A
fter a cursory glance through this publication, you may notice that it isn’t exactly what you were expecting. Half the pages are blank, there are two front covers, and there’s a spiral binding at the top of the page. These things are not typical for magazines like the one you are currently engaged in reading. As a matter of fact, these things are very different from any past issue of Visualize-Verbalize magazine. Our staff decided to make these changes for a variety of reasons, but mainly because we wanted you, the lucky owner of this magazine, to use this publication—not just thumb through it once or twice and then let it sit on a bookshelf and collect dust, but actually use it. We want you to take inspiration from these pages, and as a result we decided to give you several convenient places to put that inspiration to paper (half the magazine, as a matter of fact). We here at Visualize-Verbalize know that the great ideas and art in this publication didn’t come out of thin air. Rather they were scripted, crafted, drafted, redrawn, redone, and
painstakingly thought out before they ever came close to reaching this magazine. Many of the creators in this magazine may very well have drawn inspiration from other great artists or writers, who in turn may have taken their inspirations from others. We understand the process behind such things, and wanted you to do the same with the content held within our magazine. If you read one of the many fine literary works contained in these pages and feel inclined to draw an illustration based on it, just flip the magazine over and draw it out. If you want to write a poem based on an illustration in this magazine, we’ve even provided lines to make writing it easier for you. If you just want to make a little doodle of your pet goldfish, go for it. There’s a lot of space to fill up. Do whatever you want to do with it. Draw, sketch, doodle, write, annotate, wax poetic, wax pathetic, whatever you want to do, go for it. Whatever you do, just please: use this magazine.
Sincerely, –The 2008 Visualize-Verbalize Staff
Contents “The Birds” Kimberly Lee Graphic
Page 4 Page 4
“The River Bed” Alethea Durney Poem
Page 12 Page 13
“Divadlo Theatre” Tim Martin Photograph
Page 5 Page 5
“Czech WC” Tim Martin Photograph
Page 14
Page 6
“Exaltation” Sean Ryan Photograph
Page 16
“Alone in the Dark” Hunter Patrick Prose
Pages 7-9 Page 9
“Avenge Me” Jeremiah Howe Computer Illustration
Page 11
“Dragon Shrimp” Danielle Fairchild Photograph
Pages 17-19
Page 12
“The Overlook” Lindi Bassett Pencil Drawing
Page 25
Page 26
“Cloud in the Sky” Sheridan Taylor Prose
Page 20
Page “Cosmic Son” Erik Lintula 21 Poem Page 22
“Animal Shelter” Blake Hendrix Photograph
“Essence of the Succubus” Kendrick Benander Clay and Taxidermy “I walk along a stream” Milissa Cali Poem
Page 27
“Agape” Dustin Rhodes Clay “Set of Bowls” John Brooks Clay
Page 27
“Infinity” Steven Josephson Photograph
“An Autumn Passage” Necia Clare Erickson Photograph “Beartooth Waterfall” Justin Westerhold Photograph
Page 25
“Love is Ever Changing” Caleb Schroder Pencil Drawing
Page “Czech Street Music” Tim Martin 20 Photograph
“Barricaded Bones” Fallon Niedrist Poem
Page 11
“Reflections” Sara Lambert Photograph
Page 24
Page “Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo” Page Jennifer Goodyear 16 26 Poem
“The Ultimate Escape” Brian Bohleen Photograph
Page 10
Page “Deep South” Nicole Goddard 23-24 Prose
“Vodka Ad” Nicole Lorentz Graphic
Page “Calm in Stone” Calli Nissen 15 Clay
“Fear of the Dark” Milissa Cali Poem
Page 22
“Sluice” Celyn Flory Prose
Page “Pearls” Ally Erickson 14 Photograph
“Anxiety” Brian Harrington Photograph
Page 6
“Captain Jack Sparrow Type Character” Ashley Decker Graphic
Page 28
“Jar” John Brooks Clay “Signs” Cheryl Wright Poetry
Page 28 Page 29
“Modern Olympia” John Brooks Painting
“Mega does cornflakes with or without sugar” Brandi Wright Linocut
Page 29 Page 30
“Thrum” Celyn Flory Poem “Swan Flight” Travis West Photograph
Page 30 Page 31
Page 35
Page 36
“Don’t Forget” Lindi Bassett Mixed Media
Page 33 Page 34 Page 34
Page 37
“Al Hambra Twilight” Alethea Durney Tinted Etching
Page 38 Page 39
Page 41
“Blu” Toni Snelling Photograph
“Train Motion” Amanda Grabow Photograph “Disproportionate LIfe” Heather Dimock Clay
Page 42
“Fallen King” Katie Trawick Photograph “Clothes on a Rope” Danielle Fairchild Photograph
Page 42
Pages “This Time” Kim Douglas 43-46 Prose “Young Life” Ally Erickson Photograph
Page 47 Page 47
Art:
“Calm in Stone” Calli Nissen Page 15
Poetry:
Prose:
“This Time” Kim Douglas Pages 43-47
“The Ultimate Escape” Photography: Brian Bohleeen Page 10
“Watercolor Trees” Gail Carver Photograph “Native Spirit” Andrew Rosenberger Pencil Drawing
Page 41
“The World in a Syringe” Charles Stoll Photograph
Page 38
“Aspens in the Rain” Brandi Wright Watercolor
“*” Toni Snelling Photography
“Anger” Michelle Gillatt Photograph “Yosemite Chant” Celyn Flory Poem
Page 40
“Warped Bottles” Brandi Jessup Clay
Page 37
Pages “Again” Alethea R. Durney 32-33 Prose
“Infinity Ensues” Fallon Niedrist Poem
Page 40
“Show a Little Leg” Robyn Schmidt Photograph
Page 36
“Frustrations” Trisha Lea B. Photograph “Thin Ice” Travis West Photograph
Page 31
“Melencholy Inspiration” Alethea Durney Oil
Page 35
“Yosemite Chant” Celyn Flory Page 40
“Inspiration” Colleen Sullivan Pencil Drawing
“The River Bed”
Alethea Durney A wound never healed, the river bed bleeds, seeping copper into cold depths. Water rushes, sweeping rusty blood from the throbbing, living gash. It surges frantically, icy fingers vainly seeking, cleansing, healing. But the flow cannot be stopped, the pulsing hemorrhage slowed. And so the water runs—heavy, dark— green with the lifeblood of the arms that cradle it.
“The Birds”
Kimberly Lee Graphic
4`
“Divadlo Theatre”
“Czech WC”
Tim Martin
Tim Martin
Photograph
Photograph
5
“Anxiety”
Brian Harrington Photograph
“Exaltation”
Sean Ryan Photograph
“Alone in the Dark”
felt it again—the sleeve of my coat draped across the back of the
Hunter Patrick
chair. I tried to think. I could hear muffled sounds as old spirits moved, heard the sound of a door opening and closing—the
Darkness. The stacks in the old university library were like
doorway to the stairs, maybe? Or the door to a restroom? I was
the inside of a vault with no windows when the power went
totally deaf in my right ear, so the sound did not help. With
off. Just the thought of feeling my way to the entrance was
only one ear, I had no sense of where any sound came from,
fearsome. My eyes were useless in the embryo of musty books,
much like depth of field is impaired when one is blind in one
ancient furniture. The elevator—I rode it to the second floor,
eye. Making as little sound as possible, I struggled back to my
so I knew about where it was. But I had not been in this library
feet, next to the table. Why be so quiet? “Hello?” I said. No one
before. Stairs? I had no idea.
answered. Spookiness was overtaking me again. I should have
Old souls dwelt here in books but also in flesh—retired ancients, many homeless, here to keep warm. I had noticed
said nothing. I did not want to spend the night locked in this place. The panic surged. “I have to get out of here.”
them as I came in. They looked flat, suspicion in their eyes,
Edging my way into the black, I followed the table along a
ill-fitting clothes from thrift stores, unclean. Their shuffling
shelf of books. How long had the power been off? Something
sounds seemed aimless.
uttered a threatening growl, I knew not from where. Tense,
I wanted not to touch them, a spooky lot even with the lights on. What derelicts might they be? I was wary, because I knew no one here. But there had been a gruesome murder of a female student in the auditorium just across the street the night before,
scared, I stood perfectly still. My heart
“‘Hello?’ I said. No one answered. Spookiness was overtaking me again. I should have said nothing. I did not want to spend the night locked in this place.”
headline news. The killer was still
beat in heaves, and I heard it again. “Don’t panic,” I thought to myself. “I have no idea where it is.” Again it sounded, and I recognized it as a snore. “I have to have a plan,” I thought to myself. “No one else knows I am here. Some books fell, slamming
against the marble. I tried to calm myself. “The elevator is
at large. I was different from the others in this place. I was here
somewhere to my right, between the stacks, and then to my
between semesters, researching speeches by Lord John Russell
left down the main corridor to the other side of the building.”
in the British Parliament in 1842 advocating a closer alliance
It would not be working, of course, but the stairs would be near
between England and the United States. Rarely used, those
the elevator. I started inching along again, quietly.
books stayed in one of the most remote corners of the stacks,
“I should whistle or sing,” one part of me said. Fear said to
where the smell of very old books mixed with that of cleaning
keep my mouth shut and stay quiet. I couldn’t help it that my
agents.
shoes made some sound slipping along the marble floor, and
In my frenzy to separate myself from those living specters that dwelt here, I groped for my valise, shoved my work inside,
my cane made noises as it contacted obstacles in my path. Fear breeds fear. My mouth was dry, and I ached.
and reached for my cane, which would be my eyes as I felt my
I felt something soft touch my cane and move quickly
way out. God! I did not feel the familiar curve of the handle.
away. I wanted to sit down for a moment, but by now I was far
Panic became overwhelming.
As I jumped from my chair, I
from my chair, too frightened to look for another, and equally
brushed against another next to me and heard the cane fall to
afraid I would trip and fall, or bump into something in the dark
the marble floor. Dropping to my knees, I patted the cold hard
“Stop. Look. Listen.” That old childhood lesson about crossing
marble and found it, then stopped dead, feeling a body brush
the street came to mind, worthless now. I could see nothing.
against me. Cringing, biting my lip to keep from screaming, I
Noises came from unknown places. But it was quiet, too
quiet. “God, this noise is going to drive me crazy.”
only means of self defense against whatever dangers lurked in
Now inching along between the stacks, a new sound broke
the dark.
the silence. Footsteps. Every time I took a step, something I
Falling over the table, I had made a lot of noise, noise that
imagined behind me also stepped. “Click, clump.” I tested it to
would lead them straight to me. I had to get away. Crawling and
be sure. Step. And distinctly, “Click, clump.” Maybe it was on
dragging myself now, I moved farther along the corridor.
the other side of the bookshelves. I could not tell. I was cold
Terror held my mind hostage as I continued to hear Click-
and perspiring at the same time. I stopped. The other stopped. I
Clump pursuing me. Feeling ahead with my hands, I longed
started. The other started. I thought, “It is stalking me.” I stood
for my cane, but I had to keep moving. I tried to think of other
still for a long time.
things—the dinner I was missing, my family, my car, which
At least twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of silence. I started
likely had been towed away by now, the fact that the shredder
again, and again, the “Click, clump” sounded from nearby. I
in my office was full, the ball point pen that had run out of ink
was being followed. Each step became more frightful than the
that afternoon, and always Click-Clump reminded me of my
one before.
predicament.
The end of my cane touched a wall. I turned the wrong way,
I was getting sore from crawling on the cold, marble floor,
and my face was jolted and scraped as I collided with something
and suddenly had an urgent need to pee. I fought that, and kept
solid and sharp—the cabinet
going at a half-crawl, half-drag. I had
housing a fire extinguisher. I
no idea where the restrooms were, and
turned around, sensing that I was in the wider corridor now, where there would be furniture, plants, ash trays on stands, objects to trip me, or for me to fall over. Click-Clump
still
“It was a void, inhospitable, uncaring, unyielding, cold, and I was a stranger. It wanted to consume me.”
tagged
if I found one, I would be afraid to go in. Then I would certainly be trapped. I tried to put it out of my mind, but it would not go away. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold it off,” I thought. I studied the darkness but
along. I took a few steps to the
there was no light, no enlightenment.
side, not being sure where Click-Clump was in relation to me.
It was a void, inhospitable, uncaring, unyielding, cold, and I was
Progress along the corridor was slow. I was not sure where I was
a stranger. It wanted to consume me. I had to find the doorway
now, still afraid of—afraid, scared—of what? The thing that was
to the stairs. Thinking I had to be near the elevators, fighting
following me? The dark? Tripping and falling, perhaps losing
the burning need to relieve myself, I felt along the wall, the
my cane? Being unable to find the stairs? Being locked in the
pain too intense to stand up. The first door I found was locked.
dark building for the night? I had been stumbling in the dark forever.
Click-Clump still was with me, inch-by-inch, taking a step or two as I scooted along, the steps echoing on the marble floor.
Somewhere there was a muffled cough, and somewhere else
The next door was easy to push open, but hearing running water
a throat was cleared. And I could see nothing. I longed for the
inside I knew it was a restroom. My discomfort was almost more
old cigarette smoking days, when I carried matches. I edged
than I could bear, but my fear was greater. I moved on, past the
along, made my way around some objects, and brushed against
elevator doors, and crawled to the other side of the corridor.
another shelf of books on my left. Apparently I had drifted to
There, at last, I found what surely had to be the doorway
the left, but as I moved more toward what I imagined was the
to the stairs. It did not push open easily, but it was not locked.
middle of the corridor, I missed a low table as I felt ahead with
I sat, my back against the wall, and pushed my butt up the side
my cane. I fell, my left leg throbbing where it came into contact
of the wall with my feet and legs until I was finally standing,
with the table. My cane—I felt around for my cane and could
and put my weight against the door. Suddenly it flew open. I
not locate it. I had come to think of the cane as a weapon, my
fell through, and tumbled down the stairs to a landing, wetting
my pants as I fell. I stopped, dreading the sound of Click-Clump following. As I reached the top of the next steps, Click-Clump came through the door. In the pitch black of the stairwell, expecting the entrance to the main floor to be at the bottom, I found new strength. Letting myself down with the handrail, but unable to hold my urine, I made it to the bottom, and was ready to open the door into the main floor, expecting the darkness of night, with the dim, eerie glow of light coming through the windows from outside. The sudden burst of daylight shocked my eyes as I crawled, blinking, into the hallway. A security guard by the elevators saw me, and helped me toward the door, muttering something about another damn nut case drunk in the public library. My pants were wet, my hair disheveled, my face bloody, tear streaked and scraped. I was limping badly, if not lurching. I explained that I had been trapped on the second floor in the stacks during the power outage, and was pursued by some kind of demon. He looked at me coldly. “The power was off for six minutes, buddy.” I asked about my cane. “Come back when you sober up and check with lost and found,” he said. He deposited me outside and went back in the library. I was merely a derelict seeking refuge in the stacks. I would be back, delving further into Russell’s theory of the necessity for allies.
“Avenge Me”
Jeremiah Howe Computer Illustration
“The Ultimate Escape”
Brian Bohleen Photograph
10
“Barricaded Bones”
Fallon Niedrist Plutonic lightning supersedes me and the alienonic fighting aligns. Far away deserts cleanse bones with sand not true here. What cleanses bones but hypodermic coffins with a negative charge? Lactic acid seeps between the muscle cracks to choose just one, one momentous second to seize. We here can’t contemplate the importance of a pin drop. Galactic governing gods do that divination. Yet after, looking at life, where are those occasions which set forth all beginnings? They are but a brush of fingertips upon gravestones that send shivers down to the unclean.
“Dragon Shrimp”
Danielle Fairchild Photograph
11
Lindi Bassett
“Captain Jack Sparrow Type Character”
Pencil Drawing
Ashley Decker
“The Overlook”
Graphic
12
“Sluice”
patch of cleared gravel that I have exposed. Perfect.
Celyn Flory
The disc I pull out of my surplus army bag is dented on one side—no matter—the aluminum scraped black near the
On a hot summer morning, one hour after sunrise but
rim. The work is dirty, and I doubt that the many thousands
still baking, I crunch through the tawny grass toward the river,
of men and many hundreds of women who came before me
half-naked in the heat. She smells like cool green moss and
would have cared if my pan was less that pristine and that
rainbow trout and water released from some tiny uphill dam.
my jeans were rolled up to the knee on one side and to the
It is a clean scent, stronger than that of the blackberry canes
calf on the other. They would have disapproved at the way I
where the over-ripe berries are turning into wine all on their
spread my legs to straddle the bank, unladylike for a woman in
own. This is my favorite place, one hundred yards from where
calico and gingham. But this is a different era, and although the
history was made.
technology has not changed (a gold pan is still the best tool for
The tourists are still abed or just entering the quiet state
prospecting beside a well-trained trained eye), I am a modern
park as I slip down the bank through a scraggily hedge of live
woman in jeans and a swimsuit, my skin still a little pale from
oaks, the spines of their leaves scraping across my calf. The till
spring and modesty.
race, where Sutter’s Mill once stood in her solid-legged glory,
Dipping the pan into the river, I take up a small loaf of
is a tongue of granite river rocks and willow canes jutting into
decomposed black granite, silt, iron pyrite, and plain mud. I
the water. I thread my way over to it, watching the bullet-shadows of bullfrog tadpoles writhe through the still green pool in the lee of the race. Once I am out onto the beach, with the current running swift and cold at my feet, I crouch
“I grasp a length of rivergrass and pull, the water clouding in shimmering brown, ragged tendrils of earth flowing out in ribbons.”
wash a mirror of water over this to remove the dross of leaves, the chip of a snail shell, and the fine scum of dirt that fills every river bottom. Small, unidentifiable stones follow next, then bits of shale, a small sword of slate. I pocket two polished splinters of
down onto my haunches, watching small fry swirl, pyrite
serpentine, California’s stone, as my trophy in case I don’t find
chunks glinting, tempting and mocking, and telling false tales.
the gold that I am hunting. Soon all that remains is a fine gravel
The lighter flakes of the metal breathe in the current.
and several minutes of tedious rocking and sluicing.
Absent-mindedly, I place my fingers in the icy water,
Dip, rock, sluice, curve, pan, pick out a cube of the pyrite—
watching them elongate into blue branches. Minnows nip at
“fool’s gold”—and toss it far out into the current, let the flakes
the skin if I hold still long enough, on the edges of sensation,
of granite drift away, the mud. The minnows have left me for
brown leaves on the pale blue branches of my skin.
a quieter spot, but the tourists have come, peering over my
My fingers move on their own, and with the lack of conscious
shoulder to see if I’ve found anything that glitters. They will
thought that comes from long practice, I grasp a length of river-
laugh at the fine scum of gold that collects in the bottom seam
grass and pull, the water clouding in a shimmering brown, ragged
of the pan, worth less than the time that it took to find the
tendrils of earth flowing out in ribbons. The white roots tremble
metal. The park ranger I know so well stops and peers at the
in the air, clutching silt, life. No glint of what I am looking for,
findings, nodding to himself, looking upstream. We both know
and I set the grass aside, moving on to pull out his brothers, the
that there is little gold here, the river so well-used by tourists
minnows avoiding the mud but darting into the places where
and rafters, but what does is here is an indicator of what lies up
the plants had been, looking for morsels of something smaller
the hill, in rills and streams hidden far in the mountains. The
than they are. But both the minnows and I are disappointed by
only gold here is the heap of the low mountains and the dry
the river grass, and I let the water settle before examining the
summer grass hissing in the wind.
13
“Pearls”
Ally Erickson Photograph
“Vodka Ad”
Nicole Lorentz Graphic
14
“Calm in Stone”
Calli Nissen Clay
15
“Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo”
Jennifer Goodyear Three generations of women watched as it fell off the back of a red pickup truck, wondering what it was, who couldn’t live without it, how we’d save the day. It was heavy and somewhere between feldspar and quartz on a scale of hard things. I picked it up and squeezed it between my legs and the glove compartment. Mom did a U-ey right in the middle of the intersection and we sped off around the corner. Who knew Hondas had so much horsepower? We waved and we honked. Trinity, at twelve months and two days with eyes like chocolate mini donuts warbled Happy Birthday from the backseat. We followed him into the DQ parking lot where he climbed out of a truck towing a horse trailer filled with rust and hay. He squinted into the sun. I handed him the salt lick, stuffed into a white plastic bucket. “I think you lost this.”
“Love is Ever Changing”
Caleb Schroder Pencil Drawing
“Well, fer crying out loud, I thought you girls were trying to pick me up.” Before I could move, or even knew what to say, The Man With No Name and his bucket were gone and we drove away with the gold.
16
“Cloud in the Sky”
conversations seemed one sided and his “good mornings” were
Sheridan Taylor
never greeted with anything more than a look in his direction. His only sibling was a twin brother, Lucas, with whom
For the first time during the day he was left alone in the
just last week he had shared a 16th birthday. His family wasn’t
house, and it gave him a tingling chill which traveled down his
much into birthdays, or any holidays for that matter, and this
spine. The house was cold since the late afternoon sun had been
one passed just like any other. He only remembered his and
blinded out by the tall evergreens that stretched along their yard.
his brother’s birthdays when a young woman snuck into their
He walked the twelve steps up to the second floor of the three-
room through the window in the darkness and slithered into his
story house, and in the dimness his hand felt down the scraped
brother’s bed. When Lucas asked what she was doing, she simply
flowered wallpaper to the wobbly doorknob of the second room
whispered, “Happy birthday.” By this time in the day, Lucas was eager to drive to town and
on the right. He came to the door and went through. What was left of
visit with some of his school mates who he wasn’t able to see
the sunlight was struggling through the half closed blinds in the
every day since it was summer and classes were not being held.
only window of the small room. There were two beds against
So his brother would drive away. Lucas never asked if anyone
opposite walls. One was well made, with a green wool blanket
else would like to join him.
neatly folded at the bottom. The
He never knew where his mother
other bed’s contents were strewn
would go when she was finished
about onto the floor, the pillow dangling close to the edge of the mattress. He almost picked it up to place it securely on the bed, but didn’t when he noticed
“What was left of the sunlight was struggling through the half closed blinds in the only window of the small room.”
cleaning up after lunch. She would walk from the house and be gone sometimes till late that evening, making the rest of the family sit at the table, unable or unwilling to cook their own dinner. His mother never
a dirty magazine trying to hide
asked if he would like to walk with her on her long walks, but he
itself between the mattress and the box spring. He let out a short laugh and thought only his brother would
knew he could travel along if he had wanted. Often he made bad
bring one of those into his mother’s house. Sitting on the neatly
excuses to get out of being with his mother, or any of his other
made bed, he looked across the room. His brother’s half of the
family members. He’d rather be alone, and that made it hard for
tiny room was dirty and messy with an empty beer can in the
him to make friends or to talk with his family. Before each walk,
corner among some fishing supplies; the pole leaned in the corner
his mother would stand in the kitchen and let the dirty water
of the room next to his brother’s dresser whose contents were
drain from the dishes. She wouldn’t say anything to him, and
plunging out of the half-opened drawers. His own side of the
that bothered him. She would often mumble something like,
room was tidy and untouched. There was a Spiderman poster on
“I’m gunna go now,” or “I wish I weren’t so lonely.” But he never
the wall by the bed and some K’NEX in a Rubbermaid box under
truly listened to what she was saying. He would tell her he was
it. The window was closest to his bed, so in the windowsill he
too busy to go or he had something to get done. She wouldn’t
had placed his collection of smaller toys: horses, war figurines,
reply, just hang her head low towards the steaming sink. He remembered a time when he was younger when his
cowboys. Every day at this time there was the same routine. His father
mother was happy, but these memories never floated past his
worked hard in the field and after lunch would always return to
8th birthday. Something changed in his mother that he couldn’t
work until just before dinner. He hadn’t had a real conversation
pin down. His parents drew further apart, and often he would
with his father in years, partly due to his father’s tiring schedule
catch his mother crying downstairs in the dark when everyone
and mostly to his own selfishness and stubborn disposition. All
else had long gone to bed.
17
Later that night, when his family had returned from their
thought there were tears welling up in his father’s eyes.
separate endeavors, they sat around a long wooden table. His
“The doctor’s on his way. She says it’s worse today than
mother looked strained and tired; she looked old. She coughed,
most.” The three sat at the table and didn’t touch the steaming
and it sounded as if her lungs were gasping for their last breath.
oatmeal on the stove. Time passed and the doctor arrived. His
He could hear the mucus streaming up her throat with every
dad led him up the stairs to his mom’s room.
plunge of air, and her face turned red with lack of oxygen. His
While the boys waited in the living room, he glanced up at
father looked at his wife with worry, but once the coughing
the pictures on the wall, one being of him and Lucas sometime
ceased, she shook her head as if to say, “I’m ok. It’s over now.”
before their seventh birthday. They held each other in a hug
His stomach wasn’t agreeing with him that night, and he
and smiled for the camera. The scar was not present on Lucas’s
wasn’t able to eat the potato soup his mother had cooked all
face as the accident was still to happen. Along the mantle were
day. His father didn’t say anything to him about this, just glared
his brother’s high school pictures. There was one his father must
in his direction. Lucas was full of talk and spoke mostly about
have taken of his mother, who seemed to be laughing and happy.
this girl he had met. He assumed it was the one who crawled
He often looked at this picture and wondered where that woman
up into their window, but possibly it may not have been. All
had gone. His mother was never happy anymore, especially since
of them were glad Lucas was starting to date girls. There was
their accident, and he wondered if it was because of Lucas’s scar
a long scar stretching across Lucas’s cheek, which he was self conscious about. He got the scar after a bad accident the boys had been in when they were about seven or eight. The family spent an afternoon canoeing in the
or if she somehow felt responsible for
“He watched from the couch, unwilling to move, and for once he felt sorrow and sadness; he felt human.”
creek close to their house when
the close call that day. His mother’s coughing was the only sound keeping the boys from pure silence, and once or twice Lucas stood up and walked to the front window and looked out among the trees. The morning sun was becoming
a canoe had flipped over, and
blocked by the tall evergreens, and the
they boys had been trapped underneath it for some time, all the
lasting light came in dusty lines through the window.
while been drug through the current. His brother’s face had been
Maybe he had fallen asleep on the faded couch, waking with
ripped by an underlying tree limb, and he received over fifteen
the silence. He listened for the coughing but nothing came. Lucas
stitches for the cut. He could see the scar now when he would
still stood at the window, and even he noticed the strangeness
glance at Lucas. It glistened in the light, but its visibility was
in the moaning of the windblown trees, but no coughing. Lucas
fading with the boy’s age.
took three large steps towards the bottom of the stairs before he
He lay in his bed that night, and with the summer heat,
stopped. The doctor stepped from the room on the second floor
he didn’t use the blanket, but kept it folded at the bottom of
and quietly closed the door. He paused there for a second before
the bed. He could hear his brother breathing heavily across the
walking down the steps, Lucas looking at him for answers; a tear
room and knew he was asleep. The coughing coming down the
welled up in his eye.
hallway was unbearable to hear, and it kept him up most the
“I’m sorry, son,” the doctor said. “I’m sorry.” He hurried
night. In the morning, he was surprised not to see his mother
away from Lucas and out the front door. Lucas took a heavy seat
at the breakfast table. Instead, his father had prepared oatmeal
on the second stair, then put his face in his hands and cried. His
and toast. Before he could ask where Mother was, his brother
father walked down the steps and sat next to Lucas. He watched
spoke up.
from the couch, unwilling to move, and for once he felt sorrow
“Is Mom not feeling well again this morning?”
and sadness; he felt human. He struggled to stand from the
His father was slow in replying. He couldn’t tell, but he
couch, and he walked to where his father and twin brother were
18
holding each other on the steps in a heap of tears and pain. He stepped past them and up the steps in a fluid, floating motion. Upon reaching his parents’ door, he went through. The smell was one he recognized but was unable to grasp. It reminded
He had never been asked if he would like to go, and even if he had, he would have said no. But today, something felt strange. He dug in his mind for some excuse to get out of going, but couldn’t find anything. So he nodded.
him of something, something . . . what? He stood for a moment
His mother set down the towel she had been drying her hands
trying to recollect what the smell meant. It smelled familiar. He
with and pushed open the front door and held it long enough
walked slowly to her and took up her hand, but it was cold and
for him to go through. They walked down the path through
he let it go quickly. Her eyes were closed, the sheets pulled up to
the field he had seen his mother take every day. He followed
her chest with one hand. Though she had looked old the night
her cautiously, not knowing what she was up to. Ahead of him,
before, she looked older now.
she skipped and picked flowers along the way. They entered a
The smell was becoming too strong for him, and his mind
wooded area still in view of the house, and he kept looking back.
was too busy trying to find where it came from, so he stepped
The path led to a clearing where his mother stopped. He had
outside the room. He could hear his brother crying in their
been shielding his eyes from the sun and put down his hand as
room as he passed, but his father wasn’t on the stairs any longer. He took a seat on the couch and watched the hours pass by on the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. When he woke, the morning sun was pushing past the trees into
“He rubbed his eyes and entered the kitchen, but it took him a moment to take in what he saw. His mother, beautiful and vibrant, the morning sun herself, was at the sink.”
the living room. He sat up from
he stepped into the forest. He walked to his mother who stood looking at a tall slab of concrete. “This is what I wanted to show you,” his mother said as he grew near. He didn’t look at the gravestone. “You’re dead, Mother. I saw you yester— . . .“ “Yes,” she said slyly. She looked
the couch. He must have fallen asleep. He could hear someone
up at him.
in the kitchen, so he stood and stretched. There would have to
“This is yours, then. Father must have put it here this
be some adjustments since the loss of his mother. He rubbed his
morning.” He looked now at the dirt around the stone. Leaves
eyes and entered the kitchen, but it took him a moment to take
had gathered behind it and grass was growing all around. He
in what he saw. His mother, beautiful and vibrant, the morning
tried to convince himself, but he couldn’t believe it. His mother
sun herself, was at the sink, letting the dirty water rush down
smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder before she walked
the drain. The steam rose to her face and gathered to a drop of
on the path back to the house.
perspiration on her forehead. He was confused and had never felt as close to his mother as he did then.
He stepped from the side of the gravestone and looked at the writing. He knew what he would find there. His stomach
“It’s a beautiful day,” his mother said. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk.”
twisted with the thought, and it took all he had not to run from this place. His name stared at him from the block writing deep
“Mother?” he asked, stepping closer. The wrinkles between his eyes pressed together. “But yesterday, you were sick,
in the concrete. The span of his life lasted just eight years. He had died there on the river that day in the canoe.
Mother.”
He looked up through the tops of the trees and squinted
“Yes, I know, but today I feel much better.” She looked at
against the morning sun. There was a fluffy cloud in the sky,
him. “Would you like to walk with me today? I’d sure like it if
and he watched it until he couldn’t see it anymore, and it finally
you’d join me. There’s something I want to show you.”
drifted out of sight.
19
“Czech Street Music”
Tim Martin Photograph
“Infinity”
Steven Josephson Photograph
20
“Cosmic Son”
I can’t see the path I need to take. I feel society left me bobbing in its wake.”
Erik Lintula For seven years the old man sat In the park on the bench with his hands in his lap. With open eyes, he roamed the fields And his open ears they did reveal, Worlds which mortals can’t comprehend, For the old man had made amends. He had forgiven himself for the lives he took, He had forgiven the years he had been a crook. Forgiven his wife for taking his kids, Forgiven himself for breaking all sins. Forgiven all the poor choices he had made, Forgiven the false prayers he had prayed. And even though the old man had little And his bones were terribly brittle, He never seemed too distraught For money, family, or flight of thought. Then one day a young man came Moping along as if it were all the same. And he noticed the man smiling, Which to the young man was quite beguiling. So he approached the old man, Cleared his throat, then began. “Old man, I have trouble.” “You and everyone else, young fellow. Sorry, please don’t think of me as rude. Sit and tell me the thoughts you stewed.” So the old man moved aside. The young man sat and swallowed his pride.
The old man crossed his hands behind his head, Thought deeply, then said. “Young man, you have many worries, And life just seems to fly at you in flurries. I know because I was once this way. But if it gets you, you’ll never live a single day. The old man paused, as he often did. Then began with the glee of a kid. “All those people before you Have the feeling life is askew. And if you asked them why it’s this way, their answer would be full of dismay. They would tell you of things they don’t own, The places they’ve never flown, The women they’ve never laid, The time they didn’t make the grade. None would ever say they have enough. They always want more stuff. They fear, love, and hate. They’re just self-made convicts carrying weight.” The young man felt crossed. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m lost.” “That’s quite alright; it’s hard to get. For some my knowledge is hard to admit. So I’ll just skip my lecture and get to the end. True happiness isn’t hard to comprehend. The secret to everything lies within. When you want nothing, you win.” “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. The life you speak of seems kind of bland.” “The path to happiness has already begun. Just sit and learn, my cosmic son.”
“I’m at the beginning of my life And I’m filled with strife.
21
“Fear of the Dark”
Milissa Cali Teal water rushes over gray stones under a bridge where I walk alone, and fills a small pond with regret, its ending a cement man-made net. Through the darkness I hear the bells toll, whispering of secrets shadows do hold. Over the slope my slow walk of doom into the dark street where phantoms loom. Dim fluorescents light my eerie path, reflecting windows of darkened glass. Lamp lit fingers probe the unknown, Seeking my sanctuary, home.
“Animal Shelter”
Blake Hendrix Photograph
22
“Deep South”
the thousands, gray and rustling, and with them spiny catfish,
Nicole Goddard
and speckled trout with fangs like rattlesnakes, and blue crab by the dozens, which are hard to throw back, for there is nothing
My mother’s family is Cajun as jambalaya. She was too,
better to eat with fresh shrimp. Then there is the trash to be
once, but Montana caught her throat like a wild thing and
sorted out and tossed aside—clams, stonecrabs, and puffer fish
refused to turn loose. She learned to work horses and watched
that can blow up like balloons. The gulls know when the nets
her children do the same—waiting, feeling, watching—much
are lifted; they swarm the boat in shrill white clouds, creating
like catching deep-water fish. Before she drifted north and
thunder, diving for the creatures stirred in the mud. They
traded stone for water, my mother worked the shrimp boats
will eat anything but are never satisfied. The humans do not
with my grandfather. They did not stray offshore but hunted
begrudge them the trash. The shrimp are the prize, packed in
inland in the tentacles of Gulf that reach northward towards
the coolers with bags of ice, so fresh that life can be tasted in
the river—a web of tangled waterways, of whistling marsh grass
them. The gulls are entitled to whatever’s left behind.
that waves the wind by on its path to the sea. No landmarks.
The hunters return and herald the start of festivity. “Let’s
The coasts are a place to lose yourself. There are men who do,
get together and cook something,” they say. “There’s a boil
who are so in love with the old ways that they retreat into the
in Cut Off tonight.” If the neighbors stare hungrily over the fence, call them over. It’s May, and
bayous and sit and weave their nets in solitude with only the egrets for company. May is the shrimping season, and
my
mother
recalls
the
monotony. When she speaks of it, I catch a hint of accent in her
“There is a smell to the waterways, of things decaying and things renewing, of the remains of fish and the wet, musty scent of scavenger birds.”
the shrimping is good. There’s plenty for all. It’s a ritual. Family comes from down the street and down the bayou, from Larose and Galliano and even New Orleans, lured by the promise of food and company. Someone brings
voice. Her father would wake her
the newspaper—it serves instead of
long before dawn and haul out to the levee where the shrimp boats lined the docks like a fleet of
plates. Everything is shared, one table, one meal. There’s no
fledgling clipper ships. Their booms pricked the rosy sky, masts
need for utensils because you can’t peel shrimp with a fork.
with sails yet to be unfurled. Great nets hung like seaweed, still
The Montana grandchildren are overwhelmed. We’ve never
damp from the day before, and the gulls would cling to the
seen seafood in such abundance; at home it is rare and must
ropes and shriek for leftovers.
be rationed. The cousins are amused by us. “Don’t you know
There is a smell to the waterways, of things decaying and
how to eat in Montana?” they ask. They grow weary of seeing
things renewing, of the remains of fish and the wet, musty
us struggle and are soon peeling our shrimp for us. “Like this...
scent of scavenger birds. The hurricane season drags up strange
pinch the tail, twist off the legs and the head comes with it.
things from offshore. The carcasses of countless ocean creatures
They do it without looking down. We are impressed and strive
are packed in with the grass on the banks, tangled in the roots,
to do better.
making the mud rich. Who knows what lies beneath the water?
The longer we stay, the more I notice changes in my
The dolphins know—when the shrimp boats are active, they
brothers. I mention something to my grandmother; she
gambol inland, snatching the scraps that are thrown from the
chuckles that the Cajun is coming out in them. They bare more
deck. They are nosy; they can be lured within reach by a shrimp
skin in the humidity, which causes them to darken. They both
or a fish head and allow themselves to be stroked by yearning
have my mother’s skin; I merely burn, turn livid like a crawfish
fingertips.
in a boil pot. They begin to wear cut-offs, something I rarely see.
Shrimp nets do not discriminate. They snatch shrimp by
They speak more of fishing than horsemanship, begin to use the
23
slang. Montana has no accent; the dialect of South Louisiana is
It’s a flurry of color, of smell and sound. Everything is red,
hardly understandable to untrained ears. But I hear my brothers
or orange, rich and fulfilling colors. There is steam and spice,
adopt it, drawling their vowels, skipping their R’s, turning their
overwhelming the nostrils, and beneath it the heavy, fishy scent
Y’s into Ah’s, and I wonder if my own voice is changing.
of the Gulf. The accents are often too thick to be understood;
The eating and talking lasts long enough to clear the table.
French is flung with joyful abandon. The older ones, two and
Stomachs swell, but there’s forever room for one more mahogany
even three generations old, do not consider English their
shrimp. Once only shells are left, they are swept aside and
primary language. They are purists, and consider the culture
replaced with cards.
their own. They will cook anything that moves or swims or can
The game is pedro—“The chess of card games,” says my
be pulled from the ground. They spin flashing stories, often
uncle—four players, two teams, endless rivalry, gusts of hot
too embellished to believe, but they swear truth. Ask anyone
air: “He plays good when he’s got the cards.” “Who dealt
from Cut Off, they’ll tell you. Eddie was there—ask him. They
this mess?” Aces are valuable, fives more so. “That was a bold
are more fluent in French; their English sounds French, but it
move. Let’s see you back it up.” Games are good-natured, tight,
is Cajun French, the purest form, with less delicacy and more
competitive, and last long into the night. What does it matter?
flavor. This far south, everything is flavored. This is Louisiana,
Time is not of essence, but of leisure.
and it fills your senses, leaving you all but wholly satisfied.
“Reflections”
Sara Lambert Photograph
24
“Beartooth Waterfall”
Justin Westerhold Photograph
“An Autumn Passage”
Necia Clare Erickson Photograph
25
“I walk along a stream”
Milissa Cali I walk along a stream To hear its water calling As it rushes over pebbles And evil floats away. I wander through the darkness With old boots in one hand, Afraid of shadows lurking, Guilt heavy on my mind. Phantoms whisper in the trees Of yet another maiming, With trailing specks of blood And tracks freshly laid. Rain begins to shower As clouds thunder my name. I turn and change directions So peace can yet remain.
“Essence of the Succubus”
Kendrick Benander Clay and Taxidermy
26
“Agape”
Dustin Rhodes Clay
“Set of Bowls”
John Brooks Clay
27
“Signs”
Cheryl Wright Sparrows scrabble the road like tumbling leaves blown by wind laced with allusions to snow. Clouds drape the horizon, curtains of shimmering melancholy hiding the chill of desolation. I am not ready. Gathering red globes of tomatoes, vivid with summer’s warmth, I turn my face to a gust as crisp and tart as the first bite of a freshly picked apple. Too soon this taste of winter. I am not ready. Skeins of geese stitch the sky with ever southward patterns above white-skirted peaks. Take me with you, I want to shout. The bleak comes too soon and stays too long. Always, I am not ready.
“Jar”
John Brooks Clay
28
“Modern Olympia”
John Brooks Painting
“Mega does cornflakes with or without sugar”
Brandi Wright Linocut
29
“Thrum”
Celyn Flory Remaining here for a year at the forty-fifth, I remember: The Farallon Islands are blades that cut the horizon and wound the sun. She bleeds a bronze trail into the water at high-mark tide. Her blood stains the stinking pylons of the docks into beauty. Mussels open tiny mouths to swallow every last honey drip of her. The girls in the surf and the kelp-brown lovers move to the same rhythm. The sun breathes in pleasure, fever-red in her furious dying. Gulls cry with her cries, beating wings thrumming along with her heart. The sea lions moan and crash their supple bodies chest to chest.
An old woman bows with the dune-grass to smile into the dusk. As she looks she remembers the summers of her own hot-blood girlhood. The filly legs of the surf-girls pound the muscle-hard sand. Their feet know fury, their innocent bodies already know the sway. Lovers, oblivious to all, rolling about like seals in the cooling sands. Hands clasp everywhere, warm skin to cool grit. I stood on the cliff rejoicing, my spirit cast in a taut line off the fault. I was born in a land of rivers and tides that flow to the west. Living this side of the continental divide is killing me.
“Swan Flight”
Travis West Photograph
30
“Frustrations”
“Thin Ice”
Trisha Lea B.
Travis West
Photograph
Photograph
31
“Again”
trying to become invisible through sheer willpower. The voice
Alethea R. Durney
in my head shifts from cajoling to harsh. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you signed up for the class—now
Twilight is fast approaching. Tendrils of fog steal upward
quit being a pansy and just go for it. I mentally shake my head
from the valley, wrapping soft, cold fingers around the low hills
“No,” the sick feeling in my gut working its way through my
and rising to mingle with swollen clouds. The dull steel of the sky
entire body. Come on! Sooner or later you’re ‘gonna have to read
shifts to black as darkness creeps toward the horizon. It is almost
in front of people, and it’ll only get harder the longer you put it off.
completely dark when we turn from the wet wooden deck and
Yeah, I know, but…No “buts”—besides, it’ll only take a minute and
migrate slowly into the long, low upper room. The atmosphere
then you can relax. But—uhh—fine! I take a deep, shaky breath,
inside is warm and comfortable—not only physically, but also
and tentatively raise my hand. Twenty-odd pairs of eyes swivel
heavy with the emotional warmth that camaraderie affords. I
toward me, and instantly regret hits me. I didn’t think it was
quickly follow the rest of the class in removing my mud-caked
possible for me to feel more sick or anxious, but I was wrong. I
shoes and shrugging out of my heavy coat, then pad across the
want to sink straight through my chair, through the floor, the
carpet to sink gratefully into the welcoming arms of a cushioned
rafters, the insulation and drywall, down to the other room
chair. The others follow suit, until we are all clustered around
where I can bolt back to my bunk and contemplate my own
two folding tables, sketchbooks
stupidity. But try as I might, I can’t
open,
achieve that vaporous state of being. I
writing
or
drawing
implements poised to capture light, movement, or thought. Almost
directly
across
from me, a greying brown head
“The dull steel of the sky shifts to black as darkness creeps toward the horizon.”
am still firmly cemented to my chair, and there are still nearly fifty eyeballs staring at me expectantly. Blood, hot and heavy, rushes to
lifts, and a man speaks, clearly,
my face. I can practically feel the heat
kindly. The gentle hum of voices
radiating from my cheeks, and I’m certain that at this moment cherries,
settles to an expectant hush, his invitation reverberating through the sudden stillness. I drop my
tomatoes, beets—even a livid Elmer Fudd—have got nothing
gaze, not wanting to meet a set of eyes that would compel me
on my complexion. My heart is beating like bad rock music
to speak. My throat feels suddenly constricted, and I swallow,
on fast-forward—a staccato, Alvin and the Chipmunks-like
twice, trying to force the lump out of my air passage.
rhythm that I’m sure is about to pound straight through my
Across the table, a dark-haired woman begins to read—
chest cavity. I flip my sketchbook open hurriedly, focusing on
saving me, at least for the moment. The ability to breathe
my own handwriting, though I know the lines by heart. My
returns with a rush, and I gratefully suck in a lungful of air as
words fly out with a rush. It’s strange, hearing them spoken
the woman’s voice rises and falls rhythmically, the cadence of
aloud. My voice sounds strangled and breathless, even to my
her words washing through the room. For a few brief moments
own ears. Of course, this isn’t entirely surprising, since I feel
I am able to lose myself in the power of poetry, the beauty of
like I am being strangled, and the invisible hands around my
words. Then her voice stops, and once again I am left choking
neck feel as though they are squeezing the breath straight out
for air as searching eyes look eagerly for the next speaker.
of my body. There! I’m done. A giddy wave of relief sweeps over
My stomach twists sickeningly, hard knuckles once again
me, and the beginnings of a smile twitch at the corners of my
crushing my windpipe from within. I fidget nervously with the
mouth. Then, from the shadows at the far end of the table, a
edge of my sketchbook, hands clumsy and damp with sweat.
man speaks, and with a single word plunges me into an even
Come on girl, you can do this! The internal pep-talk does little
greater state of agitation than before. “Again!” What?! Tell me I
to abate my rising fears, and I sink even lower into my chair,
didn’t just hear that. He can’t honestly expect me to subject myself
32
to that again—can he? I look questioningly into his eyes, hoping he’s just playing some sort of cruel joke. But, though kindness and compassion are there, there isn’t a trace of jest in his wise, unwavering gaze. My heart plummets, but I steel my nerves and force the words out again. And once more a premature feeling of relief hits me, only to be displaced by the soft command: “Again…slower.” Flustered and uncertain, I repeat the few lines of poetry, lines that with every repetition sound flatter; what had seemed priceless and inspired now sinking into inane worthlessness. Now the man with the sandy-grey hair picks up the chorus—“Again!” You’ve got to be kidding me! What is up with these people? Can’t they see how difficult this is for me? Again! That single word is like an iron fist slamming into my stomach, a relentless, painful drumming that pounds ruthlessly through my brain. On the verge of something—I’m not sure whether it’s panic or anger or tears—I lift my eyes from the pencil scratches in front of me and look around the room. My gaze is once again met by eyes. All around me, of myriad colours and shapes, they hold a variety of messages. Some are curious, others encouraging, some challenging. Out of all those eyes, three intense pairs speak vividly, searing themselves forever into my memory. One is solemn, not unkind, lined with canyons of wisdom and experience; another is gentle but firm—pushing me, challenging me; and the last silent but kind, supportive, mutely encouraging. Looking at those eyes, something finally clicks in my head. It’s not about how hard this is for me, it’s not about comfort. It’s about forcing me beyond my discomfort and into a realm until now unknown, unexplored. With a new realization, a new confidence, I raise my chin just a little bit higher and speak once more. Yes, I’m still a little
“Don’t Forget”
Lindi Bassett Mixed Media
scared, nervous, uncertain. But thanks to those who would not allow me to rest with a single recitation, who would not let me stay silent and comfortable; thanks to that one terrifying, liberating word, I know that I will have the courage to write, to speak, to try…Again.
33
“Aspens in the Rain”
Brandi Wright Watercolor
“Al Hambra Twilight”
Alethea Durney Tinted Etching
34
“Infinity Ensues”
Fallon Niedrist The edges struggle and struggle for breath, and then slow death as they wade out and fade alone. The final tone denotes infinity. Believability is the sensible thing to grow. And snow covers all that was once green and graceful. Now there’s a handful and aces and blurry faces. Blow back to long ago when days were eternal. Because what is tomorrow? And there is no forever.
“Melancholy Inspiration”
Alethea Durney Oil
35
“Show a Little Leg”
Robyn Schmidt Photograph
“*”
Toni Snelling Photography
36
“Warped Bottles”
Brandi Jessup Clay
“Blu”
Toni Snelling Photograph
37
“The World in a Syringe”
Charles Stoll Photograph
“Train Motion”
Amanda Grabow Photograph
38
“Disproportionate Life”
Heather Dimock Clay
39
“Yosemite Chant”
Celyn Flory Your cold runs from my shoulders, the night like water, stars falling from the cedar strings of the earth lodge. They sink deep into the pool of my iris, so that I may find the constellations of home with one eye. The other will look forward into the world that my hands can touch. The ponderosas–my fathers— sway and breathe dreams, and the currents of faraway shores into my veins, so that I will remember to exhale the tide even under inland skies. Your granite chorus sings to me, the pale child with yellow hair, as I listen to my mother’s throaty chant rise with the curl of smoke from her fire. The stars swallow the trail as a gift from her earth-cracked hands.
“Anger”
Michelle Gillatt Photograph
I do not share the shade of her skin, or the jet-and-ashes of her hair, but I am her daughter, for the same river-map of the Merced courses in our wrists and veins. Western child, horizon child, the reeds beneath me rattle to remind my bones how to dance.
40
“Watercolor Trees”
“Native Spirit”
Gail Carver
Andrew Rosenberger
Photograph
Pencil Drawing
41
“Fallen King”
Katie Trawick Photograph
“Clothes on a Rope”
Danielle Fairchild Photograph
42
“This Time”
unguarded, but I gain no new insight as to why I smoke or
Kim Douglas
anything else interesting or useful. I have been through this kind of self-exploration before, and my former enthusiasm is
The last customer, and locking up for the night is rushed
waning, a usual scenario. Midway through, the author wants
so that I can get to the grocery store. Luckily, it’s near by, just
me to write about my dad, about my relationship with him.
across the street. On the walk over, I am tense with speculation,
I fan through the archives of my past and find feelings more
wondering if it will be there. Earlier in the day, another client told
than pictures, feelings that I can’t identify, hidden away before
me how she quit smoking; she found a paperback at the market,
maturity could name them, but I know they are there. The
its premise intriguing; one smokes to cover up unresolved
memories flicker across my brain like a scratchy silent movie,
conflicts, problems from the past that, once unraveled, sorted
mechanical actions with exaggerated, painted smiles and dark,
out and dealt with, could end one’s need to smoke. She made
furrowed brows; there is no talking, just suppressed quiet, and
it sound easy, my method of choice for handling difficult
tension. The book instructs me to write about my worst memory
issues, and I know that I am more interested in the sorting and
of him. This causes me little concern; there are no episodes that
unraveling than the giving up smoking, but realize this could
stand out as unusual or terrible, just the feelings. I wish I could
kill two birds with one stone. I need that book.
get rid of these feelings. I set the book aside to wait for the right
I’ve purchased many “howto” books and magazines before, wooed by their titles and promise of change—how to be happy, how to be a better mom, how to get along with everyone. The subject of my growing library reveals the ongoing search to end
“I lay my head back against the recliner, my eyes transfixed on a spot on the ceiling, and after awhile I see a different scene, a different year, a different place.”
moment. This might take some time. I know when I am ready, and I arm myself with a cup of coffee, a new pack of cigarettes, and an empty ash tray and head for seclusion in the farthest room of the basement. I open my manual to the right page, again instructing me to write about the worst experience with my dad. It
the restless boxing match within me. So far, little has changed but there is always hope, hope
hasn’t changed its mind; it really wants to know. I lay my head
that burns so fervently at times, I wish I could snuff it out.
back against the recliner, my eyes transfixed on a spot on the
The book rack is by the entrance of the store, and it takes several rotations before I finally see the one that I am after.
ceiling, and after awhile I see a different scene, a different year, a different place.
It’s there, waiting for me. The excitement builds as I read the
It’s green and ugly, the ugliest car this nine-year-old ever
back cover and flip through some pages. I spot the questions
laid eyes on. He shows it to me with restrained pride, and again
instantly, questions that will ask me what I think or feel. This
I have that uncomfortaaable feeling that he wants my approval,
cinches the deal, and I pay for the book. There is an embarrassing
that subtle search of his that looks for something from me, and
enjoyment in answering these probing questions that no one
I am never sure of what I am supposed to say or do. If I stumble
else seems to want to know; or maybe I decide they don’t get to
upon the right reaction, his shoulders relax, and I know that
know. But if an “expert” asks me the question, it must be safe to
I have chosen well, but this doesn’t happen often. I wonder
tell. The thought, “Surely, they listen and won’t laugh,” recedes
how he could feel such enamor over this boat of a car past its
into my wildest imagination, and I know that only I will see
prime, a ’50s Cadillac parading like it belongs here in the ’60s.
the answers.
Dad is waiting for my response. “What do you want me to
I read and respond to the queries of each chapter, placing
say?” bounces off of every nerve, choking any words and I say
my time above household tasks and motherly obligations,
nothing. I know this disappoints him, but I can’t help it; the car
impelled by what will come next. My answers are honest and
is ugly. It stretches out between us like a green shark, tail fins
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prominent and ghastly, signaling its ominous presence. I cringe
up a trail for the door marked “MEN,” while Debbie sits on a
at the thought of being seen in it.
boulder, bent over, head down. I take a quick walk on the hard
As I focus back on the ceiling, I am puzzled at the
packed trail to the chain link fence that guards the edge of the
remembrance of the green Caddie and I humor myself, “So
canyon and gaze down at the massive outpour of mountain
that’s the reason I smoke . . . that damn, ugly car.” But the
water, melted from higher up and flowing with enough volume
comedy doesn’t ease the tightness that lurks inside, and I light
and noise to impress any who stop for a view. I have been here
up another cigarette and watch the smoke waft into the sunlight
numerous times, and a quick trip suffices. I head back to the car,
that pierces the narrow window. I drift back to the Cadillac and
and Dad comes down the gravel path, still glowing. He turns
a drive up the mountain. Again, I am nine or ten when Dad,
to check on Debbie, and I open the door on his side to get in,
my friend Debbie and I travel to the annual Elks Picnic. The
but the small glass bottle of insect repellant on the front seat
ride is smooth, as the green shark’s heavy body sways us left,
makes me stop. The lid lies separate, contents soaked up by the
then right, up the winding road, and it’s not as horrible being
seat in an oily circle the size of my hand. Dark ominous clouds
inside as looking at the outside. Given prior warning that my
brew in the back of my young mind as I pick up the bottle,
friend is prone to motion sickness, we stop along the way to let
and Dad meets me at the door. My mind’s eye closes tight, as
her nausea subside. Dad’s patience and concern for her calms
my breathing quickens and I shut out the vision and open my
me, too. My mind shifts back to the basement. The cigarette between my fingers calms me as I draw its smoke over my throat and inhale deeply, and I watch the smoke swirl the length of the room towards the window, as if being drawn onward and upward by
eyes to the safety of basement walls,
“The ride is smooth, as the green shark’s heavy body sways us left, then right, up the winding road and it’s not as horrible being inside as looking at the outside.”
a window, a recliner and a book. I quickly light another cigarette before I pick up the pen lying next to a tablet of blank paper, and I know that this is it; this is the worst experience I ever have with my dad. I begin to write as I face him that day, and I sense thunder rumbling inside of me as a flash of
some compelling force, and somehow I know that something is
lightning warns of more to come. With that small, heavy glass
being drawn out of me, and I go back to that day.
bottle in hand, I gesture more than speak that somehow the lid
I smile as the two little girls enjoy the picnic, and watch as
came off and it spilled on the seat; I don’t know how. His eyes
we splash and play in the creek, and I can hear the rush of the
reveal that he knows what he’ll see before he even looks, and he
water all over again, as we whoop and holler our delight, carried
quickly ducks his head inside. His body heaves a slow sigh, and
in the arms of the current, down ripples and mini-rapids that
I watch his profile withdraw from the car, his mouth closed, jaw
dump us into swirling pools, signaling the end of the ride, and
clenched, nostrils flared, the rosy glow gone. His eyes refuse to
back up the stream we go for another, and another, as many
meet mine as he takes the bottle, turns towards the falls, and
rides as we want, until we are spent and satisfied and giddy with
with two quick steps, and a heft of his gut, he throws it with
fun. I can feel the innocent joy, as sunlight shimmers through
all that he has. I swear I hear his shoulder snap as that bottle
the aspen trees, off the water and onto our faces. As I sit in the
sails over the walkway, the fence, the rock wall, and maybe
recliner while I relive that August afternoon, I am aware that it
even Shell Falls, but I’m not sure as a fuzzy haze speckles over
was a best day of my life.
my vision and a roar in my ears seals out every sound around
We’re tired and ready to go when the picnic is over. Dad’s
me. This sightless, soundless moment gives my ten-year-old
face is rosy, and I know that he, too, has had a good time, and
reasoning some time to solve my dilemma. Earthquake! That’s
he brings along a part of his day, a can of Coors. On the way
what I need, an earthquake. My brother had terrified me with
down the mountain, we pull over at Shell Falls, and Dad heads
his lurid description of a huge crack in the ground, and as he
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clapped his hands together, he sneered with glee of how it
enough sense left in him to get around the three hairpin curves
would swallow me in one big gulp, and I hoped to never, ever
instead of sending us over the edge, and each turn is outlined
be near one, but now I change my mind, and oh, do I need and
in one single screech of tires. Coming out of the last curve tells
long to be swallowed up completely. Please open up. Please,
me our ordeal is about to end; just a few more miles, just a
please somebody help me. Please let there be an earthquake
few more winding bends along the creek and we will be done
or something—anything—to get me out of here, but nothing
with the mountain and out of this nightmare. Sunlight pierces
happens, and we all get in the car. I ride in front with Dad.
the windows as the last of the canyon walls fade, and I breathe
Debbie is in the back, and I think I should warn her that we
openly. My relief is tremendous.
are in trouble, but the slam of the gear shift and the spraying
I am reluctant to turn around and look at Debbie. I have to
of gravel across the parking lot, tells her first. And down the
sit up and lean over the seat to find her; she is crouching down
mountain we go, and I am still pleading inside, help me, help
on the floor like a frog, her knees up around her ears, her fingers
me, somebody help me. I squeeze my eyes shut as the Cadillac’s
splayed on the floor, clutching to hold on. As she looks up at
tires scrape around the sharp curves, and I hang onto the door
me, I gaze down into the watery pools of her pale blue eyes,
with both hands as the car slides right, and I’m pressed hard
drenched in pitiful resignation of a captured animal, alone and
against the armrest and window as we skid to the left. Down
unprotected. I am filled with humiliation for her plight, and
and down we go, and I swear he never takes his foot off the gas, just a steady race and screaming tires. Thirty years later and sitting in a recliner does not keep me from being back in that wretched car. The tears start to flow down
“As she looks up at me, I gaze down into the watery pools of her pale blue eyes, drenched in pitiful resignation of a captured animal, alone and unprotected.”
my face, but I can’t stop to
I don’t know how to help her. I say nothing. Even though we are now on the straight, lowland highway, I still write heavily in the notebook, my anger spurring me on, and I stagger to think that after all these miles, he is still in a rage over a stain on the seat of his stupid, ugly green car. Dad increases
wipe them away because the words are coming strong, and I
the speed of the Cadillac and overtakes a vehicle that is in his
write as fast and furious as the Cadillac that careens down the
way, and although cars are approaching on the left, there is
mountain, and I am panicked and so very angry. And on we go.
enough time to pass. But there is not enough time to get around
I never look over at him because I’m afraid to open my eyes, but
the next one, and he won’t slow down, and there is not enough
I feel him there at the wheel, his jaw still clenched, nostrils still
time for me to plan a way out of this dilemma, and my breathing
flared, and I swear he hasn’t blinked his eyes since we left that
stops, and my eyes grow wide and fixed as I watch the back end
stupid bottle at Shell Falls. And the cries keep echoing inside,
and tail lights of the car up ahead loom closer and closer, and
louder and more desperate, “Please stop, please don’t be mad
then, something incredible happens. Dad simply pulls off to
anymore, I’m sorry it spilled and I made you drive this way,”
the right in one easy motion, like it was a normal thing to do, as
but I say nothing. I want to stomp my legs and pound them
if we are merely exiting the highway. He applies more gas to the
with my fists and scream out my agony, but I do nothing. I
Caddie, and we swoop down into the barrow pit, tires furiously
want to turn around and tell Debbie that I am sorry she has to
pummel over the bumps and tufts of grass, sending rocks and
be here, but I have to sit tight and hang on, lest I get thrown
dirt ricocheting underneath, but inside it’s still a smooth ride as
into Dad and mess things up more than they already are.
that heavy beast glides along, nose to nose with the car up on
The approaching switchbacks warn of the end, the
the highway. I look to my left; maybe they didn’t notice us and
impossibility of maneuvering at this speed. The sudden slowing
we can slip on by, but they notice. A man is driving, a woman
of the motor and quick, forward jolt assures me that there is just
in front, two kids in the back; a normal family, probably out for
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a Sunday drive, and they gawk down at us like we are a bunch of
years. As it ebbs its way up, it brings laughter all the way from
freaks escaped from the funny farm, and I am so ashamed that I
my toes, while I ride one last time in that car and the laughter
could die. I wonder who they are and if they know us. I even feel
continues to climb, and again, I look to the left, at that car up
sorry for Dad, caught in the act of doing something this crazy,
on the highway and into their faces—I see them so clearly—their
but right now he doesn’t care.
mouths dropped, eyes popping, the baffled driver volleying the
I keep writing and my cursive gets bigger; I can’t see the lines
steering wheel as he stares at us, back at the road, then at us, and
of the paper through my tears but I can’t stop, and I dialogue
amusement cracks open the shell of the previous horror and I
on the paper to Dad of how scared and embarrassed I was and
erupt with laughter as it washes away the anger and the bitterness
how his stupid car was more important than me: “I hate how
and the humiliation. I roar with laughter at the absurdity of that
you always get mad and I can never please you. I hate how you
huge Cadillac racing down the side of the highway, at Dad’s
look at me with that confused, disappointed look. I hate the
flagrant determination, and I laugh and laugh until the tears
shame and guilt that I always feel, and I hate you for leaving
flow into my ears and down the back of my neck. The water
your family and never coming back.”
keeps bubbling through me and around me with laughter that
I can’t continue anymore, and the notebook and pen are
washes away all of the lies and misgivings and unveils the truth,
on the floor and I am beside them, stretched out on my back
and I begin to see the whole picture—not just bits and pieces in
and from deep within, places unreachable, the sobs come up
scratchy detail—as the hard crust turns to mud, sloughs off and
in a torrent of emotions as I let loose all the pent up feelings I
floats away. I see the many, good times with Dad and his likable
have for him. The tears flow into my ears and down the back
qualities, his smile and fun personality that had been squelched
of my neck and, for the first time in my life, I weep without
and stored out of range, and his attempts to be a part of his
shame. The years of bitterness and hurt and emptiness, shut
little girl’s life, the sledding, the bed time stories, and picnics in
away and locked up, are uncorked in one massive explosion as
the mountains. And, although what he did that day could never
I relive that day, and again I cry out for help. Again, with all of
be undone, for the first time, I understand that the troubled
my being, I plead for someone to please, please help me, only
relationship wasn’t all of his fault and none of mine; as an adult,
this time I know who I am calling to, and I call out His name,
I also had responsibility, and his wrongs could not excuse my
and I know completely that He is a God who hears me. I cry
avoidance, anger and withholding.
out to my Father from a depth where there is no words, only
The laughter diminishes, the earthquake fades, and the
raw pain, and I lay there as the tears continue to flow down and
memory of that day recedes to where it belongs, and all the
soak into the carpet. And once again, I am taken back into that
bitterness and resentment is gone, washed away and I forgive
car, going down the barrow pit, but this time—this one final
my dad, or more truthfully, I am enabled to, and I am free from
time—it’s all in slow motion and it is very calm and there is no
the feelings that haunted me for a long, long time. Although
danger or hurry anymore. The ride is ultra-smooth as the car
Dad has been gone a number of years, to another realm where
thrusts forward like a slow, delightful ride on a carousel as I, also,
there is no time, somehow I hope he knows that all is well with
am being soothed while I lay on the cement floor.
me and our past.
Somewhere deep inside, there is a warmth and bubbling way
I have not quit smoking, but it doesn’t matter. I put the
down around my toes that starts its way up into that unfamiliar
book away, assured other memories need to be sorted out,
place where the tears began, and I can only guess that the floor
unraveled, and dealt with, but not now, it’s not the right time,
must have opened up from a long delayed earthquake, not to
and I head up the stairs to catch up on household tasks and
swallow me up this time, but to deliver a warm cleansing water
motherly obligations, and I know that this time, it was a best
that begins to seep out and flow around me, on the inside,
day of my life.
softening the hard covering that has encased my soul for many
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“Young Life”
Ally Erickson Photograph
“Inspiration”
Colleen Sullivan Pencil Drawing
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Personalized
Visualized & Verbalized
Visualize - Verbalize Staff 2008 Back Row - Renee Tafoya, Bill Hoagland Second from back - Sonnet Gwynn, Kate Wilson, Jennifer Goodyear Third from back - Morgan Tyree, Michelle Ramirez, Kelly Gary Fourth from back - Cody Werbelow, Landon Blakeley, Andrea Gann Fifth from back - LeAnna Tabatt, Jessica Hahn, James Blazicevich Front Row - Tallon Jones, Wade McMillin, Steven Josephson
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