2012 Visualize Verbalize Vocalize by Northwest College

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Table of Contents 04

Emmett Phelan •Camp Jack

Scott Wambeke • Out for a Walk

Kimberly J. Kost • Cutis Anserina Erica Piña • “G” is for Gullible

Brooke Matheson • Honda Element

Chad Mall • 4x4 Poster Nicolas Moonshine • Acid Theatre

Arie Wilder • Fish Hawk Lodge Identity Kevin Kinzley • Hole in the Wall Fire/ Clark, Wyo. Megan Westvig • The Grandeur

Megan Westvig • Though We Walk Through the Valley

Emily Kellett • Sudden Spring Misha Padilla • Natural Beauty

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Katrina Smith • Persistence of the Pine Cone

Tyler N. Schanck • Xavier Courtney B. Smith • Silk

Zach Cardoza • Sinking Captain

Landon Iacovetto • Me Gusta Cassandra Winter • Montana Schoolhouse

Brooke Matheson • Under the Sea Molly Adair • The March

Callie Atkinson • Grandfather

Jessica Dalke • Genesis Diann Reinhold • Windblown

Serena M. Stapert • Book Designs

Barbara Preetorius • First Drink John Jurmu • Toothpick Telephone Box

Emily Kellet • Joy In Summer Courtney B. Smith • Music of My Heart

29 Kacey Wyrick • Temperamental

Zach Cardoza • Gary Kelly Study

Ciera Cordero • Surreal World

John Jurmu • Office Warfare Dianne McCloud • The Story Within

Erica Piña • The Dreams of My Past

Marissa K. Dickey • Veiled Misha Padilla • Tunnel Vision

Lane Johnson • Of Earth and Past

Gigi Hoagland • Futile

Serena M. Stapert • Billboard Campaign

Brooke Matheson • Redemption

Gigi Hoagland • Ode to Airports

Arie Wilder • Dance and Food Drive Poster

Stephanie Wilson • Love Poem to My Stalker

Megan Westvig • Human Tetris

Courtney B. Smith • Fighter Michael Salvi • Cloud Valley

Marissa K. Dickey • Hands Half Full Rachel Ann Moeller • Time Wears on Us

Arie Wilder • Symphony Pamphlet Kacey Wyrick • Passion Jinxia Ma • Peace

Brooke Matheson • Caribou Cup Packaging Steven Josephson • Abandoned on Coal Hill

Scott Wambeke • Night Camp Molly Adair • Owl Always Love You Callie Ann Atkinson • Time is All

Kalee Townsend • Metal Magic

Tessa Cozzens • Two Worlds Part Ciera Cordero • When Gummy Bears Attack

Stephanie Wilson • A Lesson on Inclusion Cassandra Winter • Key to My Heart Payton Jessup • Blue

Kimberly Kost • Distraction

Kimberly J. Kost • In the Village Square Zach Cardoza • Self Portrait

Sharee A. Miller • The Dance

Lyndsey Hopkin • Heels

Brooke Matheson • Dew Jay Robinson • Never Alone Brooke Matheson • Lady of Smoke Tyler Schanck • Formal

Callie Atkinson • Reflections Daniel McCreight • Rocky Lake Marissa K. Dickey • Digging Up the Past

Diann Reinhold • Together Yet Apart Layna Hendrich • Framed Marissa K. Dickey • The Calm in Your Light

Serena M. Stapert • No Nuts Stationary

Erica Piña • Toys in the Dark John Jurmu • Parking Lot River

Cassandra Winter • Rainbow Flower Scott Wambeke • Out for a swim

Duncan Peterson • Shrine of the Third: Part II The Cathedral of Rain

Megan Westvig • Holding On, Breathing In

Cassandra Winter • Benchland Schoolhouse

Michael Salvi • An Eye for Nature Jeff Victor • Sparks

Erica Piña • Self Portrait

Justine May • Winter

Credits

Camp Jack Emmett Phelan Conditions were getting nasty at that time of year at about nine and a half thousand feet. Camp was situated roughly fifteen miles from the nearest road. It was also roughly fifteen miles from the Yellowstone National Park border in the backcountry. Located in a section of forest designated as “wilderness,” these areas are protected forever by the National Forest Service from development. The town of canvas wall tents sat next to a tributary that runs right out of the park. It is a natural migration route for mule deer and elk during the hunting seasons, from September through November. It was also the home of a healthy population of grizzly and black bears. My experience with livestock was very limited prior to starting my new job as a camp jack. This was usually the cause of the tension between me and my new boss. Jack had been a resident of Wyoming all of his life and had been working with horses and mules for a lot of it. He stood closer to six feet than I did and had a lot worse of a temper. He was as weathered in his shaved face as the old cowboy hat he always wore. He didn’t have the biggest muscles in the world, but had been toughened over the years as a cowboy. I was half his age and had a lot less experience working with horses. Although I was shorter than him, I had a stockier build than he did. As far as who was stronger, that depended which one of us you asked, even though no one did. I’m sure he thought about it too during the many times that we clashed. “I have had about enough of Jack’s shit,” I thought as I stared at the bastard over the back of one of the pack mules he was saddling. It was bad enough that I’d only had a few hours of sleep; but I was awake in below-freezing weather working for the last guy that I wanted to. The mule

I was saddling sensed my anger as he jerked his head up, glared at me with his wide, amber-colored eye and let out a louder than usual snort, when I tightened his cinch. Warm steam from the saddled mule drifted around my face as I continued to plot against my new worst enemy. If Jack were to turn around, he would see his new wrangler glaring at him with steel blue eyes amidst the backs of three steam-breathing pack mules. I was locked onto Jack with nothing but bad intentions, like a predator getting ready to finish off its prey. All of his comments, all the disrespect, all the yelling at me, all of his explosive reactions, had all built up a rage in me by this point. I finished saddling my mule at the same time that Jack finished his. We both moved down the line of steam-breathing stock tied to the hitching rail, thanks to my morning work. My attention was diverted by the scent of frying bacon in the crisp morning air. Barb, Jack’s wife, was in the cook tent finishing breakfast for the hunters and guides. I wouldn’t get my breakfast until the hunters and guides were on the trail to their hunting grounds, up-country. The majority of my sleep came after breakfast and water was fetched. I looked forward to this sleep more than the few hours I got at night between feeding the stock and catching them just after they got done eating, to get them ready for the next day of hunting. The morning sleep had a lot less responsibility for me as I didn’t have to be on alert for grizzlies or a whole corral of stock to get spooked and break out into the wilderness in the night. I thought about how sick I was of this lack of sleep as I got closer to finishing my morning wrangler duties. The chill mountain air kept me lively early in the mornings. I inspected the line of mules and riding horses that were mostly saddled, about ready to go. I glared past the mules to my personal wall tent situated behind the hitch rail. It was between the small shower tent and the long cook tent. I could

not wait to lie down in my temporary sanctuary when it got light out and the hunters were out of camp. I thought to myself that it was having my own wall tent that kept me sane during this grueling outfitting season. My gear was organized just how I wanted it. The night stand in my canvas home was a huge log round, sitting on its end. There was an extra log rope bed next to mine which I used as a table for my gear. An old iron wood stove was set up near the entrance for comfort. Finally, there was my bag of clothes that got exchanged every so often when the hunters would be escorted back to town and new ones would be brought in. I looked forward these horse-packed deliveries by far the most during my term in camp. When they came into camp that meant that I not only got clean clothes, but most importantly a new letter from my new fiancée, Kelly, back in town. There were so many times when I thought to myself,” Why and the hell did I leave her to come work for a guy that I can’t stand, a guy that’s never treated me with any respect, a guy who has the worst temper I’ve ever seen, a guy who knows that I am risking my life to be up here in camp, but who doesn’t pay me shit?” I had about enough of Jack and not enough of my new fiancée. “What am I doing here?” I thought so many times. As I finished saddling the last mule, Jack walked to over to me between the closely positioned livestock. He noticed something about the position of the saddle or cinch that he didn’t like. He quickly grabbed his .44 magnum from his holster and stuck it into my side and said,”Hey, don’t do that.” I froze as I had never had a gun pointed at me. Maybe a toy gun when I was young, but never a real one, especially not a loaded real one. Finally I corrected the cinch on the mule as Jack slowly took his pistol back and holstered it. I lunged and grabbed Jack by the buttons of his wool vest. I squeezed as tight as I could. My teeth were clenched and my face angry as I began to push forward until Jack’s body slammed into

the pine tree at the end of the hitch rail, throwing his worn cowboy hat off of his head. Jack’s eyes opened with terror, in disbelief about my reaction. He had no chance to react, as I delivered a solid fist to his face. Jack’s head recoiled off the pine tree that he was pinned against and he went limp in my locked grip. The ruckus caused the occupants of the cook tent to rush outside to see what happened. They crouched through the flaps of the cook tent entrance in single file. Barb rushed over to Jack on the ground. “What did you do? “she yelled at me. The hunters were puzzled as they stood near each other in the cold, dark morning. I stood over my prey, still ready to fight, for a minute. After glancing up at everyone, I casually walked towards my tent to gather my things. I would not look forward to my morning sleep that day, the next day or the day after, anymore. I was leaving camp and getting back to my fiancée. I had fifteen miles of rugged terrain and grizzly bear infested forest to get through, but I was not staying in camp anymore. “Well, here we go,” I thought, as I made my way to my old tent. Barb left Jack, who was still limp, propped against the pine tree, his head supported by his shoulder. He was not unconscious anymore, but still lying on the ground, still not knowing what the hell just happened. Barb scampered over towards me as I was on my way to the tent that held my stuff. I didn’t have any idea about what she was saying, even though she was definitely saying something. It was like she wasn’t even there to me as I walked through the canvas flaps of the tent that wouldn’t ever see me again. “Barb could only get so mad at me,” I thought in defense of myself. She knew damn well that I hated her husband. She knew damn well that everyone hated her husband. This certainly wasn’t the first time she had seen her asshole husband get involved in a violent altercation. It was probably one of just a few, though, when she had seen him on the losing end. I frequently would hear about an incident where

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camp that way, with a tall backpack on, and especially not without one of their own underneath him. “I will miss a few of you guys,” I was thinking as I walked by the stock that I had just gotten to know.

Scott Wambeke • Out for a Walk • Sculpture Jack had grabbed a prior camp jack of his by the throat, held him up to a tree off the ground and screamed right in his face about something. I always thought about what I would have done or would have felt if that were me that Jack tried to do that to. “Is there no law up here, or what? “I would think anytime I heard about stuff like that, “Well, if not, I guess I would have to make sure I could defend myself,” I continued to think. Maybe I had that in the back of my mind when I made the first move on him. Whatever I was thinking, I wasn’t going to end up like the poor bastard that he pinned by the throat to the bear stand. I packed the few pieces of clothing that I had hanging on my log coat hanger into my backpack. I could hear Barb shuffling around outside my tent door, still yelling something. I still wasn’t listening to what she was saying. I moved over to my log nightstand; put my wind-up alarm clock, a knife, and a few other miscellaneous things into my pack. “Oh! I can’t forget that!” I thought as I reached under my sleeping bag to grab my daily journal. Lastly, I tied the laces of my extra pair of boots that I had up there together and strung them up on my backpackers pack. It didn’t take me long at all to gather my things, as I really didn’t have much up there. “Thank God, I used this big backpack as a bag for my stuff,” I thought. It was a multi-day use backpack that an

old coworker had given me a few years prior. I always knew I could use it for something. “Everything happens for a reason,” I thought as I walked through the canvas gates back to my soon-to-be wife. It was plenty light by the time I began my trek back to the South Fork Road. I took one more look behind me towards the area that I always considered the town square. The dudes were still standing outside of the cook tent in complete awe. Jack was coming to and Barb was back to assisting him. It wasn’t really them that I was looking at, though. It was the small town of wall tents that I had temporarily taken care of for the last month and a half. Since I was there more than anyone, even Jack and Barb, I seemed to get a sense of ownership from the visitors that traveled to hunt at my camp. Hell, even Jack would treat it like it was mine. It was a respect that I took pride in. Not anymore, it was all theirs. I had to pass the corral of horses and mules before I could be out of camp. A few of them were standing near the corral gate when I began walking by. They looked very confused and surprised, as the ears of mules were standing straight up; they hadn’t seen many humans heading that way out of camp before. In fact, they hadn’t seen anyone leaving

Immediately after passing the corral out of camp, I had dense, old growth forest to make it through. The smell of freshly cut wood was still in the air from the trees that Jack and I had felled for firewood before the season. The forest consisted of a mixture of lodge pole and various other pines. Their fallen ancestors lay next to them on the ground from previous seasons, covered with moist blankets of dark green mosses. After walking past the meat pole that hung out of the reach of the grizzlies and that was situated just far enough away from camp, it hit me. “Wow, this is really going to happen,” I had a long ways to go and some serious country to get through. The only thing I could hear was the crystal clear water that cascaded over the rocks in Wolverine Creek. The little creek flowed along the trail out of camp for a while until the falls. There would be many creek crossings that I would have to get across before getting to the main trail. My first one wasn’t far from camp and I was glad to see it. “I will miss this water,” I thought as I approached the gin-clear water supply. I leaned over to submerge my face in the best drinking water I had ever had. I paused with the sight of my reflection. I guess I smirked. I couldn’t believe what I was about to try. When I raised my head after drinking some much needed water, I paused again as I noticed huge bear tracks next to me in the dark silt of the stream bank. “Oh yeah, the bears,” I said to myself, and I caught my breath. I went back down for another long drink of Yellowstone produced water, before continuing my journey. I jumped onto the shallowest rocks I could find as I crossed the first of many crossings. “If getting across these small creeks, and staying dry doing it, is the worst of my obstacles on the way home, I’ll be lucky,”

I figured. The thought of the many grizzly bears in this area was still very fresh in my mind as I made my way through the shade of the old pine forest. It was the section of my journey that I was the most worried about. For the first half of my trip, I had to make it through this dense mixture of different shades of thick green and undergrowth. If I could make it through the evergreen jungle, the terrain the rest of the way would be more wide open. The possibility of seeing bears would still be there, but at least I would be able to see them better and from farther away. The lodge pole pines creakily swayed together as they towered over me, creating partial shade from the inconsistent shine of the fall sun, while I traveled through the moss covered deadfalls and pine needle canopy. I felt very vulnerable in these woods, as there were many areas for predators to ambush anything that may walk by. Although I hadn’t seen any sign or heard anything about mountain lions while I was at camp, they were always in my thoughts as I occupied the dark forest. I imagined looking off the trail and catching sight of a tan figure lying very low to the ground in a position that was capable of inflicting death in a second, as the cat lunged and sliced through my skin with its razor sharp claws. It was their ability to conceal and ambush their prey that I always fearfully respected. Bears are more powerful and definitely bigger, but they are not the hunters that lions are. “The lions are more deadly, but there are more bears. What is better?” I thought as I slowly and cautiously hiked through the quiet pine forest. “It’s good to be cautious, but don’t be your own worst enemy,” I thought. “Wait,” I thought as I froze in my tracks. Here I was walking along the trail that my former boss had traveled so many times, and would again, leaving tracks that could lead him to catching up with me if he decided to look for me to get revenge, and he would. “I have to change my route,” I realized. I had more than animals to worry about. If Jack didn’t come looking for me, someone would be leading the hunters out of camp. No matter who it was, I didn’t want

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to see anyone from that damn camp. Hell, I didn’t want to see anyone at all until I was out of that brutal country. I just wanted to see Kelly Jo. The trail had been established a long time. It was about a foot and a half wide and about the depth of a horse hoof. With decades of experience, this trail had been getting stepped on by a lot of different tracks of all shapes, sizes and types, mostly horses, but bears, lions, moose, squirrels, bobcats, coyotes, wolves, and now me. Since the trail was pretty dry, I could see recent tracks, but they wouldn’t last long if the wind blew or it started to rain. It was surprising that there hadn’t been either of those factors for a couple of days. “If only it could stay that way for just a few more,” I hoped. “It should only take a few days at the most to get out of here anyways,” I estimated. I broke a living switch from a pine tree that was growing next to the trail. The branch flexed for a ways, then snapped near the main trunk. The wonderful smell of pine sap caught my attention even in this situation. I put the branch near my nose and inhaled, getting a refreshing scent of pine before getting back to work. I backtracked for a while covering any obvious tracks that I made in the trail. “If I just stood off to the side and erased any sign in the worn earth, I should be all right,” I thought. I frantically swept my fresh tracks from the trail. I didn’t know how long I would have until someone came looking for me. I followed the trail back towards camp until I reached a little spring that I jumped over with the assistance of one big rock that was dry on its upper half. I figured this to be a good stopping point and the last time I would travel in that direction again. I turned back towards my gear that was lying next to the horse trail, double-checking my sweep job as I shuffled through the dry leaves and sticks next to the trail. “I wonder what my mountain lion would think of me if he were to be watching me do this.” Would he even want to prey on such an unusual creature, acting in such an unusual way? “I guess I’ll never know,” I thought.

It was getting late in the afternoon and the sky was starting to produce some dark clouds as I arrived at my backpack. I felt a piercing chill run through my body. I slung the backpack straps over my shoulder and peered below the trail to where the creek ran. This would be the beginning of my new route back to the South Fork road. It was beautiful down there with the cottonwood trees, willows and other deciduous trees beginning to change the color of their leaves. The cottonwood trees displayed brilliant gold colored leaves that nervously shook in the breeze. The spear shaped willow leaves were a crimson color that had a flowing backdrop of clear blue running water through and behind them. I felt a sense of renewed hope as I began walking from the horse trail down to the creek bed. I didn’t know why. My chances of running into a bear, moose, or anything else were about to get a lot better now. “At least I don’t have to deal with those bastards I was just working for,” I thought. “The creek should take me right back to the trailhead, if I can just find a good way along the creek bed.” The crystal water appeared as I separated the thin willows with both arms. It was about a hundred feet below the horse trail in a lot thicker cover. The creek was lined solid with red willows and scattered cottonwood. The blood red willows stood about eight feet tall, with long slender branches that acted like whips if you moved them. There were heavily traveled lanes and runs that weaved through these willows, creating a network of routes in the dark silt ground which was so soft that I couldn’t make out what the tracks were, but there were a lot of something moving through. I could feel my stomach growl as it was approaching the time that I usually ate dinner. “If I can just gather some thimble berries and a few rose hips, I should be good for the night,” I thought. My search began for dinner. I traveled through the willow maze towards the creek. “Maybe there will be some raspberries and thimble berries somewhere along this creek bank,” I wondered. There was little distance

Crossing the creek wouldn’t be a problem if it were about ten feet less across and a foot less deep, but it wasn’t of course. “How the hell am I going to get across this thing without getting wet?” I wondered. I would do anything to not get wet. The boulders that were exposed above the water were a possibility, but I would have to be pretty balanced and a little lucky with a backpack on my back. “I could try to stand up a dead tree and let it fall across, but how would I find the right log and how would I lift it by myself?” I reasoned. “It’s going to have to be the rock jumping technique,” I decided. I continued along the willow building ledge until I found a series of rocks and boulders that I thought might work.

Arie Wilder • Fish Hawk Lodge Identity • Graphic Design between the water and the wall of willows. I side stepped along the bank. I was hoping that there would be a little opening or clearing coming soon as I didn’t know how dry I would stay traveling like this like I was on a building ledge with a long drop below. The other side of the creek looked perfect for berries and maybe even for walking, I held onto willow branches with both hands and looked over my shoulder. “I have to get over there,” I thought as a bush full of berries caught my eye.

With my left hand still holding a flexing bunch of willow branches, I swung my right foot over to a big boulder that had about four inches of dry surface above the water. With my right foot planted, I let go of the willows and joined my right foot with my left. After an initial wobble, I stood firmly on my own rock island in the creek. The rest of the way would be the challenge. I examined a possible route across the scattered rocks and boulders that lay stationary as gin-clear water flowed over and around them. I looked across the creek at the flourishing berry bush for motivation, before attempting a crossing. I visualized the path

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that I would take across the broken boulder bridge. “It’s now or never,” I thought, and I went for it.

Kevin Kinzley • Hole in the Wall Fire/Clark, Wyo. • Photograph

My right foot landed on a medium sized rock and I swung my left to another that was in front and left of my right foot rock. They were just close enough that I could pause with one foot on its own rock until I could continue. The next sequence of steps wouldn’t allow me to take a break. It would have to be one motion that got me the rest of the way. My right foot landed on the intended target and my left on its target. As I shifted my weight to the newly landed left foot for a transition to my right, my foot left the rock quickly as the rock was like ice when a little water got on it. My left foot soon became the highest point of my body. I landed in the creek with my back first and then my right ankle finished the fall directly on the boulder that I was planning to step on next. My first thought was that I had broken my ankle as I helplessly floated on my back around the scattered rocks and boulders downstream. I wasn’t even quick to get up while the current washed me away from the fall, with my injured foot elevated out of the water. The icy current floated me into a calm pool where the creek made a bend through the willow forest. Still on my back, I planted my good foot on the bottom and grabbed a handful of overhanging grass to stop from swirling in the pool. As cold as the water was, I just stayed floating there with a handful of creek side grass and watched the water effortlessly float in the direction that I wanted to be moving in. The icy water of Wolverine Creek hadn’t phased me until I stood up out of the water on my better leg. I was afraid of the result I would get when I put weight on my freshly injured leg. My left hand grabbed three willow stalks as I knelt on the stream bank with my bad leg and pulled myself out of the water. The need for fire and shelter became a serious priority in a hurry. I still didn’t trust my injured leg, I hopped on the other one towards the berry bush I had spotted from up-

Megan Westvig • The Grandeur • Photograph

stream. The berries were more plentiful than I had noticed from across the creek as I approached my dinner. “I need to get my shelter and a fire built right away. I will just make a lean-to near here,” I thought, I scanned the swaying buckskin-colored grass in the meadow. I sure wasn’t traveling very far that night anyways after what had just happened. I stood dripping wet and very cold, filling my mouth with berries, as I couldn’t resist the attraction of food. I cautiously surveyed the meadow for a place to build my shelter as I fed my hunger. I had always wanted to build a lean-to and stay in it overnight ever since I was young. I was about to get my chance. I never thought it would be in a place like this, though. There was a downed cottonwood tree surrounded by dried broken branches, lying across the native grasses of the meadow. “It must have come crashing down from the stiff mountain winds after it died,” I reasoned. Still standing on my good leg, I decided to test my injured ankle. As I shifted my weight to it, a piercing pain shot up my leg like a lightning bolt. My knee buckled and I collapsed to the ground. I restrained myself from yelling out loud as I grasped my injured leg with both hands and clenched my teeth together from my side on the ground. I rocked back and forth in the dried grass, releasing sounds of pain and frustration as quietly as I could. My luck was pissing me off and I battled through the pain, I pulled myself to my hands and knees. I frantically crawled over to the downed tree so I could get some twigs and branches together for a fire. Before I got to the sticks, I paused for a second, wondering how I was going to start this thing. Then I remembered the little survival kit that should be in my pack. I rifled through the soaking wet pack to see if it was still there. Sure enough, I felt the black velvet bag towards the bottom, partially submerged in water. I loosened the draw string and poured out the contents. Among some emergency fishing line, hooks and a few corks, there it was. The little plastic bag of strike anywhere matches that I hoped I would never have to use.

After raking a pile of twigs together with one arm, I grabbed a handful of grass and shoved it between the kindling. I tried the match on the inside of a sheet of bark from the fallen tree and it only partially ignited before going out. I threw the bark aside and grabbed a flat stone a few feet away. Holding the stone between my thumb and index finger of my hand holding myself up, I struck the match with my free hand. There was a bright white flash, followed by a subtle pop and the match was lit. I carefully held it under the dried grass as the flames took off. I gently fed the flames with a small twig and then a few more and the fire was started. The sight of the fire was an instant sense of security as the branches and twigs began to crackle. I immediately started to shed all of my wet clothes and boots as the flames grew higher. I draped them over the trunk of the fallen tree and continued to feed my heat source. I was running out of daylight fast as I started to warm up. I crawled along the deadfall a few feet and grabbed two branches that were about the size of a shotgun for my lean-to. I threw them near my pack by the fire and grabbed two more that were a little smaller. With a dead branch in each hand, I shuffled them one after another in front of me as I crawled back to my fire. I broke the smaller branches down so they were about three feet long. After both braces were about the same length, I stuck them in the ground about five feet apart. I grabbed the larger branches and stuck one end between the ground and log and the other on top of the braces. One at a time I strung the branches together with the laces of my extra pair of boots. I laid a cross member between the forty five degree angled branches and their braces. After the supports were in place, I lay a bunch of other branches at the same angle on top the cross member creating a slightly overhanging roof. It had worked just like I always imagined it would. After throwing a few more sticks on the fire, I was ready to get some rest. I grabbed a few thicker pieces of wood and lay them next to the fire for the night. I took my clothes and

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Megan Westvig • Though We Walk Through the Valley • Photograph

boots from the dead tree and hung them on the corners of my lean-to so they would be closer to the fire. The fire was radiating heat into the shelter and was being deflected onto me from my angled roof. There was nothing else I could do but stay huddled up under my roof while my clothes steamed as they were drying on the corners of my shelter. It was almost entirely dark as I stared at the flames in a trance. I felt like I was asleep with my eyes open, I sat motionless in the entrance of the lean-to. An obvious snap of a dead branch at the edge of the nearby timber, across the meadow, caught my attention again. ‘Now what the hell could that have been,” I wondered. My body tensed. I had a pretty good idea, but I didn’t want to believe myself. “It doesn’t have to be a bear, it could be a moose or a deer,” I tried to tell myself. As I continued to listen, I didn’t hear anything else for a while. It was the movement of a very large dark object and the glowing of its eyes that I noticed next.

Across the fire about thirty yards, a huge grizzly bear skated the outside edge of the fire’s light, staring into my lean-to at me as he walked across my view. He huffed with every cautious step, not making a sound with his huge paws on the ground. My body shook uncontrollably and my teeth began to chatter as I sat defenseless in my stick shelter with nothing but my fire to protect me. After a few minutes passed of not seeing him, I grabbed my clothes from the shelter frame. They were almost dry and felt very warm as I covered myself up with them. The heat of the clothing was a relief. I lay down, using them for a blanket. Glorious visions of my beautiful angel back in town flooded my mind as I began to fall asleep. I didn’t even care about the bears that were around me, I just wanted to get some good sleep and get back to my girl. I pictured her, warm and comfortable in our bed, and hoped she was thinking about me. I was so glad that she didn’t know what was going on with me. “Hopefully I can tell her all about it in a few days,” I thought as I slipped into a deep sleep.

Misha Padilla • Natural Beauty • Photograph

Sudden Spring Emily Kellett Snow drops crack the wintery earth, Crocuses and dazzling daffodils. There are lilies in the valley and Across the yard a patch of old single roses That some years are few and Some years put forth a hundred blossoms.

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Brooke Matheson • Under the Sea • Photograph

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Zach Cardoza • Sinking Captain • Drawing Molly Adair • The March • Photograph

First Drink Barbara Preetorius When troubles weigh heavy I’ll wash them away. You’ll want me to go Then beg me to stay. I’m the one you come to When you need a quick fix. I’ll make you feel good Then I’ll make you feel sick. You believe that you need me You’re down on your knees. You’re begging and pleading For just one more drink. I take all your troubles And pick you back up. I take over your life As you fill up your cup.

John Jurmu • Toothpick Telephone Box • Drawing In the end I will own you Mind, body and soul. I’ll have completely consumed you I’ll have swallowed you whole. Falling faster and faster With each drink that you take. You are blind to the fact It’s your life that’s at stake. In the end you’ll have nothing to show For the time that we spent. You can’t get it back You won’t know where it went. And even if you had known How far down you would sink I still think you’d taken That very first drink.

Serena M. Stapert • Book Designs • Graphic Design

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Cutis Anserina Kimberly J. Kost As the cool, calm summer night sweeps me into its gentle embrace, As the chill of dusk tickles my tender flesh, As evening enfolds me in its ebony arms, As the shadowed hand of my lover reaches for mine, As the sticky sweet juice of the crisp apple runs from my chin, I watch the sinking sun Chased from the sky by the rising moon, Paint vivid colors rambunctious reds, blissful blues, outrageous oranges Dressing the night the lovely simple night In her gown of softer shadowed shades.

18 — 19

Brooke Matheson • Honda Element • Digital Illustration

Erica Piña • “G” is for Gullible • Drawing

Acid Theatre

4x4 Exhibit & Sale 2011 December 1st thru December 18 Opening Reception: December 1st, 7:30 to 9:00 p.m.

Nicolas Moonshine

Artwork Deadline Thursday November 19th 4:00 pm Ofﬁce 205 of the Art Department

Submission Guidelines All artwork must be for sale and priced at either $8 or $16. You may enter up to four pieces of 2D work and four pieces of 3D work. All artwork must include a submission label on the back. 2D work must be matted and ready to hang. (See Denise Kelsay, Gallery Director, for labels) 2D work (matt area not included) must not exceed 16 square inches. 3D work must not exceed 64 cubic inches. All mediums are eligible.

Chad Mall • 4x4 Poster • Graphic

Carbine dioxide. Play the piece, musician. Stroke the keys well, but pray the audience does not decapitate the performer. Please, play, so, well. Dance. Purple curtains, rain on the stage, and flies in the costume drawer, all eaten up, scabs on your knees, so, hard, so risqué. Gold frame, pink water, ice cubes, frozen drinks. Also, foods. Bottle caps and coattails, scene change, director’s cut, obese children and kicking babies crawl from the womb. Does pain apply? Cross your faded jeans with wedding dresses, high. High. Dry. Carbine Monoxide. Pipes and smoke, flugelhorns and brass instrumentation, falsity, moronic falsity, liar, liar, dirty, filthy liar! Break your kneecaps! Liar! Cruelty! Injustice, dishonest prick! Calmer. Drink, this frozen drink. Bastard. Collect this money, and drink your frozen drink, and break your face on the curb, son of a bitch. Brawl. And cough, and cough, and cigarette burns on the sofa cushion, and lies. And lies, the liars, the humble liar in the halfway house, who hoped to have a halfway humble upbringing. Cough. Apologies, to the performer. Performers. Women. Girls. Ladies. Babies. Vicious cycles of unrelenting babies. Overpopulated obesity in overtones of oscillation. Carbon. Carbon dioxide. Crash. Burn. Applause.

20 — 21

Katrina Smith • Persistence of the Pine Cone • Drawing

Xavier Tyler N. Schanck I cannot remember the scent of the woman who sat on my couch and stroked the television remote with her freshly polished fingernails. Countless times I have buried my nose deep within the cushions to find a familiar fragrance that would both haunt and comfort me. No matter.

the hanging towels for any purpose other than decoration, which is a shame, in fact, due to the means in which I acquired them. There was a sale at the local supermarket on hand towels, and I purchased an abundance of them under the social assumption that hand towels are always household necessities. When I arrived at the reg-

ister, I was informed the sales period had recently ended. An inner voice urged me to buy the towels anyway. When I look at my living room, I see exactly what I had hoped for back in college. I specifically recall a reoccurring dream of walking into my home, powering up my stereo system

Nothing feels warm in the house anymore but the consoles beneath my desktop workstation. When they overheat from use, I place my hand on top of them and take deep breaths, in and out. The flatness of the paint they plaster on the metal frames of the consoles gives me a sense of radiance, as if the technology were transferring from the frame into my bones, and through my bloodstream up to my brain where vast amounts of untapped and boundless information will swarm my thoughts and make me a Nobel Prize-Winning scientist. I bore from my mediocrity.

controlled via remote, and watching documentaries on my large television screen. Now I can do all of those things, every day. I’ve also recently installed shag carpet in every room, which feels cool to my feet when I have smoked a marijuana cigarette and wander through the hallways. Sometimes I’ll fanaticize of getting high, putting plastic on the carpets and painting the indigo walls of my home with vibrant colors, which would fill my living spaces with the unexpected, and create a friendlier social environment. If I ever had visitors, I’m sure they would immensely enjoy such an outlandish idea brought to life. Once I had two unexpected visitors. I laugh when I recollect the story, joking that I must have jumped a foot in the air at the sound of the knocks at my door. Funnier, though, is that I did not rush to answer it. It is strange to examine the human psyche and how we react to unexpected situations. Interestingly enough I have found that reactions are not so different in each individual. For example, I spend much of my time in solitude, but do not rush when visitors arrive unexpectedly. Just as a mountain man does not rush to meet a fellow traveler, I suspect it is cautionary. Fear is to blame, I suppose,

In my kitchen, every pot and pan is placed neatly within one another in rubber coated cabinets clear of dust and insect infestation. Towels are folded neatly in stacks of two across the stove handle, though I have never devised a use for them. To this day, I cannot remember ever having utilized

Courtney B. Smith • Silk • Photograph

but on this occasion the visitors did not frighten me.

had reported the incidents but never been contacted by the authorities.

They were two detectives from the inner city investigating a missing person’s case. One of them had a visible gun on her belt, and I couldn’t help but sneak a few glances at it while she was not looking. Firearms fascinate me, though I have never discharged one.

A few minutes passed; there were forced chuckles and handshakes. An inner voice urged me to draw the blinds and watch as the detective’s cruiser backed out of the driveway and into the street. I remember feeling joyful after they had left, not worried. A sense of pride overwhelmed me, basking in the comfort that the law was here to protect regular citizens, such as myself. Often times I believe that people are ignorant to how much time authorities invest to ensure our safety. Putting your life on the line to protect others is such a noble cause. I’m still contemplating a book on the topic.

The two detectives briefed me on some minor details while I prepared my afternoon snack in the microwave. The older of the two, a bulky man with peppered hair seemed almost taken aback at the fact I was preparing food while they spoke with me, as if it were rude to ingest consumables in the presence of another. I had seen this practice on crime television programs often, so I did not think anything of his passive glances. After I had finished eating they handed me the most recent photograph they could acquire of the missing person. It was of course, a woman, young and beautiful. According to the detectives she had been abducted after a late shift in a diner I had been to once before during a faculty birthday party. Supposedly, there were eye witnesses that had seen her being handled roughly by an unknown construction worker, and the manager

I walk through the rooms of my home and run my fingers down the indigo walls, past the television, my desktop workstation, and my stereo system. Still, I am hungry even after my afternoon snack and finally decide to break the boredom with some physical activity. I lift up a corner of the carpet in my living room, which reveals a small wooden door that opens upward. Carefully, I crawl down the ladder I had purchased at a warehouse auction out of town. I pause, and inhale. The smell of that fingernail polish revisits my nostrils. I lift my hand from the ladder and see dark blood on my fingers. Perhaps I will finally find a use for those towels after all.

22 — 23

Grandfather Callie Atkinson

Landon Iacovetto • Me Gusta • Photograph

Cassandra Winter • Montana Schoolhouse • Photograph

Brown camouflage bucket Set down among rocks, Wedged and wiggled until steady, He sits on the padded lid, Fluorescent orange sweatshirt Unzipped, blue flannel underneath, A dull orange cap perched Atop the white haired head Bending close to examine The fishing fly pinched between Large, rough fingers. At his boot clad feet Hooks and flies lie In a matted mass Cast out of a clear plastic box. I step back from the picture Stuck there on cork board By a silver thumb-tack, Next to another done in black and white. One of him young there Hands resting casually on his hips A steady gaze on the camera And that one there to the right, In a trench of WWII,

Gun thrown over the bank, He looks back over his shoulder, The same eyes, the same gaze Right into the face of the camera Held by some army friend then. I step close again and search the photos For some sign, a token perhaps That he is still there in that faded print, That vivid colour, that black and white, The one to the left, Brown camouflage bucket Set down among rocks, Wedged and wiggled until steady, He sits on the padded lid, Fluorescent orange sweatshirt Unzipped, blue flannel underneath, A dull orange cap perched Atop the white haired head Bending close to examine The fishing fly pinched between Large, rough fingers.

24 — 25

Genesis

“Better than your mother,” he said. Serpentine Adam stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants. He tore open the glass doors of the cabinet and inspected the contents. His fingers dangled into the case and snatched one of Father’s expensive decanters. He popped off the cap, sniffed the aroma of the liquor, put it to his lips, and took a swallow. Serpentine pulled the bottle away, shaking his head. “Damn, it’s rare to taste something this good.”

Jessica Dalke It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for, the ones who show up on your back patio as the sun is setting. Authority wrapped in a fist, the black steel loaded with gold bullets. No use for father to fight because he is dropped from being slugged in the back of the head. Mother just ends up on the floor, babbling like a Pentecostal speaking in tongues.

He offered the bottle to me. I raised a hand and said, “I don’t drink.”

Serpentine raised a finger. “Controlled?” “It’s hard to explain.” “Isn’t life complicated?” I shifted in my chair. “Let me ask you this, did you have a normal childhood?” One eyebrow rose on Serpentine Adam’s forehead. “Why do you want to know?”

“Alright, whatever suits you, Scarlet.”

I did nothing. What could I do? What did I want to do? Nothing. Just sit there with feet together, hands clasped tightly, just like a lady sits, the only position I knew, staring at the fireplace with a blank look that was forced upon me. Fear didn’t flood through me. I couldn’t store any emotion. It wasn’t coming out like Mom’s desperate cries in a separate room.

I took a breath. “It’s not easy when you’ve been controlled your whole life.”

Serpentine Adam sank down onto the couch. One leg was stretched out; the other curved into a perfect upside down “L.”

“I just want to know how your life is compared to mine. It’s the only way I can explain my situation to you.” His fingers scratched away at his goatee, like he was petting a cat. “Yeah, it’s about as normal as it gets.”

“My name isn’t Scarlet,” I said. “It’s Janelle.”

Diann Reinhold • Windblown • Photograph

A shadow loomed over the corner of my eye. I looked at the man who had broken in. Short, black tapered hair, long at the bangs that were swept to the side. The ends of his hair wrapped around his flat cheeks, exposing a square jaw. His pink lips were narrow with a goatee enveloped around them. Cobalt eyes with tints of green looked curiously at me. He wore a black jacket. One arm rested on the case that housed all of Dad’s worthless awards he had received from his executive job at the Mantua Basin Oilfield. The gun rested at his side with one finger in attack mode. His legs were covered in black baggy pants, one foot crossed over the other. I knew who he was. His name had escaped Dad’s mouth at the breakfast table. A convicted criminal named Serpentine Adam. The blank stare I gave Serpentine Adam seemed to intrigue him. “Boo,” he said. He let go of the glass case and smoothed out his jacket. “You don’t talk much.” I didn’t answer, but kept focused on the criminal. Serpentine Adam shrugged and strolled to the liquor cabinet next to me.

“It’s just a figure of speech. I gave you that name because you act like a southern belle. Take it as a compliment.” I tilted my head to the side. This must’ve bothered Serpentine Adam. His eyes narrowed. “Most people would smile at a compliment, even when they’re held hostage because their life depends upon it.” His chin rested on his hand like he was patiently waiting for me to give him some kind of reaction. “Are you really that clueless?” “I’ve never been held hostage before,” I said. “Not many people have been held hostage in their life. I’m talking about your reactions to people. You always have the same expression. Nothing registers with you.”

For the first time in my life, I crossed one leg over the other. “Tell me more.” “I was raised in a small neighborhood. As a kid I was in every sport that you could imagine. I went to a public school. School dances were my favorite places to socialize. Studying wasn’t my favorite, but I somehow got decent grades. I walked down the aisle and received my diploma. My dream was to be a rock star, but I found myself working at a convenience store. Then I got married.” I unfolded my hands, placed them on the arms of the chair, and said, “Everything was different for me. My parents shadowed me. I was never allowed to play with anyone. Never allowed to go anywhere on my own. Instead of going to public school, I was homeschooled. This wasn’t any ordinary homeschool situation. My curriculum consisted of how to present myself to official people. Countless times

26 — 27

I’ve floated across the hallway in heels trying to look elegant. Frustrated hours went into teaching me which fork I had to use for each course at dinner. Their goal in all of this was to turn me into the perfect prodigy like the Queen of England did with Princess Diana before she married Prince Charles.” Serpentine Adam rested his arm on the pillow. He bit at his lip. “Did you ever learn anything like math or English?” “Oh, English was huge. My parents said it was the most important thing I needed. As for math, I only know basic concepts. Dad believed that was something only men could learn.” Serpentine swirled the decanter. “Some parents can be overbearing.” “I don’t think overbearing is the right term for my parents. They live by a code. Our financial status, religion, and how we present ourselves constitute perfection. They believe I can be corrupted by the outside world.”

Megan Westvig • Human Tetris • Photograph

together like he was trying to find the right words to say. He finally answered, “Yes.” “It seems hard for you to say that.” “At one time I knew they loved me. It might be different now.” I leaned out of the chair. “No hugs and kisses. Every word out of their mouth is like a command to a dog. See, I don’t believe my parents love me. I’m an investment like my father’s shares in the Mantua Basin Oilfield.” A faint breath came from Serpentine. He placed the bottle on the coffee table next to the couch. “You want to know what I went to prison for?” He leaned forward and clasped his hands like he was about to say a prayer, his eyes staring off into the fireplace like he was in some far off dream. “Stuck behind those walls for fifteen years, you forget what you did. The guards have to remind you that you killed your wife.”

My tongue rubbed around my lip. “Did your parents love you?”

Serpentine’s eyes switched back to me. He stood up. His hand rested on the handle of the gun. “Get up. It’s time.”

Serpentine Adam looked away for a moment. There was a sudden sadness in his eyes. His fingers tapped on his jeans. Serpentine took another drink from the decanter. His lips pursed

I hesitated for a moment, but I followed his command. He pulled the gun out of his pants and pointed it at the hallway as a gesture to lead. The darkness enveloped me with the

28 — 29 Kacey Wyrick • Temperamental • Photograph moonlight casting shadows on the wall. Drums pounded as we descended the hall and into the room that held my parents in contempt. Both of them were piled on the floor. Electrical cords dug into their wrists and feet. Black streaks were painted underneath Mother’s eyes. Father was semiconscious, but his eyes struggled to focus on us. His hair matted down with blood that seeped from his wound. I stopped about a foot away from them, turned, and faced Serpentine Adam. He looked over at them, then at me. His hand snatched my wrist, placing the gun on my palm. “I was going to let them live,” he said, “but I realize you’d be stuck in the same predicament. Kill them.” My eyes bounced from the gun, to my parents, then back to Serpentine Adam.

I rubbed my hands. “Well then, what do we do now?” Serpentine stuck his hands in his pockets. “Someone is going to find out your parents are dead sooner or later. Then the cops are going to be looking for us. The only thing we can do now is run.” I walked over to a dresser away from the view of my dead parents. My hands rested on its polished surface. “Is that the only option I have?” “If I had it my way, I would be the only one running. I would take the blame for your parents’ death. The only thing is I know how the legal system works. I know how investigators react around people like you.” I looked back at Serpentine. “What do you mean by that?”

Erica Piña • The Dreams of My Past • Drawing His grip tightened around my wrist as he rallied. “Go ahead. Kill them. Place a bullet in them. It’s what you want.” Did I really want that? For a while I had wanted to flee from my parents. I just didn’t know how to get away at the time. This is what I was debating as I turned away from Serpentine Adam with the gun in my hand, facing my parents. They were weak. Both of them stared at me with their bones shaking. I had the power in my hands now. Something I never had before. I raised the gun and aimed at Dad. Mom gasped through the cloth that was gagging her. The barrel moved over to her. I had been taught that killing was wrong. However, it’s wrong to trap a girl and feed her lies for countless years. They weren’t so perfect. Father’s business attributes couldn’t solve this problem. Mother’s social stature would

not free her from those cords. My finger wrapped around the trigger. I knew God always brought miracles when you least expect them. Serpentine Adam was that miracle. He showed me that he had the perfect life. His childhood all the way to now was full of freedom and no barriers. He had the perfect life. I squeezed the trigger once and then again. Both fell down like targets in a carnival game. Blood flowed onto the floor and formed a pool. My hand shook. Serpentine gently grabbed my wrist and took the gun away. He stuffed it back into his pants. “What do I do now?” I asked. “It’s not just you, it’s us now. We are both in this situation.”

“They have their ways of getting the truth. I’m adjusted to their tricks. Lying is my specialty. You can’t tell a lie. Judging your past, you have never been close to telling one. They would tear you apart like cougars. It’s not safe for you to stay here.” My hands slid from the surface of the dresser to the upper drawer. Serpentine frowned. “What are you doing?” “The key to the car is in here.” Serpentine Adam raised a hand. “We can’t take the car. That’s the first thing the cops will look for.” “Then what do we use to get out of here?” Serpentine stuck out a foot. “The same way I got here. We’ll have to hike through the back country.” He turned and marched to the door. I forced myself to stay. Serpentine stopped underneath the door frame and looked

back. “Are you coming?” There was a throbbing pain within the pit of my stomach. I didn’t know what it was that was causing me to hurt. Probably, it was guilt creeping in on me. Nothing could hold it back. “Why did you kill your wife?” That sudden question hit Serpentine Adam like a glove. He staggered and placed his hands on the door frame. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Serpentine took a deep breath. I wasn’t about to give up. “What made you turn away from your life?” Serpentine dashed to me. He rested his hands on my shoulders. “I wanted to be free,” he said. “I felt trapped. That was the only way I could get out.” He gently squeezed my shoulders. “You and I are like animals cornered by hunters. When animals are trapped, they fight back. You doubt what you did now, but there is no need to feel that way. This is a normal reaction.” His hands slipped away from my shoulders. He turned and started for the door. I didn’t hesitate, but followed Serpentine Adam to accept my fate. Serpentine was right. I had committed this sin. Now I had to leave the life I knew in order to avoid punishment. All I was doing was following basic instinct. Like I said before, it’s the silent ones you have to watch out for.

30 — 31

Diann Reinhold • Together Yet Apart • Photograph

32 — 33

Layna Hendrich • Framed • Photograph

Marissa K. Dickey • The Calm in Your Light • Photograph

Futile Gigi Hoagland I thought, at first, the sound came From the tires of my bicycle, Rolling and grinding against the asphalt. When I turned the corner to home, however, I saw the source of the racket: A woman across the street, Leaf blower hoisted aloft as if in offering, Trying to blow the dead leaves from the trees. The nonsensical situation was nearly enough To make me laugh at the irony, If only it weren’t so desperately sad. At the foot of the steps to my apartment Lay three grasshoppers. One, dead and flat, Squished by some unknowing boot, Maybe even my own. Another, dead but intact, blackened by the night’s frost. The third I almost missed. He was near the wall and I thought surely he was dead. A nudge from my foot, however, proved he was alive, But barely. Black as his dead brother, the grasshopper Sluggishly took a step. I thought of nudging him into the sunlight, To warm him and give him another chance.

34 — 35 But every science teacher I’d ever had, Every boyfriend or family member Rolling their eyes at me crouching Over a lost-cause dying creature, Had told me, “Nature has its way. Don’t interfere.” I thought to myself, “Yes, we all have to learn sometime To find the sunlight by ourselves.” And I left the grasshopper on his own. The next day it snowed.

Serena M. Stapert • Billboard Campaign • Graphic Design

Ode to Airports Gigi Hoagland I love the corner shops with their dreadfully overpriced trinkets, their wannabe-designer leather bags and cheesy shot glass souvenirs. I love Fast Food Row, the frantic beeping of timers signaling the readiness of fries, the wailing toddlers clutched by weary, exasperated mothers. I love the security agents keeping one eye on the light over the metal detector, and the other on your hands. I love the humor in the ones who don’t hide their humanity. I love the seriousness of the ones who behave like machines. I love the moving walkways, long, easy, backward treadmills,

Brooke Matheson • Redemption • Photograph

playgrounds for children, conveniences for rushing adults, places of rest for elderly. I love the smell of metal and carpet and Pine-Sol and airport lounges that have never felt fresh air. I love the routines. Check in, check bags, check identity, check flight, check seat, check delay time… …checkmate. The part I love most is the fact that everyone is going somewhere, and they’ve all got a reason for going where they’re going. Everyone has a story.

36 — 37

Love Poem to My Stalker Stephanie Wilson I will never forget the day we first me — after you’d been following me for weeks. You are always there for me — because you hacked my schedule and know what class I’m coming out of. You always think so creatively and aren’t hindered by social norms — especially when you go off your meds. I admire you for being such a good listener — to the voices in your head. Thank you for the gift — although I don’t know how to best display a pumpkin with a knife through it. You let nothing keep us apart — even that protective order against you. The handmade card was thoughtful — it must have taken hours to cut out all those letters from magazines. I know you hope to have my heart — as well as my other internal organs for your shrine. I can’t wait to see you — in a straightjacket, or behind bars.

Arie Wilder • Dance and Food Drive Poster • Graphic Design

38 — 39

Joy In Summer Emily Kellet Let summer’s kiss touch the sky Let it warm the Earth with all its might Let the wind be cool and light Let my heart sing with delight. Let us go for a swim In the moon so dim Let us frolic and play Until the next day Let us look at mars And see the blanket of stars Let the grass be green Let us be bright and serene Let the rain wash away our sorrows And fill our cups with many tomorrows Let us dance in the puddles And enclose ourselves in tight huddles

Courtney B. Smith • Fighter • Photograph

Michael Salvi • Cloud Valley • Photograph

40 — 41

Courtney B. Smith • Music of My Heart • Photograph

42 — 43

Misha Padilla • Tunnel Vision • Photograph

Ciera Cordero • Surreal World • Photograph Marissa K. Dickey • Veiled • Photograph

Formal Tyler Schanck

Never Alone Jay Robinson I stand alone, the world to watch, as love does flee away, the heart to stone, of flesh and bone, bitter night to day. I stand alone, in world that groans, of the day I will away, a challenge brought, not by will, but by fate to stay. I kneel alone, on knees of stone, the fight they will not give, naught left to lose, but wound and bruise, still I fight to live I kneel alone, on knees of stone, my tears to ground I give, to flow from me, unto the sea, my heart a pumice sieve. I lie alone, on barren stone, to watch the breath pass by, the eyes long blind, search for light, yet I ask not why. I lie alone, on barren stone, to watch for grim to by, death thinks not, of life or rot, of weeping or a sigh. I stand alone, in fire and flame, a hell thus warmly made, the devil cheers, his gleeful jeers, his fate will be my spade. for thus alone, from cold-cut stone, my heart was colder made, to take his head, his bones my bread, though my sins be never paid. to stake his head, and eat my bread, for my sins are ever paid. Brooke Matheson • Dew • Photograph

I wish that they would dance; the lovers. Pull their hearts up and swing to jazz fusions that bounce off acoustics. You cannot ask them, forceful water won’t rise to the flailing of human nature inside them. Lift your skirt to your knees and find musical possession, slip your sneakers off and slide; I beg. Mark the gymnasium floor with your recklessness, be clumsy, and be shameless and identified. Let judgment pass upon you. Let judgment pass while applause grows silently inside your soul, that inner voice, that angel inside that shines when bright lights draw the sweat from your forehead. Shake it off and sway her. Forth and back, return her smiles, let nerves become motivation. Let nervousness bleed such sweet motivation and desire for disappointment, to lure your emotions deeper and faster and hastily grasp any signs of encouragement. I wish I could dance; like lovers. Boldly break my columns of solitude and sprint to the jazz sounds, rise to the horn parts, yell to the bass drum, thudding to my pulse now, sink into waters of the beautiful and harmless, glide on an ice rink, and skate to the reverb. Why not dance? Why not let them stare? Let them stare, let them hate me, let some tense aggravation stemming from envy be yet another synthesizer pounding in my headache. She and he can melt in one and open doors can cool the mold of their star-shaped masses on the high school emblem. I want to kiss my partBrooke Matheson • Lady of Smoke • Photograph ner. I gaze at the contracts each of them has signed with their fingertips and outfits, still dripping from the ink. They’re still leaning on the wall; the lovers. Hand in hand, I wonder if they dance inside. I wonder if they dance inside. I haven’t seen one single dull look in their eyes. It’s just me, with a flask in my back pocket, sipping out of spiked punch glasses and cups. They’re still happy; the lovers, watching every sunset happen in the ballroom, looking at each other in belief: that they made everything one step at a time, and the rest of us watch until it hurts. Still, I see a vacant spot in the room, and I wish that I could take it but I can’t. I wish they’d dance, to my dismay, my amusement, and my gratitude. I wish that they would dance; the lovers.

44 — 45

Marissa K. Dickey • Hands Half Full • Photograph

Kacey Wyrick • Passion • Photograph

46 — 47

Rachel Ann Moeller • Time Wears on Us • Photograph

Arie Wilder • Symphony Pamphlet • Graphic Design

Jinxia Ma • Peace • Drawing

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Brooke Matheson • Caribou Cup Packaging • Graphic Design

Distraction Kimberly Kost It was just sitting there Oblivious to the conversation raging around it Enjoying its rest as it listened to the cadence of our voices Talking about subjects philosophical Revealing our deepest Darkest secrets to the rest of the room It did not realize the absurdity of its presence In the room that day The distraction it caused Simply lounging in the room A forgotten item left behind It lay still on the floor at his feet Reflecting the light dancing on its crystalline skin Content to let us carry on Discussing our thoughts around it It did not understand how out of place it was Insistent on discovering our purpose Changing the play on words It did not fathom our intent Obnoxious distraction it became

Steven Josephson • Abandoned on Coal Hill • Photograph

The empty beverage bottle on the floor

48 — 49

The Dance Sharee A. Miller I imagine myself a little girl A floral sundress hangs at my knees Blonde locks encompassing brown eyes My eyes are wide with happiness I imagine you a young woman A red dress swirling round your hips Blue eyes twinkling, lighting your face Your lips curling upward in smile We are dancing to the music Laughter filling the air Pirouetting together Laughing at how the fabric of our dresses swirls

The music is faint and I can’t make it out But our laughter reverberates through my ears I look at you and see only love and admiration in your eyes You hold my hands and it fills me with warmth

50 — 51

I know that you have lived for this moment All that you have is in me This is a fragment in time And we are dancing to it This moment lives in my heart It is the look, the feel, the sound of love The love of a mother to a daughter The dance I will measure all other dances with For all the dances I will participate in For all the other fragments in time For all the other loves that will come and go through my life I first danced with you

Zach Cardoza • Gary Kelly Study • Drawing

The Story Within

John Jurmu • Office Warfare • Drawing

Dianne McCloud “Of course I still love you,” Greg said, looking around the kitchen with confusion, sniffing a delicious blend of aromas arousing memories from some of his happiest meals. “I’m ashamed of myself for being late every night this week. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Angela pretended not to notice the lingering odor of marijuana on Greg’s clothing as she hugged him, and tenderly kissed each of his cheeks. “I was hoping you would get home early tonight, so we could celebrate our wedding anniversary. Or did you forget?” Greg was silent, slowly exhaling the last puff of smoke from his cigarette. He regained his focus on the woman he had married twenty years earlier. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be sitting alone, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t doomed to an eternity of solitude.” He laughed,

pulled a small box from his pocket, and set it next to the fragile china dinner plate. Framed by recently polished heirloom sterling silverware, wedding gifts he did not remember. “Oh, you are as wonderful now as you were twenty years ago. Now I feel ashamed for supposing you had forgotten our anniversary.” “I forgive you,” he said, quickly kissing her lips. “Open the box, and see if you like your present.” Angela carefully lifted the hinged lid from the box, exposing a pair of raw gold nugget earrings. “These are exquisite. Are they from your mine?”

“Yeah, you might say it’s taken me twenty years to find this vein of ore. It just isn’t consistent with any known geological theories, so I haven’t had any success selling my claims to the larger mining companies.”

Greg started eating without saying a word or even looking at Angela. She broke the silence of the meal by asking, “Did you even taste your food, or notice who is at the table with you?”

“Let’s not worry about our fortunes right now. Go get washed for dinner, while I change into something more suitable to go with these gorgeous earrings.”

“I’m sorry I ate so fast, but I skipped lunch hoping I would get home early tonight.” Looking up from his plate, he added, “Those earrings look majestic with your blue velvet dress. Eating such an excellent meal, and being married to such a beautiful woman makes me feel like a king.”

Greg couldn’t remember the last time he had made his wife this happy. He blamed his memory loss on the permanent damage caused by constant alcohol consumption during his university years. Now smoking pot on his days off was only making his thoughts randomly wander across an ocean of experiences. He was risking his job, if he got asked to provide a urine sample, when he showed up at the mine gate tomorrow. Greg silently asked for divine intervention to help him keep a promise not to smoke pot on his days off, especially since he wasted his days off this week trying to find his own claim posts and he could not afford to lose his steady paycheck. As a staff geologist for the Montana Mining Company, he was able to keep his own gold mine operational, representing his geological success. Greg knew any gold remaining in his mine would only surface with large scale blasting and digging. Organizing his sales efforts had been the reason he had been paying rent on a small office for the last three months. His office had also become the home for his new ambition. Greg finished washing the day’s dust and sweat from his face. It seemed as if the pores of his skin were never completely clean. He chuckled at the image in the mirror of his stoned geologist face, admiring the caramel colored complexion. It was a match for the weathered and rugged look of a yachtsman. If only his luck would change, certainly he would be able to buy the happiness that had eluded him. “Dinner will be cold, if you don’t come and sit down,” Angela called to him from the dining room.

“You have such a wild imagination. Maybe you should be a writer instead of a miner, but I guess you wouldn’t make enough money at writing to be happy,” Angela said. “Wait here. I’ve got another surprise to show you,” Greg said, bolting out of his chair to find where he had left his briefcase. Angela patiently waited for Greg to return. “Would you like to read the rough draft of a novel I’ve been writing since the middle of summer?” Writing a novel was the other reason he had started renting an office. “When did you start writing?” “It’s been almost three months ago, after the casinos quit giving me advances on my credit. Gambling was like booze. I didn’t know when to quit. Every dollar I fcd those poker machines was going to hit the jackpot, and there was no quitting until I had at least won back part of my lost wages. I can’t even begin to thank you for paying the collection agencies, my queen to the rescue.” Greg raised his glass of lemonade, touching Angela’s wine glass. “Let’s drink to the bond of truce you bought with your savings account. I’m sure lucky to be married to such a successful accountant.” “My money wouldn’t do any good being in the bank while the interest you were paying was doubling every other week. At least you’ve found something more productive

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than gambling to spend your money on.” Angela smiled and sipped her wine while she skimmed over the pages of Greg’s manuscript. Watching for Angela’s reaction, Greg was reminded of a different beautiful flaxen blond haired girl and her captivating sapphire blue eyes. Angela knew about his military tour of duty in Italy, where he met his first true love. Greg shook his head to break the spell of sadness that was controlling his thoughts. Having been forbidden to marry the daughter of an Italian wine merchant was an intensely painful memory. A soldier’s pay would not have provided enough money to support a wife of noble heritage. Her merchant father’s fluency in English was flawless when it came to discussing financial matters.

Closing the curtain on his mind’s stage, Greg left the scene of his Italian romance to be the subject of his next novel, if he had any success with the current one. He pushed away his empty plate to make room for an ashtray. After lighting a second cigarette with the burning ember of his first one, he purposely pounded it until it was completely demolished, halting Angela’s reading. “I’m impressed,” she said. Wanting to resume the air of celebration, Greg raised his nearly empty glass of lemonade and said, “A toast to our promise to love each other, made on this day in October over twenty years ago, with the hope that this will be the year my investments will turn into the fortune I’ve wanted

to provide for you for ever since then.” “Even after twenty years of marriage, I don’t understand your obsession with being rich. It’s like you’re trying to prove the truth in the legends of those lost cities with streets paved in gold, and you’re going to be the one to map them out. There isn’t anything that you wouldn’t sacrifice for the sake of being able to fill a bank vault with gold,” she said regrettably. “I’d never want to lose you, for any price,” Greg said defensively, but admitting to himself that he was not being totally truthful. “I wish I didn’t have to keep secrets from the one person who trusts me more than I deserve,” he thought. Knowing she was invading her husband’s privacy, Angela quickly replied, “I don’t want to make you angry. I’m just overwhelmed by the intense portrayal of your love affair with a woman you never mentioned before. It’s an unrealistic challenge for your readers to accept this story as a love legend surpassing the magnitude of mythology and folklore. I don’t think that tone will make you very popular with any reading audience, especially since your lover’s death brings you to such a passionate fulfillment. I know you are writing fiction, but it still has to relate to defined romantic and tragic standards and not be the rambling of a lunatic.” If it had not been for the soft sound of background music coming from the stereo in the adjoining living room, Angela might have heard Greg’s muffled gasp. “So now she thinks I’m a raving lunatic, and instead of filing for divorce she’ll just have me committed to an asylum,” Greg thought, knowing he shouldn’t take her seriously. Angela was relieved by Greg’s laughter. “I was afraid I had offended you,” she said. “If I didn’t know that you truly loved me, I would probably be packing my bags,” he said. Angela nodded with an echo-

Lyndsey Hopkin • Heels • Photograph

ing laugh, not wanting anything to spoil their anniversary. Getting up from the table gave Greg the opportunity to relieve the intensity of their dinner discussion. “Do you feel like dancing?” he asked as turned up the volume of the old time fiddle music that had been playing almost unnoticed. Angela hesitated, already starting to feel like she had to compete with the woman in Greg’s novel, wistfully smiled at Greg, not wanting to reveal her apprehension of Greg’s new passion for writing. Synchronizing their bodies to the steady beat of the waltzes had a soothing effect on the tension Greg’s novel had generated. “I wish I didn’t have to go to work so early in the morning.” I could waltz with you all night just like we did at our wedding reception,” Greg said. “I’d love to do that. Everything we do now is planned and organized around our careers. It’s like our wedding was a rehearsal for scheduling moments for romance into our lives.” “I must admit our wedding was a well choreographed event, thanks to the small fortune your parents donated.” “It was an. investment for their old age,” Angela said. “They know they’ll always have a place to stay when they retire.” “Unless we retire first,” Greg said boastfully. During the next eight months following their twentieth wedding anniversary, Greg’s obsession with writing put the bonds of their marriage to the ultimate test even though he had kept his promise to himself not smoke any more pot. Thriving on the long days of early summer, Greg’s writing

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pace intensified. Coming home late again, he planned to restore marital harmony with well-timed kisses, passionate embraces and a bouquet of wild flowers he had picked from the vacant field near his office. “Angela will be happy to see my novel finally finished and I’ll get a reheated home cooked meal, then I can get this manuscript ready to deliver to the publisher,” Greg thought as he parked his truck in front of their remodeled farm house. Before he had time to close the kitchen door behind him, Angela bitterly said, “I’m not going to continue being a subordinate to your leading lady in the novel you’ve been pouring all your energy into ever since you gave me the rough draft to read on our last wedding anniversary.” Without touching him, Angela took the flowers Greg held out to her, filled a vase with water, and put them on the table along with a plate of pasta and steamed garden vegetables she took out of the oven.

Lane Johnson • Of Earth and Past • Ceramic

“How can you be jealous of a woman I knew five years before I met you, and who died of cancer four months after the affair began? Even her husband wasn’t jealous, and he should have been. I know she would’ve left him, and married me—” Greg said. His lover’s death was the inspiration of his novel, and he believed his novel would give more significance to her life than the art gallery her husband bought to display her photography. “You’re right. Maybe you’re the one who is jealous. After all, it was her husband’s money you had access to when she took you in as a roommate. Your companionship helped her suffer through the cancer treatments and she helped with your suffering when you began your recovery from alcoholism. The reason you were lovers was because it was unbearable for her husband to engage in her final passion for love.” “If her family had at least let me go to the funeral, or told

me where she was buried, my love for her would have been appeased.” “Well, I don’t understand how writing about your love affair is going to transcend her marriage. Her husband obviously gave her everything she ever wanted. Your novel should be about their love, instead.” Despite his wounded pride, he thought about changing the perspective of his novel, but his motivation would be lost, along with the publisher’s contract. The fictional version of his love affair made him her hero, not the rich husband. However, more than anything, Greg had wanted to save his lover, and to prove that his love could defeat death. Surely, death had a price that could be negotiated, but it was a price not to be found, even all the gold in the universe would not have kept her alive. Recovering from her episode of anger, Angela sadly said, “Twenty-four years is such a young age to die. I’m sure having you for a lover let her die with dignity, and satisfaction at being able to experience life’s pleasures until the very end.” “I’m sending my manuscript to the publisher in the morning and when it gets published, I’ll be sending a copy to her husband, and copies to her three sisters, who would never speak to me when they came to our apartment,” Greg said with determination. “I’ll even pay back the money you spent on my gambling debts.” “The money doesn’t concern me, honey. It’s the consequent remoteness of your love. These flowers arc beautiful, but you haven’t even danced with me since our last anniversary.” Luke 24:5: Why seek ye the living among the dead?

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Scott Wambeke • Night Camp • Sculpture

Day One Case popped a pink cinnamon Altoid into her mouth and crunched it between her teeth decidedly. “He’d better be here,” she said as we pulled back into the high-school parking lot, after getting groceries. rett was sitting on the curb, the place where the curb was marked yellow for the fire hydrant. He stood slowly as Case brought the pickup to a stop. Brett threw his backpack carelessly into the back and then got in beside me, forcing me to slide to the middle of the seat.

Molly Adair • Owl Always Love You • Photograph

Case merged onto the highway, before she said, “So, where were you earlier?” “Principal’s office,” Brett mumbled. He turned the back of his head to Case’s searching eyes. I looked jealously at the way his licorice black hair caught the thin gold rays of sun. My own hair hung to my shoulders in wheat blonde strings.

Time is All Callie Ann Atkinson When the recession hit, I didn’t think it was going to affect my life at all. Nothing changed for us and we were considered the lucky family in our community, but the February of my twelfth year, Dad lost his job and I found out what waiting was. Dad left to find a new job. “Somewhere where the prospects are better,” he said, and then, we didn’t hear from him. Three months went by, of which I don’t remember much, but the last five days of waiting stand clear in my mind. Although the days could be considered ordinary or even uninteresting, they are how I found the true meaning of waiting.

“Why?” Case asked him. The song on the radio faded to a dull buzz, and I hit the power button. The silence thickened in the small cab. We passed two green mile markers and then came to our turn. When we hit the gravel of the county road we lived on, the silence was broken by the speedometer wires rattling. “Scott Leeland said that Dad left us for good,” Brett said. “I punched him.” I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat and tried to read Case’s expression, but she kept both eyes on the road. The neon green numbers of the dashboard clock turned to

six-thirty-four as we arrived at our house. The kitchen light was on, and the setting sun cast pictures on the cracked white paint of the siding. Shirley came up to greet us, wagging her tail slowly, as though she was embarrassed. I jumped out of the pickup after Brett, and wrapped my arms around the old dog. “Slate, you’re getting hair on your school clothes,” Case scolded gently. Shirley smelled like old pond water and rotting leaves, with a hint of aging skunk, but I buried my face in the soft gold waves on her shoulder anyway. She whined companionably and tried to lick my ear with her cotton-soft tongue. Brett jerked his backpack out of the box and started to the house. Case stopped him with a sharp, “Brett!” and then in a softer voice said, “Take your sister’s in, too.” “Slate’s big enough to carry it herself,” Brett said, but he came and got my backpack anyway. I let go of Shirley and followed my siblings. I took my time and stopped to pull several pineapple weeds before running up the porch steps, making sure to jump over the hole where one was missing. I crushed the pineapple weed between my fingers and took in the fruity scent. “Smells good, don’t it?” I said to Case, who was waiting for me and holding the door open. I could feel the warmth coming from the kitchen, as it passed into the steadily cooling night air. Case nodded and for a moment I felt good about myself. I rushed through the house and crashed into the kitchen, sending the little black and white kitten spitting into the hall. “Daddy call?” I gasped to Momma.

She turned slowly from the stove. Her face was slightly flushed, like a rosy blush on an otherwise green apple, and her mahogany brown hair, with its steaks of dove grey, was slipping from the knot tied on the back of her head. She looked at me slowly and I knew the answer before she said it. “No, baby, he didn’t,” she said. “But he will soon,” I said. I looked up into Momma’s eyes. “Right?” Momma smiled. It was a tired smile. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, but she turned away quickly, and before I could say anything, she changed the subject. “How was school?” she asked. I shrugged. Brett shrugged. I glared at him for copying me, and Momma scolded me, but the scolding was just as tired as her smile. I didn’t apologize. Instead, I turned my back and went into the hall to find the kitten. I found her under the cracked leather arm chair against the far wall of the living room. I reached under and pulled her out. She purred and rubbed against my chin. I rocked back on my heels and pushed my head against the wall. I closed my eyes. No one would see me cry.

Day Two Case’s room was all pink and yellow and soft. It smelled like several flavours of lotion, body splash, and different brands of makeup and mascara. Half of the smells I liked and half of them I hated, but it didn’t keep me out of her room. I sat cross-legged on the foot of her pink-comforted bed and watched Case carefully put her makeup on. Her hair was already done up in coils on the back of her head and one brown ringlet was bouncing down her neck. “Do you think Daddy will call tonight?” I asked.

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“I’m sure he’ll call soon,” Case assured. She died her lips pomegranate-red and then came over to the bed. She squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry,” she said.

the door. She was laughing and I wondered why. “Hello, Johnny,” she said. “Hi, Case,” Johnny said, “Hey, Slate, how’re you?”

“I’m not worried,” I lied. Case smiled faintly.

“Fine,” I answered him, “Case says you’re gonna go dancin’. You know how to dance, Johnny?”

“You going to the movie?” I asked.

Johnny smiled. He had a nice smile. “Sure,” he said.

“No, we’re going dancing,” Case said. She reached under her bed for her sandals.

After they left, I wandered around the house, pausing in Mom and Dad’s room, or what used to be Mom and Dad’s room, before throwing myself on the couch in the living room. The tv looked blankly at me and I stared back just as blankly. Then I fell asleep and I had a dream about a time before Dad had left.

“I didn’t think Johnny was any good at dancin’,” I said, using slang on purpose in an effort to make Case turn her attention back to me. Case laughed and put her feet into the sandals. Case had pretty feet, they made up for the worn straps on the shoes. I sighed. She was almost ready to leave and that meant I would be alone for an hour or so before Mom got home from work and Brett got back from helping Jack Trimmer clean his yard. “You going to be okay?” Case looked closely at me. I nodded and lied again, but what else could I say? No, Case, I need you here? I wasn’t going to ruin her night and besides, I liked Johnny. Case knew I was lying, because she looked sideways at me and then said, “I’m sure Mom wouldn’t mind if you watched a movie.” Outside there came the slam of a car door. “Johnny’s here,” Case said. I nodded and followed her down the stairs. Johnny was knocking when we entered the hallway and Case opened

“Thats my lucky star,” I said. I pointed at a small blue, blinking star, that hung to our left. It looked as though it was tied to the drooping branch of the old willow by a spider-spun thread. Brett nodded methodically. He leaned back on the swing, holding himself by his hands tightly gripped to the coarse hemp that held the swing to the branch above. He leaned way back, so his arms were stretched taught and I could see white on his knuckles in the dim light. “That’s mine,” he said “Where?” I asked. I leaned back on my side of the tire, but the motion made me dizzy, so I sat straight and watched my brother. “There,” Brett said, “Past yours. It’s red.”

“We’ll always be best friends,” I said. “Yes, always,” Brett said. I awoke to the telephone ringing. “Dad?” I asked excitedly into the mouth-piece. A marble rolled passed my foot and came to a stop by the front left leg of the desk. In my rush to get the phone I had knocked over a chair and spilled Brett’s marbles. “No, honey, this is Momma.” Momma’s voice on the other end was soft and apologetic. “Oh, hi, Mommy,” I said, trying to cover the disappointment in my voice. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be a little late tonight.”

ing the marbles I had scattered. I tried to tie the top of the bag shut, but couldn’t get it, so I tossed the bag by the phone and went to the kitchen. The clock showed six-fortynine. Shirley looked up from where she lay. Her eyes were sad and scared me. I think I saw myself in them. Brett came up the porch steps at exactly seven minutes after seven. I watched the numbers change on the stove clock. I didn’t say anything to him when he came into the kitchen and took a swig of milk from the jug. He didn’t even look at me, as he went out to the living room. He threw his jacket on the back of the couch, then flopped onto the floor. I stayed where I was, perched on the stool in the corner of the kitchen. I wanted to scream at Brett. I wanted to tell him to stop acting lazy and to stop being angry with me. I wanted to tell him that I wanted him to be my brother again. But I kept all the thoughts sealed inside and ignored my brother, like he was ignoring me.

“Okay.” “You all right, baby?” Day Three “Yea, yea, I’m fine.” “There is meatloaf in the fridge you can heat up for supper.” “Okay.” “I’m sorry,” Momma said.

“Stars aren’t red,” I giggled.

I kicked at the marble and made it roll until it hit the baseboard. I liked the sound it made. “You be home to tuck me in?” I asked.

Brett sat up. “Oh yeah?” he challenged, but he ended in a laugh and rolled off the tire into the grass. We lay laughing in the tickling blades. A bright star floated through the sky.

Momma laughed softly. “Yes, I’ll be there,” she said. I hung up the phone and spent the next ten minutes rescu-

Momma dropped the telephone on the table. It made an odd sound, like a far away rumble of thunder or maybe it was thunder I heard. Momma’s face was pale and she leaned against the table. It scooted a little from her weight. She picked the phone back up and said, “I’ll head up there right now.” My mouth was dry and I had to gulp to swallow. Case touched my shoulder briefly, before following Momma out of the room. I wanted to know what was going on, but it seemed as though my feet were cemented to the floor. My eyes, in a search for comfort, drifted to the bird clock on the wall. Dad had gotten it several years ago and I loved to hear the birds call on the hour. The hands were pointing to

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the great-horned owl and the chickadee, three-o-clock.

if he is Dad, okay?” Case’s voice was calm and smooth.

Case came in and took hold of my hand. Her palm was soft with lotion and I could smell the faint smell of citrus flowers. “Come on, Slate,” she said, “Let’s go outside.”

I nodded. I could feel the tears running down my cheeks now and Case pulled me against her. I sucked in my breath. Case’s shirt smelled like citrus and soap flakes, but there was a faint whiff of Shirley clinging to it as well, and that comforted me. Brett stood rigidly. His dark eyes staring, at what, I don’t know.

I followed her down the hall to the door. Brett trailed along behind us and behind him padded Shirley. “What...who’s on the phone?” I choked out, as Case opened the door. The kitten scuttled through the opening. She was fluffed out to twice her size and was hissing at Shirley who had nosed her.

in his pockets and his head was down. Suddenly I wanted to say, “I’m sorry,” but I didn’t exactly know what I was sorry for, so I kept my mouth shut. I pulled on Shirley’s ears and then pushed her down. I looked back out at the road. It stretched out gray and flat and empty. I remembered one day last year when Dad had let me sit on his lap and steer. “Watch the side, the gravel is loose and deep there,” Dad said to me.

Day Four Case shut the door and took us to the swing. Case sat on the tire and I sat beside her, anxiously waiting for Case to answer my question. Brett stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out towards the road. “They might have found Dad,” Case said. “Thats a lie,” Brett said, “We ain’t ever gonna see Dad again. He left us.” “Take that back!” I said. My voice cracked and stumbled over the words. “He’s coming home, he’s coming home!” My mouth was no longer dry, but I still had to gulp to swallow. I knew I was crying, but I couldn’t feel any tears running down my cheeks. I could taste the salt from them on my tongue, though. “Tell him, Case, tell him,” I pleaded. Case ran her fingers through my hair. She kept her eyes fixed on the top of my head and I tried to twist around to see into them. “We don’t know yet, Slate, but they think Dad was a victim in a car crash. You see there is a man in a hospital, that might be Dad, he has no identity, but he fits the pictures and descriptions.”

Momma left the next day at half-past eleven. She took Case’s pickup, it being the only car we owned. I thought she was going to cry, but either I read her face wrong or she held it back, because not a single tear passed her eyes. We watched the pickup out of sight and even after the small dot of it had disappeared, we continued to stare after it. Case was the first one to turn to the house. “I’ll get the laundry done,” she said brusquely. Shirley started to follow Case, but then she came back to me. She whined slowly and sadly and sat on my feet. I hid my fingers in the hair on the top of her head. My palm rested over her knowledge bump. She whined again and jumped up, putting her paws on my shoulders. I stepped back to keep my balance. Shirley’s tongue washed over my face and brought my eyes away from the road.

“That’s it,” Dad said. He laughed when I said my arms were sore and asked if he would take over. Brett had called me a sissy and Dad had told him, “No, she did a fine job!” I broke out of my reverie and wondered if Case had driven from Dad’s lap, too. I knew Brett had, because that was how our mailbox had gotten a dent in it. I wondered if Momma had driven from her father’s lap or if Dad had from his father’s. I wished I could ask them both, but I couldn’t. Before the wave of loneliness that I felt sliding up on me, could take residence, I hurried to the house to find Case.

“Get down, Shirley,” Brett said gruffly.

Day Five

I glared at him. “She’s not on you,” I said.

The screen door squeaked and banged behind me as I stepped out onto the porch. The rotting boards sunk ever so slightly under my tennis shoes. The wind was stilled for the first time that day and the round face of the sun was shining, but in the distance, on the pooled blue horizon, I could see the black heads of thunder clouds rolling toward

“She’s not supposed to do that,” he said. “Why don’t they ask him?” I wanted to know. “The man is in a coma, so they need Momma to go and see

I nodded. My hands gripped the wheel so tight, they lost circulation and were all white when I let go. I remembered my palms had been sweaty and sticky and my left hand had squeaked when I turned the wheel.

I opened my mouth to say something back, but Brett had turned on his heel and was walking away. He had his hands

me like bowling balls. I saw dust rising on the county road from a passing car. I wondered if the next car would be Momma bring Dad home, but we didn’t even know if it was Dad that was in that hospital. Momma was still driving there. Case was talking to her on the phone and I had gotten tired of listening to one side of the conversation. Brett looked up at me from where he sat on the bottom step of the porch stairs. For the first time in almost three months his eyes caught mine. I smiled. He smiled back and then gazed away into the distance. I sat down next to him. The hole in the right leg of my jeans ripped wider. My knee stuck out, scuffed and knobby. I pulled distractedly at the fraying threads and bit my lower lip. I wanted to say something to Brett, but I didn’t know what to say. I saw Brett move from the corner of my eye and glanced over at him. I watched as he took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his blue shirt. “You smoke?” I asked, in a small voice just above a whisper. “I’m going to,” he said. I put my hand out as if to stop him, then I didn’t. The match glowed and burst to flame when Brett struck it on the heel of his cowboy boot. The flame caught the cigarette on fire and then the match died between Brett’s fingers. I stared as my brother took his first drag of smoke and I knew then that something had changed inside of us. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that one chapter in our lives had closed and another had begun. It was a change that was as soft as a butterfly on your finger and it was a change that was as hard as lightening striking land. I didn’t know if it was a good change or a bad change, I didn’t know if Dad was ever coming home, but I knew that

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Tessa Cozzens • Two Worlds Part • Photograph Brett was ready to be my brother again and I knew what waiting was. Waiting is time. It takes time, just like the warming of the ground after a frost or falling asleep at night or running across the yard. Time. Waiting takes time; waiting is time. It is the slow ticking of a clock and the call of a bird on the hour. It is the neon numbers changing on the dashboard of a Ford pickup or on the front of a stove. All is time and time is all. I leaned back and gazed into the sky. Far above I saw a redtail circling on wind currents that I couldn’t feel. The black clouds on the horizon had piled higher and I shivered at the thought of thunder. The storm was bringing the smells of sagebrush and flowering russian olive to me and they mixed in my nostrils with the smoke and the soft smell of rotting wood. I breathed in and breathed out and let it all take up a little time.

Kalee Townsend • Metal Magic • Photograph

Ciera Cordero • When Gummy Bears Attack • Photograph

64 — 65

In the Village Square

A Lesson on Inclusion

Kimberly J. Kost

Stephanie Wilson

they stand in awe, he said to Me the youth the square today enfolds these shrines they come in mass to see to hold against its draw, I flee.

I am on my way to the Castro. Every part of me is glittering: my pointed hat, my purple hair, my skin, my cape and broom. A man hurls himself down the crowded bus toward me bedecked in a yellow and orange wrestling singlet at least one size too small. He is covered in Karo Syrup from his shining bald head to his filthy bare feet; millions of miniature multi-colored sprinkles stick to every inch.

Cassandra Winter • Key to My Heart • Photograph

In his left hand: extra syrup. In his right: extra sprinkles. Dancing, hopping, singing, spinning – he alternately douses himself in goo and candy clearly riding a high a few clicks above a sugar buzz.

I applaud the confidence needed to sport that Lycra number that leaves little to the imagination. I do not begrudge him his sticky fantasticness or his sprinkly bliss. But I steady myself on a rail and my palm is filled with his saccharine costume. The fun is over for Glitter Witch. I say, “Hey man, can you not touch me or anything I might touch? I don’t want that stuff all over me.” He levels me with a somber stare and bitterly replies, “I don’t want any of your fucking glitter sticking to my fucking costume, but did I say anything? No! We all have to ride the bus.”

the square fills up with young and old he sees Me flee; he knows not why My fear soon peaks, My hope is sold to hold My faith, in fields too bold!

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I slow My dash and I will die to rest I must continue on. though weary as I am, to lie means death, but eyes lack tears to cry. while in My heart, My faith is strong! My journey seems forever long. the faint embrace, its fading song the peace I find. he strikes the gong!

Zach Cardoza • Self Portrait • Drawing Payton Jessup • Blue • Photograph

68 — 69

Erica Piña • Toys in the Dark • Drawing

John Jurmu • Parking Lot River • Photograph Serena M. Stapert • No Nuts Stationary • Graphic Design

Reflections Callie Atkinson I crumple my socks Down to the toes of my boots And sink my feet Into the sun hot sand Conscious of the grit Sneaking under my toenails. Clouds are piled like snow On the horizon, But above me the sky Is as blue as the ocean it falls to. I run up the dune Leaving prints Beside the marks Of a small child’s sneakers. I look toward waves Crashing against the shore And picture the waves In slow motion In my memory

And see an image from years past Running barefoot there Staying away from the water That is trying to lick my toes. A brown razor clam Lying open, Pressed into the damp sand Like open wings,

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Reflects my face. I see my shadow pause From its scampers And reach towards the shell. My small fingers Brush the wet shining surface And then they hesitate. I turn away, then look back. The sun glints on each small grain Where my shadow stood. The razor clam Reflects the sky now Open and white.

Marissa K. Dickey • Digging Up the Past • Photograph

Daniel McCreight • Rocky Lake • Photograph

Shrine of the Third:

Part II The Cathedral of Rain Duncan Peterson

Cassandra Winter • Rainbow Flower • Photograph

Scott Wambeke • Out for a Swim • Sculpture

The sky is cast in perfect shades of rain Winds fly the promises of cold summer Forests of white birches sway to the west Leaves swish, dance, flitter, and fall to the earth Cracks in the grass are filled with cobblestone Ivy methodically crawls up walls Roots wrap ‘round the stones of a fallen spire And lilac trees encircle everything The cathedral will soon receive the rain Slowly becoming less of simple stone Shedding its original intention Like a sand castle melting back to earth The entrance steps support the fallen arch Along with tracery and broken glass So few of the pieces can still be found For time has pulled the rest back into dust

The benches are growing into the floor Broken apart in a patchwork of plants White caps shelter in the forever shade Of hanging moss from the rafters above The last ray of light finds the far statue Gently brushing over and through her hair Capturing her elegant persona Drawing sight to her hand, chained to the floor Rain descends from the open oculus Rust trickles down like blood across her wrist But her eyes don’t see the ruins or the chain Only the lilac branch clasped in her hands

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Megan Westvig • Holding On, Breathing In • Photograph

Cassandra Winter • Benchland Schoolhouse • Photograph

Car in drive, escape in motion.

the red-hot offspring of the flying caterpillar.

We scuttle onto back roads and once we’re a fair distance away, double back. A cop car passes us, heading for the scene of the crime. I exchange smiles with the girl in my passenger. I know her name. It’s Nicole. Sometimes I forget so I can remember it again and anew. It gets me to reexamine who she is every time I do. And every time, I think of all the things I know about her. I love everything, even the bad parts—if you can call them that. I love remembering she has all of those qualities and then remembering she loves me.

The light details Nicole’s face.

Head full of bliss, I stop at a red and fish out the night’s magnum opus. $24.99, this better light up the sky, I wish as the light goes green and we cross Main Street.

Was I okay with it? Hanging there on the cliff? How is that fine by me?

In one week, she will be cheating on me. In two weeks, she will have dumped me. I think I saw it coming. I think I knew even as she turned from the aerial display to kiss me. I think I knew she would forget me even as her arms went around me.

Sirens in the distance.

Michael Salvi • An Eye for Nature • Photograph

Sparks

We arrive, monster explosive in hand.

Jeff Victor Confetti of fire falls from my fingertips, hot but not burning, each strand shrinking into oblivion before it can reach the ground. Against the incomplete blackness of night, the hundreds of little sparks light up my smiling face like a boy with a flashlight telling ghost stories around a campfire. Opposite the sparks stands my girl, gripping the lighter, smiling down at the spectacle. “Point it over town,” “Aim higher,” “No, higher.” The rocket sears across the main road below and disappears hundreds of yards from the crest of the hill.

I drive to a place a little ways out of town. Not out of town, but close enough for comfort. City ordinances fray at the edges.

“Are you ready?” Silence for only a moment, then a twelve-petaled explosion over the road as the main fuse lights a dozen more, culminating in a display not twenty feet above cars darting through town at 40 mph. We laugh, letting off hushed that-was-close cusses. I nudge her back to the car. It’s illegal to shoot fireworks in town and I have a strong feeling someone’s going to call this in. Sirens in the distance. Key in the ignition.

Oh, what a rush! We jump in the car and high-tail it out of there—cops on their way—speeding someplace safe, but being thirty seconds from a fine the next hour. And not knowing where I stand with my own girlfriend. When did my life become this hectic?

“Flick my Bic,” she says, handing me the lighter. Set the tube so it’s stable and points nowhere but up. Flick. Sparks. Flame. And then a sizzling fills the air as a tiny fiery Pac Man eats its way up the fuse. It vanishes a second before a deafening bang rocks our expectant ears. A pink caterpillar shoots into the sky, cocooning for only a moment before expanding into a short-lived butterfly, each point of both wings exploding into a butterfly of its own,

My whole existence is one adrenaline-fueled race against something I can’t name. My whole life is chaos. I look to Nicole. Her simple mind was elsewhere even now. Was she already thinking about him at this point? Is it even healthy to look back like this and ponder? Sirens in the distance. My whole life is chaos. This must be how fireworks feel.

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Erica Piña • Self Portrait • Painting

Justine May • Winter • Photograph

About the magazine: Visualize•Verbalize•Vocalize, now in its twentieth year, is a student-run production of Northwest College in Powell, Wyoming. This year’s magazine is the result of a semester’s worth of hard work by nine dedicated students.

Staff:

Advisors:

Jeff Armstrong

Bill Hoagland

From a stack of over 400 NWC students submissions 67 art, 22 literary and 9 music works were selected by the staff to be included in this year’s magazine. Our Staff photographed some of the 3-D & 2-D artwork for the artists, but most of the artwork and photography was submitted as electronic files on disc. All images were color corrected in Adobe Photoshop CS5 to meet print specifications. The literary staff received most of their submissions on CD or via email and edited the works in conjunction with the authors as needed.

Timothy Bahr

Robert Rumbolz

Landon Iacovetto

Renée Tafoya

Lane Johnson

Morgan Tyree

After editing, the design staff placed images and text in Adobe InDesign CS5. The production of the magazine took place in the Macintosh labs on 27-inch iMacs. Proofs were printed on a Canon ImageRunner color laser printer. The InDesign CS5 documents and all graphic files were then sent to the Northwest Production Printing staff where they were output directly to printing plates on the Kodak Trendsetter CTP system. The entire magazine was printed on a Heidelberg SORD 24” x 36” Single Color Offset Press to print 400 copies of the magazine. Our cover was printed on 80 lb. Classic Linen stock and our text and images were printed on 100 lb. smooth Cougar Opaque stock. Bindery was provided by White Ink of Powell.

Devan Leo Chad Mall Shelley McPherson An K. Nguyen Arie Wilder

Printers: Rob Schuller George Laughlin Arie Wilder