Parallax Ripon College
2015
Parallax 2015
Literary and Fine Arts Journal Parallax is Ripon College’s fine arts journal. Published annually, it combines visual art and written works submitted by students, faculty, and staff. Members of the Parallax staff are responsible for selecting entries, editing submissions, using layout programs, publishing the journal, and distributing it throughout the Ripon community. Parallax aims to continue the Ripon College tradition of a Liberal Arts education by integrating the interdisciplinary focus of the college.
Editors-in-Chief
Serge Fedorowsky Anders Goodwin
Graphic Editors
Serge Fedorowsky Raymond Allen Camper Sanborn
Assistant Editor Raymond Allen Camper Sanborn Jorge Gutierrez
Faculty Advisors David Graham Megan Gannon
On the Front Cover (Clockwise) “Hamish...” by Luke Bolender “Three Sisters” by Luke Bolender Untitled by Kristen Sommers Untitled by Kristen Sommers
On the Back Cover (Clockwise)
“Dome” by Katherine Tredinnick “The Road to the Sky” by Eleanor Davis “City of Many Loves” by Raymond Allen “Relationships on Fire” by Raymond Allen
All works in this journal are judged anonymously.
Contents Special Thanks 1 Moving Forward by Katie Warczak
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Natural Serenity by Zachary Peterson 9 (Don’t) See by Samantha Goodwin 10 Memories of a Summer’s Dream by Christian Krueger
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Time Internal by Amy Fels
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Unexpected Loss by Zachary Peterson 14 Dark by Michaela Myers 15 Joy by Lauren Butkiewicz I Cannot Forget You
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by Hannah Hirsch 18
Perfection by Caroline Lundt 19 Off Kilter by Christian Krueger
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Untitled by Samantha Goodwin
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Creativity by Emma Bronson
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Clear Waters by Stephanie Alvarez
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Bench by Katie Tredinnick
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Ecstasy of Saint Theresa by Christian Krueger
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Laser-Guided Cigarettes by Leighanne Lacy
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Utopia by Emma Bronson
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The Road to the Sky by Eleanor Davis 30 Rosemary by Eleanor Davis 31 Queen of the Mayflies by Leighanne Lacy 33 Set Me Free by Eleanor Davis 34 Dome by Katherine Tredinnick 35 Leaves by Katherine Tredinnick
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The Laboratory Assistant by Leighanne Lacy
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Voice by Emma Bronson 40 We Are People by Emma Bronson 41 Untitled by Kristyn Sommers 43 The Cerulean Warblers by Jerry Kurek 44 Vampires by Jerry Kurek 45 Untitled by Kristyn Sommers
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Saint Andrews, Scotland by Angelica Schwartz
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Mother by David Peterkes 48 Library: My Faithful by David Peterkes 49 High School Counselors the Day Before the Funeral by Angelica Schwartz
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What You Are by Angelica Schwartz
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Untitled by Kristyn Sommers 54 Rhino by Katherine Tredinnick 55 Untitled by Kristyn Sommers
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In a Dream on the Shores of Cleveland by Serge Fedorowsky
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Untitled by Kristyn Sommers 58 Prayer by Kaylie Longley 59 Tree by Katherine Tredinnick
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Isaiah Passing Through by Serge Fedorowsky
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Untitled by Kristyn Sommers
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The Parallax staff would like to thank Professor David Graham for his past work as faculty advisor for Parallax, and Professor Megan Gannon for stepping in to fill that role in the future.
Moving Forward by Katie Warczak
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Eyes still drooping, he looked up as his horse stopped and shuffled beneath him.
Damn fence.
Slowly, he swung down from his mount, saddle and joints creaking in unison. He hit the ground hard; swaying, stumbling, and almost falling before he steadied himself on his horse’s shoulder.
His hands fumbled in his duster pocket, searching for the wire cutters.
Bits of hay, dust, and the reek of old whiskey floated out of his jacket as his hands continued searching. Finally, grasping the handle, he pulled out the cutters.
Snip, snip.
He pulled back the two sides of the fence, snagging his left hand on a barb as he struggled with the second side.
Shaking his hand, Mason cursed.
“Damn fence,” he said, echoing his previous thoughts; his mouth felt dry and awkward as his tongue curled around the “d,” caressing the letter, before letting it go with the puckering of his lips and the utterance of “fence.”
They were the first words he had spoken in days.
“Damn fence,” he repeated.
Swinging back onto his horse, Mason urged the beast forward through the small opening he had created.
The horse shied away, eyes nervously watching the barbs that, while far enough apart, still posed a threat.
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“Get on,” Mason said, jabbing the horse with his heels until, finally, the animal cautiously walked through the opening. The remnants of the once whole fence traced a line in the dust on Mason’s scuffed boots as they passed through.
Damn fences, never used to be here, Mason thought grouchily. When I was a boy, you could look from horizon to horizon and see nothin’ but land and hills and horses. What the hell happened?
Progress, or at least, that’s what they called it.
Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could they? We all worked, we all respected the land. Then this damn fence came along. Suddenly, it’s all over. Can’t go nowhere without hittin’ it.
“Keeps the cows in,” they say. Bullshit. Brand the damn things, who gives a shit where they go? We all knew where they went, their favorite spots, and hell they’ve got better sense about survival than these ranchers.
What happens when a coyote gets under one of these damn fences, huh? What then? Cows can’t go nowhere, next thing you know, you’ve lost a calf. Damn fences. Bullshit.
Mason rolled his jaw, working the stringy muscles, then leaned over the side of his horse and spit.
He took a swig of water from his canteen, swished it around in his mouth and spit that out too.
Bullshit.
He leaned back in his saddle, thoughts receding into the untapped depths of his mind. He could barely keep his eyes open; he had been riding for four days straight. No rest, no stopping, just riding.
Hunger didn’t dare touch him; thirst had fled his mouth; only sleep still chased him.
Mason scratched his beard and pulled his floppy hat lower. He knew his horse was steady; he would let him know if anything was happening or approaching. A little dance, a snort, perhaps a whinny or nicker. The horse knew, far better than he.
Fight or flight, that’s his two options. Damn near simpler for him than for us.
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Mason envied his horse, wishing he could let go that easily, make such decisions based on instinct alone, but he, like all others, had the curse of thought. Instinct counted for little; logic and forethought had taken over. Long ago, humans had been just like horses, making judgments based solely on the moment; existing without a thought for the future, for consequences. Now, everything was about control, whether over nature or humans, it didn’t matter. Everything, everything, was subject to higher powers.
Mason sighed and looped the reins around his saddle horn.
Damn sleep, won’t leave me be. Maybe, if I just close my eyes, it’ll be enough to satisfy the devil…
Mason opened his eyes and suddenly, he was no longer in the saddle. He was standing at the zenith of a great lush hill, overlooking a valley filled with wild horses. The western sunset tinged everything it touched with a warm red. Not a comforting red though, a blood red, a stain, like the one that remains on wood long after the body has been removed. Mason stood there a moment longer before he began running down the hill, whooping and yelling like the fierce Indians he read about in his precious dime novels, the fodder of a ten-year-old boy’s imagination. He gained speed as he ran down the hill, flying faster and faster until he thought he could leap right into the sunset. His eyes widened as he neared the herd of horses; he had never been this close to them before and usually his noise would have scared them off by now, but instead the stallion was just looking at him.
The beast held his head high and proud, looking at Mason warily, judging whether the boy was a threat to be dealt a swift kick to the head or a curiosity, one to be played with and perhaps bitten. The chestnut’s coat glowed in the sunset, but the effect was not coppery. Instead the stallion appeared darker, more sinister, taking on the blood red of the sunset itself.
Slowing and going silent, Mason reached the bottom of the hill, his eyes wide in shock. The horses were not running away, now they were all looking at him. Their eyes burning black and their coats, chestnut, bay, gray, black, pinto, dun all blending into the same blood red color as the sunset. The herd blurred together for a moment before Mason’s eyes and then the animals were gone and Mason was alone, bathed in blood.
His mount’s dancing interrupted Mason’s reverie. Blearily looking up towards the horizon, Mason saw what had made the horse nervous: another fence.
Damn fence.
He dismounted the horse and repeated the stumbling, fumbling motions he had carried out countless times since barbed wire had infiltrated the West, flowing across the country and cutting him off from his livelihood.
I used to own this land, I used to be able to go from the bottom of Texas to Oklahoma with nothing but cattle blocking my way, now… Mason shook his head.
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He returned to his horse and nudged him through the fence opening. Once through, Mason clucked the creature into a jog, hoping the bouncing motion would help him stay awake and fend off the sleeping fiend.
Sleep haunted him; the gateway to a past he despised, yet yearned for, and a reminder that the future was out of his reach.
He did not want sleep, but the horse, exhausted from four days of riding could only trot so long before breaking and when the horse broke, so did Mason.
He was standing under an oak tree, holding her hands as the wind blew through the leaves above, rustling them and serving as a reminder that nothing lasts forever. They were in the shadow of the tree, the shadow of summer, no one could see them and he leaned down for a kiss. The girl’s speckled green eyes and his gray ones closed as their mouths met, his smothering hers as they melded together. His body moved closer to hers and in an instant they were pressing up against one another, searching; hungry for more, desperate for the other’s touch, they fell to the ground as one.
He had loved her then and she him, but things changed. Months passed and as he readied to leave for his first cattle drive, she begged him to stay. Her green eyes, once so gay and tempting were filled with worry, terror, and desperate longing. She reached out one hand to him, the other wrapped protectively and warily across her belly, and asked the question.
“Will you stay?”
He had loved her, but in that moment felt nothing but disgust. His answer was clear enough. He turned on his heel, pulled down his hat¸ turned up the collar on his duster, and walked away without looking back.
He could still see her though, the tears streaming down her face as the wind whipped her blonde hair and she clutched her stomach, falling to the ground.
He knew what would happen to her, but he no longer cared. The horse’s abrupt halt woke Mason once again. Through bloodshot eyes he saw what he knew he would see, again and again: another fence.
Damn fence.
He got down once more to cut it, but this time was different; his dream haunted him.
Shit, I haven’t thought of her in years. What the hell was her name, again? Mary? Molly? Margaret? Ah, what does it matter.
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He climbed back into the saddle and continued on, but this time his reverie did not cease in the waking world.
As though he was still in a dream, a vague and long-forgotten memory surfaced. A news clipping from 30 odd years ago. A woman had given birth to a child out of wedlock, a bastard sired by some passing cowboy working on the neighboring ranch for the summer before heading off to God knows where. Her family had disowned her and cast her out. No one knew how she survived. Speculation was that she had debased herself until she had the baby and even afterwards. A son, he remembered.
Huh, wonder how that kid turned out. Probably dead by now or drunk somewhere with a whore for a mother and no father. Probably the whore’s friends beat him.
Mason’s mouth twisted into a grimace as crooked as the barbed wire.
Just like the bastard’s father.
Who was he to talk? Mason was the one at fault. He had caused his father to leave, just as his son had caused him to leave. He was a cowboy, like his father, and his own damn seed was probably just as wild.
Sown wildly at the very least, he grinned as the memories of that summer rushed through his brain. But his smile quickly returned to the barb wire grimace.
Shit, what the hell is making love if you don’t actually get what you love.
As this thought crossed his mind, Mason began remembering all the times he had made love, to women and, later, to the bottle.
I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t get what I wanted and nothing made it go away.
So he took to riding, riding and cutting, cutting and riding to try to escape what he wanted and catch it as well.
His horse stopped underneath him.
Dammit, when the hell is this gonna end!?
Mason knew the answer.
Patting his horse before dismounting, the man squared his shoulders and started walking.
He did not stop until he met the future.
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To The Happy People by Alexander Novotny To the happy people, wherever you may be: What is it that keeps your souls so carefree? What is it that makes you smile day after day? What is it that makes your troubles fade away? Have you discovered some incredible elixir? Did you run into cupid at the holiday mixer? Have you seen the face of the lord, our God? Have you become victims to yet another façade? Because that’s exactly what love is, my friends: a façade. It destroys the hopes of all those who have fought and clawed from the seventh circle of hell until they reached solid ground. Only to realize how cruel reality is, and turn straight back around. There are countless harsh truths behind the cloth that cloaks our eyes. The only true form of love in life is that which has never seen a guise. Family and good friends: the only people to whom we can always turn. Helping us remember that it is from our mistakes in life that we learn. There is no pain even comparable to that of a broken heart. With the first tear shed, the entire world seems to fall apart. Half of your heart walks out the door into the moonlit night never to return, and yet your eyes glisten incandescently bright. The spark within your eyes will divide the morning sky from the darkness until there comes a day when you are once again graced by a loving caress. As the heavenly stars direct you towards nothing but bittersweet memories, you flout the Divine plan and navigate yourself into an ultimate state of ease.
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Natural Serenity by Zachary Peterson
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(Don’t) See by Samantha Goodwin See the girl (Don›t see the girl) Walking with determination and purpose (Cringing from doubt, from the unknown) Talking thoughtfully, with confidence (Hiding behind a glass wall of silence, of secret shame) Laughing joyfully, with abandon (Crying for herself, for release)
See the trouble is that the door is locked from the outside and she can’t find the key. And the glass won›t break. So nothing changes. And eventually even the girl can’t see the glass wall anymore. Except when it›s all she can see.
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Memories of a Summer’s Dream by Christian Krueger
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Time Internal by Amy Fels
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Trisha’s head was remarkably quiet today, and she was relieved. She had an exam at school, and the last thing she needed was the beeping to throw off her concentration.
That damn beeping. The sound of a distant alarm clock that was never shut off. It had been inside her head for as long as she could remember; some days it was soft and ignorable, like the ringing you get in your ears after listening to your favorite song just a little too loudly. Other days it had sent her stumbling out of the classroom, hands clutching her temples, everyone watching in fear as she seemed to have a psychotic breakdown. To her, that was the most unbearable part - not the excruciating clanging, but the fact that only she could hear it.
She had seen doctors, psychiatrists, the old Indian shaman who lived at the edge of town; no one could help relieve her pain. The only place she could escape it was her dreams, and lately even those were becoming a worry rather than a solace. She dreamt of the abandoned industrial park behind her high school. They were so vivid she would have sworn she’d gone walking in the darkness. Not that anyone would believe her. But the hollowed-out buildings felt dangerous somehow, as though there was a dark secret inside those silent shells of concrete and steel. On more than one occasion she had considered going there in the daylight. But something... unresolved in her dreams held her back.
Sighing, she got ready for school and went about her routine, ignoring the sideways glances from her classmates. Trisha didn’t blame them, really; half the time she thought she was crazy too. She sat in a desk in the back corner of the classroom, the one with crude, but sometimes witty, graffiti scrawled into it.
The students were muted as their teacher handed out the tests; she could actually hear herself think they were so silent. Which was odd.
A flash of blinding light blazed through her head and she cried out in shock. The beeping, the beeping, the beeping! It was no longer a distant echo from the depths of her head. It smashed behind her eyes and temples, and she fell from her seat, curled on the floor in pain. Trisha shut her eyes, trying to will the noise away. But what she saw behind her shuttered lids frightened her more than the unbearable cacophony inside her head. It was the industrial park, just as she saw it in her dreams. Only this time she knew what hid in the shadowy ruins.
Clutching the edge of her desk, she heaved herself off the dirty tile and stumbled toward the door, not noticing that the room was now devoid of her peers and teacher.
This nightmare must end. With tears streaming down her face, she careened out of the school, the beeping still thundering through her veins. She couldn’t think; the noise was too deafening. But she didn’t need to be rational. This was the path she’d taken in her dreams, down that black, empty road that ended with a crumbling brick wall. Her feet led her to the same spot, the point she would normally awaken and the buildings would vanish. This time they remained cold and rough. Solid. All too real.
Still clutching her head, she looked around frantically, and let out a strangled laugh when she saw it. Propped up on a broken slab of con-
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crete and plugged into a small generator was an alarm clock. A perfectly ordinary clock, beeping the same torturous rhythm that haunted her. Not caring enough to question its sudden existence, she grabbed a length of rusted pipe nearby and destroyed the clock with reckless abandon. Plastic shrapnel flew everywhere, cutting her hands and arms. The beeping stopped.
She began to cry again, her sobs raspy and rapid as she tried to catch her breath.
The beeping had stopped.
There was another flash of blinding light, and she instinctually shut her eyes against it. Once she opened them again, she didn’t believe what she saw. She sat in a solid white room, arms and legs strapped to a metal chair. Whipping her head around in a panic, she realized there was nothing else in the room. No monitors, no machines, nothing indicative of some cruel science experiment.
Then she listened. Letting out a scream of anguish, she scanned the room again and saw it. There, in the corner of the room she was incapable of reaching, sat an alarm clock.
Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.
Her heart raced and she struggled against her bonds.
Beep-beepbeep-beepbeep-beepbeep-beepbeep-beepbeep-beep.
She froze, realizing what the clock had just done. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to calm herself.
Beep-beep beep-beep beep-beep.
Defeated by the truth of the situation, she hung her head and let the silent tears flow down her cheeks and off the tip of her nose.
There was only one way to stop the beeping.
Stop her heart.
Unexpected Loss by Zachary Peterson
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Dark by Michaela Myers Sitting in a dark room, completely alone, not a single light.
Are you afraid?
Or can you sit there, ignoring what your mind creates? Can you pass it off as false, what’s lurking in the shadows?
Just sitting—trying to stay calm, watching—for any movement in the blackness, waiting—for a hand to grasp you from behind, straining—to hear any sound of a presence.
Reality— clear and defined when glimpsed in the light, but when in isolated darkness it’s blurred with the nightmares; the monsters of the mind.
Shapes and forms bloom before your eyes in the absence of the light and its familiar protection.
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The creatures of the unseen world stalking your every move, looking for the perfect chance to attack you when your guard is down.
Though they flee from the light, faster than you could imagine. Making it seem as if there were never any threat. But oh, how wrong you’d be to make that fool’s assumption.
The darkness is a battlefield, and you’re the only fighter.
Can you handle the Dark?
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Joy by Lauren Butkiewicz The doctor says I have a disease.
He says it’s very rare.
Then he smiles, how very contraire.
He says not to worry, that I’ll be fine.
Says I should relax, and have glass of wine.
I ask him what it is, his smile is coy.
He says to me, you have joy.
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I Cannot Forget You
by Hannah Hirsch
(I) took a shower last night The water was so warm It left my skin blotted and flushed The heat soaking in No matter how hot the water I (cannot) remove, (forget)— Your touch from my skin Your smell from my hair Your taste from my lips No matter how hard I try I cannot send (you) spiraling down the drain With soap suds and physical testaments
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Perfection by Caroline Lundt Have I ever mentioned mornings with you? The ones just after we started dating And we’d wake up And I’d be cradled against your chest As you look down at me Nestled in your arms And while the sun broke threw your blinds Before the sleep had left your face Or any coherent thoughts had passed between your ears Your eyes would meet mine And you’d recognize me Even if it took a second to register And then your lips would curl into a smile That reached your eyes Made them dance faster then the waves of a stormy ocean I don’t think I’ve ever seen an expression convey so much love So quickly
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Off Kilter by Christian Krueger
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Untitled by Samantha Goodwin Fierce wind cutting through Multiple layers to bones: Cold enough fer ya?
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Creativity by Emma Bronson Creativity is but a speck inside of us waiting to be inflamed. Everybody can be creative. There are no rules or regulations. Creativity is pulling something from nothing and nothing from something. Anything can have substance.
A white canvas can become a fullness of colors. A blinking cursor can release a string of words touching so many hearts. A piano sits quietly waiting for a bar of notes to make it swell. Music coursing through us, feeling the beat and surrendering control. Being creative involves every part of your being. It comes when you least expect it. When your mind is at ease that is when truly creative ideas try to flows through you. Your fingertips tremble, waiting to get your hands on it. Your eyes flutter, trying to envision the brilliance in front of you. Your stomach churns with a pit of fear, hoping it will be good enough. Every part of your being gets flipped and jumbled trying to convey this one idea,
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pushing so badly to be free from the confines of your mind. Creativity is not planing and calculating. Creativity is not forcing yourself. Creativity is not trying to copy something. Creativity is original. Creativity is raw. It takes your breath away. Creativity is a small child scratching out their first notes, or a street artist spraying on a whim, or a poem flowing through someones pulse. Creativity lets us see into a persons soul, and except them for what they are. Creativity just lets you be liberated. Â Â
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Clear Waters by Stephanie Alvarez
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Bench by Katie Tredinnick
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Ecstasy of Saint Theresa by Christian Krueger
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Laser-Guided Cigarettes by Leighanne Lacy If I smoke enough, maybe the cigarettes will Kill the part of me that makes me smoke. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. My grandpa had a beam of radiation no wider Than a pinhead sent to his lungs to kill the cancer. It missed and burnt him and he died anyway. Eight dollars is a lot to pay for a pack of cigarettes, But not as much as a doctor’s time and prescriptions. I should know better, but sometimes You need to take a part to save the whole: Hiroshima saved lives. Cut off the hand to save the arm. Smoke a pack of cigarettes and maybe Someday I’ll stop doing this to myself. I’m no addict; I can not smoke for months. But when the ship hits the rocks and makes Tobacco’s dull cry into a siren’s song, I come calling faster than most.
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Utopia by Emma Bronson Closing my eyes, I coexist peacefully in a haze. A utopia of colors rises from the ground up, creating structure around me. Mountains of purple cut the horizon in half with gushing rivers of green. Beneath my feet grass of yellow relaxes and massages growing higher and higher. Almost pricking the sky. Trees of orange sway back and forth leaving little whispers in my ears to tickle my mind. The giggles of blue birds carry on the wind, reaching higher and higher. Touching skies of pink, flowing through clouds of foam. Flowers of plentiful tye dye blossom up through soft earth taking their first breath of crisp air, sprouting from the kiss of sunshine. Clouds skip across the sky, playing games as the day turns to night. When the sun meets the moon, burst of red explode deep beyond, engulfing my vision to perfection. A sigh escapes my lips in bliss. Opening my eyes, everything stops. Life is once again normal. Opening my eyes, Harsh reality slaps me across the face. Waking me from my vivid escape. Coarse lines of black drag across the ground, guiding me to wherever I may be headed, along with everyone else. A path with sharp turns, cuts my imagination
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which is no longer free. Lifeless skies of smog gape, hanging low to keep the sun shut out, almost trapping in this block. Colossal towers of gray stretch high. Playing games with each other, seeing who can touch the sky first. Blocking any view of the world beyond, aching for a splash of the sun. Barren faces of ones who were once, shuffle and barge through the streets. Hollow words drag from one another, making pointless interaction. No more interested in life.
But I close my eyes on this reality, Utopia.
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The Road to the Sky by Eleanor Davis
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Rosemary by Eleanor Davis “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.”-Ophelia I loved your old house because it always reminded me of why I love this city: it left little souvenirs on all three floorsBeer horses on the mirror in the basement, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee glasses stacked in the cupboard, concert ticket stubs from the Rave taped like tiny good luck charms in each corner of your bedroom and stöllen in the dessert case. & we’d go upstairs eat sour cherry gummies, wrestle under the blanket your grandma had given you because she couldn’t stand to see you shiver. I don’t think I ever saw you in the pale winter sun that year, just with the benevolence of street lamps against new snow behind you, your dark eyes sparkling
like the stars reflected in the frozen lake. But snow always melts, and when it did, the velvet night left to reveal blood orange spring skies and last year’s flowers.
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Queen of the Mayflies by Leighanne Lacy If we were like the mayfly And had One day to live, I would want to be the queen. My body’s magnificence Would make my life worth the brevity. I would have legs that kill And a tongue that binds; Eyes that pierce through tempered glass. Skin like granite polished Under cascades of hair. Hands of a lion tamer, Deftly subduing beasts. And I would have a belly That lava could not char. I would have it all and the Still temper of an adder (Watch where you step). After a lifetime of being Fireproof, awed, and capable, I would fall into a sleepy autumn Then into the halcyon of winter’s snowfall.
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Set Me Free by Eleanor Davis in memory of Bill Van Poyck. Trapped within a box of steel and stone Every minute of your last days accounted for, typed by bored fingers The plungers tested, the poison measured by faceless men But there is no box to tick for killing a man whose words were clever enough to slip through the sliver of a prison window No place to tell them that we went down singing, praying, fasting No measurement for the light of a thousand candles, no numerical value for a sun that sets in mardi gras colors over a gray state issue prison Behind the walls, they depressed the syringes one by one anonymous in numbers You opened blue eyes to a room full of men determined to kill you and said “Set Me Free!�
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Dome by Katherine Tredinnick
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Leaves by Katherine Tredinnick
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The Laboratory Assistant by Leighanne Lacy They told me to sort through the bones To see if the skeletons were incomplete. It was easy at first; Playing with a puzzle of plastic bones like Legos. Then the weighty human skeleton was next. The pelvis says this was a man. I wonder how old he got to be. What marks did life leave on these bones? Did his flesh lay strikingly upon Those zygomatic processes? I thought as I set his skull down Like a newborn unto its bassinet. Did those orbital cavities hold brilliant jewels? Or were they dull? Did they glisten like obsidian? Scapula like dove wings– What burdens did these shoulders carry? Did he have the pectoralis major of a lineman? Or did his shoulders slope gently into a lean breast? The phalanges—how many hands have they held? How many lovers have they caressed? Did those carpals soothe or strike? How many miles did those tarsals trek? How far, to where did those Femurs, fibulas, and tibias carry him? When the end did come, Did he lay those bones down Gently into that good night? Or did he defy nature’s wish
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And rattle those bones until The last impulse could be mustered? “Missing parts of left foot’s phalanges; 2 thoracic and 1 lumbar vertebrae.” And I returned him to the banker’s box, ready to be used in the next lesson.
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Stubborn Doors by Jerry Kurek Like the one to the bathroom, the smooth copper knob refusing to grip your greasy hands so in need of that post-meal wash. Like the one to the guest-room of your grandmother’s Victorian home, chipped ceramic spinning fruitlessly like an empty pepper grinder. Like the one to the grocery store during a power outage, proud and unyielding to your foot stomps, awaiting the impossible, electrical command. Like the one to the room where you are, my hands unsteady as my mind, anticipating the melt of your smile when I ask “if we can talk”.
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Voice by Emma Bronson I do not write to seem different. I do not write to please anyone but me. I do not write to be different.
I write because you stole my voice. You reached in and grabbed it from me, screaming at your finger tips. I write because you forever silenced me. Those eyes and hands of fury, smacked away my voice. I write because I know no other way to communicate. You stole my voice and it is forever gone. Â
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We Are People by Emma Bronson Our life is this precious little thing we hold between our fingers. Protecting it, moving it, letting it breathe. There is no reason to trap it. With those fingers we can try to conquer anything, opportunity dripping from beyond. We are nothing but a spec in the whole scheme of things, if we do not reach out and grab what’s in front of us. But why don’t we. Why do so many people flow into the background. There are so many unnoticed actions. That mother who takes care of everyone’s children, or the man who takes the jacket off this back and gives it to another man, or even that one child who stand up for another.
We are all people. We are abnormal. We are flawed. We are trivial. So why not just get up and scream at the top of your lungs for the world to hear. Scream for those distraught parents, for misunderstood teens, for little babies opening their eyes to life,
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and for the unheard cries of those who took theirs. Why not smile every chance you get, why not try something new. Why not eat that last fudge brownie, or jump off that waterfall, or learn to speak that language, or restore life to what it should be. Life is full of doors opening, and closing, and slamming in your face, and left ajar. So whether you see life as an adventure, an unbearable lesson, or something you must work for, open any door in front of you. Push that door from its frame, so the wood screeches at you and the answers behind it become apparent. Let hope soak into your skin pricking every nerve and run it’s course, pumping your heart faster. Pushing the answers farther beyond, to every dark corner trapped inside your thoughts screaming to be free. So whether you are a go-getter, or a first-timer, or a hopeless-wanderer, let your fingers tremble from just doing.
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Untitled by Kristyn Sommers
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The Cerulean Warblers by Jerry Kurek One clear October evening, the distracted worker passes an unremarkable city-elm beside her daily path. Breaths shallow, hair pulled tight, her eyesight locked to her boots, she is suddenly summoned to the moment by a sublime twitter. Near half-a-hundred warbling voices fill her ears with melody. Sharp and electrical, like stepping into cool water. Heightening trills, quavering excitement, insuppressible energy. Dazzling and (for a moment, she feels) supernatural. She shakes her head and blinks her eyes, like a magician’s witness. Determined to test her senses, she grabs a piece of glass litter from the street-side and flings it towards the buzzing tree crown. The glass slices through the foliage with a hush. A frenzied flutter, and the deep-blue feathers evaporate into the sky, Gone like a morning fog.
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Vampires by Jerry Kurek In every pet patted into subjugation, in every apple-gagged boar twisting on a spit, in every fake-buddy advertisement for a false-cure consumable, in every strained laugh from a pop-culture slave, in every self-serving whisper of rhetoric spewed from a forked tongue, I see our Darwinian truth. How sad, the dehydrated angels crafting baggy clothes for the rich in the burning factories of Bangladesh. How pathetic, the trash-can timpanist whose upside-down hat bears the patronizing weight of feel-good pennies. How hopeless, the trapped gas station clerk who answers my “have a good day” with “I’ll try...” Yet I’m drinking their blood. And as I walk down the shriveled streets to my concrete shelter, I look up at the godlike billboards, set in like corporate pins to keep the towns from floating away, and ask the empty, smiling faces, Who put us in these vampire bodies?
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Saint Andrews, Scotland by Angelica Schwartz To speak of the sea is a pleasant redundancy. These waves were the earth’s first poetry. The tang and whisper, surge and retreat – the ocean’s heartbeat. Miles of ancient coastline plead: Make me new. Make me in your image, make me smooth. The steeple-grey horizon melts to lemon sherbet sunset. The sea and I, we’ve met. Here at the edge of the earth the tide saw fit to mark me, left its salt on my knees, told me: no one leaves untouched.
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Mother by David Peterkes Effortless, the airy sheets billowed over a diminutive tyke’s blushed grin. With each flick of her wrists, up and down like gentle, mellow white-wings, and lulling my mind into short thoughts and long relaxed breaths. Till the sheets calmed down, her hands tuck the blanket in. Snuggled like a puzzle piece. Then she buried kisses in my cheek, collision of nuzzled noses. The impact is lucent, her face blinded by the warm lamp. “Now go to sleep, okay” Her words as finite as stars. Chosen to only a select few That are so bright. I want to speak, but I drift off. Into a world where the sky is lit by her face And life is expanded by her love. Freshly off into wonderland, I feel a sugary whisper. “I love you”
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Library: My Faithful by David Peterkes Shelves of knowledge, spines taut with glue-bound scripts. Covers with scars, long and shallow, but easy to perceive. Books half-filled, empty verses and clueless endings. Lost with time and handy-work of evil men. Worlds floored with words And flood with culture’s tales. Some of houses, some of dirt, Some of stone, some of clouds, Some of space, some of bones. Rarely, does any world have wood As wood burns too easily. Wick-flames, fume with porous Sheets of black; create a dank, unwelcoming kindness. Individuals, old or young, who are soaked with boredom. Each wrinkled, grayed, with A layer of tar under the eyes. It is here where I lost my faith. Nothing seemed too real, anymore Than a bear-trap for a hare Too much passes by, which cannot Be bought with pennies or paper. Too much wilts by, which cannot Be lived with dreams and hopes.
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Too much emotes by, which cannot Be dulled with facts and figures. It is here where I lost my faith. I have read things, seen things, dreamed things, and wrote things that cannot be explained by my faith. I find it so applauded by everyone that I can live without something higher than me, omnipotent and omniscient, than a book
It is here, where I lost my faith And started to read a new one. One, without tarnish, one without A lying hope of salvation.
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High School Counselors the Day Before the Funeral by Angelica Schwartz When the high school counselors, full of good intentions, stand there and urge you to eat before your friend’s funeral, do not tell them how food turns to ash in your mouth. Do not tell them that food is for the living. Do not tell them that they are as useful as ice sculptures at a banquet for hungry children, that they are interlopers in tuxedos and ballgowns, all fingers and eyelids and always talking. Do not tell them: Funerals are for fasting. Take your crackers and leave. Do not say: If my vision is hazy, it is only from anger, and besides, I cannot eat on an empty stomach. When they look at you, with their pleading, impatient sighs, do not remind them that just before it’s hot enough to boil, water whispers a soft hiss of warning. They are not smart enough to hear the simmer in your throat. They are only trying to help, these crows, only trying to feed on what is already dead. Maybe your anger is unbecoming. Maybe they don’t know any better, with their cawing and dirt scratching. Maybe these people have never been hungry for anything more than food. So tell them: Really, it’s all right. I just haven’t had much of an appetite since they found his body.
There will be no miraculous resuscitation, starvation, the only alms I can offer.
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What You Are by Angelica Schwartz You are Friday night’s unplanned open-heart surgery. Of course there will be complications – you got the weekend crew. I will find scars when it’s through. You are salt, wound, tequila! You are “just one last sip,” the bartender’s back alley kiss, the neon ping! of my washing machine as I wash away you, sweat through last night’s perfume. You are an unrequited constellation, a cold star that refuses my gaze. You are the haze of exhalation, the desert-dweller’s first sight of her breath on the night. You are the doe’s last drip of blood in the snow as she pines for the metallic kiss of her dying wish.
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Rhino by Katherine Tredinnick
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In a Dream on the Shores of Cleveland by Serge Fedorowsky On the day the water rose above Cleveland, The drink coming up just beneath the square top Of the Key Bank Tower, I sat with you. We looked out across the newly built ocean, Each immaterial brick helping to lift The floor that now reflected The waning Harvest moon. And as we marveled at the depth of our city, The distant lighted tops of skyscrapers blinking Down beneath water’s surface like wind turbines, I held your hand tightly. I imagined all of the submarines that would go below, Of all the silence they would find there, And I wondered if it would make them happy To look at the city with fresh eyes. I wondered if they might see a sunken paradise And marvel at the lost golden age of civilization, Never stopping to ask if a city like Cleveland Ever deserved to stand above the water. As you leaned your head into my shoulder And moved closer to fight the fall air, We sat content in our new picture of the world, As it slowly faded away. Wondering if we could ever be as happy As we were in that moment.
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Prayer by Kaylie Longley I sit alone in my parents’ kitchen, Quiet only for my scribbles, before my father shouts, “Come And eat”, which marks arrival for my brother and mother. They toss beverage orders, and we quickly pray to the Lord For the blessed pot roast. My father carves the beast, the knife is his bow. My mother swears to Jesus For the far too many thoughts no one cares to say. My proposed vegetarianism lets my plate Be Bare of meat. My brother silently stares. Our hands quickly rise, in great anticipation of Our Feast. As forks swipe through the air, I cannot help but contemplate, “I’m no daughter but Guest”
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Tree by Katherine Tredinnick
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Isaiah Passing Through by Serge Fedorowsky Thine eyes… shall behold the land that is very far off. (Isaiah 33:17)
Bus stops at three am, smokers all pour out. No lights on in Gary tonight, just a burning house Three blocks vaguely westward, And nobody seems to mind.
I walk through October chill to some Forgotten home and watch as the flames Climb out above the telephone lines And up into the sky, fading like near stars,
The orange embers, eating through wooden memories Of a town cut away from purpose, Stacking high and piling like funeral pyres Around the concrete front steps.
The wind gently unsettles and the fire drifts back and forth, Curling into high amber pillars, swelling and falling, And for a second, the chipped white paint shows through The floating ash, shining as if it thought it was beautiful.
A bald man in a grey coat walks past, pausing For a moment to ask me if I’m okay, And I don’t know what to tell him, So I say the house looks nice this way.
I hear him laughing as I turn and walk east towards the
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Smoker’s caravan gathered outside the dented Greyhound, Resting in the safety of the traveler’s circle before Preparing to leave for some far off nowhere.
And as I put out my last cigarette, I think that everything might be fine here, Though I know that’s not true.
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Fin