-topic questions (what’s up with Portugal? Does it ever get intimidated by Spain?). Queen, also, of questions thought but never asked (Is responsible the kind way to say afraid?).

Queen of lower back sweat.

Queen of forming strange calluses (right now, between my big and second toes and on my righthand middle finger where my pen rests).

Queen of undercooked casserole. Queen of over-baked cookies.

Queen of over-thought interactions with strangers.

Queen of figuring out novels in lieu of figuring out life. Yet, this is not fiction. I could never make this up.

I am the ruler of a wide but disparate country, yet so are you.

You are the king of ketchup. King of snow. King of never emptying the lint screen in the dryer, but king of folding our laundry (you even match my socks. I don’t match my socks).

King of scrambled eggs. King of Yo-J. King of plastic-square American cheese.

King of whispering in your sleep.

King of Crocs.

King of Candy Crush (level two-hundred eighty-six, and moving up...).

King of calming me down when I wake up with bad dreams. King of gentle eyes, king of compassionate hands. I am only beginning to understand.

Let’s trace our edges. We will forge a different kingdom.

We will pledge if not less lonely, then at least, lonely together.

So, write me a truce. Draw me a map.

We will give our landmarks new names.

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13 WAYS OF LOOKING AT RED LIPSTICK Jazmin Crittenden

I. Grown ups are important, meetings- lip marks on edges of coffee mugs.

Mommy carries it with a smile, Am I like mommy now? Red lipstickcovered hands?

VI. Others lend my being as a tool Trapping me constantly, inside a discolored lid they twist my soul, and wear my face.

It’s a wonder why I’m so disgusted.

II. Oh how these lips reminisce, Kicking our revealed legs, They enter the bar with the password; red? shrill and quiet, as if ashamed.

With your tip, I give you a red kiss.

VII. They’ll all announce me Classic, boldly defined ya’ll haven’t seen enough of me in this small townI plan on being a winner, with lips to match the small red dress, with pearls around my neck.

III. Caught him red handedSomehow in the mist of betrayal he’d forgotten to cover the tracksof indented lies engraved on his tongue. her lips, were not mine.

VIII. The small red tube twirls chaotically, unable to hold itself up.

Weak, and round it sticks out it’s chin. only to roll back into its confinement.

IV. Turning in her test she smirked, ever so slightly. uplifted near her name, was the mark of red secrets, if only his wife would have known.

IX. It peers up at me, red and bright, constantly hugging my sidesas I shield it from the surrounding enemies.

V. All we ever have in stock is the color such as this, No one dares to be as boldI just need to get through the holidays without comparing these -simple tubes people wear on their lips. to Santa clause.

XI. The red sea entices me, Dancing-and writhing through my scars They’re motionless- barely visible coated with a thin cuddle throw.

XII. The thin maroon lips pressed to my cold surface I showed the scene as it was happening reflecting all that was to be seen, soft small lines a kiss from you , to me.

XIII. Stupid defying lies, covering harsh lipsmaking them appear as heavenly as life, though you know it’s just a sin.

X. We wait, and waitto become the first date.

Only to see the small ruby stick, slid into another womens’ purse, what makes it so special?

I wouldn’t purchase such a thing. we’ll have to remain here another day.

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UNTITLED

THE THINGS I SEE WHEN I’M NOT LOOKING AT FACES

Nina Mar tine Robinson

Leslie Hutchinson

the creases shoulder blades make in shirts the tiny, delicate valleys between fingers what bones feel like through skin i like the way your voice sounds at 2 am the way we started piling our clothes together after a while because we’re the same size anyways the way i can write down all of these things after a message on a chocolate wrapper that reads “think of something that makes you happy” it all feels really nice.

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EVERYWHERE BIOLOGY

SCIENCES BUILDING

Sarah Jane Keaveny

Lia Jacobson

Senta once told me that the dumpling dipping sauce at Pho 79 tastes like pussy

A yellow push sun in the blinds two hearts morning flesh

I hate the word pussy, and moist, and dick, and fucker And cunt

Everywhere biology Remembering the way the body fits together

I like the word fierce I like the word pulse I like the world yellow, and rub, and push.

Inventing the ways two bodies fit

I tell you that you taste like a memory

Together

Me and you in the morning.

every purpose every ligament

flustered together indignant

torn releasing Biology

Remember biology?

Every bone, every joint, every muscle, every cavityÂ

Everywhere With a purpose Remember this? pulsemoistcockpushfiercepussyfuckrub Remember this Dick.

Cunt.

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9102014

KALEIDOSCOPE (IT’S A LONG WAY DOWN)

Leslie Hutchinson

Grant Volker

we sat in the dark while i braided stars into your hair, crafting constellations between locks. you stared in wonder when i stood there with the mirror; you ran your fingers between sparks and i told you to be careful as to not knock them out, they’re delicate, you know. you were overjoyed with the new found glow and leaned forward to hold me; your star strands nipped at my neck, tiny flames ignited like the smile on your face i loved you here, in this moment, a body wholly soft and wholly holy, a blessed figure with shapes that matched my own (we were puzzle pieces in a world of dull edged squares) i told myself that night that it must have been enchantment that brought us together; a spell cast on the dreams we’d been having but never spoken of. i could see those dreams again as you closed your eyes with your head in my lap, your stars slowly splaying into the serpentine sky; i faded with you and we became the space above us.

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A DIVORCE AMONG FRIENDS Shawn Torrance

Around the time of my divorce several of my co-workers were going through their own divorces. So many in fact, that we formed a sort-of club that we dubbed “D.A.M.N” or “Divorced Audi Mechanics Network.” All three of the Coreys were in the club, one of the Andys, one of the Toms, one of the Matts, Skippy, Cassandra, Terry and me. Ten of us total.

As humorous at this sounded and was, it was also comforting. We could all turn to each other to gripe about our lives, about our sometimes crazy exes, our stupid sister or brother, and friends that we thought we had. Many of us had terrible nicknames for the exes that we would convert into initials, like “SW” “CCB” and “SB” (many of them seemed to start with an “S” or a “C”). The many reasons behind our divorces were irrelevant, we all had baggage, and we all had fallout.

And we all had to move on with our lives.

D.A.M.N. was truly a luxury. My friends were tired of listening to me, my sister was probably growing tired of it too.

My other sister didn’t (and I think still doesn’t) quite understand why we got divorced. The members of D.A.M.N. were in the same boat, we all needed to vent, and we all needed the one thing that most of our family and friends could not provide, and that was empathy.

My first marriage took place on October 16th, 2004; I was 26 years old, and the new wife was 24. We were together for almost 6 years before the wedding. Before marrying I had my large group of friends and she had her three college roommates and one other friend. The marriage lasted 5 years. We split up the end of July, 2009.

For those not good at math, that makes 11 years.

11 years for my friends to become her friends.

3.5% of the United States population went through a divorce in 2009. That’s 844,000 divorcees. We divided our things, we each took all the things that we brought with us and split the rest: I got all things electronic, garage related, and yard related. She got all things kitchen related, and most of the furniture. She got her car and I got my cars.

844,000 Americans divided their lives into pieces. Many were roughly cut.

As far as divorces go, ours was smooth, no kids or pets to share custody of, no 401ks to battle over, and the debt was going to be ours to share. We short-sold our house and split the owed settlement.

Dividing up things and money is easy.

Dividing up friends is not.

A few friends surprised me with expressions of long felt dislike.

A few friends stated their loyalties immediately, but most remained uncomfortable and ambiguous.

Most.

Some were the same, they were the most mature of my friends. They knew that I was still the same person and that my ex was also. Those were the friends that I grew closer to after the dust settled. Their unwavering friendship reminded me that friends are the people that are there for you when you need them.

Lines were drawn, but they were vague, blurry lines. Like a road stripe that was painted over in black, it was hard to

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see the line until you looked close. Some friends were nice to my face but showed discomfort in their eyes. Others showed disappointment in our breakup, as though their feelings were a factor in the decision.

The friends that expressed immediate dislike made it seem like those feelings had been lingering for quite a while.

This caused feelings of doubt in my head. If they felt this way for so long, why didn’t they say something?

The answer to that is complicated, but can be explained in simple terms: They didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Which is nice of them, but in the end that kindness was lost in mistrust and confusion.

“It’s too bad things didn’t work out for you two” was a phrase heard far too often among friends.

“Actually things did work out, we split up, and now we’re happy.” This was a concept too difficult for many to wrap their heads around.

“Why didn’t you two try to make things work?” Another version of the same statement.

“Actually we spent a year in couples counseling, but thanks for asking.” It was hard to not get snarky at that question.

Many studies have been done on the effectiveness of marriage counseling. Overall, the effects are good. Participants learn to become better communicators and better partners improving their relationship quality.

Research doesn’t tell you whether or not those couples decided to stay together or separate. Sometimes separate equals better off. It did for us.

During counseling I learned a lot about myself, my relationship, and particularly about the things that I did wrong.

Mistakes that I continue to battle against repeating. The counseling opened up our eyes to what the core issues were in our relationship, and the resolution to those issues was to end the relationship.

Even with the 844,000 other divorcees out there, not many of us had friends who were divorced. I only had 2 divorces amongst my close friends and both were because their ex cheated or was abusive. They had every reason to hate their ex and every reason to never talk to them again. Those exes left our circle. Mine remains.

Once the dust from the secession of our relationship settled down, I started to see the dust that still remained in our circle. Venting or complaining about the ex led to uncomfortable responses. The jokes that I made with D.A.M.N. weren’t as funny in the circle. The conversations that I had with my friends always had an edge to them because of the 11 years of history with the ex.

When a person is in a close knit but larger group of friends a lot of stories get repeated. Within our large group there are many smaller, sub groups: siblings, roommates, former roommates, cousins, softball teammates, youth group alumni, and high school friends to name a lot.

Because of the groups within groups, a lot of stories get told, and a lot of stories get repeated. I found my friends hesitating and apologizing every time the ex’s name came up in a story, either a “remember when” story or even a “last week” story.

“Don’t be sorry, I understand that she is your friend too.”

Or “don’t be sorry, I was there when that happened.”

I know they felt sorry for bringing her name up because they thought it might hurt me in some way, and I am grateful they were concerned for my feelings. However, what it really did was show me just how out of touch they were with how I was really feeling. I found myself becoming annoyed with their attempt at kindness.

I hadn’t had that conversation with most of them. The conversation that started out “how have you been” and continued with me explaining how I really felt about everything. I still haven’t had that conversation with a lot of them. There

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were times when I was tired of explaining the “who, what, when, where, why, and how” of my divorce. But regardless of who asked, I always obliged a complete and honest answer.

But not everyone asked. In fact not many asked. Life just kept on keeping on for them.

My own personal insecurities really played a role in how I reacted to my friends and their obliviousness to the important things in my life. I know the selfishness and ego-centrism that those feelings grew from, but knowledge of those things did not make it any easier for me. Because I also know the pain and history that helped fuel those feelings.

Knowledge is not always power.

Human beings typically are egocentric by nature, which is not a bad thing, but a survival thing. When we are weighed down with heavy emotion, heavy stress, and heavy hearts we tend to regress back into the adolescent mentality of “everyone around us should know how we feel, what we want, and how to give it to us.” Which, in reality, is never the case. What we should do is tell them how we feel, what we want, and maybe that will help them give us the support we really need.

I really do hope that my friends cared about my well-being, and in hindsight, I do think that they truly did. However, at the time, all I saw in their eyes was pity and uneasiness.

Over many years and many conversations among friends, there have been discussions. Discussions about the relationships within our circle. Who is dating who, what we think of her, what we think of him, and whose side we choose when they break up. That last one was humorous at the time, but after going through a breakup on a much more intense scale, that last one was suddenly a factor.

“Whose side are they going to pick? Mine or hers?”

Part of me said, “It should be me, I was here first” while another part knew that 11 years was a long time to develop a relationship with any person. Even if they are not outgoing.

I consider myself the epitome of an outgoing person, the ex-wife, not so much. She can be outgoing, but most of the time she stays within her bubble and never strays too far from the orbit of her house and family. When we split I realized that my friends were now in that bubble, and at first I thought I was okay with it.

What I wasn’t prepared for was my now-ex-wife, who, during our relationship, opted to stay home four out of five times, was always the first one to want to leave, and preferred napping to socializing, was suddenly showing up at every event that went down.

Why now? Why the sudden surge of extroversion?

I’ve come to realize part of it is because she was in the same lonely boat I was in, floating in a confusing circle of indifferent, sometimes divided, and ambiguous friends. I try to think about the whole situation from her point of view, and in doing so, I realize for the less outgoing and less socially active, it is far more awkward.

When we first split up we had the conversation about being friends still, and we both unconfidently said we thought it could happen. It was wishful thinking at the time. But I do think it can happen now, not because I want it to, as I did back when my heart was hurting, but because she is still around, and we still have all the same likes and dislikes in common that we had when we were married.

Whether I want friendship to happen or not is still up for debate. But at this point it really doesn’t make a difference either way. She isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I. We both remain among friends.

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This story has a happy ending, or rather a pleasant, but sometimes awkward one.

It’s been 5 years since the divorce, we’ve both since remarried. She has a stepson and a new baby. Her new husband has a name that is almost the same as mine, only the last two letters are different, which cracks me up. The ex-in-laws had a dog whose name started with the same letter as the ex’s name. The ex-father-in-law would constantly call her by the dog’s name and the dog by hers. The thought of her father constantly calling his new son-in-law by my name gives me a little joy. Aside from that, her new husband is actually a pretty cool guy and we get along quite well.

My wife is learning to deal with the ex being around all the time. She doesn’t like it, which is understandable from every point of view. But she does know that there is a history, and in that history existed a relationship that lasted for 11 years.

The awkwardness between the ex and I has lessened but remains. The awkwardness between my friends and I has mostly subsided. Once in a while I see a glimpse of hesitance while a story is being told. Especially when both the ex and I are in the same room. I ran into the ex-in-laws at the store the other day. The ex-father-in-law didn’t recognize me at first and the ex-mother-in-law looked afraid to get off her phone. But that was the first time I had seen them in 5 years.

They looked more uncomfortable than I felt.

D.A.M.N. still exists, many of us have remarried or at least are in serious committed relationships with kids and the accessories that come with them. Some of us have left Audi, only one Corey is still there, but we remain in contact with the other two as well as the rest. I think we’ve all moved on. We do still talk about it once in a while, and whenever someone runs into an issue with their ex we still vent about it to each other.

I hope the other 844,000 divorcees from 2009 had a system of support and a few loyal friends who were tried and true.

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RITUALS

CROWNS

Sunday morning’s usual routine. Arrive at the church around 7am. Unlock the doors. Bring up the lights. Spend about a half hour finalizing sermon: pride comes before a fall. Around 8am the musicians start to arrive and practice. Jed’s warming up for his solo—sounds like a heifer trying to sing “Blessed Be the Name.” At 8:40am, feed the snakes. At 8:55am, take Thelma out of her cage and put her into her bag. Put her in the drawer of the pulpit. Show time. By 9:30am the congregation is in a chaotic revery of carefully orchestrated emotional swells provided by the musicians and my increasingly dramatic orations. Saints, let the power of the Spirit fall upon you like cleansing rain. Fall on the ground and convulse, brain overflowing with the Spirit. Pull open the drawer and fish Thelma out of her bag by the back of her head.

Let her wrap herself around my arm as I dance and speak in tongues. Quote occasional scriptures, whenever two or more are gathered, God is with us. Music swells. Praise God from whom all blessings— what the fuck was that? Where the hell is Thelma’s head? It was firmly in my hand just two seconds agoooohshit I’m bleeding! Get this devil creature off of me! Jesus is gonna take care of this, right? That’s what the goddamned verse said. My whole arm is numb and acidic at the same time. Fall on the ground and convulse, brain overflowing with toxin. Body swells. Amen.

Sunday morning’s usual routine. I don’t think I can do this any more. Every Sunday it’s the same humiliating thing. It’s bad enough that they cram us into these prisons. Can’t even stretch out fully. On top of that, they never give us live food, only that cheap frozen shit. I don’t even remember what warm blood tastes like. I know we’re not the only ones that live like this, but don’t get me wrong we aren’t someone’s pampered pets. I would love to be in some kid’s bedroom getting shown off to friends. But no, this fucker doesn’t even realize I’m male; calls me Thelma. Do you know what it’s like to be shoved in front of a bunch of strangers and called “Thelma” every week? Back at the breeder, some kid’s parents bought him the snake across from me. Kid named him Super Fang. But I get this idiot and “Thelma.” Oh shit, here it comes, into the bag. Show time. This drawer is so tiny, claustrophobic even. This music is terrible. Who keeps putting Jed in front of a microphone? Finally out of the bag, stretch out for a few glorious minutes. Hey, there’s a kid in the back pointing at me. Let’s get out of here kid, I just need to ditch this moron. Wait until he’s distracted, feel his grip loosen a little. Make my move. A quick jab and I’m free. Fly along the floor, feel my muscles for the first time in years. I’m coming kid. Amen.

Sunday morning’s usual routine. Get woken by Mom at 8am. Put on church clothes. Not the Batman shirt, church clothes. We’re gonna be late. Sing church songs on the way. Father Abraham had many sons. Get dropped off at the door, so Mom can get a seat while Dad parks the car. At 9:05am follow Mom to Mrs. Severson’s 4th grade Sunday School classroom. Mrs. Severson is gone today. Have to go to grown up church. Remember how boring Tom said it was, the guy just talking most of the time and no pictures. Follow Mom to the pew. Listen to the music. Watch the grown ups clap and sing and act weird, Tom never told me about this. Watch the man take something out of the stand. Mom is that a cobra?

Aren’t those dangerous? Yes, but Jesus said that if you believe in him the snakes can’t hurt you. Are you sure? Get shushed.

Remember that TV show about snakes. Remember that mouse getting swallowed whole. Remember how big the snake’s mouth got. Remember how small I am. Listen to the music stop. Watch the grown ups stop and stare. Watch the grown ups whisper prayers. Stand on the pew to see better. Watch the pastor twitching on the floor. Remember the mouse twitching before the snake’s mouth got so big. Wonder where the snake went. Pray it stays away from me. Amen.

i was named for the color that swept over the earth and my mother’s canvases she painted women bearing the weight of heavy crowns and empires i would step lightly through her open door when she was out and sit at their feet. i traced the shapes of crescent moons and birds perched above their braids on my palm with sharp nails their strong faces smiled mysteriously their eyes were black like all things combined and found me in my dreams.

Ryan Nichols

Sienna Schuth

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LICENSE TO

A TREE WITH HEART

Jens Pinther

Every poem is a street poem And I am driving.

Not looking at the road Relying only on your retelling— Of how to arrive Of going The act of taking up space And then another As if the entire ride’s discourse Can be said in a single breath.

You’re a mark left A pair of hands Seventy-four reasons to not feel skin.

Clipping and saving to spend to save A trip The silence after the machine is shut down The whirring The ceasing Is this how it’s supposed to be?

Coils Of what twisted fisted Safety in numbers So let’s get driving many times And do nothing but all of it In the presence of a string of all-year Christmas lights.

It’s almost that time of year And everyone says you’ve decorated well But you’ve been prepared for as long as you could And I am sending this letter And I hope that you read it

Nina Mar tine Robinson All the and but or nor for yet sos Of my words Will connect and dispose of the Honor of being wicked— What that even means I don’t know But you can have me if you want.

I see you like I cannot Locked within a knocked-over glass Every staple is a folded set of hands.

Nothing will.

I’ll lie in the memory of grass You’ll tell the truth and think nothing at all of it When a piece of masking tape Warns against doing something You never feel more available to Do it anyway And fuck The rest And drive Away And impress yourself Upon or for The road.

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TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN Jazmin Crittenden

To whom it may concern Keep walking, stop. Wait. Keep walking, stop. Hide. Keep running away from every judgement they’ve ever made, every assumption lying beneath the surface. Show them they’re right, because you’re tired of being constantly wrong. Attempt to convert, become one of them only to fail. Being colored is one thing, but what if you grew up stereotypically white? People don’t look at you the same way, they’re unsure about you, they can even go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you at every passing moment. If you thought life was hard, you have no idea. Here, I don’t fit in with the dominant culture, I don’t fit in with my own culture, and I feel completely alone.

In my family I’m the second generation of African American, and at family gatherings there’s no greater time of isolation; I feel the shade of my skin reflecting against every faux champagne glass they carry. As a child I admired their soft hair, and light skin as they gossiped. Filling the room with tales of fortune, and success. Compared to my household, they seemed to be living life in a way I believed my mother deserved.

I spent all of my time consumed with my grammar, and hanging out with the lighter tone; that seemed to reflect the happiness that had forgotten to dawn on me since birth.

I may have had an advantage growing up away from the city, in a suburban town where I learned to respect my elders from the start--now it’s what separates me. As I walk through the hallways in my school, I’m surrounded by the lights without a second glance. My politeness drives away the stereotypical actions that guide minorities through the week, and I tuck further away into my shell. I learned to take education seriously, as I look around the upper-level classes there’s only one or two of me. Both of which resist the urge to talk to me. They grasp onto one another while the hour drags on then leave me in their dust at the ring of the bell. On a first day of school they come to me for comfort, only to realize after spending less than an hour with me, I’m not like the others. They grow away, and I continue to search for anyone, anyone who could hear me.

To feel utterly alone is the result of my foolish actions. I struggle to attach myself to this light that fixates my brain and leads me to believe there is a possibility of a better life. Then I begin to see the greatest lights of my life, with many different skin tones. They come from all cultures, and cities, each bringing out the light in me that I’ve so selfishly attempted to fight. I’ve tried too hard to find my own place, when in reality I always had it. Despite my curly hair, and ashy elbows the ones that take the time out of their day to greet me are my lights. The array of colors. They’ve embraced themselves as human beings, and have helped me come to terms with my own skin.

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Throughout the year I’ve embraced these inner lights present in everybody, surrounding them with the love that once covered me in hopes of making them feel the light shining within. With this inner light, I’ve discovered a feeling of immense determination flowing through my veins, and confidence shines through me.

My skin may be dark, but my light shines far brighter, expanding across the shaded world, it only took me seventeen years to realize it. I have taken pride in challenging myself. Even if I fail, I have still succeeded. The light had then taught me a lesson I’ll never have to relearn, and I will continue on with that determination, that persistence, and prove that I’m just as lovely as the other tones. Within a community of lights I become active and serene. Surrounded by these inner lights; we shine far brighter together than alone.

Now, I’ve discovered I’m just as lovely as all the lights, and maybe I’m stronger because I’ve found it within me. Maybe I’m confident because now I’ve addressed the issue gnawing at my skin. I will continue on with only the lightest of worries; the greatest of hopes lying within me. As I proceed I can only hope your mind is with me.

Sincerely,

Beautiful Light

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THOUSAND STEPS

NTVOOV NTXOO

Grant Volker

Yeng Vang

If I had a daughter, her name would be Ntxoov Ntxoo, literal translation; Shade.

She would blend into the dark nights her bright brown eyes would twinkle in the night sky stealing even the moon’s spotlight. Ntxoov Ntxoo.

She would be prominent in the day contrasting to the light she would cool the hearts of all who desired the touch of darkness. Ntxoov Ntxoo.

If I had a daughter, her hair would be the ocean’s waves her breath would be the sea breeze her laughter would be the chirping gulls and her smile would make the sun rise every morning her eyes would be a light house and she would be the compass guiding this sailor home.

Ntxoov Ntxoo.

If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t tell her she that couldn’t be an archeologist I would not tell her singing will never get her anywhere in life I would not force her to wear a dress nor deny her the right to cut her hair short. Ntxoov Ntxoo.

If I had a daughter, she would hate her name. Ntxoov Ntxoo. She would go to school and all the teachers and kids would pronounce it all one way; the wrong way not Ntxoov Ntxoo. She would come home in tears and breathe words sharper than knives that would pierce my very soul“Daddy, daddy I hate my name”. Ntxoov Ntxoo.

“I hate my name” are the words uttered out of her mouth “I hate my name” translating into: “I hate the expectations you put on me with this name.

I hate that I’m too scared to correct the teacher so I’ve her let call me zoo zoo for the past 6 months. I hate it when the kids call me ching chong cause my name might as well be gibberish.”

Ntxoov Ntxoo “I hate my name.”

If I had a daughter, one day she should proud of her name. Ntxoov Ntxoo. She would be proud of the character her name built her up to be she would be a built up like a tree; strong, adamant stubborn and unwilling to move all the while never forgetting to shade the ones at her roots.

Ntxoov Ntxoo.

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She would be proud of her name.

If I had a daughter, I would plant an Oak Tree on her birth and digitally document the both of them next to each other every year and one day she will ask me why I do this and I will say, “Vim rau qhov kuv thev tsis tua tshav kub, kuv thiaj li cog tsob ntoo no kom kuv lub neej thiaj lis nyob tau qhov Ntxoov Ntxoo.”

“Because I cannot stand the scorching sun; I plant this tree so my life can be in the Shade.”

TRIPTYCH D.E. Green

1. The Bridge It mattered once—that bridge extended to you, over the abyss between us.

It mattered once—that bridge suspended over your deep waters.

But now it hangs—decaying, its ruined limbs clothed only, like us, in fog and mist.

3. Tree in Late Winter Magnificent bare being, even in this bleakest season you speak to us of hope— your full crown, your myriad bare branches yearning up and out as if you would embrace barren fields and hollow sky and coax them into spring.

2. The Dog I watch as you and the dog head out into winter’s monochrome and the palpable silence of snow in woods and I know (yes, I know) you will be back because you have the dog, who always leads you home.

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WARSAW 1945 AND TODAY Lia Jacobson

Today John walked through Warsaw. Snow was on everything.

No cars drove down the street. John’s steps sounded muffled. He wondered if he could scream, but decided against trying to. Were he successful, the sound would simply be too loud.

John felt a tugging sensation in his shoulder. His footsteps slowed as he turned his head to regard the area to the right of his neck. As he did, his arm fell off. He picked it up and reattached it, though it didn’t fit the same. It squeaked in its hinge.

Where are you going, said a man’s voice behind him.

Ahead, to the river, said John.

I know where that is. A man stepped in front of John and blocked his way.

Get out of my way.

Your arm is bleeding, the man told him.

John looked. Ink was running down the distance from his shoulder to his fingertips. He didn’t remember feeling anything and thought it was peculiar that he had only just noticed.

What are you going to do, said the man, whose name was Garret.

What do I do, said John.

I don’t know. My name is Garret, said Garret.

I’m John. John clutched his shoulder. Let’s try to keep walking.

Ahead you’ll see here there’s where the old mill was. Garret pointed at the old mill.

Interesting. It’s still there.

No, said Garret. That’s where the old mill was. It’s an apartment now.

Oh, all right. It looks like a mill.

Garret pointed at the bridge. There’s the bridge.

Which bridge is it. John looked back at Garret.

The Warsaw Bridge, said Garret. Warsaw is a city with a population of 3.8 million people. It is also the fourteenth-largest metropolitan area in the country. Located on a bend in the Mississippi River, Warsaw is also famous for its lakes, theaters, and hip, artisanal atmosphere. It is an unusual city.

Very unusual, John agreed.

Do you like this bridge, said Garret.

Not really.

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Why not.

Because my uncle jumped off this bridge into the river and drowned before I was born.

I’m sorry, said Garret.

It’s okay, said John. I never knew him.

Garret looked into the water and rubbed his chest with his hand.

John, does your arm hurt.

No. My chest hurts. Garret kept staring into the water.

You could be having a heart attack, suggested John.

I might be. Garret reached into his breast pocket and pulled something out, holding it close to him in his hand.

What is that, said John.

Have a look, said Garret. John leaned in. It was an animal.

That animal is dead, said John.

I don’t think it is, said Garret, stroking the animal. I like it because it’s soft.

John and Garret stared into the water.

This is an unusual city, said John.

It was completely destroyed in 1945. Twisted metal, burning carcasses, ruined buildings. The transformation it has undergone renders it unrecognizable to the visitors who knew it before the war.

It looks different, but I thought it was because of the snow.

It’s not, said Garret.

Garret.

Yes. Do you think you should let that animal go.

It doesn’t want to go anywhere.

Yes, said John, but maybe you want to let it go.

But then it will die.

Garret. The animal is dead.

How can it be dead when I’ve been keeping it warm all this time.

John looked at Garret. He reached out and, with two fingers, touched the fur of the animal in Garret’s hands.

Garret, the animal’s cold.

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Do you know, said Garret, the difference between “to bear” and “to carry.”

Yes. They are opposites. You either carry something or you bear it.

That’s not what opposites are.

John reached out with his arm which squeaked in its socket as his hand went toward Garret’s hands clutching the fur and bones and as he did his arm fell out.

Your arm is bleeding, said Garret. Ink was pouring out of John. With his other arm, he snatched the animal from Garret’s fingers. He threw it off the bridge.

John.

I think I like this city.

Why did you do that.

But it’s very small.

It’s 58.4 square miles and located directly above an artesian aquifer. Garret started to cry. Warsaw is a deadhouse.

Warsaw is life itself! John picked his arm up off the pavement and wrote WARSAW in the snow. Warsaw saw war.

Garret stared into the water. It probably drowned, John.

It was already dead, Garret. But Warsaw is life itself!

John, I am your uncle. And this river is your aunt.

The story of Warsaw will be told by its residents. Some of them will criticize the city, but agree with them, and they will explain to you that Warsaw is the greatest city in the world.

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PETER

Mar y Cornelius He was in the line ahead of her at Starbucks, Peter, the disciple.

He ordered a medium Americano and a scone, something strong but not fancy. He was trying to stay under the radar. A few minutes later, the barista called his name, “Peter?” like a question and he took the cup, the steam warmed his hands. In the chatter from the waiting line behind him he tried to unhear those words, this is my body, broken for you, this is my spilled blood, spiking your coffee. He was leaving as fast as he could but two feet from the door she turned and asked so quietly, “You were with him, weren’t you?” that he pretended again not to hear, he kept walking.

If he looked like he knew where he was going, no one would know the difference.

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CHRISTMAS IN NEVADA

CALLI PAPER

Sean Evenson

Deborah Endres-Goggins

There is nothing worse than Christmas in Nevada when the sky is pink like the froth on the holiday punch which sits three hours unstirred on the snack table in the basement of St. Andrew’s Unity Church. The church smells like old--old books, old traditions, old people, old wine, old air. I cannot kneel as long as they can. They can kneel and watch the pastor pace around the altar as he explains how even the young man bagging groceries at Marty’s Stop and Go has faith, enough faith to tackle his demons and call His name in a holy sign of unflinching love and admiration, and these old people just kneel and watch without even a shift of their crusty joints. Hell, my knees nearly pop out of their sockets when I bend down to tie my shoes.

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SNAKE DREAM

ARE WE DONE YET

Sienna Schuth

Hannah Schmit

a ball python bobs under the chainlink fence on it’s cool belly weaving through tall grass strewn with crabapples Nancy Drew the cat watches with glowing eyes as it ascends rough stone steps to the door with a pink flitting tongue if it was the next door pitbull it could howl to be let in or a fly float to the upstairs window like the bats do it coils on the top step instead curling into its breath waiting out the night like the fast cars and cats do in the morning i will find it there sleeping under the coiled newspapers carrying messages.

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MOD GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING Deborah Endres-Goggins

EMBRACE

Jazmin Crittenden My Mother was doing that thing she did. That thing with the rag in the sink. Where she’d scrub for hours on end, depending on how her day went. When I entered the kitchen, my mouth was dry, after chewing nervously on a pencil all afternoon I knew she was angry.

As I slid my feet across the floor, I couldn’t dare to make a sound. Knowing her small round face was scrunched together, made my stomach knot. The sound of the towel scraping against the dishes came to a subtle stop. That’s when I began to realize, she knew- and wasn’t very happy.

She was losing it, giving up on her dreams for the teen adolescent, and her dreams for me. Hopes of me going off to college, getting married while working on my master’s degree fluttered away from her memory.

Mother cleared her throat. Her pink hair binder held back numerous strands of auburn hair; she wore long pearls loosely around her neck. Red lipstick, fully defined.

“I know what happened kiddo,” her sing song voice had turned stern as she approached. The led of the pencil rested on my tongue, covering my taste buds. The blue test, the lean over, the stubby legs, Ms. Lovett’s pale wrinkled hands, ripping the test before my eyes. All that was left on the desk was a chewed up pencil.

“Go sharpen a pencil,” her eyes never left mine; noting the confusion on my face she set the chewed up pencil on the dinner table, “Go.” My mind was blank; she had gone down to the school herself to talk with Ms. Lovette. Leaving the small kitchen, and the aroma of lilac soap lingering in the hall I entered my room.

The door was open, revealing the small bedroom. A pale shade of yellow covered the walls, the twin bed hid in the corner across the room from a small egg shell desk, covered in hand painted flowers.

Art was my being, I lived and breathed for pastels and watercolors, not school and textbooks. Mother wants me to be successful; at least that’s what she says. Sulking, I kicked off my socks and sat on the small bed, admiring the silk brushstrokes of petals along the desk.

“There you go, making up lies again,” she’d tell me, dismayed I’d say nothing, just grip the end of my bed until my knuckles went white and waited for her to become a shadow. This time she never came.

My fingers forced the ribbon knotted in my hair, and pulled it out inch by inch. My hair was everywhere, around my shoulders, plastered to my rose cheeks. Grabbing “play clothes” I removed the hideous articles of clothing my Mother bought me, and slipped into the comfort of sweatpants, and a tank top, the clothes I bought myself.

“This is me,” I noted, examining myself in the small closet mirror as our eyes met. “One day, I will get out of this town.”

A bark and the scuffling of paws against my hardwood floor alerted me that Lisa arrived; barking she began circling around my legs, tickling my skin. Scooping her up in my arms, I hugged her before setting her

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down. Tail wagging she scurried out of the room.

Chills shocked down my spine as I spotted the box. It hid under the surface of my bed, peeking out from under the covers. My hands trembled as the box commanded me to grab it. Dragging my feet towards the bed I searched for her, for a trace of her. Beginning for feel like my old self I unlocked the box with my pinky.

Specks of dust aimed for my face as the box opened. A damp-moldy smell entered my lungs. Inside were crumples of paper, unfolding them I began to blink back tears, here they were. Setting them aside I admired the chopped up sticks, they were worn, cracked. Her pastels, I remembered.

We had been in school; she leaned against my locker as if she were masculine. She never liked class like me. “You wanna see something?” Her giggle filled my throat, blinking her gray eyes. Something made me agree. She pulled a zip-lock out of her pocket; it looked like it’d never been opened as she raised it above her face. The objects were a puffy brown, thick skin with the appearance of a rattle snake; I gasped and dropped my books. That was the day I met the girl with the moldy oranges.

The girl with the moldy oranges’ hair was different, dyed colors of the rainbow. Every day she wore hooded sweats hiding her figure. She’d casually smile with me. We exchanged casual greetings silently, nothing special, she was awkward with it at first. Then lunch came, we ate the same thing; an apple- with a beat up straw. Oh was she sloppy, she never crossed her legs, or excused herself when she burped. I admired her.

Taking out paper I began to sketch with her pastels, curving lines with spaz-like strokes, they all mixed together as I fought the urge.

“Art is me, art is you,” she had chuckled, smoke escaping her parted lips, a limp cigarette dangling between her fingertips. “We should go to New York someday-“ She challenged excitedly, hopping to her feet. I squirmed uncomfortably at the thought. I couldn’t get out, our lives were so different- she lived alone, and I lived with family.

“Art is me, art is you,” I pursed my lips and continued the flurry of sketches dragging my fingers across the page. I gasped as the tears scattered and continued to fall. All I saw was her, staring back at me. A muffled sound of a clearing throat forced me back to reality.

“I have some text books here-“ mother explained as she could she rushed in. Her cashmere purse bunched against her arm as she placed a stack of books on my desk. Text books. I had no “book smarts”, art was me. Her mouth was still moving, but I didn’t hear a sound, it was like a silent movie on fast forward.

“Stop,” I whimpered, fumbling with my hands.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrowed, and she scoffed. “I’m just trying to help you- at this point you won’t make anyone a good wife. How do you expect to manage? Hm? How will you get a job? A family? A husband?” raising her voice she continued, “You can’t live in this house without obeying the rules.”

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Feeling the anger surge through me, I opened my mouth. Only to be faced with the image of slow cascading smoke escaping parted lips returned. Replaced with her blank stare among the car parts that showered around us. My tears, and the lifeless hand crumpled in mine.

“I won’t be here any longer,” my voice cut cold as I stood. “I’m moving to new York, I’m going to school for the arts and nothing you say, or do, will stop me.” Avoiding her harsh gaze, I raided my closet throwing my art work onto the bed.

“You’re going to regret this, this isn’t what you want.” She protested. Rolling my eyes I scoffed, and began to pack. Stacking memories of me, of her, us both, drawings of New York, our dream.

Art is my being. The girl with the moldy oranges, she was me. My legs curled to my chest, my dyed hair glowing in the sunlight. I was lucky I hadn’t died in the car crash. I was fine talking to myself in school, forgetting about my oranges until I bothered to throw them away. I didn’t miss my mother, not me so-called home.

My pastels clinked in the small box, and I looked out the window. Rain splatters flew alongside the window. I hoped the emptiness would disappear, fade with them. The bus came to a stop, each building gleamed with pride as if it had done everything to be there.

Like I had done, anything to be there. All I had was money in my wallet, drawings in my luggage, and spare clothes my mother used for my sister as hand-me-downs.

“Last stop!” The driver screamed, forcing the bus to a stop. In that moment, when my knees glided into my chest I knew, my mind cleared. I belonged here. Expression, was my gift. Gloating, I stepped off the bus bag in hand, into the crowded streets breathing the dirty air. “My name’s Angel, I’m the girl with the moldy oranges.”

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UNTITLED

LISTEN TO YOUR HOROSCOPE

Emily Bauermeister

Leslie Hutchinson I

we think about talking a lot we think about how to communicate how not sharing a language is like missing a key to a locked door how we have to make symbols with our hands if the vibrations aren’t making it through we think about the noises our mouths make but only when they form letters and numbers but honestly, how often do you think about screaming? about dropping your jaw and letting the notes flow in a single stream of howling? how often do you think about silence? about tripping the tiny voice walking along your telephone wire vocal chords making him fall into a soft slumber playing your strings with a mute for a while? how often do we think about animal sounds about cawing and growling and primitive socialization how often do we think about the noise?

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FIGHTING WITH BOYS Sarah Jane Jeaveny II i want to analyze your vocalities run my fingers through your words take notes on the hills and valleys of all the things you say to me trace the crests of your joy and the troughs of your passion you might be reading those books again but at least you’re reading them out loud at least im the only one who gets to hear them at least im the one you’re talking to im sort of glad the woman sitting a few feet away from us had her headphones in because there was something about the fact that only i was there for it all that everyone else sort of came and went that made me feel significant to you like something that mattered a pair of ear drums you hoped to pound on and even when you’re pounding out anger or drowning them in salty tears at least i can still hear you.

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Say it. Say it again. Say it louder. They are getting into character. There is a little yellow bird with a lot to say. Call a spade a spade. They want the little bird to be a boy. The little bird is a river. Ignoring the biology of flesh: a breast, a hip, a tenderness – the bird becomes a river. It doesn’t make any sense. You don’t make sense, little bird. The trick is to put it away in a place that doesn’t make sense. Take it apart again, and this time – the right way. The bird is floating on a river. It’s probably a trick. Be. The little bird laughs, as only a bird that is a river and not a boy can laugh. Like a coyote eating a canary. Be something that matters. We never really know what matters to a bird that is a river. It does not matter. This does not matter.

This is probably you. You are probably what is left of all the words. What is left of you is for words. Words that we speak over the table. Empty all that is you into that bowl. Put the bowl away. Years later, take the bowl out. Lament. You never got to be the bird. You fucked up all the lines. Too busy being a river or a boy.

It’s pandemonium. What is left of you, they still remember. What is the bowl but a cage? Your laugh sounds just like the river. They feel so tricked when a river sounds like a lady. No one wants to see the river as a lady. The river is a boy. You are the bird. You’ve been fighting with the river. You’re afloat on the boy-river, a bird in a mine. A bowl that is a cage which is a lady in a mine called Canary Pass. They all think you’re a boy. The river is so many things to all the people. They say that means something. You are not the river. You sound just like the river. Littleladybirdfuckedlikeariverboy. Take a little more back. Tell them you’re lonely.

Tell them you mean it. Tell them they can’t talk to you like that. Oh dear, they can talk to you like that. They tell you like a riddle, and suddenly all of the things that they have been making you into become little sticks that they can burn. They’re going to burn the things you are, all of the things that you have meant to become. The river is on fire. So are you - you are burning now. You are on fire. Every breath is lighting up something else. A hip, a lip, an organ. A spade, that has never been a spade is digging away. The spade was always a heart. That’s right, the heart is digging away. A tiny bird for mining things that have no names.

It will certainly be the first to end. It’s somewhere in the river. It probably needs some air. Everything is still burning. A little bowl of self in a place far away that doesn’t make sense is laughing. You’re laughing now at the boy of you. Laughing like a river. Laughing for the love of the boy that you have become. You’re a canary. You’re a little bird that dies in the mine. Act like a lady. All of the sudden, they don’t want the bird to be a boy anymore. They want a bird that can be a lady that is not a river. They don’t want anything that could be on fire with the sticks that they fed it. They’ve taken their time with you. Ladyboyriverbird. You’re an aged-out boy, fighting with yourself, a bird and a lady and a cage of good intentions, floating on a river. No one meant to hurt you. You believe this too. But they have created a monster that no one can love. A monster that is a river that matters and that no one can make sense of. You’re undone. Telling a story about what should make sense. A river. A bowl. A bird. Stop yelling. Say it. Say it again. Say it better. You’ve

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picked a bad goddamn time to fight with birds, lady. You’re a goddamned boy in a fight. You’re a canary in a lady-body that in the bowl fits just fine, and in the river fits like a sack that you could drown in. I told you this was a trick. Since everything is on fire, they’re all at the river. They’re looking up at the sky, which is gray with near-winter. They are rehearsing their lines. The underbelly of a prey-bird is sailing around overhead. They are awed by its determination. They say things, “Ooooh, look.” and “Did you see it?” Their eyes up at the sky. In the water is a lady, drowning in the sack. She yells, “Look at the bank!” Is she supposed to be helpless? She is yelling. On the bank there is a bowl, no one can see her, but the lady is also in the bowl.

It’s a trick. She is a boy. They are all yelling. The bowl is a bird, it files away to the mine. A canary in the mine. A spade that has always been a heart is memorizing lines. A lady or a boy or a bird or a river. In the belly there is a mine, and a cage, and a lady-boy that knows the difference. The bird is good at getting tricked. You float on the river. You are rehearsing their lines. Do it, little bird. Do it again. Do it better.

HOPKINS Rowan Smith

The impetus for escape was a schism within my chest, a fracturing of persona that left me with no choice but to flee.

Before we left, we all shaved meat with spinning blades.

At night, we retreated to suburban stables, where we murdered fax machines with hatchets under blacklights.

My final act before leaving was to gather my notebooks and bury them at the peak of Hilltop where we would fuck each other when we were kids.

I had left coked-out high school bathrooms and all the girls that I loved to be alone in a toy store parking lot watching crows eat dead cats at four AM. On Saturdays, the dykes would try to kiss me, drunk on UV rainbows.

I would let them, only because I was so lonely, and naively dreamed of shaved pussies during New Year’s conversations, when tits hung out like parentheses.

We smoked in the girlfriend’s bedroom and put out cigarettes on our arms for fun, but now those tits are gone and he has a better name than Heidi.

I thought of futures only in all-night convenience stores just before the others who remained handed me cigarettes with dead hands.

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1 OUT OF 20

4

Sean Evenson

1 The man paging through Le Monde at the corner table taps his hand­rolled cigarette into an ashtray. Smoke spills out from his wrinkled mouth as he chats with the waitress. The college students who pushed some tables together pass a pack of Camel cigarettes around their circle. They take a cigarette and light it with a book of matches tucked inside the cellophane wrapper of the pack. They share stories and laugh through clouds of ash­grey smoke. More ashtrays are delivered. The waitress sits at a table near the entrance of the café.

She lights a smoke and looks up at the cloudy sky. The cherry of her cigarette glows fiercely.

A waiter serves me the café crème I ordered twenty minutes earlier. He tells me it’s almost time to leave. I nod. He lingers by the door, talks to the waitress, and smokes a cigarette.

Two cubes of sugar. Plop. Plop. The paper wrapping from the sugar cube slides off my table. The evening breeze floats it along the sidewalk. I continue to stir.

2 Joe Camel was created by a French advertising agency in 1974. He was a chain­smoking adventurous kind of a camel. He appeared in European advertisements for Camel Cigarettes throughout the late 70’s. But before Smooth Joe was the face of the company, a different camel promoted the cigarette brand.

Old Joe, the former Camel mascot and assumed father of Joe Camel, had been used in Camel cigarette advertisements since 1913. Old Joe is a working­class camel. His sketched portrait is still stamped on the packs of Camel cigarettes. He stands stiffly and plants his four hooves hard into the soft hot desert sand.

Old Joe’s eyes squint at the fire sun. Dry wind whips sand at the back of the his calves. Pyramids pointing to the sky stand in the distance. Three thirsty trees clump together, casting warped dancing shadows on the sand.

The first sip burns my tongue. The coffee is weak and sweet. Steam floats out of the small gap in the cream foam top.

I shake my pack of Camel Blue cigarettes. It sounds like two, maybe three. I pull one from the pack without looking, hoping that it’s three. The match pops into flame. I light my cigarette.

5 There are 20 cigarettes to one pack. One cigarette contains over 4,800 chemicals. Those chemicals have been in constant rotation throughout my body for three and a half years. 69 of the 4,800 chemicals are known to cause cancer.

6 Here’s what’s left of the Marlboro Man: tan leather boots and a cowboy hat.

7 I think I read this in a newspaper: The American soldiers chain­smoked cigarettes during World War I. At the start of the war, the allied troops from Europe preferred the strong pull from a pipe or the spiced smoke of a cigar. As the war trudged forward, pipes and cigars proved too difficult to manage in the muddy trenches. The loose leaf tobacco clumped in soggy mounds in the soldiers’ pockets. Thick cigars snapped in half as the soldiers shuffled on the battlefield. The Americans’ cigarettes stood up to the motion of the war. The soft pack padded any sharp movement and sheltered the cigarettes from water damage. Soon the European allied soldiers traded their pipes and cigars for packs of cigarettes.

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3 “More Doctors Smoke Camels Than Any Other Cigarette”­- Saturday Evening Post, 1946

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Hydrogen cyanide, one of the toxic byproducts present in cigarette smoke, was used as a genocidal chemical agent during World War II.

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9 It is me, the waiter, and the waitress. Nobody else in the café. I drink. They talk. We smoke.

10 Joe Camel was smooth. He drove a motorcycle, played pool, looked great in a leather jacket, wore sunglasses inside, mingled with the ritziest at cocktail parties in a sharp tuxedo, played the electric guitar (and the saxophone) in a jazz trio, fished, hunted, and sailed the seas in a one-sail skiff. A Camel cigarette dangled from his long snout in almost every advertisement. He continued his rebellious lifestyle throughout the 80’s and 90’s.

11 Here’s what will be left of me: a guitar, a French grammar book, and my whitewashed jean jacket.

12 A study conducted in 1991 found that 6­year­olds matched Joe Camel with a picture of cigarettes about as often as they matched Mickey Mouse with the Disney Channel Logo.

action. Eros is the life drive, Thanatos the death drive. Eros guides our actions in order to preserve the species, particularly through sexual activity. Thanatos opposes Eros, projecting negative emotions such as fear, self­hate and anger onto the human psyche. These emotions are often internalized, but can be externalized in various forms. Eros and Thanatos are in a constant flux throughout a lifetime. In the end, Thanatos claims the body.

15 The waitress watches the waiter’s theatrical body movement. She bends and sways with his gestures. He is telling her a story.

It all happened last weekend. The kid driving the car is texting. He doesn’t signal for the turn. Puff. Puff. The man on the scooter is driving at a decent speed. Not too fast. But he doesn’t notice the car making the turn.

Then bang. Puff. The man on the scooter flys over the car, right over the hood. His helmet bumps the ground hard, but it’s still on his head. His shoes fly in the air on impact. They’re tossed three, maybe four meters from his body. The man lands on his back next to the driver side door (at this point, the waiter cracks a match to a fresh cigarette). His scooter is smoking, knocked over and mangled, in front of the car. The man’s legs are twisted. Puff. Puff.

The kid has to exit from the passenger door. He still has the phone in his shaking hands. He calls the police.

Puff. A crowd huddles around them. They are shouting, screaming. Qu’est­ce qui s’est passé?! Qu’est­ce qui s’est passé?!

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13 Half of all long­term smokers will die a tobacco­related death.

I am working on my hypothesis for the remaining 4,681 chemicals in a cigarette: I assign 472 chemicals to the reaction a cigarette causes in the human body when immediately smoked after an orgasm. This is not the same reaction that occurs when a cigarette is smoked after a satisfying meal (300 chemicals). No, the post­sex cigarette affects the body differently. As the orgasm sparkles out of your body, those magical 472 chemicals salvage the dissipating euphoria and breathe fresh, nicotine­buzzed breath into it. The life expectancy of an orgasm extends a few wondrous seconds. And there are still 3,909 chemicals to be explored!

14 Sigmund Freud theorized that two instincts, opposite one another and held in a dualist lens, guide human

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Here’s the news: I am going to sue the Brown & Williamson Tobacco Company, manufacturers of Pall Mall cigarettes, for a billion bucks! Starting when I was only twelve years old, I have never chain­smoked anything but unfiltered Pall Malls. And for many years now, right on the package, Brown & Williamson have promised to kill me. But I am eighty­two. Thanks a lot, you dirty rats. The last thing I ever wanted was to be alive when the three most powerful people on the whole planet would be named Bush, Dick and Colon. ­­— Kurt Vonnegut.

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18 The waitress is quiet after the story is finished. She is looking at the waiter. He sits down and puts his elbows on the table. He rests his chin on in his knuckles. They smoke their cigarettes to the filter.

I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray. The bartender inside is sweeping around the feet of the barstools.

Napkins, crinkled receipts, and fat green olives pile together.

I swallow the last of my coffee. It is a cold sip. I halve the sandy coffee grounds with my front teeth and spit them out. I place a handful of Euros on my receipt. The waiter and the waitress start talking again.

There is just enough time for one more cigarette.

CIGARETTE Lia Jacobson

19 A lawsuit conducted by 46 U.S states against the Camel Cigarette Company in 1998 successfully sued the company for targeting minors in their cigarette advertisements. The company behind Camel cigarettes, R.J. Reynolds, was required to pay hundreds of billions of dollars to cover tobacco足related health care costs.

The ads in question were those of Camel Joe. From that point forward, no more ads featured the smooth camel windsurfing across the Atlantic, or shooting billiards, or ripping through a saxophone solo in a smoky jazz club. The company could continue to sell cigarettes, and even advertise in appropriate, adult magazines, but the law banning advertisements directed at youth was put into place.

Joe Camel was pronounced dead on July 10, 1997 at age 23. Cause of death: complications due to publishing.

Old Joe still stands alone on the package of Camel cigarettes. He is 101 years old. The desert air is as dry as ever.

20 I lift my pack of cigarettes to my ear and shake it. I have one cigarette left.

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16

CHOP SHOP Ryan Nichols

In the beginning, I was on too many heavy painkillers and sedatives to remember much. The disconcert of machine beeps and hisses eventually became routine. I learned from an Ivan Drago­looking doctor with a matching accent that I was fastened to the bed to prevent reopening my wounds, of which I apparently had many. I remember talking with a pair of police officers who told me I had been found staggering through that little park by 15th Ave and that “I don’t know how to put this Sir, but” my body had been taken apart by someone and put back together with parts from other peoples’ bodies. They wondered if I remembered anything. I passed out in response.

My friend Bucky came to visit. He’s not the type that knows how to visit someone in a hospital though.

After relating to me just how horrified everyone was about the terrors I must have suffered and how relieved they were that I was found alive after so many weeks, he raised an eyebrow and asked me, “So, did they give you a bigger? You know. A bigger one?” I was surprised he hadn’t asked about that first. I didn’t know. Should he look? Well it’s a bit unfair to raise such an important question when you know damned well I can’t look at it myself. We went back and forth about this a couple more rounds and decided he should take a picture with his cellphone, so he could show me without looking. He fumbled with the hospital gown but eventually managed to take an accurate picture. I hesitated to look directly at the screen, but when I got around to it there it was, still intact, my very own, familiar, and completely average... you know.

A priest came. I guess they thought I might want to talk to a priest for some reason. People always make assumptions like that. At this point they had untied my hands since the stitches had healed enough. I raised them to show the priest. They had put, as best I could tell, the hand of a small Asian woman in place of my left hand. Maybe Hispanic. Hard to tell with just a hand. The right hand was clearly that of a large African American man. The priest did his best to pretend he wasn’t freaked out. It had been a couple weeks, so I had mostly gotten used to having them. I fucked with him. What if I had the hands of some terrible heathens? Would I show up to Heaven looking like the guy from that joke about a man with no arms and no legs named Matt? What if someone else was walking around with my hands, murdering someone, for instance.

Would I go to Hell? All of me? Let’s not even think about masturbation. I felt bad about that last one after I said it. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He left without saying anything else.

Once they let me out —when I was all healed up—I started getting used to having mismatched limbs and appendages. The old man at the shoe store was very obliging when I showed him my dilemma. I learned I’m a size 5 and 10 ½ now. He didn’t even charge me.

I started wondering about my new body parts, who they belonged to. I thought about it constantly, being always reminded when I looked at my watch or unzipped my pants with these unfamiliar hands. I don’t

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think anyone else knew how obsessed I was becoming about it. They just took it as part of my “healing process.” Hands were the easiest, fingerprints and all. The police detectives humored my constant requests for information about victims found with severed limbs. Obviously they felt bad for me. Mrs. Cho, left hand, she didn’t make it, unfortunately. She seemed like a really nice lady from what I gathered. I went and visited her grave, left some flowers. Her husband asked to kiss her/my hand and asked me to touch his cheek the way she always had. It was awkward, but I couldn’t refuse. He closed his eyes and wept. I felt bad because here he was having a beautiful, unexpected reunion with his dead wife and all I could focus on was my excitement upon being able to feel the tears on my hand.

Mr. Johnson, right hand, was a pianist and a piano teacher. That was pretty tragic. They gave him an elderly woman’s hand, not strong enough to push the keys down. We tried to play a duet, but I kept fucking it up. He got really angry, but we both knew he wasn’t really angry at me, just at the situation and the future.

He started to apologize but one look at me, and he knew he didn’t have to finish. I understood.

My left calf belonged to that teenager that went missing a year ago. Police matched it to the one they found nearby when they found his body, most of it. It’s strong. Kinda freaky that they still had his body parts.

The kid’s mom was really upset about that. They told her it was evidence since the limbs had been carved up with symbols and shit. Really grim stuff when you think about it. She only got to bury his head and torso, at least those parts hadn’t been separated. She thanked me though, for coming to see her. She comes over and brings me baked goods every few months. I think it helps her feel like a mother again.

My whole right leg belonged to a fashion model. She was really kind about it, taught me how to shave the hard to reach spots and what types of razors to buy. The doctors gave her a prosthetic, so she gets around alright. She still models too, though it’s harder because most places don’t want “disabled” people in their advertisements. That’s really aggravating. It’s not her fault someone stole her leg, and it’s not like people with stolen legs don’t want to dress nice or buy air fresheners and all that other shit.

I met almost all the others too, eventually, the ones that were still alive. As much as I feel like a sentimental prick for saying it, I think meeting them or at least learning who they were really did help me adjust, emotionally, to everything. I still haven’t figured out the ethics of getting turned on by my sexy model leg.

And I still feel rather strange calling them my hands, my legs, my ears. But most of the time I try to think about how amazing it is to share something so intimate with so many former strangers who I now feel such a strong community with. I don’t know if they’ll ever catch the fucked up surgeon(s) who did this to us. I think if they do I’ll just ask them why they did this. What were you trying to prove? Also, whose nose am I using?

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SWIRLING SPARKS

BURRITOS

Hannah Schmit

Jens Pinther

Poems come from the sound Of weird cheese I’ve never had before Frying on a skillet While your son asks me If I’ve read this comic I want to have heard of before And makes the loudest explosions With his mouth With tiny plastic transformer things Within a house he’s loved.

The tea pot screams But it sounds like a saxophone And I wonder if you knew that When you bought it.

You’re standing as so many roles A cook a mom a friend a beautiful Human being I can’t help but Nothing Is wrong tonight And I’ll stand here and yell at your dog And feel bad about it afterward You’ll feed me and Wink at me And I’ll feel the feet of yours with my mind Over and over and replayed While you do something as simple As halving an avocado Asking me if I want salsa I’m a boring brute And you’re brilliantly yellow Unfolding within blueish teal walls.

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16

HENRY

Quinci Bachman It’s Ed’s day off. He’s lying face up on the floor of his living room. He’s been there since he passed out last night and now everything aches—shoulder, neck, lower back. He tries to get up, but plops back down.

His head is killing him. The lone, fluorescent light in the middle of the living room is too much. It’s too yellow.

He shouldn’t have left that on last night. He could go over and change it now, but...So. Much. Work.

His stomach growls. He groans and finally heaves himself up to a sitting position. He hops to his feet and nearly falls back down. He should have known better than to stand too quickly.

He stumbles toward the kitchen, kicking beer cans out of the way as he goes. He sighs. His stomach growls. He pries open the refrigerator door, another light all too yellow. There’s nothing to eat. He cranes his neck to face the living room. He doesn’t know where his wallet is. He hasn’t planned for this. His apartment is littered with chip bags, beer cans, pizza-stained paper plates, two months of laundry and clumps of orange cat hair—none of it new.

Ed’s stomach grumbles as he falls into his favorite lounge chair and curls up. He can still smell Henry in it—the mess of fried fish, litter, dust, chicken, beef, and gravy. His stomach grumbles again and he can almost hear the little pitter-patter of Henry scurrying from the bedroom. He croaks his mewl and Ed shifts to make room as Henry makes a home on his lap. Instinctively, Ed pets Henry and just when he’s sure he’s heard purring—his stomach growls and he remembers. He blinks at the still too yellow light in the ceiling and traces Henry’s scratch marks on the lounge chair, a stupidly nostalgic smile plastered to his face.

He loves his crappy lounge chair. It’s the only piece of furniture left in the living room of his single-room apartment. When his girlfriend, Lara, broke up with him a week ago, she had left him with his belongings, the lounge chair which she always said reeked of fried fish, and a note that read: Dear Ed, The lease is done and so am I. The landlord is expecting the place to be evacuated by the end of the week. I am taking Henry with me. I know you loved him more than me, but he is my cat. You should have seen this coming.

Goodbye, Ed, Lara

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She was right, though. Ed loved Henry more than her. He still does. He loves that chubby little orange cat with the stubby tail. He was all Ed had.

Lara had constantly been on business trips during their time together because “somebody has to pay the rent around here”. That was her favorite thing to tell him before heading to work each day. It seemed like a joke, the way she would almost twirl around to smile and coo it at him. He never knew what was going on in her head.

And besides, he had a job. He had his night shifts at the gas station. It wasn’t much, but it was his fallback job since he had quit his mediocre accounting position, which left him grumpy and with no time to take Lara out on “proper dates”, more commonly known as dates that gave her enough time to enjoy her tequila.

He had centered his whole world round Lara, but instead spent his days bonding with Henry. They had all their meals together. Henry would have his Fancy Feast, slight, pink tongue flicking the food in the air as he made that delicate slurping sound. Ed would chow down on his Sesame Chicken, always forgetting that Fresh Wok makes it way too hot, and burning his tongue. Then, they would curl up in the lounge chair and watch Ghost Hunters until they fell asleep waiting for Lara to return, so he could go to his shift.

To Ed, he and Lara were never really together; she left him before they even started six months prior.

Lara’s an interior designer, and what she lacks in talent, she makes up for in promotion. She knows how to promote herself, and she probably promoted herself to him when she dared to be the only girl to talk to him at that coffee shop when it first opened kitty-corner from his old job.

“What do ya think of the place?” Lara asked, quirking a brow as she scooted a chair next to his.

“Pretty average coffee,” Ed choked, nearly spitting out his coffee. She was so close to him he thought she might jump him right there, but he composed himself and patted his all too flashy yellow tie smooth.

“No, no, no,” she cooed. “What do you think of the place?”

He took a sip of coffee, wishing it had been a stronger beverage. “Too many windows.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I think a little sunlight could do you some good.” She whipped out her brand new business cards, all too eager, and slid one toward Ed. “Lara Jamieson. Interior Designer,” he mused, starting to look around the coffee shop. “This your work?”

“That’s right. Still think there are too many windows? ‘Cause I can’t do anything about those.”

They shared a laugh and Ed grinned. “Well, I think I could grow accustomed to this lounge chair.”

“I think I could grow accustomed to seeing you around. Anything else you need,” she nudged his shoulder with her coffee cup, “it’s on me.”

His stomach grumbles again and now he’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need her. He’s better without her. He can do whatever the hell he wants. Now, he gets to walk around naked in the apartment if he wants to. He doesn’t.

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He wants food. There’s still none. He flings open the refrigerator door again and the yellow light blinds him. It’s even brighter than he remembers. It’s probably because he’s never seen it empty before. He hums.

It buzzes. It begs to be filled with things to cool. He sighs and slams it shuts. He shuffles to the coat closet.

Nothing’s been hung. There’s just a simple cardboard box full of stuff he doesn’t want to be reminded of.

Inside, there are old pictures of Ed and Lara, an old crocheted blanket his mother made for them, and a pile of Fancy Feast that he loved to spoil Henry with but Lara always groaned about.

“It’s not good for him,” she huffed.

“It’s food,” Ed replied.

“And, there’s good and bad food, but I am not having this argument with you. It makes his poop smell bad and it makes our house smell bad. He’s going back to the classic Iams.”

Iams? Henry deserved better than that. Henry deserves better than this. He deserves Ed. Ed deserves Henry.

Ed groans. His stomach grumbles. He stares at the cat food. His stomach grumbles again. He pokes his head out of the closet. He looks around the room for food. He remembers he has none. He sighs. His stomach grumbles. He looks back down at the cat food.

He shakes his head. His stomach grumbles. He shakes his head again and goes back out to his pathetic excuse for a living room and curls up in his lounge chair. He inhales. He smells Henry. He looks around the room. He spots all the old bags of chips scattered across the floor. His stomach grumbles. He groans. He heaves himself out of his chair. He fumbles through each of the chip bags hoping to find one that still has a few crumbs left. He looks through one. And another. Nothing.

His stomach grumbles. He looks back at the cat food. He sighs. He grabs a can. He pries it open. The tangy smell erupts through the small apartment. At first the sensation is sentimental. He almost expects to hear Henry’s hoarse mewl again. But then he remembers. And he remembers what he’s about to do.

He brings the can to his mouth. He gags. His body wants to throw up, but there’s nothing to throw up. His teeth touch the metal. He finds a chunk of chicken. He quickly swallows, hoping it will be better if he does it quicker. It goes down. He thinks he can do this. He takes a bigger bite. This time he decides to savor it, hold it in his mouth. Bad idea. The after taste is too much. It’s all mush. Too tangy.

It’s coming up. He gags. He can feel the chunks making their way up his throat. Chicken and Beef Feast in Gravy. He runs to the bathroom. He hugs the toilet and it comes up happily. He wants to throw up more but he can’t. He stares at the former cat food. He knows what he needs to do now. Anything he needs, it’s on her. Well, he needs Henry. He’s going to go get his Henry.

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OLIVE JUICE

Jazmin Crittenden

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THE RELUCTANT MATERIALIST Eric Dylan Young My prediction: Computer models will replace the scientific method within ten years;1 An enlightenment legacy—treasured, precious—upset by the newcomer, Made obsolete by the upstart, Antony outmaneuvered by Augustus, Lear cast out by Regan and Gonoril, mad and fending in the wilderness.

I’m a man of letters, never numbers. The concrete and rational, while Comforting, comfortable even, make me cringe when they encroach —Noiseless assassins of the subjective, slitting poetry’s robust throat— Upon the foundations of poetics and language, the expression of that Which facts can never express, science never empty, reason never dry.

The universe is like a clock:2 exponentially more complex, but still finite.

This opinion—terrible, soal­soaking untruth—seems more or more like The truth with each passing decade. Some claim that quantum physics Proves God, but god (lower­case g) has been dead since Nietzsche, since Darwin, since Reason and Science. What are we left with?

Empty. Space.

1 The scientific method has been the primary procedure for establishing testable thesis for most of modern history. It was first developed during the Enlightenment. However, since the latter years of the 20th century until today, computers have become so powerful that many believe that soon all theories will derive from computer models that can take all possible variables into account when processing data. Thus, my prediction is heavily informed by the work of others.

2 This is a metaphor frequently adopted by proponents of materialism. The idea is that a clock may look impossibly complex to someone who’s never seen one, but that doesn’t mean it’s magic or supernatural.

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I’m comfortable(ish) with the notion that life is meaningless,3 but I’m not comfortable believing—against my convictions, against Myself —that, given enough time, the pieces of that clock will be understood.

Could one, then, reverse­engineer existence?4 Would one want to?

I want to reject this, but often can’t. The evidence is overwhelming.

That there is something else—beyond ourselves and our purview, Something Pure—is what I want to believe. Wish I could believe.

The materialists say all could eventually be understood, given the time.

Their—our?—world is barren of mysticism and metaphysics and magic.

To the Materialist, all our machines, all our clocks, are merely the Synechdochical forms of the one True Machine: the Universe. In this Light we are merely aping the world around us. Becoming God. When a sparrow fishes ants from a tree using a twig plucked from The ground she is mimicking the Universe. Or an otter smashing shellfish Against his belly with rocks. Or me, assembling ideas into words (Themselves machines) onto a computer (another machine), to create Literature, the machine of rhetoric and poetry. We all mirror the device Of perpetual life, death, and rebirth in which we reside.

3 According to the existentialists, without god or a supreme being, life has no inherent meaning save what we individually imbue it with.

4 When the first spring­driven clocks began coming out of Germany in the 1500’s, fascinated tinkerers across the world bought them up and took them apart to figure out how they worked.

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THE EFFICACY OF TREES Nina Mar tine Robsinson It is unknown what will happen to the Universe, but some theorize that The matter within it—the sum total of all everything, ever and forever— Will once again contract: the Big Crunch,5 they call it (because scientists Aren’t always poets), and the whole cycle of critical mass, big bang, Slow accretion of planets and stars, the possibility of “Goldilocks” Conditions (when all required elements for organic life align just so).

Leading to the rise and fall of entire carbon­based dynasties, both great And terrible. Extinction. Star death. Entropy.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.6 I’m not one of those that can choose what I believe (who can?), but That doesn’t preclude me from hoping that something supra­natural Beats and thrums and thrives beneath the physical, the tangible, the Touchable. But I also hope one day to see a dinosaur, fly by my own Volition, travel to the center of a neutron star, write a masterpiece for All mankind. If wishes were fishes7 I dutifully recite—the mantra of The Reluctant Materialist.

5 This is essentially the inverse of the Big Bang. The theory suggests that all matter is in a perpetual cycle of exploding outward and contracting inward, self­contained and eternally renewing. The theory tidily leaves out any need for a guiding intelligence. When asked, regarding Big Bang theory, what began the cycle, Stephen Hawking scoffed and suggested that the question was tantamount to asking what was north of the North Pole.

6 Of course, these theories have all derived from the use of computer prediction models.

7 ...we’d all swim in riches. A cute proverb that presumably seemed true at some earlier time. It doesn’t hold up terribly well today, due to the compelling evidence that the next mass extinction event is currently taking place under the sea.

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THANKSDRINKING

speak French. In the end we learn that the aliens are robots controlled by the government.

We stop at the gas station to buy cigarettes. Nils smokes menthol cigarettes. I can’t stand them. They make my lungs feel numb.

Sean Evenson

It is Thanksgiving Day. I am driving with Logan to Wisconsin. Logan is my brother.

We are visiting Nils. Nils is our older brother.

We continue driving. Logan is telling me about a research paper that he’s writing. It is about the correlation between child abuse and the onset of schizophrenia.

Logan is in grad school. He is studying to be a social worker.

Nils is in treatment. He is a recovering alcoholic.

Logan cannot drive because he is hung­over. He thinks he might still be drunk.

The night before Thanksgiving is Thanksdrinking. I turned 21 last April. Last night was my first Thanksdrinking.

I pull into the treatment center’s parking lot. Logan burps. We put the pumpkin pie and the cigarettes into a plastic bag. I grab the case of Mountain Dew. Logan says that Nils will be more excited about the Mountain Dew than he will be about seeing us. I tell him that Nils loves us just as much as he loves Mountain Dew.

Thanksdrinking is a family tradition.

We walk into the lobby. Nils is standing alone near a small table. There are two white phones and a stack of pamphlets on the table.

We were at the Tavern on Main Street last night. It’s a local bar.

He is fatter. He has a beard. He is balding. He is 26.

Two fat women gave Logan two shots. Logan gave one to me. It tasted like flat Sprite and Vodka. I drank it and felt warm.

Nils smiles when I give him the Mountain Dew. He asks us if we brought the cigarettes. Logan says yes. Nils pockets the packs in his sweatshirt.

Logan bought me beer. We laughed at the locals in their camouflage coats and their orange knit caps.

Nils walks to his room to drop off the pop and pie. When he comes back I hug him hard. Logan asks him how he is doing. He says he is doing well. He says he has 21 days left.

We walked home drunk from the bar. It was 5 degrees outside. We pressed our hooded heads against the dry wind. I followed close behind Logan. His body shielded most of the wind.

I woke up at half past noon. I was naked except for my socks. I was sweating. I wanted to puke.

I remembered a few things from Thanksdrinking. I remembered “Hey Jude” on the jukebox. I remembered the two fat women and the vodka shots. I remembered looking into the fridge. I remember eating cold mashed potatoes and potato chips.

I put on pants and walked downstairs. Mom told me to take a shower. She was making Logan a Caesar salad. Logan was mumbling over a cup of black coffee. His eyes were wide. He laughed to himself at a joke that he made.

Mom gave us a box of Mountain Dew and a pumpkin pie to give to Nils. She told us to buy him cigarettes too.

We are crossing the bridge over the St. Croix River in Stillwater. In the summer the bridge raises up to let boats pass through. The bridge doesn’t rise in the wintertime. The river is frozen now. At least the top layer is.

I am telling Logan about the short story I want to write. It is about aliens. They have light green skin and

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We follow Nils to the office. We have to check in. The man behind the front desk asks for our names. Logan tells him our names. The man is watching Logan.

Logan signs his name on the paper. He initials each rule of the Rules and Regulations section of the paper.

He initials without reading them.

After I sign in we walk to a table in the lobby. I ask Nils about a story he once told me. It is about a ghost bus on the freeway. Logan saw it too. They were driving to Duluth that night. The bus was driving slow. 40 mph at most. They said they almost hit it. They said it looked like it was made in the 30’s. They couldn’t see the driver or any passengers. After they sped past it they slowed down, slower than the bus was going. They drove that way for ten minutes and saw nothing. No bus. No lights. Nothing. The bus had vanished.

The man from the front desk walks up to us. He taps Logan on the shoulder. He wants to talk to Logan outside. Logan and the man from the front desk walk outside.

Nils scratches the back of his head. He asks me what we did last night. I tell him not much. He asks me if we went out for Thanksdrinking. I say yes. I tell him we had a beer or two and walked home.

Logan comes back. He tells me that we have to leave. I tell him that we’ve only been here for 5 minutes. He tells me that we have to leave now.

The three of us walk outside.

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I light up a smoke. Nils lights one too.

Logan tells us that the man from the front desk told him to leave because he smelled like alcohol.

PERCEPTUAL EPIPHANY Thomas Vandendolder

Nils laughs. I laugh too.

Logan says it must be his jacket. He wore the same jacket the night before at the Tavern.

I hug Nils. Logan is already walking towards the car.

Nils asks me if I will be home for Christmas. I say yes. I tell him that I will see him at Christmas.

He says he wants to watch It’s A Wonderful Life. I tell him that Jimmy Stewart is my favorite actor. He nods his head and tells me that he knows.

I start the car. Logan is reclined in the passenger seat. His eyes are closed.

I ask him if he is alright. He asks me if this will go on his record. He is worried that the treatment center will contact his grad school and tell them what happened.

I say that it’s unlikely.

I tell him that if they do, he can tell them that I was the one who smelled like alcohol. They won’t know which brother it was.

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MY WAR

Rowan Smith When Ger and Neil decided to go to war, I thought, ”Good, I hope they kill each other.”

Suburban drug dealers were a constant reminder of my need to get the fuck out of Hopkins. I would see them outside the KFC, now empty, various letters from its sign fallen, smoking their shitty weed out of one-hitters they had crafted out of medium-quality pens. I would drive by slowly, staring at them through my dirty driver’s-side window, scowling like how I imagined my mother might scowl, and when our eyes met there would be no recognition on their face, despite all the hours and dollars I had sunk into them.

That was the problem with people like Ger and Neil: as much as I hated them – hated their stench, the rancid stink of burned chemical highs, crystal meth residue on chapped, sunburned lips – I needed them. It was the only way you could get from one end of the day to another in a place like this. Skip school, sleep in, smoke salvia, end up twenty-three in your hometown, having watched plenty of kids half as smart as you ship off to college while you struggle to just get out of your parent’s basement.

It was July when the war started and I was itching for some action. Every night I would ride down Main Street, smoking cigarettes out the rolled-down window, listening to something angry on the stereo, thinking about not thinking about getting fucked up.

I passed the cops, as I always did, because they were always out in force, looking for the troublesome teens who hid away in bushes to smoke their shwag while the big kids freebased heroin in the Wendy’s parking lot nearby. I would always doff my imaginary hat to them and wink as I passed. It had gotten me pulled over once. But I never used in the car. Just smoked my Lucky Strikes and left the stereo on 11, which wasn’t actually that loud.

After I saw the cops, I saw Ger, walking down the wrong side of Main Street, seemingly trying to avoid the innumerable cracks in the cobblestone sidewalk, his headphones in, his delicate step perhaps a shambled dance in awkward time with his music. Hopkins looked, to the uninitiated, like a quaint town filled with these cobbled paths, antique shops, an old fashioned clock tower and its own small-town festival. Once you spent enough time there, you saw all of this as a bandage, a fresh layer of makeup to hide the decay of a corpse. I zoomed up the block and whipped a U-ey, pulling up alongside him, leaning over and opening the door. He popped out one bud.

“Get in, man, fuck,” I said. He complied wordlessly. We rode out to the parking lot behind the McDonalds and I lifted my ass up to fish out my wallet.

“What you need, man, H?” “Shit, you got some?” I asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

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“A’ight then.”

I gave him sixty bucks and he unzipped his backpack, removing various dirty tupperwares filled with a menagerie of substances. Finally, he cracked one open and extracted one of the tied-off condoms of heroin and tossed it over to me. I opened up my center console and dropped it inside.

“Thank ya kindly,” I said to him in a shitty-fake southern drawl.

“Fuck-ever, man. Want some burgers?”

We pulled back into the parking lot with our drive-thru acquisitions and I lightly grilled him while we munched.

“What’s this shit with Neil?”

“I’mma fucken kill him is what.”

“Well, shit, yeah, but why?”

“It’s just time man.”

I nodded and stared out the windshield at the worn wooden fence in front of us.

“I’m sick of hearing the shit he talks about me to Lauren,” Ger finally confided.

Lauren was this girl who fucked for drugs – everybody knew it. I wanted to fuck her, but there were a number of things that kept me from doing so. They were the things that separated me from the rest of the people who never left this fucking town. I was one of them by necessity. My pathetic need for them simply outweighed how disgusted I was by the way they lived. Lauren was an exception. I wasn’t disgusted by the way she lived, though she lived much like them – like me. I saw in her clouded eyes kinship, a (perhaps imagined) understanding that we were both in the same situation, stuck here in Hopkins, degrading ourselves to get the things we needed from those around us.

“Since when do you give a shit about Lauren?”

“I don’t,” Ger said, “But I go over there to get my fucken dick sucked, not hear about how Neil thinks I’m some kinda half-fag or some shit.”

“So what, you now decide he’s gonna die cuz he talks shit?”

“Well first, man, I told him to shut his mouth.”

“And he said what? ‘Fuck off’?”

Ger nodded. “Then I told Lauren to stop fucken around with him.”

“Probably a ‘fuck off’ from her as well, huh?”

“Ayup. So now I’m gonna kill him.”

“I dunno, man. Seems kinda extreme.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes as we finished our burgers.

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“Man, though,” he said, sadly, “She gives good fucken head.”

“Lauren?” I asked. I lit a cigarette. “Wouldn’t know.”

“Let’s go over there.” he said, excitedly. “She’ll suck your dick for sure if I ask her to.”

“What?”

“Fuck, man, I’m sure she’s down. ‘Specially if you give her some of that H you just bought. Shit, man, she’ll fuck you. She’ll fuck us both.” He took out a cigarette as well and lit it, grinning at me like a jackal through the smoke. “You ever double-teamed a bitch?”

“Naw, man.” I said quietly. I wanted him to drop it, but he knew that part of me wanted to fuck her. Part of me wanted to fuck her real bad.

“Shit, man, it ain’t gay or nothin’. C’mon, whaddaya say?”

And so I turned on the car and started driving to Lauren’s apartment, even though I knew that fucking her wasn’t worth whatever other shit was going to go down.

Lauren’s living room was just how I expected it would be. I would be unable to pick it from a lineup of other druggie-girl rooms. Always dirty brown carpet with cigarette burns, overflowing ashtrays, half-drunk bottles of flat soda, glass pipes, tinfoil, safety pins, half-melted straws, and one central bong that was gigantic and that the owner always needed to show off like a child might show off a karate trophy. Lauren’s was a three-foot tall dolphin, curved delicately, presumably splashing above the water’s surface, its open mouth meant to lock with the user’s in an interspecies kiss, the bowl cradled where I imagined its real-life counterpart’s genitals would be.

“I want to make sure you’re up to snuff before we fuck,” Lauren said to me plainly through lips tightened around her Marlboro’s filter. “How big is your cock?”

“Uh,” I looked over at Ger who was playing with her cat. He didn’t seem to be paying attention. “I dunno, it’s been awhile since I took a ruler to it.”

“Ballpark it for me, hun.”

“Seven?”

“Alright, good. I don’t fuck small cocks. No offense to the small-cocked, it’s just not for me. I’ll suck ‘em though. And I hope you weren’t lyin’ to me about that seven, cuz I’ll know, and if it’s smaller than that it ain’t goin’ in my fucken pussy, you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

She got up and crossed the room to a bookshelf and retrieved a small leather case. Returning, she unzipped it and removed the spoon, lighter, syringe, and a clean needle. She assembled the hypo while I fished the H out of my pants pocket. I reached out and grabbed a mostly-clean mirror and razor off of the coffee table and set it on my lap. After I untied the condom, I shook out the powder and then cut it in half

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with the blade.

Thirty dollars-worth of heroin on either side of this slim reflection. This girl was going to fuck me for thirty dollars-worth of heroin.

I scraped my half back into the condom and retied it, putting it back into my pocket. I handed the mirror over to Lauren and she began cooking her shit up.

“You like to watch, man?” she asked me, her eyes lit up like sirens over the cooking flame. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Ger took it as an invitation. He unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out. It was kinda weird. I’d never seen another guy’s cock like that in person, all hard and ready to go. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either. Lauren filled the hypo up while Ger slapped his dick back and forth, gripping the base of it and slamming the shaft first into his fingers, then his wrist, repeatedly, like a middle school joke.

I heard the sigh and knew that Lauren had shot up. She laid back for awhile staring absently at me, mouth open, drooling a bit. This wasn’t right. I couldn’t fuck her. Even if I wanted to. Even if I gave her half of my H. Before I could do anything, Ger stood up and walked over to her, cock still in hand. He bent down in front of her and forced himself into her mouth. She didn’t seem to mind. She closed her eyes and wrapped her lips tight around him, seemingly trying to draw something like a soul out from his sex.

I sat there and watched her blow him for far too long. I got hard from watching them, and a part of me wanted to pull my own cock out and go join them. Lauren looked up at me, her eyes filled with something close to anticipation, beckoning me silently to rise to the occasion.

But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, when I stood, I exited into the kitchen, opening the fridge and being confronted with various girly wine coolers, my own preferred drink, and I cracked open a twist-off peach B&J and sat down at the formica table, staring at the darkened window, through which I could see nothing. For a bit I could hear the sounds of oral sex, the wet vacuum of mouth against cock, but shortly after it stopped I heard the front door open and then close, and suddenly Lauren was sitting down at the table across from me.

“Pussed out, huh?” she asked, smiling.

“Yup. That’s me.” I said, taking a drink. “Big fucken pussy.”

“I’m glad, actually.” She said. “I had always thought you were better than that.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you were too, but-” She cut me off sternly, “A girl using sex for drugs is a lot different than a guy using drugs for sex.”

I considered the colorful label of my B&J. “I suppose that’s right.”

“If I were you,” she said, rising from the table and retrieving her own wine cooler from the fridge, “I would be proud of myself.”

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“And why’s that?” I asked. She twisted her top off and we clinked glasses.

“Doesn’t it make you feel better?” She asked, taking a sip. “Don’t you feel like a better person than someone like Ger?” “Being better than someone like Ger doesn’t make me feel good about myself.” I said sadly. “It makes me depressed that I’m in the same place he is.”

“You always did seem depressed, though.” Lauren said.

“You did too.” I replied. She looked down at the table and smiled. We both drank in silence for a minute. I finished my bottle and got up to fetch a second. I had taken a few drinks from it when I finally spoke up.

“What are we doing here, Lauren?”

She looked up at me, the smile gone.

“What?” she asked, “You came here to save me?”

I broke off my eye contact and looked sideways at the wall.

“No.” I said. “Maybe I’m the one who needs saving.”

She scoffed. “C’mon, man. We aren’t sixteen anymore. You sound like a girl writing in a diary.”

I smiled. “Yeah,” I said coyly, “I know. That was always my problem, though. Too sensitive, they said.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Girls.”

She laughed. “Fucken girls.”

I smiled. Lauren stood up and walked back into the living room.

“C’mon.” She said back to me. I rose and followed. In the living room she gestured to a junky-looking acoustic guitar in the corner.

“You play, right?” she asked me. “I remember from high school.”

“Yeah,” I acquiesced, “I play.”

“Play me a song.” She picked up the guitar and handed it to me before sitting down on the couch and patting the spot next to her. I took a seat beside her and began tuning the guitar to open-D by ear as best I could. I began finger picking the open strings, finally moving a bassline around on the lowest string as I began to sing.

As I sang, Lauren closed her eyes. After a few verses, she put her hand on my knee, eyes still closed.

“The dog was better once I got the maggots out.

I pulled them out of his ears and out of his snout, and he licked my face – he was so thankful!

He spoke to me with hieroglyphics.

He said, ‘Thanks for your time, Thanks for all that you never left behind, and now I am fine, and you will be fine.

Just please, don’t commit suicide.’

And I said –” I kept plucking for awhile before letting the last notes ring out. We both sat in silence for about a minute, me watching her face, eyes still closed. When she finally opened them she was staring right at me, and we rested there in each other’s eyes for a bit.

“That’s how it ends, huh?” she asked. I nodded. She took the guitar from me and set it down on the floor.

Then, she scooted up next to me and wrapped her arms around my neck. I felt her head rest on my shoulders. Felt her hair tickle my nose, smelled her shampoo. I put my arms around her back. I felt her bra-strap through her shirt, felt the rise and fall of the fabric of her clothes.

She leaned up and whispered into my ear, “Woof.”

“I had a dream I don’t understand.

There was a dog with worms in his eyes.

I squeezed them out, but to my surprise When he ate them I felt nothing.”

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WANING

TIN CAN HALF NOT HEAVY

Meg Elliot

Tina Monje

If I pick up every penny I find on the ground I one day won’t need to scrounge every month. Fuck a college diploma. Fuck a job. I will go around collecting change, I will save all the change that crosses my path, and I will get rich doing this.

One way to accomplish this is to never spend the tip money I earn at work. I will place it in a tin can on my shelf under the lamp next to the plants. I will only dig through it and count the pieces once a month – at most – and only when I am dreadfully bored. Never when I am in a hurry. Never when I am already late.

Never when I already counted it that week, already took from it, and hadn’t yet added to it.

I will also keep my eyes peeled every time I walk down the sidewalk, around the city, or anywhere... I have found twenty-dollar bills on the street curb before. That has happened. Before I know it, I will have an entire savings account filled with and collecting interest on the money I have found on the streets.

The problem with this is that, on certain days, I believe in omens. Depending on how I wake up in the morning, if I come across a tails-up change piece, I am sure to have bad luck. Whatever that means. My chances of bad luck are fifty-out-of-fifty, so I might as well be screwed. Too late now.

I’ve probably found more tails-up change pieces than I have found heads-up. I found a tails-up penny just this morning, and then I spilled coffee. I cannot precisely blame the spilt coffee on my finding of a tailsup coin. It could be that I spilled my coffee because I was walking around with my head down, not looking at where I was going.

Another way to get rich collecting change is to find the vending machines in any building I go to. I will kneel down and swipe my arm underneath and around the machines. This is a jackpot. These are the concentrated areas at which people lose change. I have seen it.

I will also check around my feet when in coffee shops, bakeries, or cafés. Any store at which people stand at a register and dig through their bags and pockets for the extra change they might have to make even with their purchase.

Change adds up. For instance: “Collecting change for 25 years adds up to $7 million for Beaufort County charities.”

Or, “A decade of collected change adds up to $21,000 for feral cats.”

And also, “Man’s spare change collection adds up to more than $20k.”

Theoretically, based on my spare change alone, I could pay off my student debt in just under two decades. Or, if I would rather, I could take myself to Dubai.

I could also visit every man-made water feature I can think of in close proximity, or stop at any decora-

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tive water fountain to pick out the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters. People will stop and wonder what a civilized-looking woman is doing stepping into a decorative water fountain in the middle of a public square.

People will wonder if this is stealing. I will wonder if this is stealing. Mostly, these people will think I am brilliant and will wish that they had thought of this sooner. They will judge me, but will walk away jealous of my audacity and innovation.

If I collect enough change to store in a real savings account I think I will be comfortable – at least.

But I always wish my change would add up quicker. That the tin can would get noticeably heavier each day. That I could empty it every morning to find a promise for the day in each change piece. The tin can never gets as heavy as I hope as soon as I hope.

Every time I pick up the tin can all I can hear are the clankings and jangles of each piece rubbing against each other. They scream at me, letting me know how much space is still left for filling. How much change is not there. How much change still needs accumulating.

Full. Empty. Glass half, glass half. Tin can half not heavy.

31420xx1

Leslie Hutchinson the snow is starting to melt and ive been watching the way ponds form on cement, and thinking about the space between my feet and the gatherings of runoff; ive concluded that the space is too much. yesterday, you left your boots by the back door, balled up your socks and said to the natural world, “im tired of how long we’ve been apart”. i watched you rush into the aforementioned space, overlap that space with your own and i wanted to be part of that space. i imagined tiny ships sailing around your soles and i wondered if your heavy steps would upset sailors. i thought, they must be running for their life vests now, fearing a dip in ice cold waters as their vessels rock back and forth. something about the scene made me feel sadistic, like i enjoyed watching you leap through puddles too much to save the microscopic sea folk. i told myself this wasn’t sadism. i told myself to stop comparing everything i do to sadism.

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the space between your boots and the water (which is none) is also somewhere deep inside my chest because i can feel the way you jump and grin inside of me. your toes touch tough flesh, veins and arteries and i put a palm to my rib cage to keep the beat inside.

DIVERGENCE

Thomas Vandendolder

im grinning back. youre waving. i’m waving back.

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THE FIRST APPOINTMENT Lesley Becker

It’s a sunny, decently warm spring day, but I’m still wearing my black long sleeved shirt under a gray t-shirt. It’s about noon and I am sitting in the passenger seat next to my mom in her minivan. She’s silent, but I can tell she’s trying to keep the air between us light. We pull up to this dinky beige building that I’ve seen every day on my way to school but never gave a second thought. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Something bigger and fancier. More medical feeling, maybe. This place has a rundown parking lot that can’t fit two cars side by side.

My mom parks the car and my heart starts beating, anxiety filling my stomach and rising up into my throat.

“Want me to come in?” my mom asks.

“If you want,” I say. I’m not a decisive person. Even throughout everything, I still don’t want to hurt my mom’s feelings.

I exit the car and walk slightly ahead of my mom, trying to be confident. I can hear the cars driving past on the road we were just on and wish we were going to the movies, or the mall, or anywhere but here, but I put on a strong face.

The inside of the building is just as drab as the outside. Immediately to my right is another door with a shiny plaque on the wall with a two names on it. I sigh and push open the door.

The waiting room is actually decorated and not drab, but is almost welcoming and calming. I pick the two chairs farthest away from the door and sit down, my mom following silently. The room is a weird shape.

It’s almost a hexagon with a long, thin hallway that leads somewhere I can’t see. The walls are a light greenish blue, almost like in a spa, but more faded and not as nice. The walls are bare except for a cork board with flyers for support systems and meeting dates attached with push pins. The board is full with flyers that have dates on them that have already passed; it irritates me that nobody really keeps track of the flyers and takes down outdates ones. There’s also a junky coffeemaker and some tea bags with a water cooler next to them. There’s a mini fridge with a microwave on top of it too, which seems weird to me.

There are entertainment, fashion, and gossip magazines scattered on top of tables. There are also mental health pamphlets. I grab a gossip magazine and flip through the glossy pages filled with seemingly impossibly skinny girls I will never look like.

My mom keeps looking over at me, but I just raise the magazine closer to my face and pretend to be absorbed. I steal a peek over my magazine to look at the small clock on the wall. It says five minutes to one o’clock. I go back to my magazine. My mom finally grabs one and starts flipping through its pages, too. I look back at the clock. Almost no time has passed. I’m starting to get anxious. I turn back to my magazine

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and try to focus on a review of a book that just came out that I want to read.

From down the hall I hear a heavy door swing open, and then heels hitting the floor and pant legs brushing against each other. Around the corner comes a middle aged woman, tall, thin, with brown hair messily pulled up, looking a bit haggard, but impeccably dressed in tweed pants, a blouse, and small heels.

She looks like a business mom.

“Molly?” she asks looking directly at me.

I throw the magazine back down on the table and stand up. So does my mom.

“Mrs. Levin?” the woman asks. My mom nods. “I’m sorry, I’m going to ask you to wait for us here for the first half of our meeting, and one of us will come and get you when we’re ready.”

My mom has a surprised look on her face, but she doesn’t argue. “Oh, that’s fine,” she says as she sits down.

The woman smiles at me and gestures me to follow her, and I do. We walk down the hallway past a few doors until we come to the very last one. She shows me into her office and before I can take in my surroundings I see a flash of white at my feet.

“I hope you like dogs,” the woman says. “This is Prince. He’s a therapy dog.”

Prince jumps up and puts his front paws on my knees. I don’t know why, but I instantly have a lump in my throat that threatens to burst. I clench my teeth to hold myself together. I don’t answer her, but rub Prince behind the ears and even smile a little.

“Take a seat anywhere,” the woman says.

The room isn’t as big as I expected it to be. There are two beige couches - one to my right and one right in front of me. The one in front of me has some pillows, so I choose that one. As I sit down, Prince follows me and jumps onto the couch and rests his head on my lap. I run my fingers over his head and through his curly white coat.

The woman is doing something on her computer, so her back is to me. I quickly scan the room. It’s painted a deep maroon, and there is only one window with the drapes closed, creating a dark room even though the sun is shining. I didn’t expect to, but I actually feel comfortable. There are bookcases full of giant textbooks and other small hardcover and paperback books. There’s a small coffee table inches from my knees with a bowl of candy on it and instantly I want to take some, but I don’t. I also see a box of tissues and a tiny wire wastebasket under the table.

I still feel a little choked up, but I continue to pet Prince, who helps calm my nerves, and I focus on breathing in and out of my nose.

The woman turns around in her swivel chair and uses her legs to pull her chair across the floor so she’s directly facing me on the other side of the coffee table. She has a kind face and I get this feeling from her that isn’t too overly cheerful and happy but also isn’t too clinical, and I think I’ll like her.

“Hi, Molly,” she says. “I’m Doctor Lawrence. I’m glad you decided to come meet with me.”

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I don’t say anything. What are you supposed to say to something like that? Me too?

“Before we start talking, I want to tell you that this meeting will be different than a typical appointment, since it is the first one. I would like to get to know you and see where you’re at,” says Doctor Lawrence.

She looks at me expectantly. I nod. She smiles. “First, I would like you to sign some forms and fill out some others,” she says.

She hands me over some forms that have to do with doctor-patient confidentiality. I sign them silently and hand them back to her. She thanks me and hands me a clipboard with a questionnaire on them. I usually like filling out forms (a seventeen year old girl enjoying filling out forms... who am I?) but this one, not so much. Each question has so many choices: never, moderately, a lot, and all the time.

The first question is easy, though. I do things slowly. Well, not really. I circle moderately. My eyes scan over the second question. My future seems hopeless. I sigh and choose a lot.

I have difficulty making decisions. A lot.

I have lost interest in areas of my life that once were important. Moderately.

The pleasure and joy has gone out of my life. A lot.

Sobs are forming themselves in my stomach.

I feel fatigued. All the time.

The feeling rises through my chest.

I feel sad, blue, and unhappy. All the time.

They’re in my throat.

I have thoughts of suicide. A lot.

Still trying to hold them back, tears force their way out of my eyes. I can’t hold them back. One hand on Prince’s head, I hand the form back to Doctor Lawrence. She hands me a tissue. She looks sad that I’m sad, but I can tell she isn’t pitying me. She makes some quick notes on the form and puts them on her desk.

“You’re hurting a lot, aren’t you?” she asks me quietly. I can do nothing but wipe away my tears, blow my nose, and nod. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

She lets me mop myself up, get myself back together, get my head back on.

“I talked to your mom a little bit on the phone when she set up this appointment.”

I nod.

“Do you still cut yourself?”

I nod.

“Where?”

“On my legs. And sometimes my arms.” It’s the first thing I say to the doctor.

“And what do you use?” she asks gingerly.

“Blades from manual pencil sharpeners.”

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HIT ME

Malena Larsen You are a shoelace being pulled slowly.

Anticipating the loose tongue, loose grasp, foot out, tripping on flat ground.

Without snow or slush or salt Or alcohol and weed.

The sky could be blue or black with stars or clouds With a moon that you can almost touch but it turns out it’s Not close at all.

So you’ll fall and trip into the fog at the bar Sit at the tree stump by the counter and say hit me With knuckles on wood Every time you run dry.

Once your money is gone You can sit on the sidewalk with your friends Or acquaintances, whatever you want to call them.

A cup out in front of your face There is a cling and a clang When a nice person walks by.

Like food stamps or a donation so You can live Or drink or smoke And tie the laces to keep yourself in place.

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SAME DEAD SAM

WAIT HERE

Sarah Jane Keaveny

Tina Monje

young man a certain piece of metal in the lung of smile on the lip of drive across town takes his last breath one hallway from the first. nothing will be the same nothing can be the same nothing is the same same as sam dead. in june, the leaves are still new. in june, the hose water runs cold. the sky, it’s late afternoon, plants a cloud over the park, the moon comes up later. the neighbors watch, then bring hot dish. and I think, push lungs out real big knock whole place down.

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16

MY SO-CALLED SONS Aisha Mohamed

I knew someo of the men who ransacked my home.

They were my neighbors, I called them my sons.

Have they no soul?

I looked into their eyes and all I saw was blood.

When the government collapsed in Somalia, I knew they would come for me; it was just a matter of time.

Nine o’clock there was a knock.

Eight men were outside all of them with glocks.

Adbifitah.

Farah.

Guled.

Hassan.

Aden.

Jamah.

Moxamed.

And Nasir.

I knew some of the men who ransaked my home.

They were my neighbors, I called them my sons.

They took us outside while they deatroyed my home and took everything I own.

When they were done they came back to ask for some more.

They all wanted us dead.

The men began to quarrel.

Then bullets ricocheted.

At that moment my life had changed.

My daughter, and her father, were wounded.

Except me.

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I was bullet free.

God had picked me to fulfill my destiny.

It was up me to be the hero.

And I knew that it was my time to run And save my broken family.

I carried my children and my husband and ran.

And I never looked back.

I knew some of the men who injured my family.

They were my neighbors, I called them my sons.

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INSTRUCTIONS FOR WINTER 2014 Rowan Smith

You are laying in a bathtub1 naked and alone. You are laying on your side, your hand held between your head and the lip of the tub as a fleshy pillow. You drift in and out of wakefulness as the water slowly drains around you2. As it lowers, it also chills. Soon, you are naked, wet, shivering, and alone in the bottom of the dry bathtub. When you rise, you pull your clothes on and exit the bathroom.

Your mother is watching a morning news magazine program. When you see the awful faces of the people who host the show you want to dry heave. Your mother, seeing your face, immediately assumes that you are sick, but she cannot make you go back to bed and stay home, because even if you are her child, you are not a child3. You pull a coat on and grab your backpack, and when your mother asks you about breakfast, you begrudgingly grab a cereal bar4 and eat it on your way out to the car.

You must ride into the city with your mother because you no longer have a car. You also no longer have a job or any money.5 On the drive, you rest your forehead against the passenger window at a slant, the jostle of the car smacking the glass into bone. You are not spiritually awake.6 At school, you sit in the café and listen to music on your laptop.7 You should be speaking with people.

Eventually you should be going to class. Instead you sit at the table alone and continue to compulsively listen to the same music repeatedly.8 You go the whole day without speaking to anyone and then get picked up by your mother and go home.

When you get home you take off your clothes and get into bed. You turn on your box fan and take out your laptop. You spend an hour reading unimportant things on the internet until you drift off to sleep.

You wake up at three o’clock AM. Realizing that you haven’t eaten in almost 24 hours, you shuffle upstairs in your underpants to eat three meals worth of food in one sitting. As you shove hot dogs and waffles 1 The bathtub that is in the house where you grew up.

2 The drain empties very slowly when closed. It has always done this.

3 You are 24 years old, and you have no life prospects besides an unlimited store of potential talent that you refuse to exert.

4 You do not even like cereal bars but you eat them constantly because they do not require preparation.

5 You have never been able to keep a job for longer than a year. You suspect it is because of your crippling mental illness.

6 You do not remember the last time that you were spiritually awake.

7 Album: “2”, Artist: Mac DeMarco. Captured Tracks, 2012.

8 You suspect this is because of your crippling mental illness.

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and frozen burritos9 down your throat you feel the broken feeling of someone who profoundly hates themselves.10 You do not stop eating when you are full. You stop eating when you are sick. You retreat to the bed and lay in it moaning and holding your stomach, feeling the weight of the binge shift and stretch your insides. Suddenly, you realize that you are going to have diarrhea11, and you quickly spring up and rush to the bathroom to relieve yourself.

Now fully awake, you look at your typewriter with disgust. Everything in your living space is covered in garbage and rotten food. The whole place smells like shit and you hate both it and yourself for letting it be like this. Before returning to bed, you turn on your HEPA filter.12 You lay in bed and you think about your girlfriend.13 You then think about money.14 You think about how the dog you had to get rid of when you were seven because of allergies is probably dead now.15 You think about spaghettification.16 You think about all of the homework you haven’t done. The academic alerts sitting in your inbox. You think about failing a class.17 You think about marriage.18 Frustrated, you rise and head upstairs. Your mother is awake. It is almost six AM. You go into the bathroom and draw yourself a bath. You test the water and find its optimal temperature before sitting down in the tub and allowing the water to rise around you. Once it has reached its zenith, you cut the spigot and lay down.19 9 All of which require almost no preparation 10 This is an empty feeling, the kind of feeling where one would cry but it feels as though there are no tears left inside the body.

11 Your bowel movements have because almost nothing but sudden bouts of diarrhea. You suspect this is because of your terrible eating habits. You suspect your eating habits are a symptom of your crippling mental illness.

12 The HEPA is, ostensibly, for your allergies. However, it helps mask the smell of the disgusting living area, thus allowing you to wait for a significantly longer period of time before it reaches the level of horrific that inspires you to actually clean.

13 She has moved away from the state a number of months ago. You have never felt as alone as you do in this period spent in her wake.

14 You have five hundred dollars-worth of credit card debt that you are now being hounded about by collectors. You have no income to hope to pay it and are too embarrassed to ask your parents for help. Besides, your father has recently been forced into retirement and because of this your parents how found themselves in financial dire straits and are most likely not in a position to loan you money anyhow.

15 Her name was Belle and she was a half-Dalmatian, half-Whippet. Small, spotted, and fast.

16 The elongation of an object passing into a black hole that stretches it until it has broken down into a chain of atoms.

17 You are supposed to graduate in six months and if you fail a class you will not graduate on time.

18 You are getting married to your girlfriend in the beginning of the upcoming summer.

19 Please return to the top of the text.

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JOURNEY TO THE ROOM

DON’T THINK BLACK HOLES

I am crawling in the dim with my eyes in my hands over the grains of my blinking toward the glow through the vessels like maple leaf veins

All the time I hear people talk about black holes. Think about it, they say. They, being the kind of people who constantly urge me to contemplate the universe. Our galaxy contains a black hole, they say wide-eyed. Into which our solar system, including Earth, will eventually collapse. The contemplation will be followed by have you ever heard of quantum mechanics and string theory?

I always nod, yeah, yeah, yes I have, thinking, of course I have, hasn’t everyone? What I never say is that I do not want to think about black holes and string theory and how scientists are beginning to prove God. I do not want to imagine everything as multitudes of flimsy strings of energy pulling and loosening on each other. How we are all connected.

Lia Jacobson

Tina Monje

When I departed from the branches that gouged me, my eyes fell out and I searched for them until I felt glossy circles and not molars and I crawled with my eyes in my hands On the journey to the room with the eyelid wallpaper and no place to sit wearing a necklace of my teeth I reach for you with the cobs of worn knuckles I remember my nails and my fingers I remember before the crawling your hands are on my eyes I remember the branches I will leave you the layer of dust on my belongings I am crawling with my eyes in my hands and my ear pressed to the silence of the walls of the room with sand and hair and nails on the floor and migraine lights from the pressure of your palms

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Connectedness.

But what is a black hole? NASA says, “Don’t let the name fool you: a black hole is anything but empty space.”

Rather, it is a great amount of matter packed into a very small area - think of a star ten times more massive than the Sun squeezed into a sphere approximately the diameter of New York City. The result is a gravitational field so strong that nothing, not even light, can escape.

I totally get it. I am imagining New York twenty million times denser than it already is. Even though I have never been to New York I imagine this and it makes perfect sense.

But I do not get it. I do not understand what a black hole is, I do not understand string theory, and I do not understand how human beings have reached the capacity to build instruments so meticulous and expensive in order to gather information to build new theories that, if the quantum physicists are correct, will soon be sucked into a black hole or implode with the universe.

It is all futile. Useless. Like when we call a few trees and shrubbery nature. As if nature were a thing so minute, a sudden feature of our lives, a thing for entertainment, something to hold in our hands and name so that we can comprehend its separateness.

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NASA says that “the term was not coined until 1967 by Princeton physicist John Wheeler,” as if the term should have been coined earlier. As if entering into outer space and knowing this could have, or somehow should have, been done earlier. “The idea of an object in space so massive and dense that light could not escape it has been around for centuries.” It is an idea that humans have been developing for a long time only to come to the conclusion that the idea of those objects – the objects that refuse to let light escape – should be called

b l a c k

h o l e s.

The idea, but not a fact?

If it has been an idea, does that reduce, or enhance, its factness?

Of an object. An object.

How can they call something so powerful and illusive an o b j e c t?

They must know how crazy it sounds.

They must know how empty the term black hole sounds. how empty they sound.

Hole. Holes.

Holy.

God. god.

figure it out.

Just think of all the things we don’t know yet, like it’s our job to understand our fate so that we can pretend to control.

As if the knowing will allow us to understand.

As if to understand will allow us to see.

Just think of how small we are, under the transfixed notion that we, human beings, Earthlings, are everything there ever was. We are just small objects on the planet that only we call Earth. We are objects and ideas, just like a massive black hole is an object and idea.

“How confused are you willing to be?”

Physicist Stu Anderson asks.

“Zero willingness to be confused.” I tell him.

“My willingness for confusion is one of your goddamned black holes.”

Is willing the same as wanting?

Wanting, equal to <or less than> willing?

I do not want to know about these things, and I do not know how many times I have to say that until I believe myself.

I do not want to know what will happen next.

I do not want to know because thinking about it scares me.

I do not want to talk about it because the only things that come to mind are all the ways I have fallen into the same black holes described by all of the scientists and fanatics.

They were right.

gone.

I do not want to think about black holes. I wish people would stop talking about them. I do not want to think about impending goneness as an existential toy to play with.

That is narcissistic. Self-righteous.

Wow, think of all the things science hasn’t figured out yet, like it’s our job here to

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I could not get out.

I am not even sure if I am out right now.

Because, as quantum physicists say,

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w e

c a n

b e i n t w o p l a c e s a t o n c e .

I am here right now in one of the very black holes we are told to believe are fact, and it is nothing like a super-dense New York.

I have never been to New York but I think I would know.

It is blindingly bright. Windy. Dust everywhere. So many things in here.

No knowing what is what: information, cinder blocks, traffic jams.

Chatter. Constant typing at a keyboard.

They – the scientists, I guess – say that time does not exist here in black holes.

Or that it stops.

Stu says that when he watched me fall into this black hole, we were on different time tables. Our clocks worked differently.

No… do not think of our terrestrial time zones. Think Twilight Zone.

He saw me slow down. As I waved goodbye I became slower, slower, slower, slower until I stopped moving.

I froze.

Stu say this happened by the combustion of a star.

That is when I disappeared.

The star exploded and collapsed because it was old.

Because it was time.

And as I watched him over there, somewhere over there in space

Because it did.

Because “it can be proven theoretically that no force can keep the star from collapsing under the influence of gravity.”

–

space

–

he began to move quicker and quicker and quicker until we were both gone.

He over there

u n d e r

t h e

i n f l u e n c e

o f

g r a v i t y

and I over here perpetually collapsing along an “imaginary surface” called the

Like gravity is a drug under which anyone

e v e n t

h o r i z o n .

- black holes, objects can be influenced. Fucked up. High.

So high the object will overdose and collapse. Die.

They – the scientists! – call this horizon imaginary because it is the calculated space at which there is no going back. The point of no return. no return.

But what about that light…?

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In the Milky Way alone “scientists estimate that there are as many as ten million to a billion” black holes.

Are they confused?

How do they know? Does estimating point toward knowing?

Tell me.

Did they count?

Did they see no less than ten million, no more than one billion?

Did they count as many as they could on their fingers?

Did they count the one we are already living in?

Did they count me?

How do they know that I am not a black hole? never knowing when I will collapse when the collapsing will stop what collapsing is, what it is not Surrounded by other black holes like you? never knowing when you will collapse – if you have not already – where you are because the plane on which you collapse is imaginary – never too close never close enough – when your mass will swallow me – if you have not already – what the word when means if time is stopped

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FILL THE HOLES IN MY HEAD Malena Larsen

My eyes are so dead.

They are scooped out with A melon baller or an ice cream spoon.

There is just enough room to fill the sockets with little grains of sand.

A teaspoon.

Did I scratch them out when I was dreaming last night?

Or have they always been this way?

People say I haven’t noticed because I’m addicted to the things that make me shake.

Like Coffee and Sex And music and the cold.

I’m shaken like a maraca filled with tiny Little grains of sand.

Maybe instead of sand I’ll plant flowers In my eye holes so people Will look at me and say.

You’re pretty.

And You smell nice.

And instead of them being a waste My tears will help me grow.

Or maybe I won’t plant flowers I can plant cactuses And I’ll hurt everyone else And they won’t fuck with me Because I’m sharp.

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UNTITLED

SPIDER CHURCH

Meg Elliot

Jens Pinther

A spider is almost always alone at best a spider mother holds seven hundred baby spiders and when they hatch at once they leave.

Imagine a spider nursing another spider.

It canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be done.

Spider breasts.

A spider dwells alone unless mating, after which she kills him.

Hiding in a mailbox in a rural area the hourglass on her back continuous.

Do they die in the winter?

Spiders donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have muscles they move by pressing fluid into their limbs a choir of legs.

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ROVER #2

UNTITLED

Sean Evenson

Thomas Vandendolder

The dog is sick again.

He coughed up some phlegm on your nightgown. I wiped it off before you woke up.

I followed him, the dog, when he fell off the bed and hobbled downstairs to get a drink of water. Just before the water dish he stopped at the sliding glass door. He was looking at himself.

I think that was the first time he saw his reflection.

He sighed so heavily I thought he was going to collapse right there and die.

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A TIME FOR BLOOD

WHEN MY BROTHER LIKED PUFFCORN AND ANIMALS

Steven M. Schwartz From their prison pen ewe mothers bray.

Pre­dawn fog sticks to their lips like sad captions as their lambs scream, afraid.

We take them away.

Flip them.

Four cloven hooves reach in prayer towards the Big Sky. Rugged farm­born men swallowed in the belly of the mountains.

The blade comes out— too quick and thin for light to catch.

A slit, scrotum peel, a bare­tooth bite.

Spit pink sinew and young blood.

Spit lamb gonads into dust.

Boots mix gory mud.

For a moment, the lamb ceases

Malena Larsen his castrated struggle.

Blood runs off a cliff of stubbled chin.

This grisly violation is easier and more humane than a rubber band, they say, while they chase me, dangling lamb testicles between thumb and index finger like soft, warm bells.

Your brother got arrested last night.

Drunk driving.

Frank got out.

But Nik had a bowl and a needle. Nobody has heard from him. He was doing heroin.

Nobody has heard from him, since last night? Since June? I haven’t heard from him since he was twelve.

Since those times when we would read books and minds and we looked alike. Blue eyes, like an ocean and long brown hair to our shoulders.

Are you guys twins?

Yes, we would lie.

Since those times when we were detectives and musicians and best friends and enemies and boys and girls and played dress up.

The couch was a boat and a broomstick took us away. A bowl of puff corn on my lap was our only meal as we floated out to sea.

When we were veterinarians to dogs and dragons and we would give them shots with a needle made out of a toothpick.

When we used to smell the same, like mom and dad and Gizmo and the meal being made that day.

Before I could smell you from across the room, before you smelled like cigarettes and weed.

A ribbon of incense always curling around your room to cover up your latest addiction.

Two broken windows, holes in the walls, carpet covered in glass, tobacco and vomit. My pearls from grandma hidden in your dresser, waiting to be sold or found.

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Did I ever tell you that I wanted to wear those on my wedding day? A white, low cut dress to show off the pearls. Maybe matching earrings that wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have been sentimental because they werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t from our grandma. If you knew that would you still have taken them? Did you know that and decide to take them anyway?

A SPECIAL JOURNEY Deborah Endres-Goggins

Before the time you asked to buy my pee to pass a drug test.

Before I started to hate you.

During the time when we smelled the same.

During the time when a bowl was for puff corn and a needle was for the animals.

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WHAT CHEER, IA

STILL ALIVE IN THE BRIDGES APARTMENTS, 10 th AVE & UNIVERSITY

Rowan Smith

There was a moment, talking in the funeral parlor, when the mortician, unseen by anyone but me, lifted my grandfather’s dead arm into the air and removed the mandolin from his weak grip before closing the coffin.

There, in the bleached-light parking lot, downhill from my sleeping mother, recently orphaned, I sat down on a broken children’s carousel, gum jammed in the coin slot and left myself.

I wondered, distracted from my conversation, who would claim the shiny red instrument, now stained by oilless death-fingers.

Not me.

Lia Jacobson

I’m not going to see the cauchemars of Bohemian Flats, to tether the river to my waist, to survey the banks of commercial leftovers, the jaw brick and ulnar metal but I go anyway, knowing I’ll do it all.

I pass the hooked couples, Sad loners, I am them when our eyes meet, they, what I escaped when I put my shoes on

Back in Oskaloosa, Gus and I walked two miles to the Hy-Vee and bought Four Loko and a sixer of Fat Tire. We drank against an abandoned brick warehouse, throwing empties into the overgrown parking lot, glass breaking breaking breaking.

blaming themselves and leaving; Place of the Hole of Something.

Gales wind my hair around my head into windwhipped turrets I continue breathing through them like a mask sifting out the scent of the waves that coddled the body they found in the river this was the bridge I am older than you were

And past the rinky-dink levels of contemporary student living the newest, U-est decay, windows framing the scowls of masturbating boys with their shades open I cross the river you drowned in when you were twenty something, depressed worse than I am.

I see your student apartment among student apartments, where my parents visited you

I tried to remember what girls smell like.

I wanted to throw up blood into an anthill and drown the bugs in bile.

I wanted showers, sleek skin sliding smoothly against mine beneath the stream.

Instead, I dragged myself back to the Walmart where the tweekers rode their bikes to buy baking powder to cut their drugs and belts to hang themselves from rafters.

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16

TRUMAN

BLUE GLOW

Tina Monje

Kesang Olsen

The screen’s always there A world That doesn’t require the real Utility’s won

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16

THE MOUNTAINS OF GUIZHOU

and we’ve made those breakthroughs But we want what was

Elizabeth J. Warpinski

In Guizhou, the mountains strangle, So the people try to cut them down Only to suffocate the cities with dust.

The trees there are short, And would be green if they were cleaned, But instead look like long forgotten props Stashed away in a warehouse as big as Wyoming.

I lived there for a time, In the shadows between the mountains And apartment buildings that rose To blot out the morning sun, Where water and success had to be bought, And everyone wanted to be my friend, But no one loved me.

Where people would talk And pixels weren’t life, Free from the fake Please hold our hand On this perpetual time spinning top The human condition moving to sand to darkness We’ve come so far Maybe we can pretend Like it’s all that we’ve ever wanted

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16

GHOST TREE

EVEN IN WINTER

Nina Mar tine Robinson

Shawn Torrance

What would it be today? he thought as he waited at the end of his driveway on another brisk September morning. Miracle Ear? Phonic head? Maybe Radar ears. Nope. Not today. Today was a special day.

Today it would be “Stupid pussy boy,” followed by a bruising punch to the shoulder. The punch was at least preferred over the “face getting shoved into the window” that usually took place; the window was always cold in the morning.

For five years he rode that bus, and for five years he heard the same uncreative, yet somehow cruel names from the same clique of what everyone else thought were the cool kids. The punching and poking didn’t even faze him anymore; he had just grown numb to it. He had learned over the years that if you just ignored the hitting and acted tough, like it didn’t hurt, they would usually stop. The names were always the things that still stung though.

Marty knew better, he knew that they were just insecure. That’s what his mom told him at least. His dad told him that they were all jerks, which Marty thought was probably closer to the truth.

The next stop would provide for at least a little relief. Henry would board the bus there. Marty had some new comic books and some drawings to share with his best friend.

Even though he never said it, Marty was grateful for Henry, who usually sat next to or near him on the bus. Henry’s mere presence sometimes kept the mean kids away. Henry never stood up for him, but he never picked on him either. Henry had to fend off his own team of teasers. Marty knew that Henry got teased about hanging out with the deaf kid. Marty always felt guilty about that.

The end of the last school year Marty heard the news that they were building a new school. This new building was going to be a couple miles closer to his house. The best part about it was this new building was going to be right next to the bike trail that went right behind Marty’s house. Marty was ecstatic to be able to stop riding that dreadful bus with all the insecure jerks. His parents had even gotten him a new dirt bike for his birthday over the summer. Marty and Henry had already conspired to bike together to school.

The news in the late summer that construction was way behind and the school was not going to be ready until “an undetermined date” was heart­breaking. Marty had to continue to ride in the big yellow teasing chamber for who knows how long. His parents encouraged him that soon enough it would be open and he could start riding his bike to school. He begged his mom to drive him to school until the new building opened. Once in a while she would give into his pleas and he would ride to school in peace.

“When are we going to move to the new school Mr. Ornberg?” Marty asked his plaid bell-bottomed teacher almost every day.

Of course the answer was always the same, “They haven’t told us anything yet, son.” Marty hated that

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his teacher called him “son.” It wasn’t something unkind at least, but it made him feel small.

This was the longest September of Marty’s life. Riding the bus was unbearable. Marty was one of those kids that actually enjoyed school and he was starting to change his mind about it.

On the last rainy Friday in September the news finally came.

“We’re moving to Gleason Lake Elementary next week!” the principal announced over the loudspeaker.

Marty was filled with joy and eager anticipation. This would be his last week on that rolling prison.

The school district put on a big show for the community. When the big day arrived, the students all got paper bags with a drawing of the new school on it and the words “We’re moving to Gleason Lake!” printed in big balloon letters. The students packed up the contents of their antique wooden flip­top desks, put on their jackets and backpacks, and lined up by classroom out in front of the old adobe building in the cool, foggy, October air. Marty’s class was one of the first to line up, followed by the rest of the sixth graders. Shortly after, the lower grades started filing in. The Kindergarteners were even lining up, each one with a parent to hold their hand and carry their bag for the journey.

After one last group photo of the students and staff in front of the building that would soon be torn down and replaced by multiple condominiums, the expedition began. Marty was so excited to be at last moving to the new school he wanted to run the whole way there. The rest of the school would just have to catch up to him. His overloaded backpack and heavy paper bag could have weighed twice as much and he would not have noticed. The entire school would make the one mile walk, down Broadway Avenue, across the highway bridge, and then down the very bike path Marty would soon be pedaling every day.

Once they hit the soggy, gravel bike trail, his spirits lifted even higher than before. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much better his life was going to be. They came out of the echoing, corrugated steel tunnel under the highway, turned up the still warm asphalt path to the shining, newly constructed building, surrounded by checkered strips of freshly laid sod. They walked into the school and went on a grand tour of it, from the new fancy carpeted gym, to the lofted reading area in the library, to the real music rooms with acoustic panels, to the skylight in the front entryway that went through the second floor down to the first.

Marty wasn’t really paying much attention to anything except where the bike rack was set up.

After the tour they would spend the rest of their day in their new classrooms, with their new desks, new white boards, sinks and drinking fountains in the classrooms, new televisions mounted to the wall, and new carpeting. All these things Marty would notice at a later date. Today he only had one thing on his mind.

At the end of the day, they were all to get on their buses, with new numbers and new drivers, for the ride home. The final bell would ring; it was no longer a real metal bell, but a strange digital pinging bell.

(Marty and Henry later joked about it sounding like the Starship Enterprise.) Marty went to his new cubby hole, put on his jacket and back pack, and walked towards the front door, all the way being guided by parent volunteers and teachers. Marty knew exactly what bus number he was supposed to ride, number twenty­eight. He walked up to the bus and saw a familiar face, Marty managed to have the same bus driver

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instead of a new one.

He stepped up into the doorway of the bus and said to the bus driver, “I’m going to walk home today and then bike to and from school for the rest of the year.”

“Even in winter? On the snow?” the bus driver asked.

“Yes, sir, even in winter,” Marty gleefully responded. “It’s better than getting picked on every day.”

The bus driver paused. “I suppose you might be right about that, sir.”

Marty liked being called sir, it made him feel respected. He smiled at the bus driver and, for the last time that school year, stepped down out of the giant yellow machine.

Marty never told his mom or his sisters that he was walking home. His mother probably wouldhave been worried about him when he didn’t get off the bus that day. But he was so excited to walk home in peace that he practically ran there and beat the bus to his house.

Marty rode his bike to school nearly every day that school year. Most days his friend Henry rode with him. They rode in the snow, in the rain, and didn’t mind at all.

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VANG FAMILY

MAKING BREAD

Emily Bauermeister

Mar y Cornelius

I will teach you to make bread the way my grandmother taught me.

You will need flour, water, yeast, salt; a stone bowl; a wooden spoon; a yellow kitchen with a halfway open window.

You will need the type of quiet that only comes at sunrise, laced with the song of someone humming to the sound of birds. You will need a breeze to carry the melody. You will need your own two hands, to stir.

When you are ready, take your flour.

Take your water and salt and yeast.

Mix them in the bowl, and when just combined, let them rest. Resist the urge to knead. This is the kind you wait for, not work for, my grandmother says.

This will take longer than you want.

It’s natural, when you start, to want bread right away, but dough needs time to sit unwatched—to grow. When it’s ready, it will rise. In the oven, in the heavy pan your great­great­grandmother gave your grandmother as a wedding present, it will change. But while it bakes, make tea.

Read the prayer cross­stitched next to the window sill. Give us today our flour, water, yeast, salt. Give us the patience to bake our daily bread. If you can, mouth the words.

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GRAVEN IMAGES Thomas Vandendolder

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