2011 Visualize Verbalize Vocalize

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Amy Moore • My Grecian Urn Courtney B. Smith • Tatiana Austine Elizabeth Chilton Model • Taking Off Jason McGuire • Fire Sky Amy Moore • The Alarming Absence of Sayer Sister Number Six Dennis Friedly • Tumblers 2 Bob Goton • Square Plates Candy Olberding • Multi Media Café Roman Anaya • Ontic Zach Cardoza • Passive • Zach Cardoza Kevin Kinzley • Park County Fair Justin Gwinn • Stargazer Amy Moore • Minnie and Theodore Burton in Germany Jessica Shuler • Growing a Home Jay Robinson • Dream of the Fish Clarissa M. Blum • Mercurio Tyler Schanck • Skin on Fire Tess Anderson • Chevy Kory Lassey • Richard Marlowe Sarah Fry • Bmx Dirt Flare

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Meagan Schrey • Sitting Rhino David Adamek • Dissent Hope Kevin Kinzley • Crazy Eyes Mandy Bond • Rembrant Color Landon T. Iacovetto • Chasing Waterfalls Dustin McClure • Bees Gigi Hoagland • Forbidden Ink Chad Mall • Biblioteca Austine Elizabeth Chilton Model • Letters Brooke Matheson • Treble Clef Mini Land Jay Robinson • The Weave Dustin McClure • The 14th Dalai Lama Arianna Skoog • Growing Art Karlie Hammond • Hera Austine Elizabeth Chilton Model • Nepenthe

44 Nicole Goddard • Floating An Otter Requires 6 Inches

and A Year of Regret 46 Shelby Frost • Doll Green Face Baby 47 Dustin McClure • Egg 49 Kevin Kinzley • Barn Owl 51 Megan Schrey • Wire Boot 53 Dennis Freidly • Raku Masks 54 Gigi Hoagland • Infinity 55 Christian Baumeister • Crux 56 Amy Moore • The Reflection 58 Meagan Schrey • Jewelry 58 Courtney B. Smith • Amazon Bird 59 Tess Anderson • Floating 62 Thibodeaux • Ocean 64 Sara Cronk • Intense Migrane 64 Amy Moore • Kenly Marie & Her Mother 65 Jessica Shuler • Little Reminders 68 Roman Anaya • Aeolian 69 Jay Robinson • See You 69 Tess Lackey • War 70 Arianna Skoog • Strawberry Lemonade

71 72 73 73 74 74 75 76 77 78 82 83 83 84 84

Amy Moore • Birthday Dinner Sarah Cronk • The Gritty West Jessica Shuler • Personal Passion Callie Atkinson • To Daddy Tyler Schanck • The Flower In The Fire Courtney B. Smith • Refuge Dustin McClure • Röyksopp Nicole Goddard • Zero to 60 in 7 Flat Dustin McClure • Mustang Cody Thomas • Rain David Adamek • Fields of Glory Jason McGuire • Falling Apples Nicole Goddard • Fledgling Logan Ley • Sound of Silence Callie Atkinson • Thirst

Cover Image: Roman Anaya • Guam

My Grecian Urn

(or Ode to the OHS Tigerama)

Amy Moore My Grecian urn is yellowing with age,

You’d never guess they once were kings of sports;

But still accounts of former friends and places.

A shocking contrast now compared to then!

My mind plays tricks as fingers flip each page; I can’t recall specific names, just faces.

The women, I must say, have fared the best, Though matronly we seem with teenage kids.

There we stay, immortalized in gloss!

Our homecoming queen, too, has built a nest

Those photographs, like carvings on an urn,

Of crow’s feet round those eyes with droopy lids.

Show youth and vigor—gone. A tragic loss, An era passed, to which there’s no return.

I run to seek a restroom mirror to find If what I see in them they see in me.

This urn I use as textbook for the test

Mirror, tell me, have the years been kind?

Of recognition, for I soon will greet

Is their shock, like my own, reality?

The counterparts of these fair faces blessed With youth; their older versions I will meet.

My nubile friends were once immortalized On pages of a modern Grecian urn

My urn proves useless to help recognize

Yet youth was never wasted on the wise;

Depicted teens; I find each face distorted!

Youth’s only captured in each page I turn.

I stare at nametags, vainly agonize They’re not the same as my urn last reported.

“Beauty is youth, youth beauty”—so it seems For those who reminisce old high school dreams.

The ones I used to know—my friends, cohorts— Have morphed into fat, balding, gumby men.

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Tatiana • Courtney B. Smith • Photography

Taking Off Austine Elizabeth Chilton Model Hurdling down the runway at an un-human pace like an advanced bottle-rocket, launching from an old Pepsi bottle marbled with ash.

Gives me that nervous-almost-nauseous flutter you get when your heart has been left behind, and your body continues without you.

I love taking off on small planes; it feels like a roller-coaster.

Or death.

Calm ascension through the atmosphere

into the unknown, past the clouds

and a lone bird out of formation.

He waves, and I know

I’ll see him soon.

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Fire Sky • Jason McGuire • Photography

The Alarming Absence of Sayer Sister Number Six Amy Moore

The smell of turkey and stuffing was almost more than I could bear. Hungry and eager, I watched the aunts flapping around Grandma Sayer’s miniscule kitchen like agitated poultry, nervous and clucking, jockeying for position around the crowded stove top. Aunt Bernice successfully scattered the flock to peer in the oven, twittering something about the sweet potatoes. Aunt Lenore chided her; for heaven’s sake, the turkey would never be done on time if she kept opening the door. Grandma Sayer gingerly placed her pie on the sideboard as if it were fashioned of something precious and fragile. I could barely see my little mother, flanked by Aunt Della and Aunt Nona.

Entranced by the flutter of skirts, the clicking of high heels, and the promise of culinary delights, I edged ever closer to the tempting aromas that lured me like a fly to pudding.

I did my utmost to blend into the sideboard where my greedy finger plunged into the stiff whipped cream peaks of Grandma’s lemon merengue pie. Before I could transfer the delightful concoction to my salivating tongue, however, I felt a kitchen spatula connect sharply to my tender backside.

“Dennis!” my mother scolded, oblivious to the fact that my cousins Lawrence and Jeffrey, hot on my trail, had circled like vultures behind her back to dig their claws even deeper into merengue I’d barely molested.

“Surely you know better than to ruin a perfectly good pie.” My mother frowned, tightly gripping my hand. She turned again to look

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at the maltreated pie and gasped. “Dennis Marshall White! You get out of the kitchen this INSTANT!” From under the nearby tablecloth, the stifled laughter of two filthy pie culprits insulted my eleven-year-old ears. Having reduced me to kitchen vermin in front of the aunts, Mama banished me to the chilly front porch for lookout duty, with orders to announce the arrival of Aunt Verda and Uncle Mac. As I passed the dining table, bedecked with Grandma’s best china and squat ceramic pilgrims, I kicked the chair in as hard as I could, smirking to hear Lawrence yelp in pain.

Thanksgiving was already off to a bad start, and adding Uncle Mac to the mix surely wasn’t going to make it any better.

I hated that man.

I sensed the grownups did, too, but unlike us kids, they were too well-mannered to say it outright. I saw it in their looks, though. I saw it in the way Mom and her sisters enlarged their eyes and raised their penciled brows at the mention of his name. I heard it in how their conversations changed the moment dastardly Mac sauntered in like he was king of the universe. And really, I don’t think Aunt Verda liked him much either, even though she always did exactly what he told her to in her timid-little-mouse way. One time I heard Daddy and Uncle Ray talking about taking Uncle Mac out back and giving him a taste of his own medicine, but Mama had shushed him and said something about “little pitchers.”

Yessir, the grownups didn’t like Uncle Mac any more than I did, and here I was, freezing my smarting backside off on the front porch, watching for his arrival.

All of Prospector Street was quiet. A light dusting of snow, rare for the Pacific Northwest, had covered the ground, and the beckoning yellow light from windows up and down the lane only made me think of how warm and toasty it was inside. My ears picked out the rumble of a brand new ’55 Chevy Bel Air as it turned the corner, and I automatically jumped up from the porch stoop, poised to rush inside with the announcement that they were here, we could eat! But the hardtop pulled into the Perkins’ driveway three doors down. Silently, I rubbed my hands together and cursed the blasted Uncle Mac. I hoped he choked on a wishbone before the six Sayer sisters served pie.

The night’s chill had frozen off my nose and several fingers when Mom came out to invite me back inside. “Your Uncle Mac telephoned; he and Verda aren’t coming after all,” she said in a dismayed tone.

Good, I thought as I rushed inside. More pie for the rest of us.

Looking back, I don’t think I noticed the hush that had silenced the clucking of my aunts. I see that now, even if I didn’t then.

The men, robust and hungry, devoured the carefully-planned meal in mere minutes with little thought of the day’s work that had gone into it. As for me, I was as grateful as a kid

could be to Grandma for saving me a piece of her special pie, even if it was the one Larry and Jeff had contaminated with their mangy booger fingers. I was happy because the rest of the pie had gone to the men, and neither of my cousins had gotten more than a finger full.

I was happy until, as pie-pilfering-penance, I got stuck doing dishes with the women while my cousins escaped to the attic with their comic books.

I stared glumly at the flower-covered china crusted with gloopy remnants of turkey and sweet potatoes, half-heartedly scraped the gravy-splattered leftovers into the tin pail and dunked one dirty plate at a time into the soapy washbasin. And that’s when I became aware of the whispering.

“Of all ridiculous excuses to forego Thanksgiving dinner,” said Lenore. “‘My poor little Rexie died, and then Verda had to go and get sick, too.’ I mean, for shame! It’s just like that man to feel sorry for his dog yet inconvenienced by his wife.”

“And what does he mean, don’t bother bringing any food over?” hissed Aunt Della.

“You know, it almost sounds like a threat, or … or a command of some sort,” Aunt Nona replied, her voice tense and high. “Why shouldn’t we be allowed to care for a sister?”

“Can you believe it?” came the stifled squeak of Aunt Bernice. “If she’s truly ill, she shouldn’t be cooking, and cooking is the last thing Mac would think to do for her.”

“Poor Verda lives for Thanksgiving—it’s

always been her favorite holiday to cook for, and she has never missed a single Thanksgiving as far back as I can remember,” my mother added. “Why, if that son-of-a—” It took all my self-control to not flip around, drop a dish, and stare at my proper little mother cursing in her saintly churchchoir voice. I didn’t even know she knew how to cuss! I started whistling to myself to squelch the guffaw that bellowed up inside me like regurgitated stuffing. I did my best to convince the ladies that dishwashing was the most enjoyable task I’d ever known. The women quieted down even further, but I kept a finely-tuned ear turned in their direction.

“Mac has a temper; no one can deny that,” declared Grandma softly. “But we mustn’t think ill of him, girls. He is a good provider and—” “He’s a philandering pig,” interrupted Aunt Lenore, “and everyone knows it.” This much was true, if I were to be counted among Lenore’s “everyone.” With my own eyes I’d seen him with that blonde tart they fired from the place where Joey’s dad works. Joey’s my best friend, and his mom had a whole slew of naughty words to describe Miss Blondie, useful phrases I bet she wouldn’t use had she known Joey and I were listening. It’s pretty amazing what you can learn from grown-ups when they don’t know you’re around. I smiled to myself and caressed a serving spoon into a soggy dishtowel as the women continued.

“Mama, truth be told, I’m worried about

her,” Aunt Bernice was saying, wringing her hands into the folds of her apron.

“He’s just in one of his moods,” said Grandma, patting Bernice as if to console her. In sneaking a glance over my shoulder, though, I could see the fretful look stitched into Grandma’s face. I wished Mac and Verda didn’t live seven miles out of town, or by golly I would have hopped on my Schwinn racer to go check things out for myself; that would surely win me points with the aunts. Instead, I quietly set the last dish down, swiped a roll, slipped out of the kitchen, and bounded two steps at a time to the top of the attic stairs.

“Fellas, let me in!” I said as quietly as possible through the wooden door.

“Go away, you wet rag!” Larry commanded. I hoped the bruise I’d given him with the chair was still festering.

I shoved my way in, took one look, and immediately burst out laughing. The two dolts had stolen enough Thanksgiving leftovers to subsist on for a good three days, maybe four. Maybe even into 1956 if they started rationing. And those weren’t comic books on the ground, unless Betty Page nearly naked counted as something comical. Jeff grabbed me around the neck and began the threats. “If you dare tell, you filthy little snitch,” he began.

I stomped on his foot and, with uncharacteristic bravery, whirled around and poked my finger into his flabby pecs.

“Listen to me,” I snarled, “Something fishy’s going on with Aunt Verda. Something

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real serious. And if we’re gonna find out what it is, us fellas gotta stick together.”

Larry let a half-eaten roll drop from his mouth and lumbered to his feet. “Is it that rotten son-of-a-Mac?” he demanded. I suddenly felt a strange sense of solidarity welling up inside me. I may have hated my 13-year-old cousins in general, but our disgust for Mac at that moment had the potential to overcome any personal differences and maybe even bond us for life.

“I think so,” I answered, using my best Johnny Dollar voice and gathering them around me in a conspiratorial embrace. “He says Rexie’s dead and Verda’s real sick. Our moms, why, you’ve never seen ’em so worried. Mac won’t even let them take any food over or nothing.” Larry and Jeff understood the severity of food deprivation, and would never have wished so harsh a punishment on anyone, let alone a helpless little wraith like Aunt Verda. “And if he won’t let anyone come over, what do you think that means?”

“Son of a gun’s trying to hide something.”

Jeff’s face went two shades whiter with the realization, making his freckles stand out even more. “Why, he could’ve even … .”

I thought at that moment Jeffrey might start crying.

“I say we do some spying,” Larry said, obviously spooked but taking charge. “Me an’ Jeff will ride over first thing tomorrow.”

“That ain’t how it’s gonna be, Larry,” I said with narrowed eyes in the dim light. Picking

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up the girly magazines, I smeared a deliberate glop of custard across Betty Page’s vixen face.

“We’re all going, or Aunt Lenore finds out what happened to her missing custard.”

I knew I had him. And if I had Larry, I had Jeff.

“Tomorrow, then,” Larry agreed. “And I know how we can get there.”

Larry and his pop have this tradition of hunting down the perfect Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving. Or, I should say, it’s Aunt Bernice’s tradition and Ray and Larry dutifully oblige her, and I don’t blame them, because who in their right mind would want to cross Bernice? While Jeff was usually invited to join them, my cousins had always let me know in no uncertain terms that I was not. So Uncle Ray was more than a bit surprised, as was everyone else leaving Grandma’s house, when Larry literally begged Uncle Ray to let me come along.

Not knowing how we were going to confront the devil married to our aunt, I didn’t sleep well. I had nightmares of Rexie and Aunt Verda, lumped together on a dirty tarpaulin, dead as doornails, and Mac and the blonde lady sobbing over Rex. The next morning, Mom took one look at me, all pale and clammy, and marched off to find the thermometer, muttering accusations about the insanely low temperature Bernice had insisted on cooking the turkey. Before the mercury hit my mouth (or worse), the timely honk of Ray’s horn ensured my escape.

Once we were on the road, I wasn’t certain I wanted to be there. But Larry was already putting the plan into place.

“Listen, Pop, I was thinking about Uncle Mac.” “What, now?” said Uncle Ray, absently fumbling with the radio dial.

“You know, about Mac and Rexie.”

Ray took a puff on his pipe, then exhaled.

“Oh, yes. Poor ol’ Rexie.”

“See Pop, well … I don’t think it’s right to let a fella bury his best friend all by himself. ’Specially on account of how it’s so cold and all.” Larry waited until Ray bobbed his head in agreement. Then he added, “So, wouldn’t it be the right thing to go and help poor Uncle Mac?” Jeff clenched my hand the moment Uncle Ray agreed. Nothing seemed more risky than going into Mac’s lair, but if Aunt Verda was in trouble, we had to stop Mac from hiding the evidence. And if he’d done something really dastardly, something akin to my nightmare, I knew we didn’t have much time.

The ride out to Mac and Verda’s was torture. Even with Uncle Ray singing along cheerfully to “Nuttin’ for Christmas” on the radio, we couldn’t talk, afraid our whispering in the back seat would somehow call attention to us. Jeff looked like he was about to cry, Larry couldn’t stop shivering, and I felt like I was seriously going to vomit. We still had no definite plan in place when Uncle Ray pulled into the long and winding driveway, shrouded

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Tumblers 2 • Dennis Friedly • Ceramics

Square Plates • Bob Goton • Ceramics

in somber evergreen, which lead to their remote farmhouse.

The moment Uncle Ray was out of the car, Larry turned to me and blurted, “Me and Jeff are gonna distract him; you head to the house.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he shoved his mitten in to muffle the sound. “Just do it, you got that? I’m giving you an order!”

I no longer cared about impressing Jeff and Larry, about being one of the guys. I wanted to be home with my mother, eating hot turkey soup and helping Dad put up Christmas lights. But here we were, and I no longer had a choice.

Uncle Ray was already off to the shed to find Mac; Jeff and Larry scuttled off like spooked ostriches to catch up with him.

Stealthily, I maneuvered over to the isolated two-story house and made my way to the kitchen door. The house was quiet. My heart was thundering until I realized Rexie hadn’t come running out to attack us. Maybe he really was dead. Maybe, just maybe, everything was alright. Maybe we’d just been imagining this whole stupid, impossible scenario! Bolstering my courage as best I could, I creaked open the door and stepped into the kitchen.

There, in the dark, was Aunt Verda.

She was sitting at the table, a needle and thread and a torn men’s shirt spread before her. She left them untouched. Looking up at me in the dim light, she smiled.

“Hello, Denny.”

In the depths of utter sheepishness, I didn’t have a response.

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“This is a surprise,” she continued mildly.

“What brings you here for a visit?”

“I … we … ” I faltered. She waited for me to continue. I swallowed. “We were worried about you, Aunt Verda. All of us. Mom, Aunt Bernice, Grandma, everyone.”

Venda smiled. “I know.”

“You do?” I wondered.

She nodded. “Denny, there’s something I’d like you to tell your mother for me. Could you promise me you will remember exactly what I say? It’s very important, and I trust you.”

I thought of Verda’s charge as I gave my hasty apologies and ran back out to the car, making it safely back at the very moment Mac, Ray, and the boys reappeared, covered in mud.

“Poor Rex,” Jeff mumbled, his eyes bloodshot. “He was a good boy.” Jeff had hated that dog almost as much as we hated Mac, and here he was, an emotional wreck, blubbering over its untimely demise.

“Well, Dennis,” said Mac, his eyes piercing my calm. “I didn’t realize you were out here.”

“Yessir,” I mumbled. I was tired and felt like a first-class idiot to boot for my runaway imagination. “I wasn’t feeling so swell; musta gotten carsick. Sorry I couldn’t help you with Rex.” I felt uneasy the way Mac kept eyeing me.

I felt the weight of his stare long after we’d left, long after we’d felled the Christmas tree, and at odd times the feeling resurfaces still, making the hackles on my neck respond when

I relive the memory. I remember I didn’t feel much like talking on the drive back into town.

I just told the fellas I’d seen Verda and she was looking a little pale but seemed fine. Knowing my mom would give me the third degree over all Verda had told me, I garbled something about not feeling well before crawling into bed.

Mama let me sleep most of the next day.

Sunday morning as we were leaving for church, Mac called. I was standing there as Mom adjusted my bowtie with the phone on her shoulder. I was close enough to hear his voice crackling through the telephone lines, the jukebox at the bar whining in the background, as he dropped the bomb. “I s’pose you should know,” he said, “that Verda is dead.”

Mother let the phone crash against the wall, collapsing into me as I screamed for Dad. The news didn’t register, not for a long, long time. In many ways, it still hasn’t. I remember bits and pieces, hearing how my aunt had fallen down the stairs, hit her head, died instantly. The mortician patched the bruises with thick, flesh-colored make-up and added more rouge to Verda’s cheeks and lips than she’d ever worn in life. At the viewing, Aunt Lenore was incensed that Mr. Blevins had made innocent Aunt Verda look like a trollop.

Jeff and Larry didn’t say a word to me or to each other. I sat beside my mother, holding her hand and feeling unsettled and vulnerable.

Multi Media Café • Candy Olberding • Mixed Media

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Mac took off in his Bel Air the moment the services ended, explaining he just needed to be alone. Larry and Jeff asked to stay and help fold chairs, but I’m sure that had something to do with the pack of Chesterfields I’d seen Larry swipe from someone’s overcoat in the cloakroom.

At Grandma Sayer’s, the aunts continued weeping until Della spoke.

“He killed her, you know.”

The weeping came to a sudden stop. From my half-hidden perch on the stairs, I watched for Grandma to rebuke her daughter, but no one said a word. “Jeanne Forsythe came up to me at the church,” Della continued in a whisper, “and said she’d heard from her sister Ruth, who, as you know—” “Works for Blevin’s Funeral Home,” Lenore interrupted.

“And she said,” Della went on, stifling a sob, “That there were marks on Verda’s neck.”

“What kind of marks?” Bernice demanded, fearing the reply.

“Finger marks,” replied Della, stressing each syllable. “Strangulation marks.”

Grandma gasped and wafted a hanky near her mouth. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “Oh, my dear baby girl!”

“And not only that,” croaked Della, “But Ruth said that Mr. Blevin believes Verda had been dead for three days before he got to her.

THREE WHOLE DAYS.” The women, working themselves up into a state of frenzy, didn’t hear me at first. I had to

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repeat myself to get their attention.

“That’s not true!” I cried from the stairs.

“She wasn’t dead for three days!”

“Yes, Dennis dear,” said Aunt Della, none too patiently. “They have ways of telling when a person dies how long they have been deceased. It’s scientific and you are far too young to understand.”

“But I saw her!” With this emphatic announcement, I became the center of their focus. “The day after Thanksgiving,” I explained. “Uncle Mac was digging a grave for Rex, and Uncle Ray and Jeff and Larry were helping him, and I saw her, in the kitchen. She told me, Mama, that you must have her recipe box before Uncle Mac takes it.” The room was silent, and Mama was staring at me like she didn’t recognize me. I felt a sudden sense of urgency. “Mama, we have to get that recipe box. Right now.”

It took two cars to contain us all; Uncle Ray trailed Daddy by only seconds as we flew out to the country still dressed in our funeral attire. I don’t think Bernice or Lenore realized Jeff and Larry weren’t with us; if they did, they didn’t seem to care. At the turn off and down the drive, there was no sign of Mac, no sign of the Bel Air, no sign of life as we bailed from the vehicles. Daddy took a crowbar to the screen door, and soon every last one of us was huddled in the kitchen. Mama retrieved the rusted enamel recipe box from the pantry and started flicking gingerly through its contents. Impatiently, Bernice cried, “Oh for

heaven’s sake!” and took control of the box, dumping its stained and yellowed paper cards across the oak table. “What are we looking for, Dennis?” she asked in a determined, yet strained, voice. Even though we outnumbered him, I think every last one of us was nervous Mac would come back.

“Thanksgiving recipes,” I responded, instigating a frantic search of flying fingers.

“Cranberry salad,” announced Aunt Bernice triumphantly.

“I’ve got candied yams,” said Della across the table. Soon the Sayer sisters were clutching several recipes in the most morbid game of cards I’d ever witnessed. “Now what, Dennis?” they said in unison, turning their jumpy, eager eyes in my direction.

I froze. “I … I don’t know,” I said slowly.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Nona said in a high voice.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know. That’s all Verda said—” I was interrupted by my mother. “Girls,” she gasped, trembling. “Look, here on the back. Verda has written something, some sort of instructions. No, no, it’s like a journal entry! And look, they’re dated,” whispered my mother. She began to read aloud. “‘November 23. Rex is very sick and Mac is worried. He’s always loved that dog more than he loves me, to which I say, poor dog. When Mac went to the door at dinner to let his poker pals in, I fed Rex my meatloaf because it didn’t smell right. Rotten. Swear it smelt like rat poison.

Ontic • Roman Anaya • Photography

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Wouldn’t put it past him. Mac doesn’t know I didn’t eat my meal, nor that I fed it to Rex. After the boys left, I told Mac I felt ill, and that seemed to please him.’”

The aunts were buzzing now! The writings of their dead sister stirred the women up like a swarm of angry bees fixing to sting something.

Grandma was rocking back and forth in her seat as if she were about to topple over and faint. Aunt Bernice’s card, dated the following day, was on the back of Verda’s famous lima bean casserole and she shushed the women as she began to read. “‘Nov. 24. Rex died during the night. I found the bottle of poison hidden behind the dish soap in the cupboard Mac usually keeps it out in the shed. Now I know. Continued feigning illness and kept to my room until he left for work. How I wish we had a phone and another car. When he finds out I’m not truly ill, I’m afraid he’ll try something else.’”

No one was weeping now. The sisters clamored to read the next recipe, and the men had to silence their wives with loud, authoritative voices. Aunt Lenore’s voice chattered as she read, “‘Nov 25. Thanksgiving.

Mac believes me too ill to remove from my bed. Never have I seen him so pleased—he thinks I’ll be dead before long. He promised to telephone Mama to give her our regrets, and I shall miss dinner with the family. As for Mac, I’m sure he’ll find someone to keep him company at … ’” Lenore stopped.

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“Well, go on! Finish it!” Uncle Ray insisted.

“I did,” Lenore said blankly. The women began talking over one another, searching in vain for the next entry. I turned away from the table, then stopped.

I think my heart stopped.

For a split second I’m sure it did. Either that or it was suddenly clogging my ears, for I could no longer hear the clatter behind me.

My attention was riveted by the vision in front of me, the ethereal figure that had silently emerged from the closed cellar door. And then I understood. “Ohhh … He came home and found you weren’t sick,” I murmured in wonder. The figure smiled and nodded sadly. I watched her slowly turn and walk towards me.

For some inexplicable reason, I wasn’t scared anymore. I closed my eyes and felt her essence brush past, trailing behind a wake of sorrow and longing.

“Dennis,” I heard my mother calling. “I need to know if, if you—I know you might have felt, dearest, that you needed to protect me from some terrible news.” She hesitated “You need to tell me, son. Did you or did you not see Aunt Verda … ” she stopped to swallow a sob, “my baby sister, the day after Thanksgiving?”

I didn’t look directly at my mother; I was still watching the figure as she circled the table. “I did, Mama,” I answered. Verda nodded again with that haunting, sweet smile.

“You told me about these cards, remember?” I was talking to her now.

“What do you mean, I told you about the cards?” Mom was asking shrilly.

“Grant me patience, Dennis White, Verda was already dead by then,” Aunt Della reminded me in exasperation.

Yes, she was. “I know,” I replied, entranced.

“Dennis,” mother said, shaking me and beginning to cry again. “Do you realize what you are saying?”

“Yes, Mama,” I said. The figure waved a slow goodbye, and vanished. And I began to sob in my mother’s arms.

Uncle Mac drove his Bel Air off the floating bridge at Evergreen Point that night.

I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to. I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to kill the blonde lady either, but seeing how she was in the front seat beside him, he couldn’t help it. Witnesses say it looked as if he swerved to avoid hitting something, although nothing was there. But I like to think there was. I like to think it was that same apparition who smiled at me from the oak table the day Mac buried Rex, the day after the untimely death of Sayer sister number six.

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Passive • Zach Cardoza • Intaglio Print

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Stargazer Justin Gwinn

A flash, the sky crimson white, A screaming spin on “Silent Night.”

And now, the burning burst anew.

The stars she showed me, strange and few; I wondered when they’d show again.

If destination not to end, Would cross my line of sight someday, And leave me with the right to pray, A thank you, or a slight concern.

A memory begged of no return.

We sneak stargazing each clear night

Park County Fair • Kevin Kinzley • Photography

And meet someday in breaking light.

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Growing a Home Jessica Shuler

I watch you rake the dead grass From the surface of the earth, From our relationship.

I watch you dig rich soil With your bare hands, The same hands that caress My skin as you hold me tenderly.

I watch you plant fresh trees To create security for our home, The way you save and secure My withering heart in yours.

I watch you trim the weeds From the garden you built me, Like you trim away my doubts And praise my accomplishments.

All around me I see the home We have built together and the love We have grown all along the way.

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Minnie and Theodore Burton in Germany • Amy Moore • Charcoal

Like you rake the troubles

Dream of the Fish Jay Robinson

silent light, flicker fade; silent plight, bought and paid. silver swoon, wax and wane; silver moon, silent pain.

silent light, flicker fade; silver mist, in the air; silvered tryst, never there.

Mercurio • Clarissa M. Blum • Photography

silent plight, bought and paid.

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Skin on Fire Tyler Schanck

I saw a dead body in the passenger seat of an upside-down car. Blood was running down her face, like veins in your wrist when you flex too hard. She appeared to me, glass, shattered to pieces. Maroon fabric was stained with a darker hue on her torn shirt, breasts exposed and flickering, like light bulbs struggling to survive a second more.

Should I have watched? Should I have left? Should I have told somebody?

It is magnificent to see a more attractive species fall. Mountain lions slaughter moose, prehistoric raptors claw tyrannosaurus rexes. But this was not impressive, nor uplifting in the least. No one would wear a bright red dress to Halle Berry’s funeral. And no confetti fell to honor this beauty queen, just smoke and flame, gas and metal, the stench of disappointment.

Compact discs were scattered on the roof of the vehicle, kept company by lip balm and purple mascara tubes. Homecoming pictures and family portraits combusted on the dashboard, the scotch tape holding them quickly melting down to liquid. I saw a tulip petal taped to the open visor, next to a photograph of a handsome boy, his telephone number scribbled with silver sharpie below a cursive name. Should I have checked a pulse? Was that a cell phone? Should I have looked?

I remember her lying in a yoga position, feet on her shoulder, face tilted back, her left arm outstretched toward my enlarged eyes welling with tears of regret. She watched me sway, back and forth, my balance hindered by waves of shock. And she watched as I fed the flames with gasoline. She watched as I smashed her cell phone to pieces.

Should I have cut the breaks? Should I have torn the seatbelt?

Her eyes watch me eat my breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner. The face of an adulterer peeps on shivering showers. The body of a goddess puts its frame into my bed.

I smell her skin on fire when I walk into the church.

If you had loved me more, you could have spared the hurt.

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Chevy • Tess Anderson • Photography

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Richard Marlowe Kory Lassey

Richard Marlowe sat in a red chair down in the lobby of what used to be his grand foyer, listening to some dimwitted woman argue with that squirrel of a man, Mr. Novak.

“Ma’am, I understand your concerns, but—” he squeaked.

“No, I don’t think you do!” she interrupted.

“I’m telling you, first it was the closet door, then it was the whispering, and then I swear I saw a ghost walking around down by that Power Room door, and I’m leaving! Now!” “Please, ma’am, I know you’re upset, but I can’t let you leave without paying me for the night.”

“I did not stay a full night! And given the horrors I’ve seen tonight, I think that you owe me for my troubles, hmm?”

She stuck one of her fingers in his face, and Mr. Novak wrinkled his nose at her. A great courage came over him.

“Ho ho, we got a fire!” Marlowe said when he saw her do that. If there was ever a way to give Mr. Novak the backbone he clearly lacked, it was to violate his personal space.

“Get that fat sausage out of my face,” he said.

Marlowe chuckled to himself. Mr. Novak wasn’t exactly a threatening figure and apparently the woman thought that also. In one agonizingly slow move, she smiled and transformed her hand into an obscure “L” shape consisting of her middle finger and thumb, all without leaving the proximity of Novak’s face. Then she stooped down and

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lifted her things, turned on the spot, and left through the door.

Marlowe followed her, partly because he could only stand Novak’s squeaking for so long, and partly because he never got to properly say goodbye to the woman.

As she inserted the key into her car door, Marlowe bent down and undid the locks on her suitcases, spilling their contents and causing her great distress. Then he stood up and waited for her to open the car door. As she did, he made his reflection in the window visible and watched her gasp and spin around to see nothing behind her.

“Boo,” he said.

She screamed and flew into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition, and sped down the road. Leaving the Marlowe mansion behind, she looked into the rear-view mirror and saw a faint silhouette of Richard Marlowe, completely transparent.

Marlowe pinched the rim of his hat, “Ma’am,” and tipped it in her direction.

He walked back inside the estate, passing through walls and doors until he entered the power room. Once inside, he could feel the electricity running through the wires and he touched them, absorbing all the energy he could. Not long after, a breaker switched.

In the lobby, Mr. Novak cursed, “Damn it! I can’t take this place anymore!” He felt around his desk until he found a drawer handle. Reaching inside, Novak produced a flashlight and left for the power room.

“Stay calm, nothing to worry about, I’ll have the power back in a moment,” he said to lodgers opening their doors to investigate. “Everything’s fine, it was probably just a breaker.”

It wasn’t but just a couple of days after this incident that Mr. Novak made good on his wishes. Much to the pleasure of Marlowe, he closed down the hotel and moved away from Quakerstone. For months the mansion sat empty, all the while Richard enjoyed himself—his home was his again.

Built in the summer of 1865, the Marlowe Mansion was Richard’s pride and joy. It was his last addition to Quakerstone, after the town’s first general store and the local lock-up, and it was here that he would live out the rest of his life. Unfortunately for him, that was only two years later, when he was shot and killed over a matter of 20 dollars. After Marlowe’s death, a series of events began to occur at the mansion: mysterious noises could be heard, furniture was often overturned or rearranged, people felt like they were being watched, and doors would slam and lock themselves.

Most notably, however, Marlowe’s favorite items began disappearing—the entire bar stock vanished.

The mansion transferred ownership many times, each bringing in a new set of ghostly happenings. After 133 years of Marlowe’s phantasmagorical existence, a local legend had rooted itself in the history of Quakerstone— The Haunted Marlowe Mansion.

Then one night, almost a year after Novak’s departure, a group of teenage boys decided to test the legend. Marlowe heard the sound of shattering glass below him and stood from his bed on the second floor to peer out the window. There, at the front door, waited the party. One of them began ushering the others inside when an accomplice unlocked it from within. Marlowe let out a heavy sigh and sank through the floor to the room below.

From there, he walked through walls until he caught up with them in a hallway beyond the main lobby.

“Did we really have to break in?” one of them said, “I mean, we can get juvey for that.”

“It’s cool, dude,” another answered, “No one’s gonna know for months.”

“Whatever. If we get caught, I’m disowning you guys.”

Marlowe stuck his foot out and tripped the first boy in the group.

“Dumb-ass,” a third boy said. He stretched his hand out and lifted the boy up.

Marlowe slammed the door in front of them. The whole group jumped.

“Jesus!”

“It’s probably a draft from that window I broke,” a boy in the middle of the group said. “Probably.”

So you broke my window, Marlowe thought to himself. He brushed the sleeves on his old duster and grabbed the rim of his hat and straightened it. Then, he walked behind the boy and flicked the back of his ear.

“Ow! Damn it, Tank!” he said as he rubbed his ear.

“What?” a fat boy behind him said, “I didn’t do nuthin’!”

“Fat-ass. If you weren’t always stuffing your—” “Dude, shut up!” the first boy interrupted, “You guys hear that?”

Marlowe crept around the front-side of the group. With one foot up in the air, he realized the floor was creaking beneath him.

He looked into the eyes of each boy—they were busy listening.

He smiled and stomped his feet.

“EVERYBODY RUN!” one of them yelled.

Marlowe sped past the group as they ran back through the hall and across the lobby. He clicked the lock on the door and waited for them to reach him.

“Open it, go, go, go!” the fat one, Tank, said.

“Dude, I’m trying!” the boy, whom Marlowe had tripped, pulled on the door and fumbled with the lock, “It won’t move!”

Marlowe, still holding the lock firmly, filled his lungs with air and blew it at the group. A cold chill came over them.

“Get out,” he said, making sure they could hear him.

The lock came free, the door swung open, and Marlowe appeared behind the group of boys. All of whom saw him standing before them.

In a unison that would make a professional

choir proud, they screamed and ran out the open door. Marlowe slammed it, clipping the last boy just as he crossed the threshold.

Don’t let it hit your ass on the way out, he laughed to himself. Oddly enough, Marlowe actually enjoyed the boys’ encounter with him. He didn’t care too much for other people occupying his home; he had promised himself that each intruder, and everybody was one, would remember their visit to his mansion, and that it was still very much his.

Nevertheless, he found the experience quite thrilling and enjoyable. He almost wished that he hadn’t scared them off so soon.

In the days, weeks, and months that followed this incident, rumors spread around Quakerstone that the Legend of Richard Marlowe was true, and that his ghost did, in fact, haunt the Marlowe Mansion. Given the renewed popularity, Marlowe had many more encounters of teens “braving” the night with “ghost hunts.” While his true goal was to scare people away so he could have his home in peace, he found himself enjoying the company more and more. He enjoyed messing with people; it gave him something to do.

Then Mr. Novak came back and put a stop to all that. He showed up one day with a woman whom Marlowe had seen before around town. She was tall and a little on the plump side, not fat, but not exactly skinny either, and had flowing brown hair. Marlowe guessed she was in her late twenties.

Continued on page 28

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Bmx Dirt Flare • Sarah Fry • Photography

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Sitting Rhino • Meagan Schrey • Ceramicss

Dissent Hope • David Adamek • Watercolor

“Got us a local girl,” he said to himself as he watched Mr. Novak flip the main power back on.

The trio walked upstairs to the second floor, and headed for the “Presidential Suite,” as Novak called it, “My Room,” as Marlowe called it.

“This is where Richard would have stayed, in this room,” Novak said, thrusting his arm into a dark doorway. Carefully, he felt around for the light switch. “Here we are!”

The room lit up and they all saw a very untidy space. The bed looked newly used, an empty bottle of liquor sat on the night table, and a half-smoked cigar sat in an ashtray by the window.

Novak sighed.

“You’re sure nobody has been staying here, Mr. Novak?” the woman asked.

“It’s that damn specter!” Novak said, “I swear, Evelynne, he ruined me! And he’ll ruin you too!”

Evelynne chuckled, “Oh, I don’t think Mr. Marlowe will be a problem.”

Marlowe sneered at her, “That’s it. Your ass is haunted.”

Novak clicked the light off and closed the door. “You don’t believe the Legend then?”

Evelynne walked with Novak down the hall to the next standard-size room.

“I’ve lived here all my life, Mr. Novak. Of course, I believe it,” she said, “But I have a feeling that he won’t be as bothersome with me as he was with you. Or any of the previous

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owners for that matter.”

Says you, Marlowe thought to himself.

“If you say so,” Novak said. He turned the lock on the door and pushed it open. “This is a standard room, one of fifty-four.”

“Novak, I’m going to buy it. This really isn’t necessary,” Evelynne said, peering around the room.

Novak sighed, “I was just hoping … to dissuade you was all. Figures! When something important as this is going on, nothing ‘strange’ happens … ” “Unless you count the Presidential Suite,” chuckled Evelynne.

“Well … I suppose there’s that,” Novak said. He closed the door and turned the lock.

“Probably caught him napping or something.”

“Maybe,” Evelynne said.

“Not really,” Marlowe added.

Novak led his guest back down to the lobby and into his office. Marlowe listened as they talked about the deal and watched Evelynne sign her name, rather neatly, on the agreement form—Evelynne Mae Noely.

“And the last order of business,” Novak said after he signed his name on the paper, “is the key.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the Hotel’s master key, and handed it to Evelynne. “I hope your luck fairs better than mine.”

She received the key and showed Novak to the office door. “It will. I promise.”

Like a great weight had been lifted off Novak’s shoulders, he smiled and bid

Evelynne farewell. As he closed the office door, he could be heard mumbling something about how he’d never have to see this place ever again.

For a couple of minutes there was a silence. Evelynne sat in her new office chair and peered at the door. Marlowe sat in the chair opposite her, watching intently.

“Just my ass?” Evelynne asked.

Marlowe sat forward.

“Back in your room,” she said, “You said my ass was haunted. Is that all?”

Marlowe was speechless. Was she … was she talking to him?

“Feel free to answer anytime,” Evelynne said, looking straight at Marlowe.

For the first time in his afterlife, Marlowe was caught off guard by the living rather than the other way around. He realized his jaw had fallen open and quickly closed it.

“You … you can see me?” he asked.

“Yes, I can see you. Hear you. Smell you.

Kind of annoying, really,” Evelynne answered, bobbing her head with each statement.

They stared each other down for a couple of seconds.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Marlowe asked. He had always been able to drive everyone out, but now …

Evelynne shook his head, “If I do, it won’t be because of you.” She stood up and walked around the desk towards Marlowe. “I’d like to think you’ll be cooperative?”

Marlowe smiled and said, “And what

are you going to do if I don’t? Close shop and leave?”

Evelynne looked at the ceiling as if a great thought had come over her. Then, very quickly, snatched Marlowe’s hat off the top of his head and threw it at the door. It passed right through the wood and out of sight.

“Oh come on!” Marlowe said, “You can touch me, too?”

“I want this to work, Richard. I need you to stop scaring people away,” she said.

Marlowe left his chair and walked through the door. A moment later he reappeared, straightening his hat.

“What am I supposed to do, then? Just hand my mansion over to you?”

“Well,” Evelynne answered, “Yes.” Marlowe laughed. “You’ll have to do better than throwing my hat, lady.”

“I could have the mansion demolished,” Evelynne said. “Maybe … build a summer home?”

Marlowe’s expression changed.

“Please … not the mansion.”

“I just want you to stop scaring everyone away. It’s bad for business. I don’t care if they catch you, but you cannot catch them. Ok?” Marlowe nodded, “Just don’t go callin’ on me,” and he walked through the door.

Evelynne sat back down and stretched in her chair.

“That was the easy part.”

The following morning Evelynne unlocked the door and sat in her office. She

brought with her a steaming cup of coffee and the day’s paper; it was dated the first of October. As she sipped the coffee, she shook out the paper and laid it flat on her desk. On the first page was a picture of a small boy and a headline that read, “Trick–or–Treat Benefit for Trevor.” Evelynne heard footsteps above her, and at that moment an idea was born. She smiled and rolled up the paper, finished her coffee, and walked out the office door. As she closed in on Marlowe’s room, she could hear more noises emanating from it.

“Now I know what we … ” she said, pushing the door open. There, in front of her, stood an embarrassed-looking Richard Marlowe. He had cleaned the room. So much, in fact, that Evelynne swore it had been returned to its original state!

“Wow.” she said.

Marlowe just stood there.

“I mean, wow!”

“I was thinking about what you said last night,” Marlowe started, “about how you could do whatever you wanted with this mansion, and how I should stop scaring people away. An’ I got to thinking, you know, that … maybe it’s time I stopped holding on to this old place … because I’ve already lost it.” He took his hat off and held it close to his chest. “I think I’m done—I’m done being a selfish ghost holding onto what isn’t his, and I want you to have this place, Evelynne. I don’t wanna ruin your business and your life.”

Evelynne grinned, held out the paper, and

replied, “I want you to scare people.”

“Now I’m trying to be serious here!”

Marlowe said, dropping his arms and glaring at her.

“So am I,” she said. “Read it.”

Marlowe took the paper and read the first page. His eyes scanned over the words like a vulture searching for its next meal. “Alright.

What stupid idea do you have?”

Evelynne crossed the room, sat in one of the chairs, and looked out the window. “This place, the hotel … or … mansion I guess, it has this legend surrounding it. There’s this rumor going around that the Marlowe Mansion is haunted.”

“Rumor?” Marlowe said.

“After I saw that story, I got to thinking, ‘To hell with the hotel! We’ve got our own ghost! Let’s do something better, something the people want.’”

“Oh, say it already!” Marlowe said, twisting his hat back on.

“Let’s run a haunted house,” she said, looking back at Marlowe. “You and me. We’ll use your legacy to draw them in, and we’ll use you to scare them. Only—” “Only they won’t know it’s actually me,” Marlowe interrupted. He grinned, “And here I was, fixing to be a damn housemaid.”

“So you’ll do it then?” Evelynne asked.

“You betcha I will!” Marlowe answered.

Evelynne stood up and walked to the door. Turning to Marlowe, she said, “Great! I’ll organize some ‘Ghost Hunts’ and get this ball

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Crazy Eyes • Kevin Kinzley • Photography

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rolling then. You do what you do best.”

As Evelynne left the room, Marlowe thought to himself, This could be the first owner I’ve actually liked!

Just a couple days later, a story in the paper announced that the new owner of the Marlowe Mansion would be closing it’s doors to the hospitality service and would instead be opening them to self-guided “Ghost Hunts.” The Hunts wouldn’t be free, something like ten dollars per person, but those who took part in the event would have complete access to the building for one hour, including areas that were previously restricted, along with floor plans and general “Hot Spot” tips and locations.

The story also stated that for the month of October, half of the money earned would be donated to Trevor Cook to help maintain his medical bill. The combined interest of Marlowe’s ghost and the compassion being shown towards Trevor was more than enough to start off Evelynne’s new business. Needless to say, a very large group of people showed up the same night the story was published— all with the intent on seeing Richard.

Marlowe watched from his second story window as the first group was funneled into the main lobby. Behind them, Evelynne held up the next group—delaying how many people he would have to deal with.

Without warning, a flash stunned Marlowe’s eyes. Someone in the second group had just taken a picture of the mansion’s

exterior. He watched as they checked the camera’s digital photo and chuckled. By the looks of their faces, they had just captured a picture of him.

Downstairs, the first group had just left the main lobby. Crossing the threshold into the hallways, the light from the lobby slowly faded into total darkness, and the hunt officially began. Richard caught up with them after a few minutes and observed them. There were three women, one holding a hand-held video camera, and the other two holding the components of a thermal camera.

Serious trio, Marlowe thought.

“I’m getting a slight temperature change here,” one of them said, looking at the thermal camera’s screen. “Move the wand back.”

The other woman waved the thermometer wand of the camera back to the doorway Marlowe had just entered from.

“Yep, ten degree drop. I think we’ve got him!”

You ain’t got nothin’ ladies, Marlowe thought. He moved out of the wand’s view.

“Wait! It’s moving! Keep tracking it!” the woman with the camera display said. “Jess, you got anything on the handy?”

The woman with the hand-held camera moved the lens so that she could see her friends—with it being so dark, there was no other way to see—and said, “Nah, nothing yet.”

Just then, Marlowe grasped the thermal display and drained the camera of all its energy.

“Whoa!” the woman said. “I just lost all

the battery life!”

“You serious?” Jess asked.

Marlowe touched the hand-held camera and drained it also.

“Uh … ” Jess said, “Camera’s dead.”

Now in total darkness with no way to see, the trio stood silently—listening for Marlowe.

“Hello?” one of them said.

“Is there anybody with us?” Jess asked.

There was another moment of silence.

Then the door at the end of the hallway slowly closed shut. Its hinges creaked loudly and spooked the women.

“I think we should go further in,” the one with the display said.

“Hang on a sec, Rhea, let me find the back up batteries,” Jess said, fumbling in her pockets. She produced two batteries and placed them into the camera. The LCD screen lit up and Jess let out a scream. There, behind Rhea and the woman holding the temperature rod, was a man dressed in an old duster and wide-brimmed hat.

Acting on instinct, the trio bolted for the door leading to the main lobby, the one Marlowe had just locked only a moment ago.

He could almost feel their panic when they fumbled with the doorknob.

Jess lifted her camera and pointed it down the hall; there was nothing there. Feeling slightly relieved, she let go of the doorknob.

“I may have overreacted,” she said, sounding embarrassed.

The other two women calmed themselves.

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Rembrant Color • Mandy Bond • Oil on Canvas

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“I guess she meant it when she said our only way out would be the back exit,” Rhea said, referring to Evelynne.

“I really don’t want to go the rest of the way,” the wand-lady said.

“Well, we aren’t getting out through here, Kayle, might as well just run through the rest of this,” Rhea said.

The trio proved to be another fun experience for Marlowe. He tormented them all throughout the mansion. He tripped them, grabbed at their hair, said their names aloud, and at one point he even locked one in the bathroom. Eventually though, near the end of their hour, he herded his flock to the rear exit.

As they entered the final room leading to the outside the group came upon a sign posted at the door.

I hope you enjoyed yourselves on this night. May your experiences fuel your passions and may you find that which you seek in life.

— Richard Marlowe “So … wait. Does that mean the whole thing’s fake?” Jess asked aloud.

Marlowe, who had dressed himself as a ghost in real cloth, jumped out at them from a dark corner and the women screamed.

Thinking he was only an actor, they quickly came to their senses and started laughing.

“It’s not a ‘Ghost Hunt’ at all is it?” Kayle said. “It’s just a haunted house!”

Marlowe handed them a picture taken from a camera nested above the door—it was of the exact moment he jumped at them while

they read the sign—and said, “Please don’t tell any groups behind you!”

The rest of the night proceeded in much the same fashion. Eventually, over the course of a few days, it became known that the “Ghost Hunts” were merely promotional at first, and that the mansion would be fully converted to a haunted house at a later date.

Many years passed during the mansion’s function as a haunted house and Evelynne had become very close friends with Marlowe.

She had also gotten old and was considering passing the mansion on.

One night as she lay in her bed up in one of the mansion’s rooms (she had moved in long ago), she called out to Marlowe just as she had on occasion before. After waiting a couple moments, she called out to him again.

Marlowe walked in through the closed door and sat next to her bed. “I heard you the first time.”

“How long have I known you?” Evelynne asked, starring into the darkness around her.

“Excuse me?” Marlowe said.

“How long has it been?”

“Oh … I dunno. Possibly 40 years,” Marlowe said, placing his hat on the lamp beside the bed. “I stopped keeping track of time a while back. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking,” Evelynne said, “I’ve known you for half my life now and I’ve never asked how you died.”

“Now why would you want to know something like that?” Marlowe said, sitting

forward.

“Because, “Evelynne started, “I want to know … if it hurts.”

“Evelynne … ” “I know it’s coming Richard, I can feel it. I just want to know if it’ll hurt.”

Marlowe rubbed his face with his hands. It didn’t surprise him that she could see the end of her life coming, she could see him after all, but he was still caught off guard.

“I … well … it … depends on how you go,” he finally said. “I was shot. So … yes, it hurt.”

“And how come you’re still here?”

“Because I didn’t want to leave.”

“Why?” “I was content, you know,” Marlowe said.

His tone was slightly less solemn. “After my death. I stuck around to punish the guy that got me and then I was content, being alone.”

“Couldn’t you have moved on?”

“I never got the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a corridor that opens when you die, it’s something good people can take after their gone. I wasn’t a good person, Evelynne. I never got my corridor.”

“How do you know?”

“Other people have told me when they’ve died. They say there’s this bright light, like a doorway in the sky, which they can walk through. I’ve never seen it though … ” “Maybe you’re in hell.”

“It’s not that hot.”

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Chasing Waterfalls • Landon Iacovetto • Photography

Evelynne laughed. “What I mean is, maybe you’re stuck here until you learn to be good. You’ve already changed yourself so much. Maybe you’re just one step away from reaching your corridor.”

“How have I changed? I’m still the same old Richard Marlowe. I’m still the old bastard I used to be.”

“No you’re not. You’ve learned compassion. You’ve learned how to be a better man.

Remember when you gave the mansion to me? That was your turning point.”

Marlowe thought back over the years and realized that she was right. He had been slowly changing into a better person.

“You’re just one step away from your corridor, Richard.”

“I haven’t a clue how you know all this.”

Marlowe felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—emotion. He had only mimicked

emotion in his afterlife, but he had never really felt it. For the first time since his death, however, he was genuinely touched.

Evelynne closed her eyes and laid still.

Marlowe sat in silence, lost in deep thought.

“Do you love me?” she asked, her voice was very quiet.

Marlowe had never really loved in his life. Without even thinking, his hands found their way to Evelynne’s and rested upon them.

Warmth grew inside him.

“I love you.”

Evelynne’s chest rose and fell with her last breath. At the foot of the bed, a blue light opened, like a doorway, and Evelynne’s ghost sat forward.

“The corridor … ”she said.

■ “I know. I can see it too.”

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Bees • Dustin McClure • Digital Painting

Forbidden Ink Gigi Hoagland

“Forbidden” is stamped upon every inch of your skin, the ink running down your wrists, the insides of your elbows, between your toes, and in a rivulet from the corner of your mouth.

Ebony raindrops fall from your fingertips, every drip whispering “No, no, absolutely not.”

Were I to graze your arm, touch your shoulder, my skin would retain the telltale residue, the same ink in safety mechanisms on the thirty dollar shirts from The Gap, the kind which prevent shoplifters from stealing khakis, and me from stealing your heart.

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Letters

Austine Elizabeth Chilton Model my handwriting has become yours, but you are further with each hook, loop, and hole. precision of a fisherman’s line, strung through a fly, dancing across the river, as if Jesus suddenly heard

Motown Rhythms

and knew the meaning of dance,

the way we did

moving in the dark

barely able to hear

the music

through the thick summer air

bodies touching. our faces one.

Your letters are so tight and restricted, mirroring your beliefs.

Biblioteca • Chad Mall • Digital Design

momentary Understanding And my letters are mine again.

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Treble Clef Mini Land • Brooke Matheson • Photography

The Weave Jay Robinson

in pain, in pleasure; with nothing, with treasure; with family and home, with no one, alone; this life i lead, this grain, this seed; in time to leave, this time; that time, will weave.

in hope despaired; with love unshared; the chalice chaste, the soul disgraced; this life i lead, this grain, this seed; in time to leave, this time; that time, will weave.

for pain, for pleasure; for nothing, for treasure; for family and home, for someone alone; this life i lead, this grain, this seed; in time to leave, this time; that time, will weave.

for hope despaired; for love unshared; the chalice unchaste, the soul is graced; this life i lead, this grain, this seed; in time to leave, this time; that time, will weave.

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The 14th Dalai Lama • Dustin McClure • Typography

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Growing Art • Arianna Skoog • Photography

Nepenthe

Austine Elizabeth Chilton Model salty sand toes sink beneath frothy foam from far away lost on the shores of the Pacific, where spirits dance under midnight skies

Hera • Karlie Hammond • Digital Illustration

and mimosas fizz just after sunrise smoke billows from our lungs into the intangible morning mist blue of your eyes, peeking through:

i want to write words

that make your heart slow dance with mine across our bedroom floor

late at night, in the dark,

while our neighbors sleep.

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Floating an Otter Requires 6 Inches and A Year of Regret Nicole Goddard

The week before the day I dreaded, I awoke with an otter draped over my throat like a softly-breathing stole. I could feel its heavy tail cradling my ear. I didn’t dare move and wake it. If I did, it might vanish in a puff of sweet smoke, and so I lay still, barely breathing, until finally, it stirred. The rubber seal of its eyelid cracked open, and I found myself being observed. The crack grew wider, until I could see my own startled face in reflection. Then the otter stood on my chest, arched like a cat, and yawned. It had a mouth like a pearl-lined jewelry box, and a white flash under its chin.

With a shudder, it pushed its spine to the ceiling. The brown velvet rippled and realigned.

Properly stretched, the thing sat on my chest and whistled.

Without a thought, I whistled back.

The otter whipped like a ribbon and dove from the bed. It looped around the door frame and disappeared down the hall.

For a moment I knew that I would wake up, and there would be no otter. I knew that such a thing was magical, and that magic had died with my grandmother’s ideals.

But my sister Susannah shrieked a moment later, and I realized with a jolt that I was awake and had been all along. From the kitchen came a crash. When I arrived, Susannah was standing in the sink. Water poured from the tap over her shoes. She was wearing rubber dishwashing gloves and armed with a coffee mug, but the otter ignored her. It was busy licking the butter plate bare.

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“Lyra, what the hell have you brought in this house?” my sister demanded.

“I think it’s an otter,” I said.

“Get it out!” she said. There was panic in her voice. “Kill it. It’s eating the butter, Lyra, get it out!” Susannah was three years older than me, and I’d long before learned to ignore her.

“They like fish,” I said.

“I don’t care what they like, just get it out of the house!”

I was unsure of the proper way to approach an otter. It had no scruff with which to lift it, as if it were a cat. I sensed it would take offense if I clutched it around the middle and let it drape down either side. A lure, then. I dug in the pantry and found a can of anchovies. They had expired a year before, but I doubted the otter would mind. While Susannah stood on the counter and wrinkled her nose, I pried out a fish and flipped it towards the otter. It slapped on the linoleum. The otter lifted its head. Its nimble nostrils flared once and closed with a wink. Uninterested.

“I thought you said they like fish,” Susannah said.

“They don’t usually move in with people, either,” I said. “Maybe tuna would work.”

The otter rejected the tuna with equal disdain. Discouraged, I decided to lift it. Surely an otter tame enough to sleep on my chest wouldn’t mind being picked up. But when my outstretched hands approached, it whirled and snapped. The pearly teeth were suddenly

serrated. Susannah shrieked again.

“Lyra, it’s rabid, you brought a rabid otter in this house! Grandma’s going to have a heart attack, and it’s gonna be your fault!”

Once, when I was younger, a fox had staggered down the lane in broad daylight, lurching and slavering. It was dead already, mad with disease. My grandmother had shot it from the front porch and left it to rot in the yard. I doubted that the otter would worry her, rabid or not.

It finished the butter, licked oil from its lips, and sniffed. An anchovy and a puddle of tuna lay on the floor within easy reach, but the otter disregarded both. It rippled towards me.

Slowly, so slowly, I backed out of the kitchen.

It followed like an inchworm. I reached back, flung open the door, and the otter darted past me, rustling along my bare leg. It chattered once and tumbled out of sight under the gooseberry bush.

My grandmother often slept late, and was moderately deaf. I told her about the otter an hour later when she came into the kitchen in her long nightgown.

“Otters will do that,” she said when I finished. She plucked a jar of olives from the fridge.

“Grandma, we don’t even have otters up here,” I said.

She became irate. “Don’t you say we don’t have otters! If I say we have otters, then that’s what we have.” She fished an olive out of the jar and nursed the juice from it. “When

are you going to marry that Prettyfeather boy?

My son owes horses to his family, but I guess you’ll have to do instead.”

“Grandma, Dad’s gone,” I said carefully.

“He’s been gone for a year, remember?” How could she not? The anniversary was rolling in like a bank of bitter fog.

My grandmother sent me a sly glance.

Her eyes were skylights, bright and black behind the frost of old age. Age was upon her; it seeped across her corneas and collected in the deltas at the corners of her eyes. It pulled her fingernails into her palms and drew her throat tight against itself from the inside. It also cleared her head of the muddle of realism, though I didn’t realize it then.

“He’s gone, you say?” she said craftily.

“Well, if you say he’s gone, he must be gone.

I’m only your grandmother, and there’s otters in the house. What do I know?”

She knew plenty. She knew how to make pemmican and tiramisu. She knew how to change the oil in her old Cadillac, and how to turn a baby to keep it from suffocating in the birth canal. She knew what day it was. But at fourteen, I knew better. I knew what was real, and I knew my grandmother was old.

“Let me make your tea,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. “Are you going swimming today?”

I didn’t meet her eye. “Grandma, I outgrew that months and months ago,” I said. “There’s other things to do.”

“Your father loves to swim,” she told me.

She told me every morning. It was what she told me the morning he washed up on a sand bar in the Little Bighorn. She had pulled me close against her hip and whispered in my hair. Your father loves to swim.

“I just don’t like it anymore,” I said.

I went to my room and looked out the window. It was raining and had rained all night. Water poured down the hood of my grandmother’s car. It carved canyons in the gravel driveway. And I knew without thinking that it swelled the river that ran just out of sight over the hill. I closed my eyes and could picture it, swollen and infected with silt from the rain. It would rush over oily rocks and tug at the willows. Some of the plants would no longer stand the heaving river, and would pull loose from the bank and dip away on the current, drinking deeply, and eventually drown.

The scent of rain seeped from outside. I shoved open the window, wanting to feel the damp on my face. From the ground came a whistle. A streak of otter slithered over the windowsill and landed wetly on the floor. It rolled and stared up at me. Otters will do that.

It stayed. None of my lures or Susannah’s objections could deter it. It slept on my rug or in the folds of my bathrobe and would snarl if disturbed. It ate scraps from the table and Swiss cheese, but preferred peanut butter and the fat trimmed from bacon. It would wedge a whole hardboiled egg in its mouth and carry it off to plunder in secret. Late at night it would run on the wood floor in the hallway

and slide on its belly into Susannah’s room.

More than once my sister woke screaming, as the otter glided beside her bed and tangled in her drooping sheets. She threatened to call her boyfriend, have him drive out to the house and kill it.

“Bad luck, killing a house otter,” my grandmother said. “It’ll leave when it’s done.”

“Done with what?” Susannah demanded.

“Done scaring us to death in our sleep?”

“It’ll slip away when it’s done,” my grandmother said. “It’ll go downriver and we won’t see it again.”

“Hurry up,” Susannah told the otter. It was scavenging under the table and paid her no mind.

Susannah is white. White as could be, with clear eyelashes and corn-tassle hair, freckles her only color, and she covers them up with foundation and powders them pale. She’s my half-sister. We have the same white mother, fair as a Viking, and the same hollow frame.

But I’m Indian, beyond a doubt. No one looks twice at me for the half-breed I am.

It wasn’t the Old West when my parents met—there was nothing scandalous anymore about an Indian in love with a white woman.

She had been willing, that’s all that mattered.

Less willing to carry a dark child and give birth on the floor of the elementary school in Crow Agency. The ambulance arrived too late; I had already clawed my way free.

“Crow babies are quick,” my grandmother Continued on page 48

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Doll Green Face Baby • Shelby Frost • Photography

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Egg • Dustin McClure • Photography

used to say. “They have to be up and running in an hour to keep up with the herd.”

I was only half Crow, and all my life I felt the pull down my midline. There was something spare and serene in my grandmother’s world of large families and late nights. But my mother frightened me with tales of poverty and the shame of dependency. What a thing to tell a child, who is dependent for everything, from water to love. My mother was an attorney, hugely successful, with a penchant for men so full of life they submerged her riddled soul.

Susannah’s father had not been full of life; he had been the riddler. But my father had been happy and playful and lazy as a flat river, and he had soothed my mother. I imagined her with him, her hair loose and wild, feet bare on red dust. I liked to think that Susannah was a lawyer’s daughter, and I had been born to a woman a thousand miles away from a sheet of paper or a hidden clause.

I spent winters with my mother in Helena, and summers with my Crow family on the Little Bighorn. I slogged through the slush to biology, math and American History, and in summer I rolled through wheatgrass in warm sunshine, painted graffiti on bridge pilings, and breathed in the river through my pores.

I swam every morning, before the flies came out, and every afternoon in the ravaging heat.

I swam at night with my flock of cousins, diving off the dock, feeling through the dark like catfish. We danced around fires and slipped into the river when skin grew warm.

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My parents separated three years after my sudden birth. They fought no violent custody battle; my mother knew her system of daycares and babysitters would crumble in the face of tribal rights. I was half Crow, which is as good as whole if you’re a child teetering between a native father and white mother. But my father saw the wisdom in the white-man’s schools, and so they reached their agreement: Summers with him, winters with her, and I would come on my own as soon as I was able.

They exchanged me like a hostage. I would ride the bus from Helena to Bozeman, in the seat behind the driver, wearing a yellow paper band printed with MINOR around my wrist. In Bozeman my father would meet me with orange cream sodas, and I’d finish the drive tucked under his arm. The first time frightened me. I was five and couldn’t touch the bus floor with my toes. But I was Crow, up and running, and by the time I was seven I could have taken a Greyhound to anywhere in the States or Canada and found my way back home. Just follow your nose, my grandmother told me. As long as you know yourself, you’ll know the scent of this place.

Susannah soon got tired of hearing of my summer escapades, and when I was eight she just got on the bus and came with me.

The Crow like kids. Even white kids with no lineage. She never stopped coming until we were grown.

However, the summer I was fourteen, there were times when I thought she’d catch

the next bus back to Helena and never look back. It was the otter that nearly ran her off.

She was seventeen and attempting to bring sophistication to the heathens. It undermined her endeavor to see an otter on the kitchen table, sucking a raw egg. She refused to be placated, not even when I pointed out that it didn’t fish and didn’t swim, so it was hardly a real otter anyway.

“It’s scared to slip in, scared of the current,” my grandmother said one afternoon, a week or so after the otter arrived. It had rained all week, unusual for June, and the otter rarely left the house.

“Bathtubs don’t have current,” I said.

I filled the tub and lured the otter, but it wouldn’t come past the bathroom door. It put up its hackles when I splashed water at it.

“Give it up,” my grandmother called. “It wants to be a house otter. Go swimming.”

“I’m too old to swim,” I said I think she knew the truth. She knew I was afraid of the current, afraid to slip in. She knew that I had lost the ability to feel through the dark. I could have taken a Greyhound and lost the scent. I might not have been able to find my way back.

“Go swimming with the Prettyfeather boy,” she said. “You’re too pretty to stare at otters all day.”

“And too young to get pregnant,” I said.

“Swimming won’t get you pregnant,” my grandmother said. “He’s a good boy.

Good swimmer, too. He’ll keep you out of the current.”

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Barn Owl • Kevin Kinzley • Photography

“He’s gone to Lodge Grass with his cousin,” I said. It wasn’t true. “And I can keep myself out of the current.”

“Then go,” she said. “It’s hot. Take Susannah and go swimming. Get out of my house. It’s too hot with this many women in here.”

“Grandma’s running us off,” I told Susannah in the kitchen. The otter had followed me; she eyed it with distaste.

“That thing is scared of water?” she asked.

I nodded. “Let’s go to the river,” she said. The tendons in my neck tightened, and Susannah didn’t miss it.

“Oh, knock it off, I’m not going to drag you in,” she said.

“I’ll sit and be the lifeguard,” I said. “You can’t swim to save your life anyway.”

“You wouldn’t get in even if I was drowning.”

“Probably not,” I said. It was unlikely that she’d drown. She rarely ventured in past her knees.

Susannah took an hour to get ready for anything. She tied on her black bikini and pulled back her hair. She made me slather her pale back with sunscreen. The otter followed her into her room for a towel.

“Let’s go,” she said. The otter snuffled behind her down the hall and slipped through the screen door before I could close it.

“I don’t want it to come,” Susannah said.

“I can’t exactly chain it up,” I said. “Maybe it’ll swim away on the river.”

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“It doesn’t swim,” she said.

“Maybe it will this time,” I said.

We trudged straight to the river through the waist-high grass. Susannah complained about ticks, saying she would contract Lyme disease and die a lingering death.

“Not likely,” I said. “You’d die of shock when you found the thing stuck in your belly button.”

Susannah had never been a swimmer, not like the rest of us. She always sat on the bank or waded in the shallows. We drug her in once, my cousins and I, snuck up behind her and pulled her out into the middle. She shrieked and sobbed and floundered in the water until we took mercy on her and fished her out. Susannah, white and angular. She never had to keep up with the herd.

The otter was different than my sister. I watched them in front of me: Susannah in the lead, elbowing the grass aside, the otter burrowing through it with scarcely a ripple.

She was all jerky motion and skinny limbs; the otter loped on caterpillar legs and moved in a series of undulations, all the way to the water’s edge.

“Are you going to swim or not,” I said to Susannah. She spread her towel on the sandy bank, and applied more sunblock. The river was high from the rain.

“Don’t rush me,” she said, stretching out on her towel. The otter loped to her and sniffed her foot. Its whiskers brushed her

ankle, driving her to her feet again.

“Get it away,” she said. She backed towards the water. The otter followed her, bobbing like a cork.

“It’s not going to hurt you,” I said. “Just leave it alone and it’ll ignore you.”

But it wasn’t ignoring her. It backed her towards the water until she was in above her knees.

“It won’t stop, Lyra!”

Sometimes, I wondered who was really the older. I burrowed my toes into the sand.

“Ask it politely,” I snapped.

A strange thing happened then, or strange for our otter, at least. It followed her in. For days it had rejected water. It had avoided the river, shunned the bathtub, and refused to drink from anything larger than a saucer. It had hissed at my grandmother when she turned on the hose. But at that moment, with Susannah edging deeper, ever deeper, it followed her in.

It only takes a few inches to float an otter, and the current lifted and pushed it towards my sister.

“Watch out for the shelf,” I said. I knew it was there, under the murk. It was easy to forget it and step unsuspectingly into the deep.

But Susannah was a wader, a creature of the shallows. She had no strong tail, no rudder to buoy her. She couldn’t feel her way with her toes. And when the current bumped my otter against her legs, she squealed once, as high as a whistle, and fell back into deeper water.

Wire Boot • Megan Schrey • Sculpture

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And suddenly, I was a year younger, and foolish, and a hand was driving through the surface in a spray of silver foam. The water was tugging at my knees, turn loose, I’ll carry you, and I knew that if I dove I could reach him, pull his head above the deadly water. The river was black with sediment. Watch out for the shelf. My cousins were shouting, I could hear them behind me as if through glass. Louder in my ears was the sound of his gasp, a choke as he broke through the surface. He was out in the current, a breaststroke away, and I hesitated. He had taught me. He swam like a seal, using his whole body to glide through the water. He was too strong.

“It’s alright,” I called. “He’s okay. He’ll get out on the sandbar.”

Two days later, his ashen body lay on the gravel, pale as Susannah’s skin.

Your father loves to swim.

“Susannah!” I screamed. She had vanished in the roiling silt. If I dove I could reach her, and I didn’t hesitate, didn’t dare. I arched like an otter and hit the water headfirst. It closed over my head, filling my eyes and throat. It cooled me in an instant. I groped in front

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of me. My fingers found the shelf. I pulled myself over it, into the depths. The current was strong, pounding in my ears. It drew me deeper, farther out, but my sister’s pale hair was a lure in front of me. My fingers closed over a wrist, or an ankle, and I pulled with all my strength and regret.

Susannah pulled back. She pulled my head above the water, pulled me into the shallows. She stood above me, pale and dripping. Her wrist was in my hand.

My sister stared at me.

“Lyra, it’s okay, I’m alright,” she said. “It was just the damn otter that scared me. I was only under for a second.”

The otter was there, although it would be gone in the morning, gone on the current.

With a start I realized I was at its level. Nose to nose. I no longer saw myself in reflection. It observed me serenely, and I knew I could dive into the closest eye without a splash and kick deep, into the dark, and emerge, dripping, clutching the white star that lay at the bottom.

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Raku Masks • Dennis Freidly • Ceramics

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Infinity Gigi Hoagland It must have taken God a very long time to create the Universe and the solar system and Earth and all of the good things because it has taken me what seems like ages to sit down and write a poem about how much I love you.

How can something so vast and so powerful be put into mere words, just ink on paper?

How can somebody so perfect simply be summed up?

It cannot be done.

So I imagine God ate a lot of Ben and Jerry’s and watched a lot of cosmic television until finally He said, “This is stupid. I have shit to do.”

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So He sat down and created a Universe.

And in that Universe He, in His infinite wisdom, put you on a planet.

And He, in His infinite wisdom, put me on the same planet.

And He made you beautiful the way grass is quietly beautiful, symmetrical and, if you look, more than just green.

And He made me a poet and said, “Look. See him? Well, he’s going to be more important than anything.

There is your muse. Pick up your pen and write.”

So I did.

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Crux • Christian Baumeister • Ceramics

The Reflection Amy Moore

Johanna hummed softly as she brushed her long chestnut hair, gazing at the youthful reflection peering back from the small silver mirror she held in her hand.

Till the end of time, long as stars are in the blue, Long as there’s a spring of birds to sing I’ll go on loving you …

The radio crackled its accompaniment to the brushing and humming. Lilting violins and muted trumpets swelled and filled the room as the young girl blended her clear voice with Perry Como’s dreamy vocals:

So take my heart in sweet surrender and tenderly say that I’m The one you love and live for till the end of time.

So lost was she in her romantic, adolescent reverie that she did not see her mother stand up suddenly and leave the room, her face buried in a white handkerchief. Johanna’s voice continued singing to the reflection in the mirror until Grandfather abruptly switched off the radio.

“That Como fella, thinking he’s clever, stealing melodies from a real musician like Chopin,” Grandfather huffed in a disdainful voice. “Enough radio for tonight, Miss Johanna Marie Whitlock.” His voice was stern, yet tinged with the sadness he and everyone else in the house tried so terribly hard to mask.

Grandfather folded his newspaper under his arm and muttered a gruff goodnight before shuffling out; it was only then that Johanna noticed her mother was no longer

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sitting with them. Besides the steady ticking of the great clock and the rhythmic click of her grandmother’s knitting needles, only the muffled sobbing from the tiny bedroom where her mother slept punctuated the silence of the small home the four of them shared.

“Farmor Marie,” the girl said to the elderly woman in a voice full of concern, “what’s wrong? Why is Grandfather upset, and why is Mama crying?”

Farmor continued knitting in the lamplight, her spectacles perched on the brim of her nose, the click, click, click of the needles the only reply.

“Farmor?”

The knitting stopped, and the elderly woman looked up, deep into the eyes of her granddaughter. Johanna instantly felt shame, as if her grandmother’s dark brown eyes had conveyed the obvious reason for Mama’s once inexplicable sobbing, because those eyes had spoken, it seemed. People said Marie Whitlock had the gift of second sight, knowing things and seeing things no one else saw.

Women paid her not only to do their sewing and knitting, but to read fortunes in their tea leaves. Farmor had once admitted to Johanna, “I don’t really need the tea leaves. But it helps them feel more comfortable, using the leaves, you know.” Johanna often felt as if Farmor saw right through her to her thoughts. She felt that way now as the realization came to her.

It was the song, the song Johanna had been singing.

Of course such a song would make Mama sad, thought Johanna.

“He is always on her mind, you know,” said Farmor, as if reading Johanna’s thoughts.

“She cannot help it. We women cannot hear songs of love without our hearts turning to the ones we love. It is our nature.”

Johanna listened to the words of her grandmother, words lightly coated in charming Norwegian like powdered sugar on an æbleskiver, an accent that changed “think” to “tink,” her w’s to v’s. Sometimes Johanna tried the familiar accent on for size, attempting to pass as an immigrant at the fancy department stores downtown, giggling with her friends when she succeeded. But tonight was not a time for giggling; the mood was much more somber. The entire year had been somber.

And a song which had seemed so lighthearted and romantic to the teenage girl had only succeeded in piercing her mother’s tender heart.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Johanna said, dropping her eyes. “Oh! Should I go to Mama?”

“Nie,” replied Farmor, shaking her head.

“Let her have her cry. Sometimes it is good to cry.”

“Why don’t you cry, Farmor?” the girl asked. “Papa is yours as much as he is Mama’s.”

Farmor paused and sighed. Her gnarled fingers slowly wrapped the woolen yarn back into a tight ball, then reached up to remove the spectacles from her tired eyes.

“Johanna, elskede,” she said, motioning for the girl to sit beside her. “There are many things you are yet to learn.”

“I’m no longer a child,” Johanna said defensively.

“Ja, I know. Growing up so quickly,” Farmor said, patting Johanna’s hand.

“I know about love,” Johanna insisted, her face flushing.

“Do you, now?” Farmor smiled.

Johanna looked down. “Well … a little.

More than you might think, at least.”

“Well, also grandmothers know more about love than young granddaughters think.”

Johanna looked up, the surprise obvious on her face. “Were you once in love, Farmor?”

“Once? Have you forgotten your own grandfather who lives in this very house?” laughed Farmor.

How was it possible to forget? Grandfather and Farmor had been living in the house since, well, since the day the horrid telegram came.

The one about Papa missing somewhere over in the Orient along with so many other US soldiers who had left behind wives and daughters, grandfathers and grandmothers who sat alone, safe and warm but lonely and praying, hoping, and waiting. Always waiting.

Johanna understood her mother’s careworn distractedness, the sudden moments of overwhelming grief, the disconnected look in her mother’s face which made Johanna’s heart ache to see her father again. So many other fathers and husbands were returning home.

If only they could know for certain what had become of their own Captain Jorgen Whitlock.

“I meant … did you ever love someone as much as Mama loves Papa?”

Farmor looked steadily upon the girl who asked so probing a question. “Now, I will tell you a story from the old country of a girl who loved like this,” she said, nodding her head as if she had reached an important decision.

“Bring me your brush, Johanna, so that I may have something to keep my hands busy and help me to think.”

Johanna did as she was bade. Brush in hand, the old woman pulled the stiff bristles through the vibrant chestnut hair, the brush’s silver plated back catching the glowing firelight with every stroke.

“There was once a girl your age,” began Farmor, “perhaps a month or two older, who lived along the sea in Hordaland. The Old Country was a place of beauty like no other, with white glacier fjells and steep fjords, busy fishermen and boats, and happy little children who loved singing and dancing. The mothers and fathers were not so happy, for they worried about how to feed and clothe the children when times were like they are nowadays – much want and very little to supply the want.”

“Did they ration their goods, too?” asked Johanna, tilting her head to let Farmor plunge the bristles deeper into an itchy portion of her scalp. How she hated the war rations, especially on shoes, new shoes her growing feet desperately needed in place of Mama’s

hideous old work boots. She missed the sugary baked goods Farmor and Mama used to bake, and Grandfather was so grumpy without enough of his morning coffee.

“In a way, ja. The Old Country was suffering. A depression, I think, and money was hard to come by. But this little girl — I will call her Christine — worked very hard to earn her keep and help her mor og far. She sewed for others and made Hardanger lace to sell at the market. But she was also busy working on something for herself.”

“What was it?” asked Johanna.

“She was sewing her very first bunad which meant Christine was no longer a child, but a woman.” Johanna knew was a bunad was. Farmor still wore hers on special occasions such as weddings and funerals, and on Syttende Mai, the 17th of May when Norwegians celebrated their Constitution Day. She wore it on days when the smell of parboiled lutefisk filled the tiny kitchen with its pungent, detestable aroma. Johanna loved fingering the intricate beadwork and embroidery on Farmor’s bunad and handling the beautiful silver ornaments Farmor wore as accessories. Someday, Farmor promised, the ornaments would be Johanna’s.

Farmor continued. “Christine was excited, for she was to wear this bunad for the first time to a very special birthday celebration.”

“Whose birthday?” she wanted to know.

“Norway’s greatest composer, Edward Grieg,” answered Farmor with more than a hint of national pride.

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Jewelry • Meagan Schrey • Silver

Amazon Bird • Courtney B. Smith • Photography

“Nie, he certainly was not,” said Farmor firmly.

“He was handsome to other girls, and handsome especially to himself, which made him unworthy in the mind of Christine. And he was older, much older. Christine was only fifteen years old like you, and Hans was an old man of twentythree. No, Christine had her heart set on another young man by the name of Jorgen.”

“Like Papa?” wondered Johanna, turning around.

Farmor gently turned the questioning face back to its rightful position using the bristles of the brush. “Yes, elskede. ‘Jorgen’ was much more common a name in the old country than it is here, even though it is a most lovely name.” She paused, her words and brush waiting for her to continue. The brush stayed still as the words finally came. “This boy’s name was Jorgen Olsen.”

Floating • Tess Anderson • Photography

“Why was Christine invited to his birthday celebration?” Johanna asked in surprise.

“He’s so famous!” Johanna had listened to the composer’s In the Hall of the Mountain King since she was a small girl as Farmor related tales of a young boy named Peer sneaking into the Mountain King’s castle to find the princess. Johanna had loved to hear about Peer’s daring escape from the sinister trolls.

But she much preferred the soothing strains of Grieg’s Morning Mood, and the thought of perhaps Peer and his princess running off happily together into the glow of the morning sun. “Did Christine know Edvard Grieg? Was he a family friend?”

“Nie. But she and the children, many children, were to sail by boat to his home, and sing to him for his birthday from the water, and they were most excited, of course. Christine kept late hours to finish the beading on her bodice inset, embroidering by candlelight.

She stitched the woolen broadcloth to fit her slight form, and was quite pleased when she stood before the small looking glass and saw her dainty reflection.

“Young Christine was not the only one pleased with her womanly looks, however.

Hans Pedersen, the son of Old Peder, the fishing magnate from the nearby harbor, watched her closely the day of the birthday celebration.”

“Was Hans handsome?” asked Johanna, her tone dreamy.

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“Why else did Christine like Jorgen better than Hans?”

“Because she knew his heart,” Farmor replied. “Jorgen Olsen was not a man of worldly fortune, but he was kind. Christine liked the way he looked at her, the way his blue eyes reminded her of the sun flickering off the surface of the sea. She liked the way he left her bouquets of summer flowers on the open window sill, how he brushed his hand by hers when no one was watching.” Johanna sighed and let her grandmother continue. “And … she knew he was the only one she wanted to marry.”

“Really?” asked the young girl.

“Ja.” Farmor began to braid the long brown hair, weaving it deftly, over and under, over and under with her skilled fingers. “She had no use for the conceited Hans Pedersen. But Hans was jealous, even angry that Christine refused to notice him. He thought Christine looked very beautiful in her new bunad, and made sure to mention it loud enough, and rudely enough, for Jorgen to overhear. That June evening when she stepped into Hans’ boat to sail to the home of our dear composer, Hans set his mind to having her.”

Farmor explained that Hans was a man of means who usually got what he desired. He watched with a strange jealousy that young Christine did not notice when she and the other children on the boat began to sing. Their voices carried birthday greetings across the water’s surface and up to the balcony of the

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Grieg residence where the grand composer stood. The children laughed and waved, blowing kisses as the great musician clasped his hands and bowed to show appreciation to the adoring children. Christine’s heart was happy and light as she and the others began their journey back toward the village — happy, that is, until a friend pointed out how Hans was leering at Christine. Christine’s heart then became anxious, because she knew she must return home in his boat. Both the sky and the sneer on Hans Pedersen’s face darkened with each passing shadow, and the young girl quickly sought the comforting nearness of Jorgen at the back of Hans Pederson’s boat.

One by one, the moonlit sea lulled the young children to sleep, and Jorgen edged closer to his Christine. In the gentle swaying of the boat, he reached for her hand. She turned to him expectantly, waiting until he took her soft face in both hands to kiss her for the very first time. For one sweet moment, Christine could not hear the sound of the swooshing water, the quiet wisp of the night wind, nor anything else but the steadfast pounding of her heart. She did not hear the heavy footsteps of Hans Pedersen warning the young lovers of his approach. But she did hear the crack of a fist as it pelted the face of her beloved Jorgen.

“The next thing the frightened girl heard was a splash; Hans had heaved the poor young man into the black waters below,” said Farmor. “Christine screamed in fear, but Hans

only laughed and mocked her cries. Without thinking of what foolishness she was about to commit, Christine tore off her new woolen skirt, and jumped in after Jorgen.”

Johanna whirled around. “She really went in after Jorgen?”

“What else was she to do?” Farmor asked.

“Hans wasn’t about to stop his boat for a rival suitor. Jorgen was injured, in danger of drowning; Christine was Jorgen’s only hope.”

“But, did she know how to swim?”

“Know how to swim? My child, she was Norwegian, a child of the sea.”

“And the water was warm, right? Because it was June?”

“Ach, I did not say that. It was anyting but warm, child. The sea was fed by the great glaciers of the fjell, and the night water was cold enough to kill a mere human in minutes.”

Johanna creased her brow in worry. In her time, she’d heard enough stories about dying lovers and wasn’t presently in the mood for another. “Please tell me they survived, Farmor.”

Farmor smiled. “I’ll tell you what did not survive — the bodice piece of the bunad Christine’s poor hands had slaved and toiled to finish. Neither did Hans return the skirt, keeping it as a cruel trophy of sorts, and sordid tales to go with, too, it until Christine’s father had words with the scoundrel. But the two children, ja, they survived. Theirs was not the only vessel ferrying children to the home of the great Edward Grieg that night. They were

not in the water more than a minute but that others heard Christine’s cry. Poor Jorgen was bleeding, too dazed to call out for help.”

“So Christine saved his life,” concluded the young girl. “And they lived happily ever after.”

Here Farmor fell silent again, and her gaze went off to a distant place. “Ja,” she finally said, her aged eyes reflecting the flames from the fireplace. “That night, she saved his life.

But like Hans, the sea was jealous — she didn’t claim young Jorgen that night, but she kept calling to him to join her again, and he could not resist her cries. The following spring, he joined the merchant sailors and sailed off to seek his fortune.”

“Christine begged him not to go, though, didn’t she?”

“That she did.”

“And?” “Still he went.”

Johanna turned around to face her grandmother. “Did they have an understanding, Christine and Jorgen? Did she wait for him?

Please tell me that Christine didn’t end up with the awful Hans Pedersen.”

Farmor chuckled softly. “In truth, it was Jorgen who later had the misfortune of dealing with Hans Pedersen. With the money young Jorgen earned from his two years as a merchant sailor, he bought an old vessel from Hans, a second-hand merchant boat Hans’ father Old Peder had retired from service when the wealthier sailors began to use steam

ships. You never saw a prouder boy than Jorgen Olsen the day he purchased that old ship. So, as soon as he returned, he left again.

But this time,” she smiled, “with a promise to his Christine.”

Johanna listened as Farmor told her how Jorgen, captain of the refurbished Morgenstemning, sent his beloved Christine small amounts of money each month to save for their wedding. “It won’t be long, dearest, until we shall live as husband and wife. What is another two years? It is but a little while longer until nothing can separate the two of us,” read a letter Christine kept always near her heart as she sewed in the parlor of his mother’s home.

She spent those years caring for her future Værmor who wore the white rose of mourning on her black shawl, for Jorgen’s father Ole had died of sickness while Jorgen was at sea. To his mother Jorgen sent and equal portion of his wages. From time to time, the devoted sailor shipped back trinkets for his fiancée’s trousseau — a small vial of perfume from France, brass candlestick holders from Constantinople, and a silver brush and matching mirror from England, engraved with “M.C.O,” the future initials of his future bride. While the gifts were lovely, there was one thing Christine wanted, longed for, above all else. That was a simple letter bearing news that Jorgen was coming home to her. When the birds of spring returned and the roses began to bloom, shortly after Syttende Mai,

that letter came.

Kjære Christine, The great sea-god Aege has smiled upon me and my humble vessel, which shall return to its mother harbor on 15 June. There I hope you shall be the first to bid me welcome, and to join me at the kirke, for we shall wed before the last celebration of Jonsok, making me the happiest of men. Darling, if I could come to you sooner, I would. My heart is already beside you, and I am already … yours.

J.O. Christine flew to Værmor’s home to share the exciting news. The two women laughed and cried, and Vaermor reverently removed the wedding bunad she had worn long ago from its nesting place in the painted cedar trunk. The two women examined the dress, looked at each other, and embraced.

“He is coming home,” said his mother.

“To us,” breathed Christine. And the two wept with joy.

A fortnight before Jorgen’s return, an enraged wind began to blow, provoking the already threatening sea. Warning bells rang as mothers hurried to gather their children inside.

Merchants bolted the shutters to their store windows, muttering and cursing the murky sky as the first lightning bolts illuminated the green-gray horizon. Christine sat oblivious in her bedroom, carefully knitting a fishermen’s sweater out of warm red yarn and strands of her own long chestnut hair. Her cedar chest was nearly full of Hardanger tablecloths, bed

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Ocean • Thibodeaux • Painting

linens, and clothing she had fashioned in the lonely months of her engagement. Tied with a satin ribbon were the salt-scented letters written by her love, her chosen, her Jorgen.

Christine paid little mind to the howling storm outside as she blew out the candle and slipped into bed, burrowing down into the comforting folds and drifting to sleep.

It was impossible to say what time it was when he entered the room.

She did not hear him, but rather felt his presence. There, at the foot of her bed.

With sudden awareness, she sat upright in the darkness, and recognized him instantly.

“Jorgen,” she whispered.

He stood a foot above the wooden floorboards, his shallow form transparent in the dappled moonlight. His body was drenched in seaweed and salt water which quietly dripped onto the floor where it seemed to evaporate.

His sea-blue eyes, conveying to her all the sadness and longing that has ever been felt by those who cannot hold the ones they love, penetrated the very depths of her soul.

A strangling chill gripped her heart. “No,” Christine cried, reaching out to him. “No! It cannot be!”

The figure trembled, and slowly reached out its hands to her.

And then he was gone.

“NO!!!” she screamed. “Jorgen! You cannot leave me!”

It would be days before her mor og far

could console their distraught girl. They sent for the doctor, then the priest at the kirke.

When she was well enough to leave her sickbed, Christine wandered the shore, looking with forlorn eyes toward the open sea, watching, waiting.

“He didn’t come back, did he, Farmor,” whispered Johanna, with tears trickling down her face.

Farmor smiled a sad smile. “Nie, elskede, he did not.”

“What happened?”

“Word did not reach the village for another week, but Christine already knew in her heart.

He had drowned. She said nothing when they told her Jorgen Olsen’s vessel had been found shipwrecked after the great storm. The men at the wharf said the Morgenstemning had not been seaworthy since the moment Old Peder retired it. ‘‘Twas a miracle she had lasted as long as she did,’ they said, shaking their heads before moving on to their discussions of the weather and the price of cod.

“Christine knew she was not the only one to suffer — many other men had lost their lives that night and their women wore the rose upon their black shawls.”

“Christine didn’t marry that awful Hans Pedersen, did she?”

“She did no such thing. She simply gave all the money Jorgen had sent her to his mother, and used her own savings to buy a ticket to sail to America. Like so many thousands

of her people during those trying years, she left her home, her family, and her memories to reach out for the west and the promise of a new beginning.” Farmor put her hands on Johanna’s shoulders. “Now, child, enough of this sadness. Sing for me that song about May. The one you were singing before.”

Johanna cleared her throat, and quietly sang: Till the end of time, long as stars are in the blue Long as there’s a spring of birds to sing I’ll go on loving you.

Till the end of time, long as roses bloom in May, My love for you will grow deeper with every passing day.

Farmor smiled. “Ja. It is the same for old women as for young, for grandmothers, mothers, daughters, granddaughters. We never let the heart forget the one who first imprinted his love there. So it is with your poor mother and my dear son, her own Jorgen. So it may someday be with you, elskede.”

And with those words, Johanna understood. “And … was it so with you, Farmor Marie?”

The old woman handed the young girl her brush and mirror. Slowly, she turned the tarnished silver mirror over, tracing her finger across the elaborate script of the engraved initials – M.C.O. “Till the end of time, my dearest girl, so it shall be with me.”

■

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Kenly Marie & Her Mother • Amy Moore • Charcoal

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Intense Migrane • Sara Cronk • Photography

Little Reminders Jessica Shuler

Constantly my mind flashes back to traces of you.

Hunting. Fishing. Traveling. Cornhuskers.

Your blue eyes shimmering as you proudly Listened to my every dream and aspiration.

I still recall your slight chuckle watching your favorite show, Or the sly grin etched across your pale face when you told a joke.

Your spirits never dwindled, Your faith in tomorrow never grew slack.

Morphine after morphine, comfort slipped away with your mind.

Trust in my care became both necessary and evident.

For every need, I supplied. For every question, I answered.

Eight pills Breakfast. Four pills Lunch. Six pills Dinner. Four pills Bed. Pill to Mouth. Water to Mouth. Swallow and Check.

Repeat.

Simple tasks of everyday care, but never even touching the root of the master burden.

Ugly hindrance gradually stole the life from within you and your spirit from us.

Two years of suffering was more than enough for any one soul to endure,

But I have trouble letting that be my peace.

Longing to rob you of your pain, I’d have given anything for you to be cured, Every day spent wishing to see you again, more than I wish the sun to rise each day.

I have yet to find warmth in your passing and understanding in your presence.

Battle lies between my heart and mind where the loss of your memory is haunting.

Perhaps your memory hides within the little reminders.

Time stands still and I sense you When the long black wings of a Canada goose hinge up and set, As if floating its grey chest into the field beside the road.

Your wisdom whispers to my ear when balancing my checkbook Or juggling my homework seems unbearable.

Your guidance and patience support my every decision.

Maybe it is true what they say.

I miss you, Daddy, but maybe this goodbye doesn’t have to be so shattering.

Maybe I can always find you in the finer lines of this fading picture.

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Cellshots & Hotshots

66

Hinky?

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Roman Anaya • Aeolian • Photography

See you Jay Robinson

see you this ink, this spot, this stain? see this shadow, this symbol, my pain? see you this glint, this grin, insane? see inside, through pearl, the grain?

see you the spark, the ghost, the soul? see the paste, that kept me whole? see you the dust, the black, the coal? see the edge, the drop, this hole?

see you this string, this strand, this rope? see the spark, the flame, my hope?

know you the drop, the tear that cries? know the life that lives, yet dies? know you the hall, the maze that lies? know the hope despaired, to sigh?

know you the cold, the hard, the steel? know the blood, the end they feel? know you the shock, the sound, unreal?

War

Tess Lackey Two people, not one, but two.

Laughing, talking, peaceful.

One misspoke, one argued, just once.

Petty words, petty actions, dark words, darker thoughts Acted in the black of the night.

know the sneer that’s brought to heel?

Revealed by the light of an x-ray sun,

Sadness, terror, opposition, revenge.

know you this string, this strand, this rope? know the spark, the flame, my hope?

Lights turn red on a busy intersection.

Clothes dyed red hang on a store rack.

Shoes, blood red, displayed through a streak-free window.

Red clothes, red shoes Bought on credit.

Credit provided by many.

Caused by one.

Dissolved into none.

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70

Arianna Skoog • Strawberry Lemonade • Photography

Birthday Dinner Amy Moore

The four kids have a baby sitter so the four adults can drive to the city to celebrate. It is my birthday. I am important for the day, important enough for an expensive dinner in posh surroundings, surrounded by other people celebrating their privileged lives. At the intersection downtown, just off the interstate, we lock our doors, nervous eyes darting inconspicuous glances at the less important ones who live in the park, the park empty of children but full of needles and syringes lurking in the grass like shards of glass. The red light stalls as we watch homeless hoodlums darkening the curb. Without warning, a scuffle explodes. In a burst of fists and blood, the brawl spills into the middle of the intersection. The light changes and important people honk impatiently, swerving in inconvenience around the battling duo. In front of our car, the cinnamon-colored cheek of a homeless teen grates into the asphalt.

My husband instinctively clenches the door handle. His mother and I screech for him to stay inside—they might have weapons!

But he is gone, yelling for the assaulter to stop. Vigilantes emerge from other cars, too, and the first flash of red and blue siren lights sends the perpetrator sprinting like a panther over park benches and into the shadows. I look at the battered boy, his pummeled face, and wonder, where is his family? Who calls him important?

Because I am not hungry anymore and my mind is chewing on other, more important, things.

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72

Sarah Cronk • The Gritty West • Photography

To Daddy Jessica Shuler • Personal Passion • Pencil

Callie Atkinson I can see me

The path now wet,

Riding on your hands

The names there, they

Singing, “Fly my nest!”

Are wet too.

Home to the nest

Rocks, turtle-backs,

She lands atop twigs.

Slippery mud.

My eyes brimming in excitement,

One leg sinks,

I hand back the bino’s.

The other stays.

On my knees I search

“A woodhouse,” you say,

Through thick and dainty

An answer to my question.

Calypsos. “White,” you say,

It calls again and

“All white.”

You say, “A female.”

You smile. I smile.

She clings to the top of

The frog feels cool

A small cave, a hole.

On the palm of my hand.

Nose quivering,

The white on his throat,

Body shivering, watching.

Stretches. His legs stretch,

A spring of water,

Green reaching for

Mint claims the air.

Green of water.

Heels fly, gallop.

Reeds rustle, slap

I watch, aching inside.

Against my legs.

“They will find her,” you comfort.

You swing me over

Just one last touch

Murky depths of algae.

Of the velvet.

Your foot slips,

Snow still clings here,

We laugh, both with murk

One more “Sego lily.”

On our shoes.

“Here, see?”

Expired two years ago,

I press it between

The cocoa still tastes the same.

Pages. A journal,

Warm now, we wait.

A tale of times

Rain, it rains.

With you.

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Courtney B. Smith • Refuge • Photography

The Flower in the Fire Tyler Schanck

Somewhere blossoms arrive without worry, while roses bloom in fields of ash.

For when the winter winds collide with cotton trees, they’ll take to flight

When all is lost, they thrive, malnourished. And watch as troubling times tick past.

Across the vast and open plain—to find a home and start again.

Petals cling to hopes of flying, to travel once they’ve learned their fate.

This dream compels their hearts to hope

If not, the dreadful lapse of dying will cause them all to burn with hate.

When gazing at the charr’ed slope.

With dreams they find a world anew With love to meet, and things to do.

While in my darkest thoughts I dream of blossoms deep in fields of spring, Where the sun can spread its light to aid the gentle flowers’ plight.

Oh, how the air is crisp and clear without a dreadful lantern near To blaze the roses all to dust, despising life, but live they must.

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Fools may live to dream, I say: The Lord has blessed, for Heaven’s sake …

I could dream of love all day … and pray that I may never wake.

And pray that I may never wake.

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Dustin McClure • Röyksopp • Digital Illustration

Zero to 60 in Seven Flat Nicole Goddard

You rode to the whistle And hit your knees While 86 points flashed above your head And I thought for sure You thanked him for a check and reputation.

You slung me into the current Then followed, laughing Up to your knees, carried me to high ground Offered me your shirt And the devastating sight of the small of your back.

You drove a silver Mustang And left the black tread of its tires in parking lots And the stop-lines of traffic lights And on 28 miles of gravel To my daddy’s house.

You took my earlobe between your fingers Reverently And slipped a spear of silver from a wound Long healed-over Tucked my only ornament inside your coat.

You fumbled in your pocket And hit your knees again And I realized every story I’d written for years Had me at the heart And you for a backbone.

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Dustin McClure • Mustang • Digital Illustration

Rain

Cody Thomas

The man spoke with such a viciousness that the spittle-peppered mirror threatened to crack under the assault of his hard words and desperate jabs. He paced back and forth, stopping every few seconds to look into the mirror and growl out angry questions.

“Are you done?” the mirror asked patiently.

“I’m done!” the man groaned through clenched teeth. “I’m done with you … I’m done with this!”

It was late in the evening and a few workers came out of the back door of the Thai restaurant across the alleyway. It was pouring rain. They walked out, lit up cigarettes, and headed for the street to catch a taxi home. Behind them the mirror fell, smashed into the fire exit of a lower apartment and showered down in a cascading waterfall of glass and rain.

Startled, they looked up. Five stories up, on the railing of a fire exit stair case, stood a man in his mid forties. The bags under his eyes were as dark as his dripping hair. Before the workers could realize what he was doing the man took a step forward and fell joined the broken mirror with a hollow, wet, thud.

“Do you believe in God, daddy?” the little boy asked. They were only a few blocks from his mother’s house. It was drizzling and the wipers squeaked across the car window.

“Mom says you don’t.”

“Did she?” The man asked. Of course she did, anything to get me on his bad side.

The boy nodded.

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“I will tell you if you promise not to think of me any differently, and to tell your mom to call me tonight.” His son nodded.

The man looked over at his son. “I won’t lie to you, little man. I don’t. I haven’t for a long time.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“It’s complicated. I might explain it to you when you are older,” he said as they pulled

He drove home.

The man’s apartment was small and cold compared to the home he used to share with his wife. That home had been full of warm colors and warm feelings. Despite all the problems he had with his mental disturbances and his wife’s increasingly hostile reactions to them, he was happy there. This place he now called home felt temporary.

into the block where the boy’s mother lived.

“Lets just say once you realize that you don’t need God anymore, life starts making sense and it’s easier not to believe in him.” They pulled up to the ocean blue house that his ex-wife and he used to share. “That’s probably too complicated huh?”

The boy shook his head “Hey listen,” the man said before his son had a chance to get out of the car. “Just because some people don’t believe in God doesn’t mean they aren’t good people.”

“I understand, Dad, I don’t believe in God either,” his son said, stepping out of the door.

He lowered his gaze to the edge of the grass and stopped. “It kind of makes me sad, because people are really gone when they die.”

He looked back up at his dad. “I love you. See you next week.”

“I love you too,” the man said as his son hurried up to the frond door.

He stared at his son as he opened the door and walked inside. His ex-wife stood at the window with her arms crossed. She gave him a curt little wave. The rain came down harder.

Today was going to be the first night he stopped his sleeping pill regimen. Those little yellow pills kept his life in order he actually slept at night. Sometimes he thought that maybe it wasn’t his sleeping pills that let him sleep after all, maybe it was the lack of a snoring wife wiggling and kicking him at night.

That was a nice thought, but untrue, he was sure. He had trouble sleeping before he met her. Once, when he was in college, he went a week and a half without sleeping. That only ended because in his delusional state he assaulted a school janitor, thinking that he had stolen his eyes. That landed him in jail, and then a hospital where a few intravenous sedatives brought the best sleep of his life.

He performed his nightly routine just like the psychiatrist told him to. Brush teeth, take medicine, and organize your pills for tomorrow night. He thought the handful looked a little bleak without the splash of yellow generic sedative sunshine.

His phone rang. It was his ex-wife.

“Yes dear?” he answered, feigning a caring voice.

“Our son said you wanted me to call.

He looked particularly depressed. I hope it’s important.” Her voice had taken a sharp undertone since they split up.

“Why did you tell him I didn’t believe in God?” he asked, meeting her sharp tone.

“Because you don’t.”

“But what brought it up? A nine year old shouldn’t be thinking about that sort of stuff.”

“It doesn’t matter what brought it up. Your son deserves to know you. Good and bad.

Now, if that’s all you needed to know then goodnight.” With that she hung up.

He got in bed and buried his face into his pillow. About this time of night his sleeping pills would kick in and his consciousness would melt away. The man sighed.

He wondered why his son didn’t believe in God. The man’s ex-wife had become more involved with the church once they separated and consequently his son went more often.

One would think his son would have a stronger faith in God if he went to church, but the opposite was true.

He would hate himself if his son was claiming not to believe only because his father didn’t. Maybe it was a subtle way to get more attention. Maybe he wasn’t handling the divorce of his parents as well as they first thought.

The man rolled over again. The rain smattering on his window started to sound like tribal beats. I wish it would stop raining.

Suddenly the beat stopped. Taking its place was a tap, as if it had started hailing. The

sound grew louder. He sat up. Not a glimmer of light seeped through the windows from the street lamps outside.

He looked over to the window beside his bed. It was too dark to see the hail but he could hear it smashing against the window.

TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! A crack snaked across the window. The window then split and a cold watery hell burst through, drenching the man. He lifted his blanket to shield himself. As suddenly as it started, it stopped.

Slowly lowering the blanket he peeked over to survey the damage. The window was fine. It wasn’t hailing. Rain drizzled down the exterior of the window and the street lamps breathed light into his room.

What the hell. … Then he noticed he was still soaking wet. He thought another window had broken but a look around the room told him otherwise.

It was just sweat, he realized; cold, heavy, feverish sweat. Taking deep breaths, he tried to convince himself that he was not having a breakdown. He went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. It was cold and refreshing. As he left the bathroom something caught his eye. The full-sized mirror on the wall in the hallway looked … odd.

There was someone standing by it. No, not standing by it … standing in it. It was as if there was someone in front of it and only their reflection was visible. The air around it seemed to ripple with heat. A flush of fear forced the mans heart into his throat.

He went to look at it to show himself there was nothing there. It was just a hallucination.

Walking towards the mirror seemed to calm his fears. It was just his reflection staring back at him … with a smile on its face.

The man wasn’t smiling.

“It’s good to see you,” the mirror whispered.

At first the man didn’t know what to say back.

He felt like he should have been frightened but he wasn’t. He felt like he should know it was just a hallucination but his mind wouldn’t accept that idea.

“Who are you?” he whispered back.

“I’m God,” said the mirror.

“I don’t believe in God.” “That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m crazy. If you really are God, then you would know that. So why should I believe you? Why do you look like me?”

“That’s something you are going to need to find out on your own. You need to figure that out and tell your son. He needs to know,” the mirror said, almost pleading.

“I need to tell my son why you look like me? Because I’m bat-shit crazy? Is that what I’m supposed to tell him?”

“You are not crazy.” The form in the mirror was smiling again. The man could have sworn that he winked, and then became one with his reflection again.

The rain was heavier than ever the next day. The sky was dark grey. The rain came down in marble-sized drops. His windshield wipers zipped back and forth; on their highest speed they were having trouble keeping up.

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His son sat in the passenger seat.

“I hope you brought a poncho or something,” the man remarked.

“Uh-uh” “Really? Did your mom not look outside when she helped you pack?” He would have liked to think that was typical of her, but it wasn’t. “Oh, well. I am sure they will have some. I’m surprised they didn’t cancel the whole thing.”

They pulled into the parking lot of the church. There were some adults loading backpacks and supplies into a van, soaking wet.

They pulled up next to the van.

He hugged his son goodbye, and told him to be careful and if he needed anything to use one of the adult’s cell phones and call him.

That night he had much less trouble finding sleep. It hit him like a bus.

Wake up.

You need to wake up right now.

Daddy please … I have something to tell you.

“Wake up!”

The man snapped out of his sleep.

Darkness held his apartment, squeezing it and picking at its reality. He was blind.

“Get out of bed.”

It was the mirror, he knew. Rubbing his eyes helped the darkness recede and he noticed it was 3 a.m. His skin was clammy and cold and sweat trickled down his face.

A soft light glowed in the hallway and he followed it to the mirror, where his smiling reflection stood.

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“You were supposed to tell your son,” it said.

“Tell him what?” the man asked. He was more then a little frustrated that this was happening again.

“You were supposed to tell him why I look like you; why I took your reflection. It wasn’t a hard riddle but you didn’t tell him the answer, and now it is too late.”

“I don’t know why you look like me! He would have thought I was crazy if I even mentioned this!” the man yelled.

“You are not crazy,” the mirror said again.

“My reflection in the mirror is claiming to be God and is telling me I am not crazy. This sure beats the eyeball stealing janitor.”

The next morning, the man’s phone sat next to the alarm clock, buzzing violently. He reached over and fumbled with it but instead knocked it to the ground. It stopped vibrating. He fell back asleep. A few hours later he woke to thunder ripping the sky apart. His body ached and he felt like he hadn’t slept in a week. Had he?

His phone buzzed again.

God damn it, he thought, and picked up the phone off of the ground. He answered it. On the other line his ex-wife was crying.

Terror stabbed him in the gut as he remembered what the mirror had told him last night.

“Honey, what happened?” he asked.

“They can’t find him. … He left in the middle of the night and they can’t find him.”

She was sobbing so hard he could barely understand her.

“Calm down, what happened?”

“Our son is missing, god damn it!” She broke down for a moment. “I have been trying to get a hold of you all day!”

He looked at the clock. It was 2 p.m.

“I am coming over honey, just hold on.”

Speeding the whole way, thoughts raced through his mind so quickly he couldn’t make head or tail of them. In front of her house sat two sheriff department trucks. He rushed inside.

His ex-wife stood in the kitchen, eyes swollen. Two officers stood near her.

“What happened?!” the man asked as they turned to look at him.

“Are you the father?” asked the officer.

“Yeah.”

“Well, your son was camping with his church last night, as I am sure you are aware.

Sometime during the night he stole a cell phone and took off. They looked for him all morning. By noon they were worried and called us. Ordinarily we have to wait 24 hours to start a missing person case, but due to his age and the fact that they were camping we are doing what we can now.”

The officers asked the typical questions. It went on until dark. Then they asked if he had received a call or a text message. They seemed to assume he had not or he would have said so already. Realizing he had left his phone at his apartment he was hit with a wave of hope.

He jumped in his car and went back.

The rain was pounding down and lightning split the sky. He knew there was no way a nine year old could survive out in this. The tears came before he got to his apartment.

Inside, the TV was on. An anchorwoman was interviewing a police officer. They were talking about his son. She asked how unlikely it was for a boy of nine to survive out there.

The officer said he had a very good chance.

“Now, if it was raining or snowing it would be a different story. He would be dead of hypothermia by the end of the day,” the officer said.

What?! It IS raining you idiot!

The TV switched to a shot from a helicopter.

It was circling above a forest; the same forest his son was missing from. It was not raining.

The man was flooded with relief. Lighting exploded somewhere close by and his house shook. The rain slammed against his windows.

The anchorwoman said some closing comments and switched to another story. There was a fire in an apartment complex downtown. The man only lived a few blocks from downtown. The images on the TV showed an apartment burning and firefighters gorging it with water. It wasn’t raining there either.

The man started to panic. He looked out the window; it was raining violently. That apartment was only a few blocks away. He

rushed to the window and pulled it open. A gale of cold wind and water rushed in and stung his skin. As far as he could see inky blackness filled the sky.

His phone chirped, an alarm to remind him that he had an unread text message. He grabbed it. A message from last night. It must be from his son! He read it.

Hi daddy. I talked to God. He is real. I want to come and show you so I am going to walk home. He said I could make it. And I want you to know that I see the rain too, you are not crazy. I love you, daddy. I will be with you soon.

The phone started ringing. It was his exwife’s number. The phone almost slipped from his shaking grip before he answered it. The deputy was on the other line. He could hear his wife wailing in the background.

“I got a messa … ” the man tried to tell him but he was interrupted.

“We found him, sir. I am truly sorry … ” “What? … ” “He died of hypothermia. He was soaking wet. We don’t know how he got wet, there was no water near him. They are bringing … ” The man dropped the phone.

In the hallway, the mirror spoke. “You should have told him … ” The man, soaking wet, shaking, and tired, walked to the mirror.

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David Adamek • Fields of Glory• Oil paint

Fledgling

Nicole Goddard You were fledging.

I watched you hop along a dead branch That snapped like raw spaghetti.

If your primaries had grown, They might have buoyed you You might have caught a draft, Sailed up to living branches.

The air whistled through your wings And you fell like a hope, Slapped the ground with your wings beneath you Your talons piercing open air.

I walked to where you lay Glaring through eyes like hot resin, Heaving softly with each breath That puffed over your pointed tongue.

I offered you a branch to grasp

Jason McGuire • Falling Apples • Photography

With your knifing feet Offered to throw you into space For a second try.

You lashed me with your hooked beak, Sliced me down the forearm.

I bled like a butcher’s block And left you on your back in the sun.

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Thirst

Callie Atkinson The lights are out.

The still night Is drawing me in.

I stand by my open window And hear the clock hit twelve.

The curtains blow, whispering Like the trees outside.

I hear low laughter Of someone by the pool And my eyes strain to see Through the blackness, Where once a light

Logan Ley • Sound of Silence • Photography

Flickered and I ran dancing Through the dew.

Why must I stay Up here by the window Like a prisoned princess While they laugh By the pool and Dip their toes In the chilly water And perhaps splash The heavy summer air away?

My fingers touch The glass vase on the sill And I can smell The perfume of the Flowers drinking water there, Everyone relieved Of thirst, but me.

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