Prism Art & Literary Magazine Spring 2015 by Prism Journal

osuâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s art & literary Magazine/

Spring 2015

ceci n â&#x20AC;&#x2122;est pas un sandwich

The Bigger Picture Two years as editor and six magazines later, if there is anything Prism has taught me, it is that the details reveal themselves to you along the way. No edition of Prism summarizes this better than the one you hold in your hands. It is the culmination of much learning, both on my part and those of our writers and artists, capturing the culture of youth and the growth that inevitably follows. This is a story told by experience, and also by the objects that inďŹ&#x201A;uence the choices we make. As we navigate our lives, we come into contact with the materials, tools, and icons that feed our curiosity and impact us as we impact them. Theorist Bruno Latour explains that meaning is created through interactions not only between living beings, but things as well. Objects bring value to our lives and can herald the transitions in our worldviews. An old stuffed animal, a paddle or cigar, a bad report card can be an item that alters reality. A backpack and its contents, or simply the stuff shoved in a junk drawer can be amalgamated into a portrait of a person. First, though, we must be willing to see the details. The rest will come. The Prism staff and I have become perceptive in this way, allowing the magazine to guide us in piecing it together. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m grateful to be passing this publication over to the observant Darryl Oliver, who will continue its traditions and create new ones of his own, as I move on to the next compilationâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;but for now, I invite you one last time to consider these works we present and enjoy them, as we have, down to their smallest details.

Thank you always for reading,

Megan Haverman Editor-in-Chief

go Alysa Phan Lino Black Print

Prism Magazine / Spring 2015 / Volume 51:3 Editor in Chief Megan Haverman

Digital Editor Devin Curtis

Graphic Designer Beau Leslie

Poetry Editors Sara Crawford Nicholas Browning

Literature Editors Mitch Buechler Darryl Oliver Additional thanks to all those who attended literature and art boards; this publication would not be the same without your involvement in the decision making process! Prism is published three times annually under the authority of Oregon State University and the Student Media Committee policies for student, faculty, and staff of the Associated Students of Oregon State University. Prism accepts submissions of literary or artistic nature year round from enrolled students.

sandwich / soft serve Jynwaye Foo: Cover Images Watercolor Prism Magazine 480 Student Experience Center Oregon State University Corvallis, OR 97331 541-737-2253 prism@oregonstate.edu Printed by Lynx Salem, Oregon

contents 01

04 05 06 07 08 09 14 16 17 18 19 20 22 23 24 26 27 28 30 31 32 40 42 43 44 45 46 48

The Guy Up Front Self-Portrait Sweet Cherry November 1998 Oregon Swallowtail Kiss The Paddle #ootd: A Series Tinder Clodfelter’s & The Color of Sound Untitled Passing Storm Dreamcatcher Dusk Collection of Poses Little Things Someday, A Life Wave Break Poison That Spreads in the Dark JDM Liked the Colors Castaway / Little Galaxy Green-Eyed Girl Slice / Stab / Crack / Rip Cigar Junk Drawer Curves Our Secret Wishes Are Restless Contributors’ Notes Yosemite

Alysa Phan Buddy Terry Kaitlyn Carr Eric Callahan Skye J. Lyon Karl Payne Nicholas Browning Jynwaye Foo Mitch Buechler Skye J. Lyon Jerome Stretch Luke Campbell Ashley Coleman Chris Correll Tanner Henderson Sarah Cummings Gwendolyn Hill Shanna Roast Anonymous Ethan Stewardson-Blackwell Whitney Lauren Han Brittany Kay Sundberg Cameron Murrin Lambert Luke Campbell Kara Beu Tanner Henderson Ethan Heusser Aaron Davis

The Guy up front Buddy Terry Poetry Everybody knows him, nobody speaks to him. Front and center, he sits. Instructor makes a point, states a fact. Addressing the class, he nods. There are others in the room. She isn’t speaking to him. That sly, black smirk embedded in his face. Like he’s in with the professor, he isn’t. A dry joke rooted in course material. It wasn’t funny, he laughs.

Self - portrait Kaitlyn Carr Etching 5

sweet cherry Eric Callahan Poetry In the summer cherries burst and ooze their juices. Flavors run like streams from the mountain, rushing over dimpled cheeks into the valley of the neck, the cool sap is a sweet kiss on pink skin, which retreats at the touch, and sizzles in the heat. Long summer days. Ecstatic summer nights, when the sun hangs on, slowing as it reaches the edge. Sitting on a waveless ocean, it waits for shutters to click, dancing with the coupleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cloyed kiss, gifting extra moments to those who desire the summer.

By the end of summer the pavement is cracked, blistered by the sun. The dirt begs for rain, and sweat has soiled every shirt. The summer cherries that still cling to their knobbled branches wilt, wondering why, the sun doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t taste sweet anymore.

november 1998 Skye J. Lyon Poetry In Glendale, California resting uneasy in my grandparents’ living room. Dull and dim, dust and cookies. I was shivering, wearing Pokémon pajamas: pink shimmering glitter falling about. Pencil curled baby locks of hair bounced with every sob I cried. It was 11:30 on a Thursday night. November 1998. A blanket of black shrouded the sky. Daddy was supposed to bring him by now – Where was he? Did he forget about me? I thought I had him – my stuffed Pegasus – I always seem to forget about him, I never mean to – it just happens. Grandma tried handing me another one of his kind – but it was not him. No one could ever be him. He was old, ragged, beat up. His baby blue wings tattered by the many visits in the washer. That is why I loved him….he was not new, hardened by plastic, Lifeless, and barren. Pegasus was my tiny, little world. Sternly, grandpa told me to go to bed. I shyly shook my head…looking down at dated shag carpet. The green Isuzu casted its headlights through the blinds. Daddy! Daddy! I ran out in a roar.

Where is he? My voice tried to muster a valid question. Don’t worry Skye Pie, he is in the car. Running away from my father’s side, I leapt into the back seat. There he was…my small everything laid there lifeless on the cushion. I looked at him. Studied him really. Why do I need you? The whisper - a screech in my head, Like nails against metal, A scathing itch that could never be scratched! I’m too old to sleep with you. You’re a toy and I am six years old.

Oregon swallowtail Karl Payne Laser-cut Leather & Hardware 8

kiss the paddle Nicholas Browning Short Story (Excerpted)

Five more minutes until her dad expected her in the study. Five more minutes until she had to face that smooth, shiny piece of wood with its tan, remorseless hide, until she had to confront that emotionless surface, that unfloundering merciless smile. Five more minutes until her father renewed the splotchy red and black and purple and orange bruises splayed across her ass and upper thighs like geography on a map. Dana stared at the door, the divider between solace and that bastard, that weak, evil piece of shit. Beyond the barrier lay a long stretch of hallway, leading inevitably to the portal where her life was being destroyed. 4:58. Rising from her desk, she winced as her raw, puckered skin stretched tight. It would be worse if he had to come get her. He liked it when she “took her medicine” voluntarily. Dana exited the wiki page describing the dosages and effects of Anectine and quickly cleared the browser history. The adrenaline didn’t come anymore. Now it was more of a resigned, dull high. Like she had drunk too much caffeine, gibbering with energy just beneath the surface, but always on the verge of collapse. Just one more time, she told herself, easing open her door as if she were in a horror movie and about to stumble into the axe murderer. She’d face her enemy headon though. Dana was no coward. She entered her father’s study, trying to hold

her head high. He reclined behind his old oak desk, one scrawny leg kicked over the other, a faint smile on his lips as if he’d just heard a half amusing joke. Scraggly brown witch hair hung long on his head, parted greasy to the right, failing to hide a shiny balding crown. Squinty, pouchy eyes snuck from beneath his weak brow, glinting with cruel piggish light. A mostly full crystalline glass of putrid brown scotch rested by his left hand. By his right waited her dreaded enemy, a frequent visitor to her nightmares. The paddle. “How’s your day going, Sweety?” her dad asked with what sounded like genuine affection. “Fine, Father.” It was pointless to ask if they could skip the exercise today. They’d been down that road before, countless times. “It’s for your own good,” he’d say. “It builds respect.” “It teaches you virtue.” “I do it because I love you.” It didn’t matter if she begged, pleaded, cried until her eyes were swollen, until snot trickled into her mouth. Didn’t matter if she got angry, called him every name she could think of, threatened to call the police. Nothing phased him. Arguing made him mad, made the biting crack of the paddle resound louder and sharper. The best way was to get it over with, be the humble chaste girl he wanted. Behind him shelves lined the wall, filled with books Dana was certain he’d never read. An old square window with peeling white paint and black chunks of mold in the crevasses sat in the right side of the room, covered

with a cheap, wine-colored drape. The only light in the room came from a tiny green-hooded lamp residing on the corner of the desk, filling the space with a gloomy glow. Shadows dwelled in the corners, where Dana imagined faces hiding in their depths, spectators to her shame. The tan shaggy carpet tickled her toes, its hairs standing stiff from a sorely needed cleaning. An orangish-brown puke stain shaped like a giant mole blemished the carpet near her father’s feet, with no one around who cared enough to remove it. “Anything exciting happening for you this week?” He took a quiet sip from his glass, the ochre liquor glistening oily on his lips. She tried to keep her gaze on him, but couldn’t stop her eyes from darting constantly to the thing lying beside him. It was about three feet long, resembled a cricket bat, or a small rowboat paddle. He had fashioned it himself, the only time a finished project had come out of the drab workshop in the garage, Dana was certain. Black leather wound around its grip just like a baseball bat, faded and worn from long use and sweat stained fingerprints. “Nothing new, Father.” She tried to keep her voice respectful, hated herself for the slight tremble she couldn’t control. This part was tough; one side of her just wanted to get it over with. The other wanted to prolong as long as possible, on the fantasy chance that perhaps they could skip the routine, just for today. He sighed as if disappointed and rose from his chair, stroking his chin where patchy thin blonde hairs squeezed through flesh. Forty-two and still couldn’t grow a proper beard. His hand inched towards the paddle’s sticky grip, as if the two of them were actors from an old Western movie — which cowboy would draw first?

Dana shoved her hands into her pockets so he wouldn’t see the shaking, and shuffled towards the desk, eyes locked to the floor. It was worse when she could see his sickly smile, when she saw the blood rise to his cheeks, flushing his face. She placed her hands palm down on the table, and arched her back. “More,” he grated in a guttural whisper, the smell of cheap liquor swirling the air like incense as he moved to stand behind her. She stuck her ass out, imagined him nodding, appraising. Seconds stretched to forever and Dana waited, breath held, anticipating. The first enthusiastic crack sound hit her before the pain did. “One, Father,” Dana grunted. More forceful than usual today. Must not have sold any subscriptions. The second shwack echoed against the study walls. Dana bit her lip, stifling a yelp. “Two, Father.” He grunted with the third blow and an involuntary scream punched through Dana’s lips. She hated screaming. He always breathed harder when she did. They stopped at six swings today. It was never the same number. He liked to keep Dana guessing. “Good girl,” he whispered, breathless, wiping his perspiring forehead with a stained shirtsleeve. Dana slowly unclenched her curled white fingers from the desk edge, half expecting to see indentations left in its surface. She kept her teeth squeezed together so tight she feared they might crack, but she’d rather that than let him hear the whimpers clamoring to escape from behind her grimace. The ache was terrible today, the bruises bone-deep. Her legs wobbled, felt like mush. Even her back throbbed. And the worst part was yet to come.

“Kneel,” her father commanded, and moved to stand in front of her. No, please, Dana almost involuntarily uttered. Instead she eased to her knees, trembling now, until her face was level with his waist. Almost reverently, he held out the slab of wood. “Kiss the paddle.” The order made Dana wince, and filled her mouth with bile. The paddle wavered before her eyes, grim, taunting, gloating in its victory. Dana brushed her lips against its putrid surface, cracked lips recoiling from the clammy nightmare wood, but she made sure to accentuate the muah sound so she wouldn’t have to repeat the humiliation. “Good,” he almost moaned, eyes seeming to roll back in his head. “Go finish your schoolwork,” he said, resuming his throne behind the desk. “Yes Father,” Dana managed between her teeth, grateful the chore was finished. She shuffled towards the door, a sort of dragging zombie walk, like you see from cancer patients sick for far too long; a trudge adopted to create the least amount of strain on an exhausted body. “Dana.” The word stopped her short just before she could escape. Her heart hammered in her ears as panic fought to seize her. Does he know? How could he? “I love you.” Fuck you. “I love you too.”

* * * A few minutes later, Dana lay face down on her bed, sobbing soundlessly into her hands. She hated herself for crying, but wasn’t strong enough today to fend off the tears. The situation was just so fucked up. It wasn’t fair. No one deserved such horrible treatment.

Light footsteps approached from the hallway and Dana sniffed hard, snorting the snot away, and hurried to wipe the tears from her cheeks. A soft knock on the door announced Kira’s presence just before the door opened, revealing a bright smiling face at odds with the horror in their father’s study. “When’s it gonna be my turn to help Daddy in his work room?” Kira asked. She took a few quick steps, and launched herself onto the bed to plop beside Dana. “You seem really tired.” Dana lay with her face in the pillow, didn’t want her sister to see her swollen eyes. She couldn’t answer right away, afraid of an influx of tears following such an innocent question.

“the thought of Kira facing her drunken father and the paddle filling her with an impotent rage” “Not ‘til you’re ten, remember? Three more years.” The lie made Dana cringe, the thought of Kira facing her drunken father and the paddle filling her with an impotent rage. It had been two years since the beatings started, when Dana was only fourteen. The first time he’d commanded Dana into his study had been a couple months after the death of her mother. That initial night was a strange thing. Her dad seemed more sad than anything, and after the first strike, with a spatula — no hand-crafted paddle yet — his eyes had grown wide and he’d seemed appalled with himself, and he’d ordered Dana out of the study. A couple weeks later, though, the exercise had repeated.

This time things seemed a little easier for him. After that, it had become a daily occurrence. And each day, her father’s enjoyment from the atrocity increased. “I’ll call the police,” Dana had said. “If you do that, I’ll hurt Kira. If you ever tell anyone, I’ll make Kira suffer.” It was the way he said it, calm, cold, as if he was talking about making spaghetti for dinner, that had shoved a cold needle in Dana’s spine. The man was no longer her father. “Want to play with me and Poppins?” Kira asked, returning Dana’s thoughts to the present. Kira danced her stuffed penguin across Dana’s back, making goofy quack quack noises. Dana was almost too stiff to move. “Not tonight Kiki. I’m too tired. We can play tomorrow though. Everything will be different tomorrow.”

* * * 4:33 PM. Dana sat at her desk, shaking uncontrollably, right hand stuck in her mouth where she nibbled at her fingernails like a rabbit with a carrot. A crash from down the hallway about made her heart explode, even though she’d been half expecting it. Dana jumped to her feet, grabbed a dirty camping hatchet from her closet, and then reached inside her pillowcase to retrieve a tiny glass vial from a hole she’d burrowed into her pillow. With supplies in hand, she eased open her bedroom door. A couple doors down, Kira poked her head out of her door too. “What was that?” she asked, looking towards their father’s study, eyebrows furrowed. Dana held the hatchet behind her back. “Go in your room Kira. Shut the door, and don’t come out, okay? I need to help Dad in his work room.” Dana made her voice commanding, kept her gaze locked on her sister’s excited

“Shut the door, and don’t come out, okay? I need to help Dad in his work room” gray eyes. “I want you to pack some clothes in your backpack, and grab a few of your favorite toys. We’re gonna go visit Grandma and Grandpa when I’m finished.” Kira’s nose crinkled with confusion, but she trusted her big sister. “Can I bring Poppins?” “Of course. Hurry though. And stay in there ‘til I come get you.” Dana managed a smile she hoped didn’t look as sickly as she felt. When Kira’s door latched shut, Dana took a great breath, focused once more on her task, and strode down the hallway. The door to the study was shut. Dana raised a hand to knock, chuckled at the old habit, and thrust her way inside. Her dad’s chair lay toppled on the floor, an overturned glass and a brown scotch stain on the carpet beside it. Dana locked the door behind her, and tip-toed to the other side of the desk where her father lay on his side, eyes stretched with terror, his breathing frenzied and erratic. “Hello, Father,” Dana said, and sat cross legged a few feet away, making sure she was in his line of sight. She laid the hatchet gently beside her, then raised the glass vial before her father’s gaze. “Succinylcholine, Anectine,” she read off the label, stumbling over the foreign words. “A muscle relaxant, used in Emergency Rooms to induce paralysis. Usually other agents are given in addition with this, in order to sedate the person and provide pain relief.” Dana reached out a hand, and pinched his cheek between her fingernails. He hissed an indrawn breath. “Good, seems like you can still feel just fine.”

Standing up, Dana reached for the bottle of scotch sitting on the desk. “I’m not real great with weighing dosages, Father, so I’m not sure how long this’ll last, especially mixed with your scotch. Supposedly if someone takes too much, it can make the heart stop.” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Better get started just to be safe.” Turning back to the desk, she reached out a tentative hand for the paddle, sitting in its customary place of honor. The grip felt slimy, made her feel dirty just for touching the thing. Hefting the paddle, she tested its weight — heavier than she expected. It seemed strange now, that this inanimate object had inspired so much fear. The paddle wasn’t the evil thing in the room. “Do you know I haven’t worn shorts a single time in the past two years?” she addressed her father, using a foot to topple him onto his stomach. Dana raised the paddle over her head in both hands, and brought it down on his prone ass with as much force as she could muster, disgusted by her actions, yet satisfied with the crack that answered her swing. “They call me Zombie at school because of how I walk,” she said, and swung the paddle again, this time not caring where it landed. “I ache with every step I take, every day, no matter where I am. Constant pangs to remind me of your vile presence, as if to say ‘I’ll see you tonight, Sweety.’” She swung again. “I can’t play sports.” Crack. “I have to put cushions in my pants because it hurts so much to sit at a desk. You don’t want to know the nicknames they thought of from that.” Crack. Dana stopped for a moment, breathing hard. Bending down, she grunted with exertion as she rolled her father onto his back. “I never did anything to deserve this,”

she said reflectively, wiping her forehead just as he did. “But I could handle it. What I can’t handle, though, is the thought of you touching Kira. Ever.” Again Dana swung, tears rolling down her cheeks, blurring her vision. She could make out red though, lots of red, blood and blood and blood. Dana wasn’t sure how long she carried on, but she was panting with exertion by the time she finally stopped.

“Hefting the paddle, she tested its weight— heavier than she expected” “Listen to me, Father,” she spat once she had enough breath. “We’re leaving. Grandma and Grandpa said we could stay with them. And it’s going to be permanent.” She knelt down beside her pathetic dad, put her nose close to his and stared into his stupid eyes, oblivious of the blood marring his skin. “You will not visit. You will not call. We will never see you again. I swear to God, to whatever divine being is out there: If you ever go anywhere near Kira, ever even contact her, I will fucking murder you.” Dana stood once more, and put the paddle near her father’s face. “Kiss the paddle.” Pressing it to his cracked lips, Dana watched his gummy blood cling to its surface. She retrieved the hatchet, laid the paddle on the desk, and chopped the thing to pieces.

#OOTD: A SERIES Jynwaye Foo Watercolor

tinder Mitch Buechler Poetry

Left Swipe Left Swipe Right Swipe Left Swipe Left Swipe Left Swipe Right Swipe You have matched with Person #127 Send them a message? “Sup sexi, tryn 2 fuk latr?” Message sent Left Swipe Left Swipe Left Swipe Right Swipe Left Swipe

clodfelterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s & the color of sound Skye J. Lyon Poetry Last night, I was free verse. Disregarded the ordinance of iambic pentameter told each stanza, each line break, to go screw off and let me fade into the cadence of my partner. Having a locally brewed malt stout with its playful, espresso infused bite glide gently through my lips couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have tasted sweeter that October night.

body language on dated bar stools. Enjambments break up these incoherent fragments we are and piece us together in a haphazard arrangement of drunken lust and perpetual motion.

Hearing the overbearing tension cut between flirtatious

untitled Jerome Stretch Photography 18

dreamcatcher

Ashley Coleman Poetry

It begins with cynical rationalization Your seraphic gaze in a velvet context Cut the vinyl covering From phone line disembodiment The fiberglass welding a languished blemish in repose I want to find a naked I can call laconic A sanguineous nirvana In a hollowed out world Your salamander maw choking on cinders Turns the ash to flesh spinning twice its weight in memory

passing storm Luke Campbell Short Story There was the storm I had heard about when I was a child. The river flooded so high the water touched the bottom of the Jackson Bridge. An old man’s house was ripped from the bank and swept downstream. I never learned if he made it to the ocean. In my first year of high school a snow storm snuck up on us in the night. The weather lady wore a bright red shirt the day before and told the entire valley it was going to rain and the temperature was not going to drop below high thirties. I stayed up till three in the morning with my sister watching the television until infomercials commandeered the airwaves. We stumbled into bed with dashed hopes of missing school the next day. When we woke up there were six inches of powdered snow on the ground waiting for us. In my second year of high school the same weather lady, this time wearing dark green and a necklace with a cross at the end, spun tales of an epic snowstorm that would close down the valley in a ‘bucket load’ of snow. School was cancelled before a single flake dropped. But a flake never did fall. The winter formal was approaching and all the guys at the school were scrambling to ask the pretty girls to go with them. Before I could ask the girl of my dreams, my friend snatched her hand knowing I had forecasted her and I to be together. I was corralled to go to the dance by

others I knew to bring up my spirits. My gloom ended when she kissed me after the dance instead of him. I’m not sure you could officially call it a storm, but an inch of hail fell on our roof one early spring day. I was sitting at my desk looking over the valley from my vantage on the hill when ice began pelting my window. I ran downstairs and held my hand out to catch the pellets, but they bit at my soft skin. My father threw a vase against the wall and the water fell like rain. I knew I had to find shelter, but the thunder of my parent’s voices found me no matter where I hid. To welcome summer, my town held a fair with boat races down the river during the day and fireworks at midnight of the solstice. I went with a friend from school to eat overpriced food and look at the girls our age. We went to my house to play video games after and stayed up all night with the lights off so as not to wake my parents. Around five a lightning storm rolled in and flashed like cameras in a baseball stadium as the winning home run is hit. I remember seeing my father standing outside the window with a cigarette in his mouth watching the bolts scatter across the sky. I went on a camping trip with a group of friends from school, including the girl from the dance. We smoked cigars and drank Coors Light around a camp fire. I knew rain was due, so I dug a trench around my tent and threw a tarp over the top. The girl’s tent wasn’t as prepared, and in

the middle of the night she came to my sleeping bag with wet feet and a warm smile. My mom said we had to go on a diet and sprinkled carrots and celery on our plates instead of fries. But my father’s love of steak and potatoes soon brought conditions back to normal. High winds pulled trees onto the roads, bringing power lines with them. We didn’t have power for three days and had to go to my grandparent’s house to take a warm bath. I slept in the same room as my mom and sister but my father slept in the living room. The girl with wet feet and I latched onto one

“in the middle of the night she came to my sleeping bag with wet feet and a warm smile” another. The word love was thrown around like a dead leaf in the wind. I would drive the rusted Toyota my grandfather used to own to her house and sneak in through her window at night. Her dad almost caught me one morning as I ran down their driveway to my car, kicking up a dust storm with my steps. Soon after the wind storm we ran out of steak and had to eat hot dogs and macaroni and cheese instead. My father was working only half time and was waiting for

the next front of interviews to come in. He gave me his share of the macaroni. Rain fell for half of August in the wettest summer in history, or so said the weather lady, now wearing a modest grey dress with painted red cheeks. The river was brown from the large amount of mud brought in from the connecting streams. I watched the water level rise by the day and hoped to see it kiss the bottom of the bridge. The girl with wet feet dared me to jump in once, but instead we lay under the tree to wait out the rain. My mom found a job first, at a daycare full of challenged kids. She said it wasn’t fun work but brought in enough to bring steak back on the table. Summer was coming to a close and football was returning. I practiced most days of the week under the sun wishing the rain that flooded the river would come back and flood the field instead. A dark cloud rolled over the grass during practice one day and everyone looked up to hope for a drop of water. But we only watched the cloud roll away and leave nothing behind. The day school resumed session I learned I was going to be a father. My mom told me history repeats itself. My father told me I needed to tie the knot. But the girl with wet feet ended it before the hurricane of disaster could reach me. What she called ‘a storm’ was snuffed out before it was legally declared alive.

Dusk Chris Correll Poetry At first light man was given a soul, and with it, clarity. At second light new passageways revealed themselves to those of able mind, and possibility was born. At morning’s light their ancient foes knelt in subjugation and impeded them no more. At noon’s light creation ran without restraint, and metals mastered the world. At evening’s light dissatisfaction bred desire, and silence reigned supreme. At fading light mortality rose in opposition, and spared those who abstained. At last light man’s eyes were clouded by enigma, and only doubt remained.

collection of poses Tanner Henderson Conte on Paper 23

LITTLE Things Sarah Cummings Short Story I had always liked painting the dog’s nails. Sure, they were small, and it was a tedious task, but I wanted to bring more color into our lives no matter where it was. My favorite colors to use were bright blue and green (they stood out against the dull carpet best). The only problem was that my mother didn’t like this. She would say, “Ginny, get that muck off the dog,” and “I told you not to bother the dog!”

“Mother always said they weren’t flflflowers, they were weeds, but then why would they look like flowers?” Addison had never done such a thing, she was the perfect daughter to mother. She was constantly keeping to herself (reading most of the time) and talking about “the importance of understanding literature”. She would never pick flowers, tie a toy car to the end of the dog’s tail,

or even talk to me in my secret language much. If mother was sleeping, Addy stayed quiet. If mother was watching T.V, Addy would stay quiet. All Addy ever did was read and stay quiet. Of course I saw the benefit in being like Addison – excelling in school, excelling outside of school – but I didn’t like to just sit there and read. I liked climbing on the roof of our house by the boxes and junk on the side and picking flowers and tying them all together. Mother always said they weren’t flowers, they were weeds, but then why would they look like flowers? There are some that have little tiny white flowers on top, almost like an island of petals, and when you put them in water with food coloring the baby flowers would all turn red or yellow, or whatever color you used, the next day. I showed mother my rainbow flowers after she got home from work, but she waved me away and went to her room to take a nap. Addy just said “mhm” when I brought her a bouquet of them and didn’t look up from her book. I think it must have been a very important book, because it had fancy lettering on the front cover.

I set the flowers on mother’s nightstand so that maybe if she saw them when she woke up, she would be happier. When I went to school the next day, my teacher gave my class our report cards. We weren’t supposed to open them before giving them to our parents, but I had a hunch that I did well in science and art, so I opened it on my walk from the bus back to the house. Yes! An ‘excels’ in science! Mother will be so proud! I ran home with all the energy in the world (tripped over the sidewalk, even), ready to share my achievement with my mother and sister, ready to show that I could excel, too! I threw the door open and called to mother, “Mom! Mom! I got my report card!” When she didn’t answer back, I tried again. “Mom! Guess what I got on my report card!” She called back, “What is all the yelling for, Ginny, seriously!” Mother sat up from her bed and blinked at me with a crude expression that could only mean she had been sleeping. But, oh, how proud she’d be of me! “I got an ‘excels’ in science!”

“What?” she exclaimed. I held out the report for her. She took it from me with a bit of a tug. “You got a ‘did not meet’ in reading.” I stared at her, what? “Addison never has any issues with school, and here you are, messing up on reading”, she said. “But, mom, I got an ‘excels’ – “ “Ginny, you need to stop bothering me with all these stupid flowers and pick up a book instead. Climbing around places and drawing little pictures doesn’t get you anywhere – you need to stop messing around!” Mother exhaled sharply. She smelled faintly of cigarettes and greasy burgers. The blanket on her bed felt like iron wool under my hand. She handed me the report card and laid back down without looking at me. “Addison shouldn’t be the only one in this family trying.” A squirrel visited me on the roof later in the day. But it scurried off after I invited it to sit with me. The report card didn’t look the same to me anymore. I only saw the NM’s.

Someday a life Gwendolyn Hill Provost Poetry Winner Dorothea Lange’s “Child and Her Mother, Wapato, Yakima Valley, Washington, 1939 Her hair is a shadow that falls across her face, and on her dress bloom the only flowers to be seen for miles. Her fists clench barbed wire. The grove is full of hide and seek and other childish games, but she knows she is needed elsewhere. She came to these irrigated fields in the shadow of Mount Adams to plant sugar beets in the rich volcanic soil, and fill countless hours with digging, hoeing, sowing (and sewing), weeding, washing, harvesting, cooking. She couldn’t escape the dust. Where she came from, the dust flew in tornadoes large enough to carry Dorothy to Oz, but all she remembers is scratching it from her scalp, and finding dark clouds on her pillowcase in the morning Still sometimes, on dry summer days, the dust fills her lungs as the chickens kick at it, pecking for dinner in a storm of their own design. She can always find it lingering where her socks meet her boots.

The dust is ground under her fingernails, worked into her heels. The dust holds her fate in its cracks. It cradles the seeds she so desperately needs to grow, the cash crop that holds the promise of someday, a life.

wave break Shanna Roast Photography 27

poison that spreads in the dark Anonymous Creative Non-Fiction I was the victim of a kind heart. I was alone with him for no more than a half of an hour. And then I was alone. In the days after, I felt like I had disappeared. I was walking in a nightmare, the kind where you scream at everyone that you’re right in front of them, but they can’t see you, can’t hear you. Except the screams were in my head and what everyone saw was the mask I’d donned to hide my shame. The one with the pretty smile you’d never notice wasn’t reaching my eyes. My apartment became my own cell with padded walls. Come inside, lock the door, pull on the handle—checking its strength. Close the blinds, curl up on the floor, and try not to move. The darkness scared me. It confused passing time with passed time. It looked like the room I’d just fled, blackness pouring out of the threshold, unable to see but so certain he was coming for me. Struggling to still my trembling long enough to jam my foot into my shoe, make my hands work faster. Don’t scream, just focus and go. If you panic, you’re done for. The light scared me even more because I couldn’t hide from myself, from the reflection in the mirror with hollow eyes that said everything I was too ashamed to say. Laughing, the smoke filling my lungs as I inhaled a good time—

too much. My hands feel so heavy, I can’t move, laid out like a human sacrifice to his carnal cravings, kisses on my neck, sloppy and rushed, a “no” that takes every ounce of energy I have left, and the blackout. Eyes snapping open, and the fog clearing from my brain long enough to know what was happening. And then running. So much running. A tilting world on legs like stilts, shoulders hitting each wall as if the hallway was too narrow for my petite frame, jolting from one side to the other. Running to get my keys—why is the hallway getting longer? Running out of the front door of a one-level, twobedroom, ranch-style hell to my car. Get inside, lock the doors, call for help. Unable to form words into sentences, a combination of, “Rape, but not rape. The thing before rape. He’s coming. He sees me,” but one thing was clear in all that I said: Help me. The friend who picked me up didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. I didn’t know what it was called, this thing that happened. I didn’t know until I googled it the next day, this beast of mine. Sexual Assault. So now it had a name, a title, like a champion of misconduct. The way the events played out seemed surreal. Policemen’s names instantly forgotten, “nothing they could do,” insuf-

ficient evidence, friends to hide from, shadows to shy away from, demons to fight, pamphlets and papers, resources for “survivors” when I didn’t want to be called that. Don’t call me that dirty word, you ignorant fuck, because surviving isn’t living. The friend that had picked me up, had seen my trembling, didn’t want to hold me anymore. So he dropped me, and I sank to the bottom of the ocean where I settled amongst the other dead things. Funny how I’m drowning, yet so thirsty.

“A dirty little secret that I carry with me, tucked beneath my bra strap against my rib” Have to go home, a birthday party. A glass of wine to quench the parched lining of my stomach that held nothing but its own biting acid. And another. And another. The bitter jokes I made awarded me glances that ranged from concerned to annoyed. “You’ve had enough wine.” So I moved on to beer and tequila, trying desperately to drown out the memory of his shadow in the window, peering out at me as I scrambled to lock my car doors—please don’t come for me. The room spinning, can’t stand up. Throw up quietly so my parents don’t hear.

Friends that had been my friends when I was whole walked away when I was broken. No living being has seen the dark inside. I’ve repeated my story to the investigators so many times that it doesn’t even feel real. One friend said they think I lied. Not to me, of course. They haven’t said one word to me since that night. A dirty little secret that I carry with me, tucked beneath my bra strap against my rib, next to my heart that stops beating every time I hear a knock on my door—he knows where I live. Footsteps behind me at night, the metronome to my symphony of terror and self-loathing. A sweat-soaked spot in the bed. A constant war between self-destruction and self-preservation. He’s walking away with no consequence while I’m defending my statements, losing my friends, and still afraid to trust anyone. How do you submit to evidence the open wounds that lie inside, bleeding poison into every crevice of your body cavity? I’ve learned they can convince you that when you said “no” you really meant “yes” if they ask the right questions and twist the right knives. I check to make sure my door is locked exactly five times before I go to bed each night.

jdm liked the colors Ethan Stewardson-Blackwell Acrylic on Cardboard with Love 30

castaway

Whitney Lauren Han Poetry

What does it feel like to be casted out from the night sky? To fall and burn onto this planet, trapped by the same force that keeps us from venturing to the place you call home?

little galaxy Whitney Lauren Han Poetry Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s go somewhere to a place far away where the sun and the moon can hold hands and be their own little galaxy.

green-eyed girl Brittany Sandberg Provost Short Story Winner (Abridged) Daniel Miller parked his car and remembered the first time Sarah had ever had dinosaur chicken nuggets. She had only been three years old, and they had gone grocery shopping earlier that afternoon. She was wearing her Cinderella dress, her ruby red slippers from The Wizard of Oz, and her Minnie Mouse hat. She could never decide which character was her favorite, so she decided to be all of them at once. The bags of little dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets were in the freezer section between the popsicles and the frozen peas, and when Sarah saw the picture of the dinosaur she wanted to know how a whole dinosaur could fit in one little bag. “Those are dinosaur nuggets,” he had said, “not whole dinosaurs.” She pressed her hands and face against the glass of the freezer door, staring with wide green eyes at the bag of chicken nuggets. “Daddy,” she whispered. “What do dinosaurs taste like?” The heat of her breath had fogged up the glass. “Well,” he had said as he pulled her away from the freezer and hoisted her up to sit on his shoulders. “I guess we’ll have to find out.” He opened the door and put two bags in the shopping cart. Now, sitting in his car and staring at the bag of chicken nuggets in his hand, Daniel remembered all this and how quickly it changed. Sarah had been diagnosed with cancer when she was five. She kept telling Daniel that her back was hurting, and finally they were told it was

caused by a tumor. That was on Halloween. The oncologist, Dr. Johnson, had been dressed as a pirate that day, which Daniel was both thankful for and hated. “Ahoy, matey!” the man said when he came into the room. Sarah tugged on Daniel’s sleeve and whispered “Dad! Dad! Is that really Captain Hook?” “Arrr, you bet I am! The best pirate in all the seas!” the doctor told her. Daniel was glad she would have a good memory to look back on for this day, because his would only be the conversation that happened later.

“But all that remained of his wife was in their child — her green eyes had been her gift to Sarah, and Sarah had been her gift to Daniel” “Normally we would operate first,” the doctor had said, more to Daniel than to Sarah. “But it’s so close to her spine that we would risk paralyzing her.” He paused like he was waiting for a response but Daniel couldn’t say anything. He wanted this man to tell him how to fix his daughter, how to make things right again. “So we’re going to do chemotherapy first,” the doctor continued. “If it responds well, it will shrink the tumor enough that we can reduce the risk of paralysis as a result of removing it.”

Thinking back on it, Daniel could remember what the doctor had said. At the time, though, he had stopped listening after the doctor had said “chemotherapy.” He couldn’t stop imagining himself standing in the hallway of some hospital while his daughter was lying in a bed. He had selfishly wished in that moment that her mother could have been alive to be the one hearing this instead of him. She had had a way with words. But all that remained of his wife was in their child—her green eyes had been her gift to Sarah, and Sarah had been her gift to Daniel. He remembered her fourth birthday, a year before she would have started kindergarten. She had been watching the Discovery Channel when a show about sharks had caught her attention. “Daddy, where do sharks live?” she asked him. “Sharks?” Daniel had asked her. She nodded enthusiastically while staring at the pictures that flashed on the television screen. “Sharks live in the ocean.” She had climbed up on the back of the couch so she could see him in the kitchen. “The ocean?” she asked. “Like with Ariel?” She had never seen the ocean. He nodded while he poured two glasses of milk. “Can we go to the ocean so I can see the shark’s house?” He had laughed quietly and closed the fridge. “Of course we can,” he had told her. “I’ll take you there for your birthday.” She shrieked with a giant smile and jumped off the back of the couch as he walked into the room with the glasses of milk. “Maybe you’ll even get to see Ariel,” he added. He remembered how she had run up to him and hugged his legs, almost knocking him down and spilling milk all over the couch. He smiled as he remembered how excited she had been for that trip. He also remembered how he had to

be careful about how much she ran around in the sand. The complications with her heart when she was born limited how much she could play, and she had to be careful. That day on the beach it had been hard to stop her, though, seeing the joy on her face while she splashed in the waves and crashed through her sandcastles. It amazed him how much she had changed over the course of little over a year. He remembered the hardest part was trying to explain to her that she was sick, but to get better they had to give her something that would make her even sicker. This five year old hadn’t experienced death before. Both sets of grandparents had died long before she was born, and she had no memory of her mother’s death. She had an idea of what it was—that those people weren’t around anymore—but that was the extent of her experience. To her understanding, they had just gone somewhere else. Daniel remembered how brave she had been about death, but he wasn’t sure this was so much a result of bravery as of naivety. That first treatment had been the hardest for Daniel. “So, this will make me better?” she had asked with the slightest tremble in her voice. The nurse started connecting the tubes for the first bag of saline solution. “Yes, sweetheart,” the nurse said with a smile. “This is to give your body some fluids so it doesn’t get too thirsty before we give you the big medicine.” Daniel really appreciated how the staff could explain these things to children, making it sound much less frightening than the truth and yet doing so without lying. “And,” Sarah said, “the big medicine is going to make me better.” She looked at Daniel when she spoke this time.

“Yeah, princess,” he said. He sat down and brushed her hair out of her eyes, something he now realized that he should have appreciated more at the time. She eyed the nurse sorting out the needles and tubes. “Your daddy’s right. It will make you better,” she said. “But,” she added, “it will make you not feel very good for a little while. But that’s because it’s working really really hard to make you better.” The nurse smiled sweetly and patted her on the arm while she said this. Sarah nodded once and then looked down at the ruby red slippers on her feet and tapped the heels together three times. Daniel remembered the drug was called the “Red Devil,” and that the nurses normally had to wear some kind of hazard suit because the chemicals can damage skin if it accidentally spilled. But Sarah had been so afraid of the nurse in the suit that staff had decided to administer the drug without it.

“Daniel remembered the drug was called the “Red Devil” “Technically, yes I need the suit,” she had said to him. “But we don’t want to give the poor girl a heart attack.” So the nurse sat down next to Sarah with the syringes of red liquid and started talking to the girl with the ruby red slippers. Daniel was more grateful for that nurse’s decision that day than anything else because not only did it relieve Sarah’s fears, but it helped him forget that she was injecting poison straight into his daughter’s heart. That night he had gone to her room after she had fallen asleep and he couldn’t help but take her little hand in his and hold it to his cheek. It wasn’t long before his sobs

emerged, his shoulders heaving with the strain of his silence to keep from waking her, his lungs feeling both too full and too empty at the same time. The doctor and nurses had warned him about how she would react to the drugs. The first day she’d feel tired, the next she’d start to feel sick, and by the third the worst would start to hit. But something hadn’t been right. The next day when Sarah had tried to get out of bed, she couldn’t walk down the stairs without stopping several times to catch her breath. Daniel found her sitting half way down the stairs with her hand on her chest, breathing heavily. “Daddy,” she said, “I’m dizzy.” Daniel still didn’t know how he comforted her when inside all he could do was panic, but somehow he had managed to. “Okay baby, let’s go to the doctor, okay?” he said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “We’re going to the doctor.” He called the oncologist’s office while they were on their way in. The receptionist said Doctor Johnson was on vacation and wouldn’t be back for a few weeks, so they would have to see the stand-in. Doctor Anderson did his examination and said Sarah needed to be admitted because her heart was failing. He opened the door and called for a nurse before he grabbed her chart and flipped through the pages again. “Who is her usual oncologist?” “Dr. Johnson!” she said between breaths, while one nurse got her into a wheelchair and another called the ICU. “Mr. Miller, did you have pediatrics send her medical history before Dr. Johnson decided on treatment?” “Uh, yeah,” Daniel said. “Yes, I believe so. The nurse asked me to sign a form.”

“Uh huh,” said the doctor. He flipped through a few more pages. “Wh—uh, why?” Daniel asked as he stumbled out the door behind the nurses and the doctor. “Come to my office after you get her settled in, Mr. Miller. There are some things we should really discuss.” He went with the nurses and Sarah to the ICU, where they got her hooked up to several machines and asked her what she wanted to eat from the cafeteria. She didn’t even glance at the options before she said, “Dinosaurs!”

“And in that instant Daniel knew that he didn’t want to hear what the doctor was about to say” The nurses looked at each other, then to Daniel. He laughed and motioned them to the hallway. “Dino chicken nuggets,” he whispered. “They’re her favorite, and she thinks they’re actually dinosaurs.” One of them, her badge had said her name was Nancy, said, “Does the cafeteria even have those?” The younger one, Jenny, said, “Well, if they don’t they’re gonna start.” She turned back to Sarah and said, “Dinos! Comin’ right up!” Daniel went back to Dr. Anderson’s office in the oncology unit and the doctor asked him to have a seat. “Mr. Miller, what did Dr. Johnson explain to you about your daughter’s treatment?” “Not a whole lot. I mean, he said it was a powerful treatment, that it was sure to get the job done.” “He must have told you about how this type of drug affects the heart?”

And in that instant Daniel knew that he didn’t want to hear what the doctor was about to say. “Mr. Miller, considering her history with heart related issues, using Adriamycin was not the best choice because it has adverse effects on the heart—even healthy hearts. I can’t speak to why that choice was made, but at this point, your daughter is in the hands of the cardiologists.” Daniel took several breaths, mulling over his words before speaking. “So this is that doctor’s fault?” So many years had gone by since that day in his office, and yet he still got angry when he thought about that conversation. Of course Doctor Anderson couldn’t condemn Doctor Johnson and endanger the hospital, but he had done everything but. After running several tests, the cardiologists were clear: if she was to survive, she needed a transplant and she needed one quickly. The list, however, was long and all they could do was put her on it. Each time he looked at her, each day with less hair left to fall in front of those green eyes, he regretted that this could have been prevented. It would have been easier to accept if it hadn’t been anyone’s fault. It only took a week after his meeting with Doctor Anderson for Daniel to start meeting with lawyers. Each one he talked to, however, told him something very similar. “I’m very sorry for what has happened to your daughter, Dr. Miller,” they all said. “However, there won’t be much of a chance to pursue this in court.” They all told him it would most likely end in settlement rather than conviction. “What do you mean, ‘settlement’?” he asked.

“The hospital board won’t want this to be a big deal. They’ve got a team of cutthroat lawyers who have been known to play dirty if they have to, so they’ll offer you a good deal of money and he’ll most likely be put on probation. Best case scenario for you is that he gets fired from this hospital.” “They won’t take his medical license?” “Well they don’t want to completely ruin his life,” one lawyer had said. So this is how justice is served these days, Daniel thought. “They’re going to say they asked you about her health history and that you neglected to inform them. Their tests results were normal at the time they took them, so they’re going to say you were the only outlet for that information and you refused to have her history sent. They’ll say you should have asked about it, that you should have been more concerned as a father. They’re going to paint you as the bad guy and it will be a huge risk. Whether he had those files or not, that’s how it’s going to play out in the court room, Mr. Miller.” “But I signed a form,” he said. “And did you ask for a copy of that form? One you can show to a judge?” “But THEY should have it!” The lawyer waited for a few moments. “But you can’t prove they do, can you?” He decided not to settle the day he was asked that for the eighth time. If the system couldn’t provide justice he’d have to make his own. Two weeks had gone by as her condition worsened, all the while her heart getting weaker as the side effects of the chemotherapy drug continued. They had tried giving her blood transfusions in an effort to get some of

it out of her system faster, but it didn’t make her heart any less affected. All her hair had fallen out and her skin had turned pale, but those eyes were still as bright as the day she first opened them. Although the nausea had significantly subsided by the second week, she was too weak to get out of bed or walk herself to the bathroom. He was continually surprised at how well she grasped the concepts of what was happening in her body when the doctors would answer her questions, and yet infuriated that a five year old should have to understand such things. If there was a God, he was angry at Him for not fixing this; if there wasn’t a God, he was angry at Him for not existing. “So, my heart is tired, just like my mommy’s was?”

“All her hair had fallen out and her skin had turned pale, but those eyes were still as bright as the day she fi rst opened them” she had whispered to her cardiologist. It pained Daniel that she understood, but he honestly didn’t know if it would make him feel any better if she didn’t. He wasn’t sure if she was making the connection in a grasp to understand or in an understanding of her own mortality, but felt he had been punched in the ribs nonetheless. “Something like that, kid,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Something like that.” That was also the day Doctor Johnson returned from vacation. Daniel went to his office later in the morning and didn’t know if he knew what had happened or not. He hovered in the doorway and stared at the clowns

printed on the doctor’s tie and imagined the fabric slowly tightening around the man’s neck. “Ah,” the doctor said, “Mr. Miller, right?” Daniel said nothing but stepped into the office. “I’m getting caught up on all my patient files.” He gestured at the large stack of papers on his desk and let out a chuckle. “Please,” he said, “have a seat if you’d like.” “They, uh,” Daniel started. One of the clowns on the doctor’s tie was staring at him and he sat uncomfortably in the seat. “They don’t call you about your patients when you’re not here?” “Usually,” the doctor said, “but it was my first vacation in over six years, so I went off grid for this one and left Doctor Anderson in charge.” He hadn’t expected that kind of dedication from a man who could do what he did. “Six years?” Daniel asked. “I never like leaving my patients,” he said. “Drives my wife crazy.” “So you’re pretty dedicated, then?” Daniel asked “… Usually?” “I remember watching my mother struggle with cancer when I was in college. It’s hard enough to get the news, but her doctor made every effort to be there whenever we had even the smallest concern or question. I remember that being one of the only comforts, so I try to give that back.” Daniel thought for a moment about Sarah, wondering where her file was in the stack. “Why did you have to go this time?” he asked. The doctor turned a picture frame around and a woman with brown hair smiled brightly at Daniel. “It was our 40th,” he said, “and my wife may have killed me if I said no on this one.” He chuckled as he turned the frame back around.

“You gave her the wrong shit,” he told him” “Too bad,” Daniel said, before he could filter it. “What?” “Uh, I just mean,” he stumbled over his words. “It must be hard when you have to choose one life over another.” “Sometimes it’s hard to separate them,” the doctor said. “Sometimes I’m here more than I’m at home, so this,” he said as he gestured to the patient charts, “feels like my home life.” He looked back at Daniel, so Daniel looked down at the clowns again. “Speaking of which,” he said, “how is Sarah? We didn’t have many appointments before I left, did we?” “You haven’t read her chart yet?” “I’ve only just started. It shouldn’t take me too long to get through them, Anderson’s a good doctor.” “I could save you the trouble if you wanna go for a walk,” he said. “Oh, is she here for another treatment?” “She’s been here since a few days after you left, doctor.” His eyebrows scrunched in the middle and he started looking through the names on all the charts like he was looking for the golden ticket. Daniel leaned forward and plopped his hand on top of the stack with more force than he intended. “You gave her the wrong shit,” he told him. “Excuse me?”

Daniel stood up and leaned across the desk. “You called it the Red Devil, right? The most effective one?” The doctor said nothing, and Daniel fought the urge to grab the man’s tie and pull until his face turned blue. “Well it was a little too effective. You can go find her in the ICU if you want an update.” And with that he turned and left the man’s office. The next week the local animal shelter did their first round of “Dog Therapy” in the children’s ICU, and Daniel thanked God for the first time in a long time. They brought a play pen with several puppies into the hall outside her room and she shrieked, immediately trying to push back her blankets to get out of bed. When he tried to help her she waved him off, seemingly determined to make her way to those puppies on her own. Each step was deliberate, yet wildly rushed as her excitement pushed her forward. It hurt him to realize that what may have been her last steps looked so strikingly similar to her first ones. When she had sat down in the middle of the puppies and three immediately leapt into her lap, she giggled genuinely for the first time in weeks. He knew that he’d have to carry her back to the oxygen tanks, but he couldn’t bring himself to intervene just yet. The youth those puppies were giving back to her gave him some solace in the things he couldn’t save her from. He knew that giggle wouldn’t last forever and he sat down on the bed while he watched her, tears falling down his cheeks. He wished he could have been the one in the bed with the failing heart rather than watching her with a broken one. He felt like his lungs were holding too much air but at the same time like he needed more, and suddenly he felt as if his chest was a canyon with someone screaming “Marco”

and waiting for a never-returned “Polo.” Doctor Johnson walked up to her and smiled while she was on the floor with the puppies. Daniel watched as he greeted her, patting the top of her head and laughing as she giggled. When he came into the room, Daniel had wished the man hadn’t been so nice. But nevertheless, he walked into the room and greeted him with a firm handshake. “Hello again, Doctor.” “It’s so good to hear the little ones laugh like that,” the doctor had said. “I wanted to let you know I set up the puppy visit and told them to come straight here first.” “That was very… nice of you,” Daniel said. The next day she had seemed to be doing better as she told the nurse about the puppies while she changed the sheets. “There was a little black one and he jumped up and licked my nose!” The nurse gasped and giggled with Sarah. “And, and the brown one kept barking at me but he’s so little so they were little baby barks,” and then she started barking at the nurse, pretending to be a puppy. The woman played along, patting her on the head. When Sarah quieted, both Daniel and the nurse thought she was playing the part of a content puppy, but when she grasped at her chest they realized it wasn’t an act. Daniel helped her lie back in bed while the numbers on the monitor declined. The nurse pressed a button on the wall and soon another nurse showed up with the doctor and the three of them were standing around his daughter. He sat down in the visitor’s chair for a moment, then stood back up and paced to the window. He tried leaning against the wall but found it too vertical and returned to the chair. To this day he still couldn’t remember

how many times he had walked back and forth in that room before the doctor turned around and spoke to him. “Mr. Miller please sit down,” he said. Daniel sat. “Her heart has been working too hard and it can’t keep up. The best we can do right now is keep her comfortable.” And with that, the doctor put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder, then left the room. He moved to the bed and sat down next to Sarah. She reached her arms up the way she used to do when she was a toddler, the universal childhood symbol for “Up!” He looked at the nurse, who came over to help him pull the girl close without accidentally removing the various needles and tubes. His daughter leaned against his chest, letting her head rest on his shoulder and looking up at him.

“Her heart has been working too hard and it can’t keep up. The best we can do right now is keep her comfortable” “Maybe mommy likes dinosaurs,” she said. The nurse stopped fussing with the blanket at the end of the bed and softly put her hand over her mouth. Daniel looked down at Sarah and couldn’t make his lips say any words. He didn’t know how this girl could be so confident in life after death. She was only five, she had never been in a church except once or twice. He could feel his chin quivering, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Maybe she does,” he managed. Even now, he still couldn’t remember how long he sat there holding her while she rested against his chest, but

he clearly remembered being torn between wanting to let her rest and desperately wanting to take advantage of his last opportunity to hear her voice. Her breathing had slowly become more and more relaxed until her breaths were long and shallow. Daniel looked at his green-eyed girl. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, how all he had ever wanted was for her to be happy. He wanted to tell her how strong she had been, how sorry he was. But all he could manage to do was stare at her as she had closed her eyes, and he whispered the words, “They aren’t really dinosaurs.” Those Ariel pajamas still smelled faintly of puppy that day, and Daniel had never touched a dog since. Doctor Johnson had walked by a few minutes after it happened and saw Daniel holding Sarah, staring at her still face. He stood in the doorway and suddenly looked much older to Daniel than he previously had. He put the pictures back into his wallet and took the chicken nuggets off the dash. They were still warm from when he took them out of the oven. He grabbed the six pack of beer off the passenger seat and the soft rain fell gently on him as he climbed out of the car. On second thought, he opened the trunk and took the bouquet of flowers out, then walked down the path of the graveyard. When he got to her tombstone, he wiped the leaves off and replaced them with the fresh yellow flowers. “Those are from Dr. Johnson,” he said. He sat in the mushy grass and read her name aloud, wondering if she could hear him. Daniel opened the bag and ate a chicken nugget, then he took the beer and set it on the ground to the right of her name. She would have been twenty one today.

slice

stab Cameron Murrin Lambert Photography

crack

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cigar Cameron Murrin Lambert Short Story Group activities were always voted on by the ten of them. And if there ever was a tie Ms. Ginger from the front desk would be called upon to cast a vote, since she was the oldest employee there. Walking in the gardens was popular, and so was bingo on Sunday nights. But nothing was chosen more than swimming in the pool after lunch. Sally said it made her skin feel soft again. John liked to see all the women in their bathing suits even though there wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen from them before. Martha tested how long she could hold her breath in the deep end just to scare the young lifeguard. And Hank sat in the hot tub with his arms laid out to his sides and his head resting on the hard concrete behind him. He remembered the days he would sit in his parent’s hot tub with his brother and the Cooper girls from down the street. The girls snuck over the beer while Hank’s brother would supply the cigars. Hank remembered the last time he smoked, on some beach in the pacific next to his brother. It was more of a luxury then, harder to find and harder to not get caught with one. But this made the cigar taste sweeter with every puff. Hank didn’t see his brother after that day — not in the flesh. He saw his name on a monument once, but the name couldn’t smoke a cigar.

Junk drawer Kara Beu Flash Fiction I open the junk drawer, third from the left in the first row. I don’t even remember what is in it. I am just looking for a lighter. Instead, I find: A deck of cards printed on waterproof material, though the two of clubs, ace of spades, and queen of diamonds are missing. My great-grandmother got them for me so I could “take them to the pool and they won’t get wet!” I’ve never used them near a pool, but I can tell you from experience, they are liquid proof. I wonder if the missing cards have gone to the same place missing socks go? I want to go there. Four dollars and thirty seven cents in change occupying the bottom of the drawer. Thirteen quarters, seven dimes, six nickels, and twelve pennies. The quarters have states on the back, California, Georgia, New York, Maine, Arizona, Kansas, Mississippi, and Montana.

Used candles. The tops of the candles are black with big lumps of wax cooled half way down. There are striped, neon-colored, and number-shaped—a two and a one used for my 21st birthday, but I don’t remember anything that happened. In the morning I woke up with bottle caps in my ceiling and a voicemail from my boyfriend saying he was disappointed in me. An old passport. I got it when I was twelve years old. If it was not expired it could be very useful. If it wasn’t expired I could travel the world. I would go to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower. I could go to Australia and see the Sydney Opera house, to India to see the Taj Mahal, and Zanzibar to see the seaweed farms. I could leave this city, county, state, and country. I could leave.

A pair of old scissors with orange handles. These scissors have been used to cut up so many things; coupons, arts and craft projects, my parents’ marriage license, my neighbor’s hair, and wrapping paper. Along the blades little pieces of tape and something sticky collect, making them duller.

curves Tanner Henderson Photography 44

our secret wishes are restless

Ethan Heusser Poetry

Vetted, vented, ventilated; sky-scraped beyond all recognition. These are the dreams that linger in shanty-towns and shallow street-corners; these are the voices that sing in one song that has neither verse nor chorus. I am spread out against the stars; do you wonder if I am thin? But I am infinite, reaching out to spaces no song could touch, to places no man could feel. The devil is in the details, and the eternity lies in their teaching.

Are they hollow? Rarely, yet they resonate with a pitch that only the mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ear could hear. The world is silent, yet I hum the gentle lullaby of a rag-time that keeps me up at night; for the stars have whispered it to me as I lie, spread out amongst them.

As the night sky quickens and all turns to ash by light of the moon, we reach and question our inner dreams to see if they are real.

contributors’ notes Aaron Davis Digital Communication Arts; Junior I just want to make dope shit. Alysa Phan Fine Arts & Graphic Design; 5th year Senior Forever young my spirit will be; Open minded beyond what eyes can see; Good taste and swell craft is what I aspire; Work becomes play, I will never grow tire; Cute things and unique scenes is what I create; But there’s always something to communicate; With art and design I have the power; I will play till I reach my finest hour. Ashley Coleman Fine Arts; Senior I am continually inspired by the art of storytelling and visual metaphor. In both my visual and written works I want to move my viewer to feel something, creating works with a meaning beyond their face value. I often take ideas from my life experience, using allegory and experimental media. Buddy Terry Cultural Anthropology; Freshmen Everyone knows the guy or girl I’m talking about in this piece, there is one in every class. I started out writing this in the middle of lecture and it grew into a poem that I felt any person or student at least could relate to. Shout out to OSU Ultimate, I love you guys. Brittany Kay Sundberg English, Writing minor; Senior I’ve always loved writing and story-telling. Stories allow us, as both writers and readers, to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes. We can live experiences we wouldn’t normally be allowed to, we can grow from them and become more enlightened to the complexities of the human experience. Cameron Murrin Lambert Graphic Design; Sophomore Chronic Perception addresses the pain and anxiety brought forth from a surgical error that has left metal sticking out of my ribs. Because I am incapable of touching or visualizing my chest without severe distress, I use other formats to convey that sensation.

Chris Correll Psychology; Senior This is just a short piece I made on a whim to test whether I could write something meaningful in less than 100 words. Ethan Heusser English & Computer Science, Writing minor; Freshman I am excited to be a part of this issue of the magazine and thankful to the Prism team for all of its hard work! Ethan Stewardson-Blackwell Environmental Engineering; Senior I try and paint cool things. This was a fun piece I got to do with my friends. Thanks to everyone who helps me out when I need it. I love Nora. I love art. MLH rocks. Go Beavs. Stop our corrupt politicians and greedy corporations. Let’s all just love each other please. Eric Callahan English; Junior This poem was written with thoughts towards the coming Northwest Summer. After a while I find that I miss the rain. Gwendolyn Hill English; Junior Because my grandparents are farmers who survived the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl, photographs by Dorothea Lange reveal stories from their history, my history. As I wrote, I imagined the girl in this photograph was my grandmother, who would have been about the same age at the time. Jerome Stretch Photography; Senior This Life of Ours is a body of work that celebrates and documents an uninhibited generation. This singular piece, Untitled, (Rooftop), is an excerpt from the larger body of work and is representational of the themes and imagery that run through it. Jynwaye Foo Environmental Science; Freshman Art is cool. Everyone should make art.

contributors’ notes Kaitlyn Carr Applied Visual Arts; Senior I am interested in the unequal, hegemonic relationships in both past and present international societies with a focus on Kenyan history and culture. Social justice, colonialism, morality, and racism are some of the predominant and reoccurring themes in my work.

Sarah Cummings Applied Visual Arts; Freshman Although I’m an art major, I was interested in taking the Fiction Writing class for my BACC Core after hearing so many good things about it from my roommate. I’m very happy I took it seriously and had the chance to write a story I’m proud of.

Kara Beu English; Senior This story started out as an assignment for a class but became so much more. Sometimes as a writer I am not sure what is going to happen at the ending, and those are my favorite stories to write.

Shanna Roast Art & Education; Sophomore What I Enjoy most about being an artist is that I can make anything real. Artists give life to dreams and have a unique ability to see beyond reality.

Karl Payne Mechanical Engineering, Fine Arts minor; Senior Art is something of an escape from the structured and categorized aspects of my life, yet it’s heavily influenced by these things as well. I find myself drawn to straight lines and manufactured materials. My work focuses on the fusion of these industrial elements with organic forms and ideas, and attempts to capture the subtle beauty of both.

Skye J. Lyon Liberal Studies; Junior My writing has taken me to extraordinary places in my short but extensive lifetime. I hope when readers glance at my work now - or 100 years from today - they can wander along the star-patch with me.

Luke Campbell History; Senior Cigar and Passing Storm were a lot of work to get just right. Every word matters in stories that are so short, which is why editing is one of the most important parts of the process. Mitchell Buechler New Media Communications; Junior Let’s be real. Your Tinder probably looks like that. Nicholas Browning English; Junior. It feels great to make it into the magazine for the third time. If anyone is ever interested in discussing my stories, or your stories, or the craft of writing in general, I’d love to talk. Message me at N.P. Browning on Facebook. Thanks for reading!

Tanner Henderson Fine Arts; Senior I have always wanted to apply my skill set in a practical manner, one which possibly helps others bring ideas to life or accomplish a goal. From an inspiration standpoint I hope to use my own creativity to make an impact. Traditionally I have taken a focus to architectural sculpture and drawing as in any medium, you are still drawing. Whitney Lauren Han Digital Communication Arts; Sophomore Just a girl who likes to read way too many books and write mediocre poetry with any spare time available.

yosemite Aaron Davis Photography

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